Begging did not come naturally.
That evening, Vane led the gentlemen back to the drawing room, feeling as if he was marching to his execution. He told himself proposing wouldn't really be that bad.
Keeping the lid on his temper all the way back to the Hall, and then through the long afternoon, had tried him sorely. But having accepted the inevitable-Patience's right to a formal, precisely correct proposal-he'd swallowed his ire and forced his conqueror's instincts, which she'd very effectively raised to his surface, into line.
How long they'd toe that line was a moot point, but he was determined it would be long enough for him to propose and for her to accept him.
Strolling through the drawing-room doors, he scanned the occupants, and inwardly smiled. Patience was not present. He'd grasped the moment as the ladies were rising from the table, when they'd been close as he'd drawn back her chair, to say, sotto voce: "We need to meet privately."
Her eyes, wide and golden, had flown to his.
"When and where?" he'd asked, struggling to keep all command from his tone.
She'd studied his eyes, his face, then looked down. She'd waited until the last minute, when she was about to turn and walk from him, to whisper, "The conservatory. I'll retire early."
Suppressing his impatience, he forced himself to stroll to the chaise, where Minnie, as usual, sat in shawled splendor. She looked up as he neared. He raised a languid brow. "I take it you are, indeed, improved?"
"Pish!" Minnie waved dismissively. "It was no more than a cold-there's been far too much bother made over a mere sniffle."
She glanced pointedly at Timms, who humphed. "At least Patience had the sense to go up early, to make sure she took no lasting harm from getting so damp. I suppose you should go up early, too."
"I didn't get that wet." Affectionately brushing his fingers over Minnie's hand, Vane nodded to both women. "If you need help getting upstairs, call me."
He knew they wouldn't; only when she was truly ill would Minnie accept being carried. Turning from them, he strolled to where Gerrard and Edmond were teasing Henry.
Henry pounced the instant he joined them. "Just the one we need! These two have been bending my ear with their melodrama while I'd much rather take them on at billiards. What say you to that return match?"
"Not tonight, I fear." Vane stifled a fictitious yawn. "After spending half the day riding, I'm for bed as soon as possible." He made the comment unblushingly, but his body reacted to the veiled reference to his morning's activities, and his hopes for the night.
The others, of course, thought he was exhausted.
"Oh, come on. You can't be that tired." Edmond chided. "Must be used to being up to all hours in London."
"Indeed," Vane laconically agreed. "But being up is usually followed by a suitably long time prone." Not, of course, necessarily asleep; the conversation was doing nothing for his comfort.
"One game wouldn't take that long," Gerrard pleaded. "Just an hour or so."
Vane had no difficulty squashing a craven impulse to agree-to put off saying the inevitable words yet again. If he didn't get it right this time, present Patience with the speech he'd spent all afternoon rehearsing, God only knew what hideous punishment fate would concoct for him. Like having to go down on bended knee. "No." His determination made the answer definite. "You'll have to make do without me tonight."
The tea trolley saved him from further remonstrance. Once the cups were replaced and Minnie, steadfastly refusing his aid, had gone upstairs, Vane found himself forced to follow, to take refuge in his room until the others reached the billiard room and settled to their game. The conservatory lay beyond the billiard room, and could be reached only by passing the billiard-room door.
Fifteen minutes of pacing his bedchamber did nothing to improve his temper, but he had it well in hand when, having strolled silently past the billiard room, he opened the conservatory door. It opened and closed noiselessly, failing to alert Patience. Vane saw her instantly, peering out of one of the side windows through a bank of palms.
Puzzled, he drew closer. Only when he stood directly behind her did he see what she was so intently watching-the billiard game currently in progress.
Henry was leaning far over the table, his back to them, lining up one of his favorite shots. As they watched, he made his play, his elbow wobbling, the cue jerking.
Vane snorted. "How the devil did he beat me?"
With a gasp, Patience whirled. Eyes wider than wide, one hand pressed to her breast, she struggled to draw breath.
"Get back!" she hissed. She prodded him, then flapped her hands at him. "You're taller than the palms-they might see you!"
Vane obligingly backed, but stopped the instant they were beyond the line of the billiard room. And let Patience, fussing and fuming, ran into him.
The impact, mild though it was, knocked what breath she'd managed to catch out of Patience. Mentally cursing, she fell back, flashing Vane a furious look as she fought to regain her composure. To calm her wretchedly leaping heart, to quell the impulse to step forward and let his arms steady her, to lift her face and let his kiss claim her.
He'd always affected her physically. Now that she'd lain naked in his arms, the effect was ten times worse.
Inwardly gritting her teeth, she infused impassivity into her features and drew herself up. Defensively. Clasping her hands before her, she lifted her head, and tried to find the right level. Not challenge, but assurance.
Her nerves had been frazzled before he'd appeared-the jolt he'd just given her had scrambled them further. And worse was yet to come. She had to hear him out. There was no alternative. If he wished to offer for her, then it was only right she allow him to do so, so she could formally and definitively decline.
He stood directly before her, a large, lean, somewhat menacing figure. She'd held him silent with her eyes. Drawing a deep breath, she raised one brow. "You wished to speak with me?"
Vane's instincts had been screaming that all was not as he'd thought; the tone of her question confirmed it. He studied her eyes, shadowed in the dimness. The conservatory was lit only by moonlight pouring through the glassed roof; he wished, now, that he'd insisted on some more illuminated meeting place. His eyes narrowed. "I think you know what it is I wish to say to you." He waited for no acknowledgment, but went on, "I wish to ask for your hand in marriage. We're well suited, in all ways. I can offer you a home, a future, a station in keeping with your expectations. As my wife, you would have an assured place in the ton, should you wish to claim it. For my part, I would be content to live mostly in the country, but that would be as you wish."
He paused, increasingly tense. Not a glimmer of response had lit Patience's eyes or softened her features. Stepping closer, he took her hand, and found it cool. Raising it, he brushed a kiss across her cold fingers. Of its own accord, his voice lowered. "Should you agree to be my wife, I swear that your happiness and comfort would be my primary, and my most passionate, concern."
Her chin lifted slightly, but she made no answer.
Vane felt his face harden. "Will you marry me, Patience?" The question was soft, yet steely. "Will you be my wife?"
Patience drew a deep breath, and forced herself to hold his gaze. "I thank you for your offer. It does me more honor than I deserve. Please accept my heartfelt regrets." Despite her conviction, a last, small, desperate hope had clung to life in her heart, but his words had slain it. He'd said all the right things, the accepted things, but not the one important thing. He hadn't said he loved her; he'd made no promise to love her for all time. She drew a difficult breath and looked down, at his fingers lightly holding hers. "I do not wish to marry.",
Silence-absolute and compelling-held them, then his fingers, very slowly, slid from hers.
Vane drew a not entirely steady breath, and forced himself to step back. The conqueror within him roared-and fought to reach for her, to haul her into his arms and take her, storm her castle and force her to acknowledge that she was his-only his. Fists tightly clenched, he forced himself to take a different tack. Slowly, as he had once before, he circled her.
"Why?" He asked the question from directly behind her. She stiffened; her head rose. Eyes narrowed, he watched one golden curl quiver by her ear. "I think, in the circumstances, I'm entitled to know that much."
His voice was low, sibilantly soft, lethally restrained; Patience shivered. "I've decided against marriage."
"When did you make this decision?" When she didn't immediately respond, he suggested, "After we met?"
Patience wished she could lie. Instead, she lifted her head. "Yes, but my decision was not solely an outcome of that. Meeting you simply clarified the matter for me."
Tense silence again descended. He eventually broke it. "Now how, precisely, am I to take that?"
Patience sucked in a desperate breath. She tensed, and would have whirled to face him, but his fingers on her nape, just the lightest touch, froze her.
"No. Just answer me."
She could feel the heat of his body less than a foot away, sense the turbulence he held leashed. He could let the reins fall at any minute. Her wits whirled-giddiness threatened. It was so difficult to think.
Which, of course, was what he wanted-he wanted her to blurt out the truth.
Swallowing, she kept her head high. "I have never been particularly interested in marriage. I've grown used to my independence, to my freedom, to being my own mistress. There's nothing marriage can offer me that I value as highly that would compensate me for giving up all that."
"Not even what we shared in the barn this morning?"
She should, of course, have expected that, but she'd hoped to avoid it. Avoid facing it. Avoid discussing it. Avoid tarnishing the silver and the gold. She kept her chin high, and quietly, evenly, stated, "Not even that."
That, thank heaven, was true. Despite all she'd felt, all that he'd made her feel, all that her body now yearned for, having felt the power of that gold and silver emotion-love, what else could it be?-she was even more sure, even more certain, that her course was right.
She was in love with him, as her mother had loved her father. No other power was as great, no other power so fateful. If she made the mistake of marrying him, took the easy road and gave in, she would suffer the same fate her mother had, suffer the same lonely days and the same endless, aching, soul-destroying, lonely nights. "I do not, under any circumstances, wish to marry."
His fury escaped him; it vibrated around her. For one instant, she thought he would seize her. She only just stopped herself from whirling and stepping away.
"This is insane!" His anger scorched her. "You gave yourself to me this morning-or did I imagine it? Did I imagine you naked and panting beneath me? Tell me, did I imagine you writhing wantonly as I sank into you?"
Patience swallowed, and pressed her lips tightly together. She didn't want to discuss this morning-not any of it-but she listened. Listened as he used the golden moments to flay her, used the silvery delight like a lance to prick her to say yes.
But to agree would be stupid-after having been warned, having seen what would happen, to knowingly accept misery-she'd never been that witless.
And it would be misery.
That was borne out as she listened, listened carefully, as he reminded her, in graphic detail, of all that had passed between them in the barn. He was relentless, ruthless. He knew women too well not to know where to aim his barbs.
"Do you remember how you felt when I first slid inside you?"
He went on, and desire rose, flickering about her, within her. She recognized it for what it was; she heard it in his voice. Heard the passion rise, felt it, a tangible force as he appeared again beside her, looking down into her face, his features craved granite, his eyes burning darkly. When next he spoke, his voice was so deep, so low, it grated on her skin.
"You're a gentlewoman, born and bred-the position, the requirements, are in your blood. This morning you spread yourself for me-you wanted me, and I wanted you. You gave yourself to me. You took me in-and I took you. I took your maidenhead, I took your virginity-what innocence you had, I took that, too. But that was only the penultimate act in a script carved in stone. The final act is a wedding. Ours."
Patience met his gaze steadily, although it took all her will. Not once had he spoken of any softer emotion-not once had he alluded to even the existence of love, let alone suggested it might live in him. He was hard, ruthless-his nature was not soft. It was demanding, commanding, as unyielding as his body. Desire and passion were his forte; that he felt both for her was beyond doubt.
That was not enough. Not for her.
She wanted, needed, love.
She had long ago promised herself she would never marry without it. She'd spent the hour before dinner staring at a cameo portrait of her mother, remembering. The images she'd recalled were still vivid in her mind-of her mother alone, weeping, lonely, bereft of love, dying for want of it.
She lifted her chin, her eyes steady on his. "I do not wish to marry."
His eyes narrowed to grey shards. A long minute passed; he studied her face, her eyes. Then his chest swelled; he nodded once. "If you can tell me this morning meant nothing to you, I'll accept your dismissal."
Not for an instant did his eyes leave hers; Patience was forced to hold his gaze while inside, her heart ached. He'd left her no choice. Lifting her chin, she struggled to draw breath-and forced herself to shrug as she looked away. "This morning was very pleasant, quite eye-opening, but…" Shrugging again, she swung aside and stepped away. "Not enough to commit me to marriage."
"Look at me, dammit!" The command was issued through clenched teeth.
Swinging back to face him, Patience saw his fists clench-and sensed the battle he waged not to touch her. She immediately lifted her chin. "You're making too much of it-you, of all men, should know ladies do not marry all the men with whom they share their bodies." Her heart twisted; she forced her voice to lighten, forced her lips to curve lightly. "I have to admit this morning was very enjoyable, and I sincerely thank you for the experience. I'm quite looking forward to the next time-to the next gentleman who takes my fancy."
For one instant, she feared she'd gone too far. There was something-a flash in his eyes, an expression that flitted over his face-that locked her breath in her throat. But then he relaxed, not completely, but much of his frightening tension-battle-ready tension-seemed to flow out of him.
She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace. She wasn't sure which she found more unnerving-the warrior, or the predator.
"So you liked it?" His fingers, cool and steady, slid under her chin and tipped her face up to his. He smiled-but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you should consider the fact that if you married me, you would have the pleasure you experienced this morning every day of your life?" His eyes locked on hers. "I'm perfectly prepared to swear that you'll never want for that particular pleasure if you become my wife."
Only desperation allowed her to keep her features still, to stop them from crumpling. Inside, she was weeping-for him, and for her. But she had to turn him from her. There were no words on earth to explain to him-proud descendant of a prideful warrior clan-that it was not in his power to give her the one thing she needed to become his wife.
The effort to lift one brow archly nearly felled her. "I suppose," she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes, to infuse consideration into her expression, "that it might be quite nice to try it again, but I can't see any need to marry you for that." His eyes blanked. She was at the end of her strength and she knew it. She put her last ounce into brightening her smile, her eyes, her expression. "I daresay it would be quite exciting to be your inamorata for a few weeks."
Nothing she could have said, nothing she could have done, would have hurt him, or shocked him, so much. Or been more certain to drive him from her. For a man like him, with his background, his honor, to refuse to be his wife but consent to be his mistress was the ultimate low blow. To his pride, to his ego, to his self-worth as a man.
Her fists clenched in her skirts so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Patience forced herself to look inquiringly at him. Forced herself not to quail when she saw the disgust flare in his eyes the instant before the steel shutters came down. Forced herself to stand firm, head still high, when his lip curled.
"I ask you to be my wife… and you offer to be my whore."
The words were low, laced with contempt, bitter with an emotion she couldn't place.
He looked at her for one long minute, then, as if nothing of any great moment had transpired, swept her an elegant bow.
"Pray accept my apologies for any inconvenience my unwelcome proposition may have caused you." Only the ice in his tone hinted at his feelings. "As there's nothing more to be said, I'll bid you a good night."
With one of his usual graceful nods, he headed for the door. He opened it, and, without glancing back, left, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Patience held her position; for a long while, she simply stood there, staring at the door, not daring to let herself think. Then the cold reached through her gown, and she shivered. Wrapping her arms about her, she forced herself to walk, to take a calming turn around the conservatory. She held the tears back. Why on earth was she crying? She'd done what had to be done. She reminded herself sternly that it was all for the best. That the numbness enveloping her would eventually pass.
That it didn't matter that she would never feel that golden and silver glow-or the joy of giving her love-again.
Vane was halfway across the neighboring county before he came to his senses. His greys were pacing steadily down the moonlit road, their easy action eating the last miles to Bedford, when, like Saint Paul, he was struck by a blinding revelation.
Miss Patience Debbington might not have lied, but she hadn't told the whole truth.
Cursing fluently, Vane slowed the greys. Eyes narrowing, he tried to think. Not an exercise he'd indulged in since leaving the conservatory.
On leaving Patience, he'd gone to the shrubbery, to pace and curse in private. Much good had it done him. Never in his life had he had to cope with such damage-he'd hurt in tender places he hadn't known he possessed. And she hadn't even touched him. Unable to quell the cauldron of emotions that, by then, had been seething inside him, he'd fastened on strategic retreat as his only viable option.
He'd gone to see Minnie. Knowing she slept lightly, he'd scratched on her door, and heard her bid him enter. The room had been in darkness, relieved only by a patch of moonlight. He'd stopped her lighting her candle; he hadn't wanted her, with her sharp old eyes, to see his face, read the turmoil and pain he was sure must be etched into his features. Let alone his eyes. She'd heard him out-he'd told her he'd remembered an urgent engagement in London. He would be back, he'd assured her, to deal with the Spectre and the thief in a few days. After he'd discovered how to deal with her niece, who wouldn't marry him-he'd managed to keep that confession from his lips.
Minnie, bless her huge heart, had bidden him go, of course. And he'd gone, immediately, rousing only Masters to lock the house after him, and, of course, Duggan, presently perched behind him.
Now, however, with the moon wrapping him in her cool beams, with the night so dark about him, with his horses' hooves the only sound breaking the echoing stillness-now, sanity had deigned to return to him.
Things didn't add up. He was a firm believer in two and two making four. In Patience's case, as far as he could see, two and two made fifty-three.
How, he wondered, did a woman-a gently bred lady-who had, on first sight of him, deemed him likely to corrupt her brother simply by association, come to indulge in a far from quick roll in the hay with him?
Just what had impelled her to that?
For some women, witlessness might have been the answer, but this was a woman who'd had the courage, the unfaltering determination, to warn him off in an effort to protect her brother.
And had then had the courage to apologize.
This was also a woman who'd never before lain with a man, never before so much as shared a passionate kiss. Never given herself in any way-until she'd given herself to him.
At the age of twenty-six.
And she expected him to believe…
With a vitriolic curse, Vane hauled on the reins. He brought the greys to a halt, then proceeded to turn the curricle. He steeled himself for the inevitable comment from Duggan. His henchman's long-suffering silence was even more eloquent.
Muttering another curse-at his own temper and the woman who had, for some ungodly reason, provoked it-Vane set the greys pacing back to Bellamy Hall.
As the miles slid by, he went over everything Patience had said, in the conservatory and before. He still couldn't make head or tail of it. Replaying once again their words in the conservatory, he was conscious of a towering urge to lay hands on her, put her over his knee and beat her, then shake her, and then make violent love to her. How dared she paint herself in such a light?
Jaw clenched, he vowed to get to the bottom of it. That there was something behind her stance he had not a doubt. Patience was sensible, even logical for a woman; she wasn't the sort to play missish games. There'd be a reason, some point she saw as vitally important that he, as yet, couldn't see at all.
He'd have to convince her to tell him.
Considering the possibilities, he conceded, given her first nonsensical view of him, that she might have taken some odd, not to say fanciful, notion into her head. There was, however, from whichever angle one viewed the proposition, no reason whatever that they shouldn't wed-that she shouldn't become his wife. From his point of view, and from that of anyone with her best interests at heart, from the viewpoint of his family, and hers, and the ton's, she was perfect for the position in every way.
All he had to do was convince her of that fact. Find out what hurdle was preventing her from marrying him and overcome it. Regardless of whether in order to do so he had to act in the teeth of her trenchant opposition.
As the roofs of Northampton rose before them, Vane smiled grimly. He'd always thrived on challenges.
Two hours later, as he stood on the lawn of Bellamy Hall and looked up at the dark window of Patience's bedchamber, he reminded himself of that fact.
It was after one o'clock; the house lay in darkness. Duggan had decided to sleep in the stables; Vane was damned if he'd do the same. But he'd personally checked all the locks throughout the Hall; there was no way inside other than by plying the front knocker-guaranteed to wake not only Masters, but the entire household.
Grimly, Vane studied Patience's third-floor window and the ancient ivy that grew past it. It was, after all, her fault that he was out here.
By the time he was halfway up, he'd run out of curses. He was too old for this. Thankfully, the thick central stem of the ivy passed close by Patience's window. As he neared the stone ledge, he suddenly realized he didn't know if she was a sound or a light sleeper. How hard could he knock on the pane while clinging to the ivy? And how much noise could he make without alerting Minnie or Timms, whose rooms lay farther along the wing?
To his relief, he didn't need to find out. He was almost up to the sill when he saw a grey shape behind the glass. The next instant, the shape shifted and stretched-Myst, he realized, reaching for the latch. He heard a scrape, then the window obligingly popped open.
Myst nudged it further with her head, and peered down.
"Meew!"
Uttering a heartfelt prayer to the god of cats, Vane climbed up. Pushing the window wide, he hooked an arm over the top of it and managed to get one leg over the sill. The rest was easy.
Safe on solid timber, he bent down and ran his fingers along Myst's spine, then rubbed between her ears. She purred furiously, then, tail held high, the tip twitching, stalked off toward the fire. Vane straightened, and heard rustling from the direction of the huge four-poster bed. He was dusting leaves and twigs from his shoulders and the skirts of his greatcoat when Patience appeared out of the shadows. Her hair lay, a rippling bronze veil, over her shoulders; she clutched a shawl around her, over her fine lawn nightgown.
Her eyes were bigger than saucers. "What are you doing here?"
Vane raised his brows, and considered the way her nightgown clung to the long limbs beneath. Slowly, he let his gaze travel upward, until his eyes reached her face. "I've come to take you up on your offer."
If he'd had any doubt over his reading of her, the utter blankness that swamped her expression would have dispelled it.
"Ah-" Eyes still wide, she blinked at him. "Which offer is that?"
Vane decided it was wiser not to answer. He shrugged off his greatcoat and dropped it on the window seat. His coat followed. Patience watched with increasing agitation; Vane pretended not to notice. He crossed to the hearth and crouched to tend the fire.
Hovering behind him, Patience literally wrung her hands-something she'd never done in her life before-and frantically wondered which tack to take now. Then she realized Vane was building up the fire. She frowned. "I don't need a roaring blaze now."
"You'll be glad of it soon enough."
She would? Patience stared at Vane's broad back, and tried not to notice the play of his muscles beneath the fine linen. Tried not to think of what he might mean, what he might be planning. Then she remembered his greatcoat. Frowning, she drifted back to the window seat, stepping lightly, her feet cold on the bare boards. She ran a hand over the capes of the greatcoat-they were damp. She looked out of the window; the river mist was rolling in.
"Where have you been?" Had he been searching for the Spectre?
"To Bedford and back."
"Bedford?" Patience noticed the open window. She swung around to face him. "How did you get in here?" When she'd woken and seen him, he'd been standing in the moonlight looking down at Myst.
Vane glanced back at her. "Through the window."
He turned back to the fire; Patience turned back to the window. "Through the…?" She looked out-and down. "Good Lord-you might have been killed!"
"I wasn't."
"How did you get in? I'm sure I locked this window."
"Myst opened it."
Patience turned to stare at her cat, curled in her favorite position atop a small table to one side of the fire. Myst was observing Vane with feline approval-he was, after all, creating a nice blaze.
He was also creating utter confusion.
"What's going on?" Patience arrived back before the hearth just as Vane rose. He turned to her, and reached for her, helping her the last step into his arms.
Muted by nothing more than fine lawn, his touch seared her. Patience gasped. She looked up. "What-"
Vane sealed her lips with his, and drew her fully against him. Her lips parted instantly; inwardly Patience cursed. His tongue, his lips, his hands, all started to weave their magic. She made a wild mental grab-for shock, surprise, anger, even witless distraction-anything that would give her the strength to distance herself from… this.
From the drugging wonder of his kiss, the immediate yearning that swelled within her. She knew precisely what was happening, knew precisely where he was leading her. And was powerless to prevent it. Not while all of her body-and all of her heart-was madly in alt at the prospect.
When not even hauteur would come to her aid, she gave up all resistance and kissed him back. Hungrily. Had it only been this morning she'd had her last taste of him? If so, she was addicted. Beyond recall.
Her hands slid up, over his shoulders; her fingers found their way into his thick hair. Breasts swelling, nipples sensitive against the hard wall of his chest, Patience abruptly drew back, desperate for air.
She gasped as his lips slid down her throat, then fastened hotly over the spot where her pulse thundered. She shuddered and closed her eyes. "Why are you here?"
Her words were a thread of silver in the moonlight. His answer was deep as the deepest shadows.
"You offered to be my inamorata, remember?"
It was as she'd thought; he wasn't going to let her go yet. He hadn't finished with her, had not yet had his fill of her. Eyes closed tight, Patience knew she should fight. Instead, her willful heart sang. "Why did you go to Bedford?" Had he gone in search of information, or because…
"Because I lost my senses. I found them and came back."
Patience was very glad he, busy branding her throat with his lips, couldn't see the smile that curved hers-soft, gentle-utterly besotted. His words confirmed her reading of his character, his reactions; he had indeed been hurt and angry-furious enough to leave her. She would have thought a great deal less of him if, after all she'd said in the conservatory, he hadn't felt that way. As for the need that had brought him back to her-the desire and passion she sensed flowing so hotly in his veins-that, she could only be grateful for.
He raised his head, his lips returned to hers. One hand caressing his lean cheek, Patience welcomed him back. The kiss deepened; desire and passion blended and swelled. When next he lifted his head, they were both heated through-both very aware of what it was that shimmered hotly about them.
Their gazes locked. They were both breathing rapidly, both totally focused.
Feeling the touch of cooler air below her throat, Patience looked down. And saw Vane's fingers quickly, deliberately, slipping free the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown. She studied the sight for an instant, aware of the throbbing in her blood, of the beat that seemed to vibrate about them. As his fingers passed the point between her breasts, and moved lower, she drew in a shuddering breath.
And closed her eyes. "I won't be your whore."
Vane heard the tremor in her voice. He regretted the word, but… He glanced at her face, then looked down, watching the small white buttons slide between his fingers, watching the halves of her nightgown slowly open, revealing her soft, sumptuous body.
"I asked you to be my wife, you offered to be my lover. I still want you as my wife." Her eyes flew open. He met her gaze, his face set, etched with passion, hard with determination. "But if I can't have you as my wife, then I'll have you as my lover." Forever, if need be.
Her gown was open to her waist. He slid one hand inside, palm sliding possessively around her hip, fingers sinking into soft flesh as he drew her to him. He took her lips, her mouth-a second later, he felt the shudder that passed through her, her achingly sweet surrender.
He felt her fingers at his nape; they slid into his hair. Her lips were soft, pliant, eager to appease-he feasted, on them, on her mouth, on the warmth she so freely offered. She pressed herself to him. Inside her gown, he slid his hand down her back, to stroke, then cup the smooth swell of her bottom. The lower half of her gown was still fastened, restricting his reach; withdrawing his hand, Vane drew back from their kiss.
Patience blinked dazedly. He caught her hand and towed her the few steps to the chair. He sat, then caught her other hand, too, and drew her to stand between his knees. She watched, her breathing ragged, as he quickly unfastened the rest of her gown.
Then the two halves fell free. Slowly, almost reverently, Vane reached up and parted the gown fully, pushing it back to bare her rounded shoulders. To bare her entirely to his gaze. Chest tightening, groin aching, he looked his fill. Her body glowed ivory in the moonlight, her breasts proud mounds tipped with rose pink buds, her waist narrow, indented, the swell of her hips smooth as silk. Her belly was gently rounded, tapering to the fine thatch of bronzy curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleek thighs that had already clasped him once.
Vane drew a shuddering breath and reached for her.
His burning palms sliding over her back, urging her forward, broke the spell that had held Patience. On a gasp, she let him draw her near; she had to grasp his shoulders to steady herself. He looked up, the invitation in his eyes very clear. Patience bent her head and kissed him, longingly, openly, giving all she had to give.
She was his-she knew it. There was no reason she couldn't indulge him, and herself, in this way. No reason she couldn't let her body say what she would never say in words.
After a long, lengthy, satisfying kiss, his lips slid from hers to trace the curve of her throat, to heat the blood pulsing just under her skin. Patience tipped her head back to give him better access; her fingers sank into his shoulders, his tightened about her waist as he took full advantage. He held her steady as his lips drifted lower, over the ripening swells of her breasts. She drew a deep breath, murmuring appreciatively when the movement pressed her flesh more firmly to his lips.
Her murmur ended on a gasp as his teeth grazed one tightly furled nipple, then he took it into his mouth, and she felt her bones melt. One of her hands slid from shoulder to nape, then her fingers slid higher, to convulsively clutch his head as he laved her breasts, teasing the now aching peaks, soothing one moment, then tantalizing the next, easing her back one minute, then whipping her to an excruciating peak of feeling.
Her breathing was desperate long before his mouth moved on, lower, to explore the tender hollows of her waist, to feast on the sensitive cusp of her belly. His hands, palms hot and hard, fastened about her hips, supporting her. Then his tongue, hot and slick, probed her navel-the ragged hiss of her breathing fractured.
As his tongue delved, the rhythm evocatively familiar, she swayed and gasped his name. He didn't answer. Instead, he trailed lingering hot kisses down her quivering belly. And into the soft curls at its base.
"Vane!"
Her shocked protest carried little conviction; by the time it passed her lips, she was already arching, straining up on her toes, knees parting, limbs pliant, hips tilting as she instinctively offered herself for the next heated caress.
It came-a kiss so intimate she could barely cope with the shattering sensation. He followed it with more, not ruthless but relentless, not forceful but insistent. Then his tongue slid between his lips, and between hers.
For one, crystal moment, Patience was sure he'd pushed her too far and she would die-die of the glory sizzling down her nerves, of the distilled excitement searing every vein. It was too much-at the very least, she'd lose her wits.
His tongue slid lazily across her throbbing flesh-and high became higher, tight became tighter. Hot as a brand, it flicked and swirled, dipped and delved-and her limbs liquefied. Heat soared and roared through her.
She didn't die, and she didn't crumple to the ground in a witless heap. Instead, she clutched him to her, and lost any hope of pretending the truth was not real-that she wouldn't be his, be anything he wished.
He filled his palms with her, cupped her and supported her, held her steady as he tasted her. Explored her with his tongue, teased and tantalized her until she was sobbing.
Sobbing with urgency, moaning with need.
He was hungry-she let him feast; he was thirsty-she urged him to drink. Whatever he asked, she gave, even if he used no words, and she had only instinct to guide her. He took all she offered, and confidently opened further doors, walking in and claiming all as his unquestionable right. He kept her there, his, undeniably his, in a dizzying world of bright sensation, of nerve-tingling realization, of soul-stealing intimacy.
Fingers clenched in his hair, eyes closed, glory exploding, a golden haze on the inside of her lids, Patience shuddered and surrendered-to the welling heat, to the beckoning culmination.
With one last, lingering lick, savoring the tart taste of her, the indescribably erotic tang of her sinking to his bones, Vane drew back. One hand beneath the full swell of her bottom, and her convulsive grasp on his hair kept Patience upright. His gaze roaming her flushed face, he flicked the two buttons that closed his trousers undone.
She was already high, floating, pleasured to her toes; he had every intention of pleasuring her more.
It was the work of an experienced minute to ready himself, then he elapsed her thighs and urged her knees onto the chair, sliding along on either side of his hips. The chair was an old one, low, deep and comfortable-made for just this.
Dazed, she followed his unspoken instructions, clearly unsure but eager to learn. He knew her body was ready-achingly empty, yearning for him to fill her. As her thighs slid past his hips, he grasped hers and drew her to him, then drew her down.
He sank into her-and saw her eyes close, lids falling as her breath expelled in a soft, long-drawn sigh. Her body stretched, her softness accommodating his hardness. Then she shifted, pressing deeper, to take more of him, to impale herself more completely.
For one fractured instant, he thought he'd lose his mind.
Certainly all control. He didn't, but it was a grim fight he waged with his demons, slavering to have her, to ravish her utterly. He beat them back, held them back-and set himself to giving her… everything he could.
He lifted her, then lowered her; she quickly caught the rhythm, quickly realized she could move herself. He eased his hold on her hips, let her have the illusion of setting the pace; in reality, he never let go, but counted every stroke, gauged the depth of every easy penetration.
It was a magical ride, timeless, without restraint. Using every ounce of his expertise, he created a sensual landscape for her, conjuring it out of her needs, her senses, so that all she felt, all she experienced was part of the staggering whole. His own needs he held back, his demons' cravings, allowing them only the sensations he felt as, rigid, engorged, giddy with passion, drunk on the lingering taste of her, he sank into her cloying heat, and felt her welcoming embrace.
He gave her that-unalloyed sensual joy, pleasured delight beyond description; under his subtle guidance, she gasped, swayed and panted as he filled her, thrilled her, pleasured her to oblivion. He gave her all, and more-he gave her himself.
Only when she started up the last stair, the last flight to heaven, did he loosen his reins and follow in her wake. He'd done everything he could to bind her to him with passion. At the end, as they gasped and clung and the beauty swept over them, through them, and between them, he let go and savored, in his marrow, in the deepest recesses of his heart, in the farthest corners of his being, the glory he intended to capture for all time.