Rakes Vow

Chapter 19

Sligo opened the front door of Number 22 at nine the next morning.

Vane nodded curtly and strode in. "Where's Her Ladyship?" He cast a quick glance about the hall; it was mercifully untenanted. Bar Sligo, who was gaping.

Vane frowned.

Sligo blinked."Should think Her Ladyship would still be abed, sir. Should I send up-"

"No." Vane looked up the stairs. "Which room is hers?"

"Last on the right."

Vane started up. "You haven't seen me. I'm not here."

"Aye, sir." Sligo watched Vane ascend, then shook his head. And headed back to his porridge.

Locating what he fervently prayed was Minnie's door, Vane rapped lightly on the panels. An instant later, Minnie bade him enter. He did-quickly-silently shutting the door behind him.

Propped against her pillows, a steaming cup of cocoa in her hands, Minnie stared at him. "Great heavens! It's been years since I've seen you up at cockcrow."

Vane advanced on the bed. "I need some sage advice, and you're the only one who can help me."

Minnie beamed. "Well then-what's afoot?"

"Nothing." Incapable of sitting, Vane paced beside the bed. "That's the problem. What should be afoot is a wedding." He glanced sharply at Minnie. "Mine."

"Ah-hah!" Triumph glowed in Minnie's eyes. "Sits the wind in that quarter, heh?"

"As you well know," Vane stated, his accents clipped, "the wind's been in that quarter since I first set eyes on your niece."

"Perfectly proper-as it should be. So what's the rub?"

"She won't have me."

Minnie blinked. Her smug expression faded. "Won't have you?"

Total bewilderment rang in her tone; Vane struggled not to gnash his teeth. "Precisely. For some ungodly reason, I'm not suitable."

Minnie said nothing; her expression said it all.

Vane grimaced. "It's not me, specifically, but men, or marriage in general, she's set her mind against." He sent a saber-edged glance Minnie's way. "You know what that means. She's inherited your stubborness with interest."

Minnie sniffed, and set aside her cocoa. "A very clearheaded girl, Patience. But if she harbors reservations about marriage, I would have thought you, of all men, would have been up to the challenge of changing her mind."

"Don't think I haven't tried." Exasperation rang in Vane's words.

"You must have made a muddle of it. When did you offer for her? In the conservatory last night?"

Vane tried not to remember the conservatory last night. Vivid memories had kept him awake until dawn. "I first offered for her-twice-at Bellamy Hall. And I've repeated the offer several times since." He swung on his heel and stalked down the rug. "With increasing persuasiveness."

"Hmm." Minnie frowned. "This sounds serious."

"I think-" Vane halted; hands on hips, he looked up at the ceiling. "No-I know she initially confused me with her father. Expected me to behave as he had." He swung about and stalked back. "She first expected me to have no interest in marriage, and when I proved to think otherwise, she assumed I had no real interest in family. She thought I was offering for purely superficial reasons-because she might suit, in effect."

"A Cynster not caring about family!" Minnie humphed. "Now she's met so many of you, she can't still be blind."

"No, she can't. Which is precisely my point." Vane stopped beside the bed. "Even after the family's attitudes were paraded before her, she still wouldn't change her mind. Which means there's something more-something deeper. I felt there was from the first. Some fundamental reason she'd set her mind against marriage." He met Minnie's eyes. "And I think it derives from her parents' marriage, which is why I'm here, asking you."

Minnie held his gaze, then her expression grew distant. Slowly, she nodded. "You could be right." She refocused on Vane. "You want to know about Constance and Reggie?"

Vane nodded. Minnie sighed. "It was not a happy story."

"Meaning?"

"Constance loved Reggie. By that, I do not mean the usual affection found in many marriages, nor yet some warmer degree of affection. I mean love-selfless, complete and unswerving. For Constance, the world revolved about Reggie. Oh, she loved her children, but they were Reggie's and so within her purlieu. To give Reggie his due, he tried to cope, but, of course, from his point of view, the discovery that his wife loved him to distraction was more an embarrassment than a joy." Minnie snorted. "He was a true gentleman of his time. He hadn't married for any notion as outrageous as love. It was considered a good match on all sides-not his fault, really, that matters developed in such an unlooked-for direction."

Minnie shook her head. "He tried to let Constance down lightly, but her feelings were cast in stone, never to be rewritten. In the end, Reggie did the gentlemanly thing and kept away. He lost all touch with his children. He couldn't visit them without seeing Constance, which led to situations he couldn't countenance."

His frown deepening, Vane resumed his pacing. "What, for want of a better word, lesson, would Patience have drawn from that?"

Minnie watched him pace, then her gaze sharpened.

"You say it's this deep reason that's keeping her from accepting your offer-I presume you're therefore certain she would otherwise agree to your suit?"

Vane shot her a glance. "Perfectly certain."

"Humph!" Minnie narrowed her eyes at his back. "If that's the case," she declared, her tone tending censorious, "then, as far as I can see, the matter's perfectly obvious."

"Obvious?" Vane bit the word off as he rounded on the bed. "Would you care to share your insight with me?"

"Well"-Minnie gestured-"it stands to reason. If Patience is willing to accept you at that level, then the odds are that she's in love with you."

Vane didn't blink. "So?"

"So she watched her mother endure a life of misery through marrying a man she loved but who didn't love her, a man who cared nothing for her love."

Vane frowned and looked down. He continued to pace.

Eyes widening, Minnie raised her brows. "If you want to change Patience's mind, you'll have to convince her her love is safe with you-that you value it, rather than see it as a millstone 'round your neck." She caught Vane's eye. "You'll have to convince her to trust you with her love."

Vane scowled. "There's no reason she can't trust me with her love. I wouldn't behave like her father."

"I know that and you know that. But how does Patience know that?"

Vane's scowl turned black. He paced more aggressively.

After a moment, Minnie shrugged and folded her hands. "Funny thing, trust. People with reasons not to trust can be very defensive. The best way to encourage them to give their trust is if the same trust-the complementary trust-is freely given to them."

Vane shot her a far from complimentary glance; Minnie raised her brows back. "If you trust her, then she'll trust you. That's what it comes down to."

Vane glowered-mutinously.

Minnie nodded. Decisively. "You'll have to trust her as you want her to trust you, if you're going to win her to wife." She eyed him measuringly. "Think you're up to it?"

He honestly didn't know.

While he struggled with the answer to Minnie's question, Vane hadn't forgotten his other obligations. Half an hour after leaving Minnie, he was shown into the snug parlor of the house in Ryder Street shared by his uncle Martin's sons. Gabriel, so Vane had been informed, was still abed. Lucifer, seated at the table, engaged in devouring a plate of roast beef, looked up as he entered.

"Well!" Lucifer looked impressed. He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. "To what do we owe this unlooked-for-nothing less than startling-visit?" He waggled his brows. "News of an impending fixture?"

"Contain your transports." With an acid glance, Vane dropped into a chair and reached for the coffeepot. "The answer to your question is Minnie's pearls."

Like shedding a skin, Lucifer dropped his inanity. "Minnie's pearls?" His gaze grew distant. "Double strand, thirty inches if not more, exceptionally well-matched." His frown deepened. "Drop earrings, too, weren't there?"

"There were." Vane met his arrested gaze. "They're all gone."

Lucifer blinked. "Gone-as in stolen?"

"So we believe."

"When? And how?"

Briefly, Vane explained. Lucifer listened intently. Each member of the Bar Cynster had some special area of interest; Lucifer's specialty was gems and jewelry. "I came to ask," Vane concluded, "if you could sound out the cog-nescenti. If the pearls have slipped through our net and been passed on, I assume they'll pass through London?"

Lucifer nodded. "I'd say so. Any fence worth his salt would try to interest the denizens of Hatton Garden."

"All of whom you know."

Lucifer smiled; the gesture was not humorous. "As you say. Leave it with me. I'll report back as soon as I hear anything to the point."

Vane drained his coffee mug, then pushed back his chair. "Let me know the instant you hear."

An hour later, Vane was back in Aldford Street. Collecting a still sleepy Patience, he installed her in his curricle and made straight for the park.

"Any developments?" he asked as he headed his greys down one of the quieter avenues.

Yawning, Patience shook her head. "The only change, if change it be, is that Alice has turned even more prudishly odd." She glanced at Vane. "Alice declined Honoria's invitation. When Minnie asked why, Alice glared, and declared you were all devils."

Vane's lips twitched. "Strange to tell, she isn't the first to have labeled us that."

Patience grinned. "But to answer your next question, I spoke with Sligo-despite being left all alone, Alice did nothing more exciting than repair early to her chamber, where she remained for the whole evening."

"Praying for deliverance from devils, no doubt. Did Whitticombe attend the ball?"

"Indeed, yes. Whitticombe's not affected by any puritanical streak. While not jovial, he was at least willing to be entertained. According to Gerrard, Whitticombe spent most of his time chatting with various senior Cynsters. Gerrard thought he was sounding out possible patrons, although for what project remained unclear. Of course, Gerrard's not the most unbiased observer, not when it comes to Whitticombe."

"I wouldn't sell young Gerrard short. His artist's eye is remarkably keen." Vane slanted a glance at Patience, "And he still has the ears of a child."

Patience grinned. "He does love to listen." Then she sobered. "Unfortunately, he heard nothing to the point." She caught Vane's eye. "Minnie's starting to fret again."

"I've set Lucifer on the trail of the pearls. If they've made their way to London's jewelers, he'll hear of it."

"He will?"

Vane explained. Patience frowned. "I really don't understand how they can have so thoroughly disappeared."

"Along with everything else. Just consider-" Vane checked, then wheeled his team for the turn. "If there's only one thief, and, given none of the other stolen items have been found either, that seems a reasonable bet, then all the items are probably hidden in one place. But where?"

"Where indeed? We've hunted all over, yet they must be somewhere." Patience glanced at Vane. "Is there anything more I can do?"

The question hung in the air between them; Vane kept his gaze on his horses until he could keep the words "Agree to marry me" from his lips. Now was not the time-pressing her was the wrong tack to take. He knew it, but swallowing the words took real effort.

"Check Minnie's inmates one more time." At a spanking pace, he set the curricle for the park gates. "Don't look for anything specific, anything suspicious. Don't prejudge what you see-just study each one." He breathed deeply, and flicked Patience a hard glance. "You're the one closest and yet most detached-look again, and tell me what you see. I'll call for you tomorrow."

Patience nodded. "Same time?"

Curtly, Vane acquiesced. And wondered how much longer he could refrain from doing something-saying something-rash.

"Miss Patience!"

Hurrying along the gallery on her way to join Vane, impatiently waiting downstairs, Patience paused, and waited for Mrs. Henderson, deserting her post supervising the maids down one corridor, to join her.

With a conspiratorial look, Mrs. Henderson came close and lowered her voice. "If you'd be so good, miss, as to tell Mr. Cynster that the sand's back."

"Sand?"

One hand to her ample bosom, Mrs. Henderson nodded. "He'll know. Same as before, just a trickle here and there about that heathenish elephant. I can see it sparkling between the floorboards. Not that it comes from the gaudy beast-I took a cloth to it myself, but it was perfectly clean. Other than that, even with these London maids-and Sligo's hired ones with the sharpest eyes in Christendom-we've not spotted anything awry."

Patience would have requested an explanation, if the expression on Vane's face when he'd called and found her in the drawing room, rather than ready, waiting for their drive, had not been indelibly imprinted on her mind.

He was impatient, champing at some invisible bit.

She smiled at Mrs. Henderson. "I'll tell him."

With that, she whirled, and, clutching her muff, hurried down the stairs.

"Sand?" Her gaze fixed on Vane's face, Patience waited for clarification. They were in the park, taking their usual route far from the fashionable throng. She'd delivered Mrs. Henderson's message; it had been received with a frown.

"Where the devil is she getting it from?"

"Who?"

"Alice Colby." Grim-faced, Vane told her of the earlier report of sand in Alice's room. He shook his head. "Heaven only knows what it means." He glanced at Patience. "Did you check out the others?"

Patience nodded. "There was nothing remotely odd about any of them, or their activities. The only thing I learned that I didn't know before was that Whitticombe brought books up from the Hall. I imagined, when he took such immediate possession of the library, that he'd found some tomes there and had settled to a new interest."

"And he hasn't?"

"Far from it. He lugged at least six huge volumes along as luggage; no wonder their coach was straggling behind."

Vane frowned. "What's he studying at the moment-still Coldchurch Abbey?"

"Yes. He goes for a constitutional every afternoon-I slipped into the library and checked. All six books focus on the Dissolution-either just before or just after. The only exception was a ledger, dated nearly a century before."

"Hmm."

When Vane said nothing more, Patience jogged his elbow. "Hmm what?"

He flicked her a glance, then looked back at his leader. "Just that Whitticombe seems obsessed with the abbey. One would have thought he'd know everything there was to know of it by now-at least enough to write his thesis." After a moment, he asked, "Nothing suspicious to report about any of the others?"

Patience shook her head. "Did Lucifer learn anything?"

"In a way, yes." Vane threw her a frustrated glance. "The pearls have not been cleared through London. In fact, Lucifer's sources, which are second to none, are very sure the pearls have not, in their idiom, 'become available.'"

"Available?"

"Meaning that whoever stole them still has them. No one's attempted to sell them."

Patience grimaced. "We seem to meet blank walls at every turn." After a moment, she added, "I calculated how big a space would be needed to store everything that's been stolen." She caught Vane's eye. "Edith Swithin's tatting bag, emptied of everything else, would barely hold it all."

Vane's frown turned grim. "It's all got to be somewhere. I had Sligo search everyone's room again, but he turned up empty-handed."

"But it is somewhere."

"Indeed. But where?"

Vane was back in Aldford Street at one o'clock the next morning, assisting a weak-kneed Edmond up the front steps. Gerrard was steering Henry, chortling at his own loquaciousness. Edgar, a wide, distinctly silly grin on his face, brought up the rear.

The General, thank heavens, had stayed home.

Sligo opened the door to them, and instantly took charge. Nevertheless, it took another half hour and the concerted efforts of the sober members of the group, to install Edmond, Henry, and Edgar in their respective beds.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Gerrard slumped against the corridor wall. "If we don't find the pearls soon, and get this lot back to the Hall, they'll run amok-and run us into the ground."

The comment accurately reflected Vane's thoughts. He grunted and resettled his coat.

Gerrard yawned, and nodded sleepily. "I'm off to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

Vane nodded. "Good night."

Gerrard headed down the corridor. His expression sober, Vane crossed the gallery to the stairs. At their head, he paused, looking down into the darkened front hall. About him, the house lay slumberous, the cloak of night, temporarily disturbed, settling back, a muffling shroud.

Vane felt the night drag at him, draining his strength. He was tired.

Tired of getting nowhere. Frustrated at every turn.

Tired of not winning, not succeeding.

Too tired to fight the compulsion that drove him. The compulsion to seek succor, support, surcease from his endeavors, in his love's arms.

He drew in a deep breath and felt his chest swell. He kept his gaze locked on the stairs, denying the impulse to look right, down the corridor that led to Patience's room.

It was time to go home, time to walk down the stairs, out through the front door, stroll the few blocks to his own house in Curzon Street, let himself into the silence of an empty house, walk up the elegant stairs and into the master bedroom. To sleep alone in his bed, between silken sheets, cold, unwarmed, unwelcoming.

A whisper of sound, and Sligo materialized beside him. Vane glanced sideways. "I'll let myself out."

If Sligo was surprised, he didn't show it. With a nod, he descended the stairs. Vane waited, watched as Sligo moved through the hall, checking the front door. He heard the bolt slide home, then the bobbing candle crossed the hall and disappeared through the green-baize door.

Leaving him in the silent darkness.

Still as a statue, Vane stood at the top of the stairs. In the present circumstances, inviting himself into Patience's bed was unacceptable, even reprehensible.

It was also inevitable.

His eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he turned right. Silently, he walked down the corridor, to the room at its end. Facing the door, he raised his hand-and hesitated. Then the planes of his face shifted, and set.

He knocked. Softly.

A silent minute passed, then he heard the soft patter of bare feet on the boards. A heartbeat later, the door opened.

Flushed with sleep, her hair a tousled crown, Patience blinked at him. Her long white gown clung to her figure, outlined by the glow from the hearth. Lips parted, her breasts rising and falling, she radiated warmth and the promise of paradise.

Her eyes found his; for a long minute, she simply looked, then she stepped back and gestured hinrin.

Vane crossed the threshold and knew it to be his Rubicon. Patience shut the door behind him, then turned-into his arms.

He drew her close and kissed her; he needed no words for what he wanted to say. She opened to him instantly, offering all he wanted, all he needed. She sank against him, all soft womanly curves enticing, encouraging.

Vane caught his breath, caught the reins of his demons, and knew, this time, he wouldn't hold them for long. She set his blood afire too easily; she was the very essence of need to him.

The sole and dominant object of his desire.

Lifting his lids, he glanced at her bed. Reassuringly large, it was shrouded in shadow. The only light in the room came from the embers glowing in the hearth.

He wanted her in his bed, but tonight, he'd make do with hers. He also wanted to see her, to let his eyes, all his senses feast. His demons needed feeding. He also had to find a way to tell her the truth, to tell her what was in his heart. To utter the words he knew he had to say.

Minnie, damn her ancient shrewdness, had pointed unerringly to the truth. And, as much as one part of him wished to, he was powerless to duck, powerless to escape.

He had to do it.

Lifting his head, he drew in a breath so huge, his chest strained against his coat. "Come to the fire."

Sliding one arm around her, registering the glide of fine lawn over bare skin, he guided her toward the hearth. Pressing close, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her hip against his, she acquiesced readily.

As one, they stopped before the hearth. With a naturalness he found enthralling, she turned into his arms. Sliding her hands over his shoulders, she lifted her face, her lips. He was kissing her before he thought of it.

With an inward sigh, Vane caught hold of his impulses, locked a mental fist about them, then, easing his arms from her, he closed his hands about her waist. And tried not to register the warmth beneath his palms, the softness under his fingers.

He lifted his head, breaking their kiss. "Patience-"

"Sssh." She stretched up on her toes and set her lips to his. Hers clung, softly teased; his firmed. Instinctively, he took charge again, effortlessly sliding into the next kiss.

Inwardly, Vane cursed. His reins were steadily fraying. His demons were grinning. In devilish anticipation. He tried again, this time whispering the words against her lips. "I need to t-"

She silenced him again, just as effectively.

Even more effectively, she reached for him, slim fingers closing possessively about his already rigid length.

Vane caught his breath-and gave up. There was no point battling on-he'd forgotten what it was he had to say. He slid his hands down and around; cupping her bottom, he drew her hips hard against his thighs. Her lips parted, her tongue flicked temptingly; he accepted her invitation and plundered. Ravenously.

Patience sighed with satisfaction and sank into his hard embrace. She wasn't interested in words. She was prepared to listen to pants, moans, even groans-but no words.

She didn't need to hear him explain why he was here; she didn't need to hear any excuses for why he needed her-his reasons had been there, shining silver in his eyes, when he'd stood in the dark on her threshold, his gaze locked, so hungrily, on her. The strength of that silvery force was etched in the driven planes of his face, there for her to see. She didn't want to hear him explain-and risk tarnishing the silver with mere words. Words could never do it justice-they'd only detract from the glory.

The glory of being needed. Needed like that. It had never happened to her before; it would likely never happen again.

Only with him. His was a need she could fill; she knew, to her bones, she was made for the task. The unalloyed pleasure she received from giving to him-giving herself to him and assuaging his need-was beyond all words, beyond all earthly measures.

This was what it meant to be a woman. A wife. A lover. This, of all things, was what her soul craved.

She wanted no words to get in her way.

Patience opened her singing heart and welcomed him in. She kissed him as ravenously as he kissed her, hands greedily searching through his clothes.

With a hissed curse, he drew back. "Wait."

Dragging the long pin from his cravat, he laid it on the mantelpiece; swiftly, he unknotted and unwound the long folds. Patience smiled and reached for him; his expression granite hard, he stepped aside and around-linen folds blocked her sight.

"What…?" Patience raised her hands to her face.

"Trust me." Now behind her, Vane brushed her hands aside and deftly wound the linen twice about her head, then knotted it tight at the back. Then, closing his hands about her shoulders, he bent his head and trailed his lips, feather-light, up the curve of her throat. "It'll be better this way."

Better for him-he might retain some degree of control. He felt the responsiblity of being her love keenly; taking without giving was not in his nature. He needed to tell her what was in his heart. If he couldn't manage the words, at least he could demonstrate his feelings. For now, with desire rampant, pounding through his veins, that was the best he could do.

He knew very well what being "blind" would do to her. Without sight, her remaining senses would heighten-her sexual sensitivity, physical and emotional, would reach new peaks.

Slowly, he turned her to face him, and lifted his hands from her.

Senses nickering wildly, Patience waited. Her breathing was shallow, tight with anticipation; her skin prickled. Hands lax at her sides, she listened to her heartbeat, listened to desire thrum in her veins.

The first tug was so gentle she wasn't sure it was real, then another button on her nightgown slid free. Her senses told her Vane was near, close, but precisely where she couldn't tell. Tentatively, she reached out-

"No. Just stand still."

Obedient to his deep voice, to its compelling tone, she let her arms fall.

Her gown was buttoned down the front, all the way to the floor. Only the waft of air on her skin and the slightest of tugs told her when the last button fell free. Before she could imagine what might come next, quick tugs at her wrists had the lacings undone.

Blind, helpless, she shivered.

And felt her gown part and lift away, then it was sliding down her arms, down her back, slithering free of her hands to fall to the floor behind her.

She sucked in a tight breath-and felt Vane's gaze upon her. He stood before her; his gaze roved-her nipples puckered; heat spread beneath her skin. A warm flush followed his gaze, over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She felt herself soften, felt anticipation surge.

He shifted-to the side. Tilting her head slightly, she strained to track his movements. Then he stepped closer. He stood to her left, bare inches away; she could sense him with every pore of her skin.

A hard fingertip slid beneath her chin and tipped her face up. Her lips throbbed; he covered them with his.

The kiss was long and deep, ardent, brutually candid. He surged deep and claimed her softness, then tasted her, languidly but thoroughly, a demonstration of what was to come. Then he drew back-and the fingertip slid away.

Naked, unable to see, with nothing beyond the soft glow from the fire and the heat of desire to warm her, Patience simmered. And waited.

One fingertip touched her right shoulder, then lazily meandered down, over the swell of her breast to circle her nipple. At the last, it flicked the achingly tight bud, then disappeared.

His second caress mirrored the first, teasing her left nipple, sending a long quivering shiver through her. She sucked in a fractured breath.

He leaned closer, reaching behind her to trace the long muscles framing her spine, one, then the other, stopping where they trailed into the hollow below her waist.

Again his touch was withdrawn; again Patience waited. Then his palm, hard, hot, slightly rough on her smooth skin, settled low on her back, in the curve below her waist, then boldly traced down. And around. Proprietorially claiming the full curves, knowingly, appreciatively assessing. Patience felt desire flare, hot and urgent inside her, felt its dew dampen her skin.

She gasped softly; the sound echoed in the stillness. Vane bent his head; she sensed it and lifted her lips. They met his in a kiss so full of aching wanting she swayed. She lifted a hand to grasp his shoulder-

"No. Stand still." He breathed the words against her lips, then kissed her again. Then his lips trailed to her temple. "Don't move. Just feel. Don't do anything. Just let me love you."

Patience shivered-and mutely acquiesced.

The hand fondling her bottom remained, distractingly intimate. It dropped to briefly trace the backs of her thighs, then, long fingers trailing up the line between, returned to caressing her tensed curves.

Then a rogue fingertip found the hollow at the base of her throat. Involuntarily, Patience straightened. The finger slowly tracked down, sliding smoothly over her skin. It passed between her swollen breasts, continued down her sensitive midriff, over the line of her waist, to her navel. There, it circled, slowly, then trailed diagonally, to one hip, then down the midline of her thigh, stopping and disappearing just above her knee.

The fingertip returned to her throat. The long journey was followed again, this time diverting to her other hip and ending above her other knee.

Patience was not deceived. When the fingertip again came to rest below her throat, she dragged in a desperate breath. And held it.

The fingertip slid down, with the same lazy, langorous touch. Again, it circled her navel, then, deliberately, it slid into the small hollow. And probed. Gently. Evocatively. Repetitively.

Patience's breath escaped in a rush. The shiver that racked her was more like a shudder; breathing became even more difficult. She licked her parched lips, and the finger eased back.

And drifted lower.

She tensed.

The finger continued its leisurely descent, over the gentle swell of her belly, on, into the soft curls at its base.

She would have moved, but the hand behind her gripped and held her steady. With unhurried deliberation, the finger parted her curls, then parted her, and slid further.

Into the hot slickness between her thighs.

Every nerve in her body clenched tight; every square inch of her skin glowed hot. Every last fragment of her awareness was centered on the touch of that lazily questing fingertip.

It swirled, and she gasped; she thought her knees would buckle. For all she knew, they did, but the hand at her bottom supported her. Held her there, so she could feel every movement of that bold finger. It swirled again, and again, until her bones melted.

Within her, fire raged; Vane certainly knew it. But he was in no hurry-his finger pressed deeper, reached farther, and circled her, much as it had circled her above.

Breath bated, Patience waited. Waited. Knowing the moment would come when he would probe, when his finger would slide deep into her empty heat. Her breathing was so shallow she could hear the soft hiss; her lips were dry, parched, yet throbbing. Again and again, he hesitated at her entrance, only to slide away, to caress her swollen flesh, slick and throbbing with her heartbeat.

Finally, the moment came. He circled her one last time, then paused, his finger centered on her entrance. Patience shuddered and let her head fall back.

And he speared her, so slowly she thought she'd lose her mind. She gasped, then cried out as he reached deep.

His answer was to close his lips about one aching nipple.

Patience heard her responsive cry as if from a distance. Raising her hands, she clutched-and found his shoulders.

Vane shifted so she was fully before him, so he could lave first one breast, then the other, while he sank one, then two long fingers into her scalding heat. With his other hand, he gripped the firm mounds of her bottom, knowing he'd leave bruises. If he didn't, she'd be on the floor-and so would he. Which would result in even more bruises.

He'd already depleted his stock of control; it had run out when he'd touched the wet heat between her thighs. He'd reckoned correctly on blind nakedness arousing her deeply-he hadn't foreseen her blind nakedness so arousing him. But he was determined to lavish every attention on her-every ounce he was capable of giving.

Mentally gritting his teeth, mentally girding his loins-in cast iron-he hung on. And lavished more loving on her.

All he had to give, given as only he could.

Patience hadn't known her body could feel so much, so intensely. Fire seared her veins; awareness invested her skin. She was sensitive to each shifting current of air, each and every bold touch, every nuance of every caress.

Every knowing stroke of Vane's hard fingers drove pleasure into her and through her; every tug of his lips, every wet sweep of his tongue caught the pleasure and drove it to shattering heights.

The pleasure grew, welled, swept and beat through her, then flared and coalesced into a familiar inner sun. Eyes closed beneath her blindfold, she gasped and waited for the sunburst to break over her, then fade. Instead, it swelled brighter, wider-and engulfed her.

And she was part of the sun, part of the pleasure, felt it wash through her and about her, buoy her up and lift her. She drifted, afloat on a sea of sensual bliss, pleasured to her very toes.

The sea stretched on and on; waves lapped at her senses, fed them, sated them. But still left them hungry.

Dimly, she was aware of Vane's hands shifting, aware of losing his intimate touch. Then he lifted her, cradling her against his chest, and carried her. To her bed. Gently, with soothing kisses that eased her parched lips, he laid her on top of her sheets. Patience waited for the blindfold to disappear. It didn't. Instead, she felt the cool slide of her satin coverlet over her sensitized skin.

She listened-ears straining, she heard a soft thud-one boot hitting the floor. In the dark, she smiled. Sinking into the feathers beneath her, she relaxed. And waited.

She expected him to join her beneath the coverlet; instead, a few minutes later, the coverlet was whisked away. He came onto the bed, and stopped. It took her a moment to realize where he was.

On his knees, straddling her thighs.

Anticipation struck her like lightning; in an instant, her body heated anew. Tensed, tightened-quivering with expectation.

Above her, she heard a hoarse chuckle. His hands clamped about her hips. The next instant, she felt his lips.

On her navel.

From there, things only got more heated.

When, endless panting, gasping, shatteringly intimate minutes later, he finally joined with her, she was hoarse, too. Hoarse from her muted cries, from her desperate attempts to breathe. He'd driven her into a state of endless delight, her body awash with exquisite sensation, sensitive to every touch, every unerringly intimate caress.

Now he drove into her, and drove her still further, into the heart of the sun, into the realm of glory. Patience blindly urged him on, let her body speak for her, caress him and hold him and love him as he was loving her.

Wholeheartedly. Unreservedly. Unrestrainedly.

The truth broke on her in the instant their sun imploded and shattered into a million shards. Glory rained about her-about them. Locked together, she felt his ecstasy as deeply as she felt hers.

Together they rose, buoyed on the final rapturous wave; together they fell, into deeply sated release. Wrapped in each other's arms, they floated in the realm reserved for lovers, where no mind was allowed to go.

"Hmm-hmm." Patience burrowed deeper into her warm bed and ignored the hand shaking her shoulder. She was in heaven, a heaven she couldn't remember being in before, and she wasn't interested in cutting short her stay. Even for him-he who had brought her here. There was a time for everything, especially for talking, and this was definitely not it. A warm glow lapped about her. Gratefully, she sank into it.

Vane tried again. Fully dressed, he leaned over, and shook Patience as hard as he dared. "Patience."

A disgruntled noise that sounded like "glumph" was all he got out of her. Exasperated, Vane sat back, and stared at the golden brown curls showing above the coverlet, all he could see of his wife-to-be.

As soon as he'd woken, and realized he'd have to leave, he'd tried to wake her-to tell her, simply and clearly, what he'd failed to tell her earlier. Before her passions had run away with them.

Unfortunately, he'd come to her late, and had stretched the time out as far as he'd been able. The result was that, only two hours later, she was still deeply sunk in bliss and highly resistant to being roused.

Vane sighed. He knew from experience that insisting on rousing her would result in an atmosphere totally inimical to the declaration he wanted to make. Which meant waking her was useless-worse than useless.

He'd have to wait. Until…

Muttering a curse, he stood, and headed for the door. He had to leave now or he'd trip over the maids. He would call and see Patience later-he'd have to do what he'd sworn he never would. Never expected he ever would.

Lay his heart on a platter-and calmly hand it to a woman.

Whether he was up to it no longer mattered. Securing Patience as his wife was the only thing that did.