Drumming her fingers on the arm of
her chair, Patience frowned at the door and returned to her preoccupation-to rehearsing her warning to Vane Cynster. It was the first time she'd had to warn any male off-she would much rather she didn't have to start now, but she couldn't let things go on as they were. Quite aside from her promise to her mother, tendered on her deathbed, that she would always keep Gerrard safe, she simply couldn't countenance Gerrard getting hurt in such a way-by being used as a pawn to win her smiles.
Of course, they all did it to some degree. Penwick treated Gerrard as a child, playing to her protectiveness. Edmond used his art as a link to Gerrard, to demonstrate his affinity with her brother. Henry pretended an avuncular interest patently lacking in real emotion. Vane, however, went one better-he actually did things. Actively protected Gerrard, actively engaged her brother's interest, actively interacted-all with the avowed intention of making her grateful, of placing her in his debt.
She didn't like it. They were all using Gerrard, but the only one from whom Gerrard stood in danger of taking any hurt was Vane. Because the only one Gerrard liked, admired, potentially worshiped, was Vane.
Patience surreptitiously massaged her left temple. If they didn't finish with the port soon, she would have a raging migraine. She would probably have one anyway-after her disturbed night, followed by the surprises of the breakfast table, capped by the revelations of their ride, she'd spent most of the afternoon thinking of Vane. Which was enough to warp the strongest mind.
He distracted her on so many levels she'd given up trying to untangle her thoughts. There was, she felt sure, only one way to deal with him. Directly and decisively.
Her eyes felt gravelly, from staring unblinking at nothing for too long. She felt like she hadn't slept in days. And she certainly wouldn't sleep until she'd taken charge of the situation, until she'd put a stop to the relationship developing between Gerrard and Vane. True, all she'd seen and heard between them thus far had been innocent enough-but no one-no one-could call Vane innocent.
He wasn't innocent-but Gerrard was.
Which was precisely her point.
At least, she thought it was. Patience winced as pain shafted from one temple to the other.
The door opened; Patience sat up. She scanned the gentlemen as they wandered in-Vane was the last. He strolled in, which was of itself enough to assure her that her tortuous reasoning was right. All that prowling, arrogant masculinity set her teeth on edge.
"Mr. Cynster!" Without a blush, Angela beckoned. Patience could have kissed her.
Vane heard Angela and saw her wave; his gaze flicked to Patience, then, with a smile she unhesitatingly classed as untrustworthy, he prowled in their direction.
As a group, the three of them-Mrs. Chadwick, Angela, and Patience-rose to greet him, none wishing to risk a crick in the neck.
"I wanted to ask particularly," Angela said, before anyone else could essay a word, "whether it's true that cerise is currently the most fashionable color for trimming for young ladies."
"It's certainly much favored," Vane replied.
"But not on pale yellow," Patience said.
Vane looked at her. "I devoutly hope not."
"Indeed." Patience took his arm. "If you'll excuse us, Angela, ma'am"-she nodded to Mrs. Chadwick-"I have something I really must ask Mr. Cynster." So saying, she steered Vane toward the far end of the room-and thanked the deity he consented to move.
She felt his gaze, slightly surprised, distinctly amused, on her face. "My dear Miss Debbington." Beneath her hand, his arm twisted-and then he was steering her. "You need only say the word."
Patience flashed him a narrow-eyed glance. The purring tones in his voice sent shivers down her spine-delicious shivers. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, for that's precisely what I intend to do."
His brows rose. He searched her face, then raised a hand and gently rubbed one fingertip between her brows.
Patience stilled, shocked, then drew her head back. "Don't do that!" A warm glow suffused the area he'd touched.
"You were frowning-you look like you have a headache."
Patience frowned harder. They'd reached the end of the room; halting, she swung to face him. And plunged into the attack. "I take it you're not leaving tomorrow?"
He looked down at her. After a moment, he replied, "I can't see myself departing in the foreseeable future. Can you?"
She had to be sure. Patience met his gaze directly. "Why are you staying?"
Vane studied her face, her eyes-and wondered what was bothering her. The feminine tension gripping her rippled about him; he translated it as "bee in her bonnet," but, from long association with strong-willed women, his mother and aunts, let alone Devil's new duchess, Honoria, he had learned the wisdom of caution. Uncertain of her tack, he temporized. "Why do you imagine?" He raised one brow. "What, after all, could possibly exercise sufficient interest to hold a gentleman like me, here?"
He knew the answer, of course. Last night, he'd seen how the land lay. There were situations where justice, blindfolded as she was, could easily be misled-the situation here was one such. The undercurrents were considerable, running unexpectedly, inexplicably, deep.
He was staying to help Minnie, to defend Gerrard-and to aid Patience, preferably without letting on he was aiding her. Pride was something he understood; he was sensitive to hers. Unlike the other gentlemen, he saw no reason to suggest that she'd failed in any way with Gerrard. As far as he could tell, she hadn't. So it could be said he was acting as her protector, too. The role felt very right.