Luckily, Henry and Edmond drifted off without pushing once they entered the house. As she and Vane climbed the stairs, Patience inwardly frowned. It was almost as if both Henry and Edmond thought they had to protect her from Vane, and Penwick, too, but, once she was in the house, they considered her safe. Even from Vane.
She could imagine why they thought that-this was, after all, Vane's godmother's house. Even rakes, she under
stood, had lines they would not cross. But she'd already learned she couldn't predict Vane's rakishness-and she wasn't at all sure where his lines lay.
They reached the end of the gallery; the corridor to her room stretched ahead. Halting, she drew her hand from Vane's arm and turned to face him.
His expression mild, his eyes gently amused, he met her gaze. He read her eyes, then raised a brow, inviting her question.
"Why did you stay?"
He stilled; again, Patience felt the net draw tight, felt paralysis set in as his predator's senses focused on her. It was as if the world stopped spinning, as if some impenetrable shield closed about them, so that there was nothing but her and him-and whatever it was that held them.
She searched his eyes, but couldn't read his thoughts beyond the fact that he was considering her, considering what to tell her. Then he lifted one hand. Patience caught her breath as he slid one finger beneath her chin; the sensitive skin came alive to his touch. He tipped her face up so that her eyes locked on his.
He studied her, her eyes, her face, for one instant longer. "I stayed to help Minnie, to help Gerrard… and to get something I want."
He uttered the words clearly, deliberately, without any affectation. His heavy lids lifted. Patience read the truth in his eyes. The force that held them beat in on her senses. A conqueror watched her through cool grey eyes.
Giddy, she fought for enough strength to lift her chin from his finger. Breathless, she turned and walked away to her door.
Chapter 7
Late that night, Patience paced before the fire in her bedchamber. About her, the house was silent, all the occupants retired to their rest. She couldn't rest; she hadn't even bothered to undress. There wasn't any point-she wouldn't fall asleep. She was getting very tired of missing out on her sleep, but…
She couldn't get her mind off Vane Cynster. He commanded her attention; he filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of everything else. She'd forgotten to eat her soup. Later, she'd tried to drink tea from an empty cup.
"It's all his fault," she informed Myst, sitting, sphinx-like, on the armchair. "How am I supposed to behave sensibly when he makes declarations like that?"
Declared they would be lovers-that he wanted her in that way. Patience slowed. "Lovers, he said-not protector and mistress." She frowned at Myst. "Is there any pertinent distinction?"
Myst looked steadily back.
Patience grimaced. "Probably not." She shrugged and resumed her pacing.
After all Vane had said and done, every precept she'd ever learned stated categorically that she avoid him. Cut him dead if need be. However… She halted, and stared at the flames.
The truth was, she was safe. She would be the very last lady to throw her cap over the windmill for a gentleman like Vane Cynster. He might be caring in some ways, he might be so powerfully attractive she couldn't focus on anything else while he was by, but she could never forget what he was. His appearance, his movements, his attitudes, that dangerous purr in his voice-all were constant reminders. No-she was safe. He wouldn't succeed in seducing her. Her deep-seated antipathy to elegant gentlemen would protect her from him.
Which meant she could, with impunity, satisfy her curiosity. Over those odd sensations he evoked, sometimes knowingly, at other times apparently unconsciously. She'd never felt the like before.
She needed to know what they meant. She wanted to know if there was more.
Brow furrowing, she paced on, formulating her arguments. Her experience of the physical was severely limited-she herself had ensured that was so. She'd never before felt the slightest inclination to so much as kiss any gentleman. Or to allow any gentleman to kiss her. But the one, amazingly thorough, astonishingly lengthy kiss she'd shared with Vane had demonstrated beyond doubt that he was a master in that sphere. From his reputation, she'd expected nothing less. Who better to learn from?
Why shouldn't she take advantage of the situation and learn a little more-all within the bounds of the possible, of course. She might not know where his lines lay, but she knew where hers were drawn.
She was safe, she knew what she wanted, and she knew how far she could go.
With Vane Cynster.
The prospect had consumed her thoughts for most of the afternoon and all of the evening. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep her eyes from him, from his large, lean frame, those strong, long-fingered hands, and his increasingly fascinating lips.
Patience frowned and continued to pace.
She looked up as she neared the end of her well-worn route-her curtains were still undrawn. Crossing to the window, she reached a hand to each drape to twitch them shut-in the gloom below, a light gleamed.
Patience froze and stared down. The light was quite clear, a ball glowing through the fog shrouding the ruins. It bobbed, then moved. Patience didn't wait to see more. Whirling, she hauled open her wardrobe, grabbed her cloak, and ran for the door.