"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.