the horses' hooves struck the cobbles of Aldford Street, she lifted her chin. "I realize that you feel committed to identifying the thief an't'tl the Spectre, but, now you've returned to London, I daresay you have other engagements-other distractions-on which you'd much rather spend your time." She drew a tight breath; a cold vise had fastened about her chest. She felt Vane's quick glance. Head high, eyes forward, she continued, "I'm sure, now Sligo has joined us, we could find some way to get the relevant information to you without having to waste your time on unnecessary walks or drives."
She would not cling. Now they were in town, and he could see that she didn't fit within his elegant world, couldn't hold a candle to the exquisitely arrayed beauties he was accustomed to consorting with, she would not try to hold on to him. Like her mother had clung to her father. Theirs was a temporary relationship; in her mind, she could already see its end. By taking the first step and acknowledging the inevitable, she might, just possibly, prepare her heart for the blow.
"I have no intention of not seeing you at least once a day."
The words were bitten off, infused with a steely rage Patience could not possibly mistake. Taken aback, she glanced at Vane. The carriage rocked to a halt, he tied off the reins and jumped down.
Then swung around. He grasped her waist and lifted her bodily from the seat-and placed her, with quiveringly rigid control, on the pavement before him.
Steel shards, his eyes held hers. Breathless, Patience blinked up at him. His face was hard, a warrior's mask. Waves of anger and aggression lapped about her.
"When it comes to distraction," he informed her through clenched teeth, "nothing in this world could top you."
His words were invested with meaning-a meaning she didn't understand. Mentally at sea, Patience struggled to catch her breath. Before she succeeded, Vane had marched her up the steps and deposited her in the front hall.
Narrow-eyed, he looked down at her. "Don't expect to see the last of me anytime soon."
With that, he swung on his heel and stalked out.
Chapter 17
Two days later, Vane stalked up the steps of Number 22 Aldford Street, on his way to see Patience. If she wasn't ready to drive out with him this morning, there'd be trouble.
He was not in a good mood.
He hadn't been for the past two days.
After last leaving Patience in Aldford Street, his temper gnashing at the bit, he'd gone off to seek refuge at White's to calm down and think. He'd assumed, given their closeness, how much of himself he'd already revealed to her, that she wouldn't-couldn't possibly-confuse him with her father. He'd obviously assumed wrong. Her attitude, her comments, made it plain she was judging him against Reginald Debbington's standard-and was failing to perceive any significant difference.
His initial reaction had been a violent hurt he had not, even now, entirely suppressed. After her earlier efforts that had sent him fleeing from Bellamy Hall, he'd thought he'd surmounted "hurt." He'd been wrong on that score, too.
Sunk in a quiet corner of White's, he'd spent fruitless hours composing terse, pithy speeches designed to elucidate precisely how and in what manner he differed from her sire-a man to whom family had meant little. His periods had grown increasingly forceful; in the end, he'd jettisoned phrases in favor of action. That, as all Cynsters well knew, spoke far louder than words.
Judging that, by that time, the damage within the family had already been done, he'd swallowed his pride and gone to call on Honoria-to ask, innocently, if she might consider giving one of her impromptu balls. Just for family and friends. Such a ball would be a useful tool in his avowed endeavor-to convince Patience that, to him as for all the Cynsters, the word "family" meant a great deal.
Honoria's wide eyes, and thoughtful consideration, had set his teeth on edge. But her agreement that an impromptu ball might, perhaps, be a good idea had gone some way to easing his temper. Leaving Devil's duchess to her plans, he'd retired to formulate his own. And to brood, darkly.
By the time yesterday morning had dawned, and he'd again set his horses' heads for Aldford Street, he'd come to the conclusion that there had to be more-more than just a simple misconception holding Patience back from marriage. He was absolutely certain what style of woman he'd chosen; he knew, soul-deep, that his reading of her was not wrong. Only a powerful reason would force a woman such as she, with so much affection and devotion to give, to view marriage as an unacceptable risk.
There was something more-something he had not yet learned about her parents' marriage.
He'd climbed the steps of Number 22 determined to learn what that something was-only to be informed Miss Debbington was not available to go driving with him. She had, it seemed, been seduced by the Bruton Street modistes. His temper had taken a downhill turn.
Luckily for Patience, Minnie had been watching for him. Unexpectedly spry, she'd claimed his escort for her promised stroll along the graveled walks of Green Park. On the way, she'd gaily informed him that, by some stroke of benign fate, Honoria had happened on Patience in Bruton Street the afternoon before, and had insisted on introducing her to her favored modiste, Celestine, the result being the fitting Patience was then attending for a series of gowns including, Minnie had taken great delight in assuring him, a positively dashing golden evening gown.
Arguing with benign fate was impossible. Even if, by virtue of Edith Swithins who had joined them for the stroll, said fate had ensured he had no chance to question Minnie about Patience's father, and the depths of his ignominy.
An hour later, reassured that Minnie's constitution was fully restored, he'd returned her to Number 22, only to discover Patience still absent. Leaving a tersely worded message with Minnie, he'd departed to find distraction elsewhere.
Today, he wanted Patience. If he had his way, he'd have Patience, but that was unlikely. Privacy of that sort, in the present circumstances, was unlikely to be on offer-and he had a wary premonition he'd be unwise to embark on any further seductive manuevers until he had their relationship on a steady, even keel.
With his hand firmly on the tiller.
Sligo opened the door to his peremptory knock. With a curt nod, Vane strode in. And stopped dead.
Patience was in the hall, waiting-the sight literally stole his breath. As his gaze, helplessly, slid over her, over the soft green merino pelisse, severely cut and snugly fitted, its upstanding collar framing her face, over the tan gloves and half boots, over the pale green skirts peeking beneath the pelisse's hem, Vane felt something inside him tighten, click, and lock.
Breathing was suddenly more difficult than if someone had buried a fist in his gut.