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.
He'd capped his question with a charming smile; to his surprise, it made Patience stiffen.
She drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and fixed him with a censorious look. 'In that case, I'm afraid I must insist that you refrain from encouraging Gerrard.'
Inwardly, Vane stilled. He looked down, into her disapproving eyes. 'What, exactly, do you mean by that?' Her chin rose. 'You know very well what I mean.'
'Spell it out for me.'
Her eyes, like clear agates, searched his, then her lips compressed. 'I would rather you spent as little time as possible with Gerrard. You're only showing an interest in him to win points with me.'
Vane arched one brow. 'You take a lot to yourself, my dear.',
Patience held his gaze. 'Can you deny it?'
Vane felt his face set, his jaw lock. He couldn't refute her accusation; it was in large part true. 'What I don't understand,' he murmured, his eyes narrowing on hers, 'is why my interaction with your brother should occasion the slightest concern. I would have thought you would be glad to have someone extend his horizons.'
'I would be,' Patience snapped. Her head was pounding. 'But you're the very last person I would want to guide him.'
'Why the devil not?'
The steel sliding beneath Vane's deep voice was a warning. Patience heard it. She was heading for thin ice, but, having come thus far, she was determined not to retreat. She set her teeth. 'I don't want you guiding Gerrard, filling his head with ideas, because of the sort of gentleman you are.'
'And what sort of gentleman am I-in your eyes?'
Rather than rising, his tone was becoming softer, more lethal. Patience quelled a shiver, and returned his edged glance with one equally sharp. 'In this instance, your reputation is the opposite of a recommendation.'
'How would you know of my reputation? You've been buried in Derbyshire all your life.'
'It precedes you,' Patience retorted, stung by his patronizing tone. 'You only need walk into a room, and it rolls out like a red carpet before you.'
Her sweeping gesture elicited a grunt. 'You don't know what you're talking about.'
Patience lost her temper. 'What I'm talking about is your propensities with respect to wine, women, and wagering. And, believe me, they're obvious to the meanest intelligence! You may as well have a banner carried before you.' With her hands, she sketched one in the air. 'Gentleman rake!'
Vane shifted; he was suddenly closer. 'I believe I warned you I was no gentleman.'
Looking into his face, Patience swallowed, and wondered how she could possibly have forgotten. There was nothing remotely gentlemanly in the presence before her-his face was hard, his eyes pure steel. Even his austerely elegant attire now seemed more like armor. And his voice no longer purred. At all. Clenching her fists, she drew a tight breath. 'I don't want Gerrard turning out like you. I don't want you to-' Despite her best efforts, innate caution took hold-it froze her tongue.
Almost shaking with the effort of restraining his temper, Vane heard himself suggest, his tone sibilantly smooth, 'Corrupt him?'
Patience stiffened. She lifted her chin, her lids veiling her eyes. 'I didn't say that.'
'Don't fence with me, Miss Debbington, or you're liable to get pinked.' Vane spoke slowly, softly, only just managing to get the words past his teeth. 'Let's be sure I have this correctly. You believe I've stayed at Bellamy Hall
Poker-straight, Patience met his eyes. 'I don't think so.'
Vane felt his control quake, felt his reins slither from his grasp. He clenched his jaw, and both fists. Every muscle in his body locked, every mental sinew strained with the effort of holding on to his temper.
All Cynsters had one-a temper that normally lazed like a well-fed cat but could, if pricked, change to a snarling predator. For one instant, his vision clouded, then the beast responded to the rein and drew back, hissing. As his fury subsided, he blinked dazedly.
Hauling in a deep breath, he swung halfway around and, dragging his gaze from Patience, forced himself to scan the room. Slowly, he exhaled. 'If you were a man, my dear, you wouldn't still be upright.'
There was an instant's pause, then she said, 'Not even you would strike a lady.'
Her 'not even' nearly set him off again. Jaw clenched, Vane slowly turned his head, caught her wide hazel gaze-and raised his brows. His hand itched to make contact with her bottom. Positively burned. For one instant, he teetered on the brink-her widening gaze, as, frozen like prey, she read the intent in his eyes, was small comfort. But the thought of Minnie made him fight down the nearly overpowering compulsion to bring Miss Patience Debbington to an abrupt understanding of her temerity. Minnie, supportive though she was, was unlikely to prove
He turned on his heel and stalked off.
Patience watched him go, watched him stride directly across the room, looking neither left nor right. There was nothing languid in his stride, no vestige of his usual lazy grace; his every movement, the rigid set of his shoulders, shrieked of reined power, of temper, of fury barely leashed. He opened the door and, without even a nod to Minnie, left; the door clicked shut behind him.
Patience frowned. Her head throbbed remorselessly; she felt empty and-yes-cold inside. As if she'd just done something terribly wrong. As if she'd just made a big mistake. But she hadn't, had she?
She woke the next morning to a grey and dripping world. Through one eye, Patience stared at the unrelenting gloom beyond her window, then groaned and buried her head beneath the covers. She felt the dipping of the mattress as Myst jumped up, then padded closer. Settling against the curve of her stomach, Myst purred.
Patience sank her head deeper into her pillow. This was clearly a morning to avoid.
She dragged her limbs from the comfort of her bed an hour later. Shivering in the chilly air, she hurriedly dressed, then reluctantly headed downstairs. She had to eat, and cowardice was not, in her book, sufficient reason to put the staff to the unexpected trouble of making up a tray for her. She noted the time as she passed the clock on the stairs-nearly ten o'clock. Everyone else should have finished and departed; she should be safe.
She walked into the breakfast parlor-and discovered her error.
Gerrard, of course, beamed a welcome. Patience summoned a weak smile. Steps dragging, she headed for the sideboard.
She took her time filling her plate, then slipped into the chair beside Gerrard, wishing he was somewhat larger. Large enough to shield her from Vane's darkling gaze. Unfortunately, Gerrard had finished all but his coffee; he lay sprawled comfortably back in his chair.
Leaving her exposed. Patience bit her tongue against the impulse to tell Gerrard to sit straight; he was still too coltish to bring off that lounging pose. Unlike the gentleman he was copying, who brought it off all too well. Patience kept her eyes on her plate and her mind on eating. Other than the brooding presence at the head of the table, there was precious little other distraction.
As Masters cleared their plates, the gentlemen fell to discussing the day's possibilities. Henry looked at Patience. 'Perhaps, Miss Debbington, if the skies clear, you might be interested in a short walk?'
Patience glanced very briefly at the sky beyond the windows. 'Too muddy,' she pronounced.
Edmond's eyes gleamed. 'How about charades?'
Patience's lips thinned. 'Perhaps later.' She was in a waspish mood; if they weren't careful, she'd sting.
'There's a pack of cards in the library,' Edgar volunteered.
The General, predictably, snorted. 'Chess,' he stated. 'Game of kings. That's what I shall do. Any
