Rakes Vow

She needed to hunt out her most waterproof walking shoes.

An hour later, she stood at the side door and surveyed the expanse of sodden grass between her and the rains. Between her and the apology she had to make. A brisk breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of rain; there seemed little likelihood the grass would dry soon. Patience grimaced and glanced down at Myst, sitting neatly beside her. 'I suppose it's part of my penance.'

Myst looked up, enigmatic as ever, and twitched her tail.

Patience determinedly stepped out. In one hand, she twirled her furled parasol; there was just enough weak sunshine to excuse it, but she'd really picked it up simply to have something in her hands. Something to riddle with, something defensive-something to glance at if things got truly bothersome.

Ten yards from the door, and the hem of her lilac walking dress was wet. Patience gritted her teeth and glanced around for Myst-and realized the cat wasn't there. Looking back, she saw Myst, sitting primly on the stone stoop of the side door. Patience pulled a face at her. 'Fine-weather friend,' she muttered, and resumed her stroll.

Her hem got wetter and wetter; gradually, water found its way through the seams of her kid boots. Patience doggedly slogged on. Wet feet might be part of her penance, but she was sure it would be the lesser part. Vane, she was certain, would provide the greater.

Abruptly, she pushed that thought aside-it was not a thought she need dwell on. What was to come would not be easy, but if she allowed herself to think too much, her courage would desert her.

Quite how she had come to be so wrong she really couldn't fathom. To have been wrong on one point would have been bad enough, but to find herself so comprehensively off target was incomprehensible.

As she detoured around the first of the fallen stones, her jaw set. It wasn't fair. He looked like an elegant gentleman. He moved like an elegant gentleman. In many ways, he behaved like an elegant gentleman! How could she have known that in nonphysical ways he was so different?

She clung to the thought, trying it on for comfort, seeing if it would bolster her courage-then relucantly shrugged it aside. She couldn't duck the fact that she was very much at fault. She'd judged Vane entirely by his wolf's clothing. Although he was, indeed, a wolf, he was, apparently, a caring wolf.

There was no way out but to apologize. Her self-respect wouldn't accept anything less; she didn't think he would either.

Reaching the ruins proper, she looked about. Her eyes ached; she'd got even less sleep last night than she had the night before. 'Where are they?' she muttered. If she could get this over with, and free her mind of its most vexing problem, perhaps she could nap this afternoon.

But first, she had to give the wolf his due. She was here to apologize. She wanted to do it quickly-before she lost her nerve.

'Really? I didn't know that.'

Gerrard's voice led her to the old cloisters. His easel before him, he was sketching the arches along one side. Stepping into the open courtyard, Patience searched-and spotted Vane lounging in the shadows of a half- shattered cloister arch some paces behind Gerrard.

Vane had already spotted her.

Gerrard glanced up as her boots scraped on the flags. 'Hello. Vane's just been telling me that sketching's considered quite the thing among the ton at present. Apparently, the Royal Academy holds an exhibition every year.' Charcoal in hand, he turned back to his sketch.

'Oh?' Her gaze on Vane, Patience wished she could see his eyes. His expression was unreadable. Shoulders propped against the stone arch, arms folded across his chest, he watched her like a hawk. A brooding, potentially menacing hawk. Or a wolf anticipating a meal.

Giving herself a mental shake, she stepped up to Gerrard's shoulder. 'Perhaps we can visit the Academy when we go up to town.'

'Hmm,' Gerrard said, entirely absorbed with his work.

Patience studied Gerrard's sketch.

Vane studied her. He'd seen her the instant she'd appeared, framed by a break in the old wall. He'd known she was near an instant before that, warned by some sixth sense, by a faint ripple in the atmosphere. She drew his senses like a lodestone. Which, at present, was not helpful.

Gritting his teeth, he fought to block his memories of the previous night from crystallizing in his mind. Every time they did, his temper took flight, which, given she was near, within easy reach, was the opposite of wise. His temper was very like a sword-once unsheathed, it was all cold steel. And it took real effort to resheathe it. Something he hadn't yet accomplished.

If Miss Patience Debbington was wise, she would keep her distance until he had.

If he was wise, he'd do the same.

His gaze, dwelling, entirely without his permission, on her curves, on the play of her skirts about her legs, dropped to inspect her ankles. She was wearing kid half boots-and her skirts were distinctly wet.

Inwardly, Vane frowned. He stared at her wet hems. She had changed tack-he'd thought she had over breakfast, then dismissed the idea as hopeful fancy. He couldn't see why she would have changed her mind. He'd already convinced himself there was nothing he could say to refute her accusations-they all held a grain of truth, and, if he was honest, he'd set himself up with his attempts at masterful manipulation. He'd concluded there was only one way to correct her misguided notions-he would prove them wrong, not by word, but by deed. And then he would be able to savor her confusion, and her apologies.

Straightening, pushing away from the stone arch, Vane realized that, somehow or other, her apologies were coming early. He wasn't about to place extra hurdles in her path. Slowly, he strolled forward.

Patience was instantly aware of him. She glanced swiftly his way, then looked back at Gerrard's sketch. 'Will you be much longer?'

'Hours,' Gerrard replied.

'Well…' Patience lifted her head and boldly met Vane's eyes. 'I wonder, Mr. Cynster, if I could prevail on you to lend me your arm back to the house. It's more slippery than I'd thought. Some of the stones are quite treacherous.'

Vane raised one brow. 'Indeed?' Smoothly, he offered her his arm. 'I know a route back that has a number of advantages.'

Patience shot him a suspicious look, but she placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to turn her toward the old church. Gerrard absentmindedly acknowledged their good-byes, and Patience's sisterly admonition to return to the house in time for lunch.

Giving her no time to think of anything further to tell Gerrard, Vane led her into the nave. The single remaining arch soared above them; within minutes they were out of Gerrard's sight and hearing, strolling side by side down the long central aisle.

'Thank you.' Patience made to lift her hand from his sleeve; Vane covered it with his.

He felt her fingers jerk, then still, sensed the ripple of awareness that streaked through her. Her head came up, chin tilting, lips firming. He caught her gaze. 'Your hems are wet.'

Hazel eyes flashed. 'So are my feet.'

'Which suggests you came on this expedition for a purpose.'

She looked forward. Vane watched, with interest, as her breasts swelled, straining the bodice of her dress.

'Indeed. I came to aplogize.'

The words were bitten off, uttered through clenched teeth.

'Oh? Why?'

Abruptly, she stopped and, eyes narrowing, faced him. 'Because I believe I owe you an apology.'

Vane smiled, directly into her eyes. He didn't try to hide his steel. 'You do.'

Lips compressed, Patience met his gaze, then nodded. 'So I apprehend.' She drew herself up, clasping her hands on the top of her parasol, tilting her chin determinedly. 'I apologize.'

'For what, exactly?'

One long look into his grey eyes told Patience she was not going to escape lightly. She narrowed her eyes anew. 'For casting unjustified aspersions on your character.'