become his wife.
The effort to lift one brow archly nearly felled her. 'I suppose,' she said, forcing herself to look into his eyes, to infuse consideration into her expression, 'that it might be quite nice to try it again, but I can't see any need to marry you for that.' His eyes blanked. She was at the end of her strength and she knew it. She put her last ounce into brightening her smile, her eyes, her expression. 'I daresay it would be quite exciting to be your inamorata for a few weeks.'
Nothing she could have said, nothing she could have done, would have hurt him, or shocked him, so much. Or been more certain to drive him from her. For a man like him, with his background, his honor, to refuse to be his wife but consent to be his mistress was the ultimate low blow. To his pride, to his ego, to his self-worth as a man.
Her fists clenched in her skirts so tightly, her nails cut into her palms. Patience forced herself to look inquiringly at him. Forced herself not to quail when she saw the disgust flare in his eyes the instant before the steel shutters came down. Forced herself to stand firm, head still high, when his lip curled.
'I ask you to be my wife… and you offer to be my whore.'
The words were low, laced with contempt, bitter with an emotion she couldn't place.
He looked at her for one long minute, then, as if nothing of any great moment had transpired, swept her an elegant bow.
'Pray accept my apologies for any inconvenience my unwelcome proposition may have caused you.' Only the ice in his tone hinted at his feelings. 'As there's nothing more to be said, I'll bid you a good night.'
With one of his usual graceful nods, he headed for the door. He opened it, and, without glancing back, left, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Patience held her position; for a long while, she simply stood there, staring at the door, not daring to let herself think. Then the cold reached through her gown, and she shivered. Wrapping her arms about her, she forced herself to walk, to take a calming turn around the conservatory. She held the tears back. Why on earth was she crying? She'd done what had to be done. She reminded herself sternly that it was all for the best. That the numbness enveloping her would eventually pass.
That it didn't matter that she would never feel that golden and silver glow-or the joy of giving her love- again.
Vane was halfway across the neighboring county before he came to his senses. His greys were pacing steadily down the moonlit road, their easy action eating the last miles to Bedford, when, like Saint Paul, he was struck by a blinding revelation.
Miss Patience Debbington might not have lied, but she hadn't told the whole truth.
Cursing fluently, Vane slowed the greys. Eyes narrowing, he tried to think. Not an exercise he'd indulged in since leaving the conservatory.
On leaving Patience, he'd gone to the shrubbery, to pace and curse in private. Much good had it done him. Never in his life had he had to cope with such damage-he'd hurt in tender places he hadn't known he possessed. And she hadn't even touched him. Unable to quell the cauldron of emotions that, by then, had been seething inside him, he'd fastened on strategic retreat as his only viable option.
He'd gone to see Minnie. Knowing she slept lightly, he'd scratched on her door, and heard her bid him enter. The room had been in darkness, relieved only by a patch of moonlight. He'd stopped her lighting her candle; he hadn't wanted her, with her sharp old eyes, to see his face, read the turmoil and pain he was sure must be etched into his features. Let alone his eyes. She'd heard him out-he'd told her he'd remembered an urgent engagement in London. He would be back, he'd assured her, to deal with the Spectre and the thief in a few days. After he'd discovered how to deal with her niece, who wouldn't marry him-he'd managed to keep that confession from his lips.
Minnie, bless her huge heart, had bidden him go, of course. And he'd gone, immediately, rousing only Masters to lock the house after him, and, of course, Duggan, presently perched behind him.
Now, however, with the moon wrapping him in her cool beams, with the night so dark about him, with his horses' hooves the only sound breaking the echoing stillness-now, sanity had deigned to return to him.
Things didn't add up. He was a firm believer in two and two making four. In Patience's case, as far as he could see, two and two made fifty-three.
How, he wondered, did a woman-a gently bred lady-who had, on first sight of him, deemed him likely to corrupt her brother simply by association, come to indulge in a far from quick roll in the hay with him?
Just what had impelled her to that?
For some women, witlessness might have been the answer, but this was a woman who'd had the courage, the unfaltering determination, to warn him off in an effort to protect her brother.
And had then had the courage to apologize.
This was also a woman who'd never before lain with a man, never before so much as shared a passionate kiss. Never given herself in any way-until she'd given herself to him.
At the age of twenty-six.
And she expected him to believe…
With a vitriolic curse, Vane hauled on the reins. He brought the greys to a halt, then proceeded to turn the curricle. He steeled himself for the inevitable comment from Duggan. His henchman's long-suffering silence was even more eloquent.
Muttering another curse-at his own temper and the woman who had, for some ungodly reason, provoked it-Vane set the greys pacing back to Bellamy Hall.
As the miles slid by, he went over everything Patience had said, in the conservatory and before. He still couldn't make head or tail of it. Replaying once again their words in the conservatory, he was conscious of a towering urge to lay hands on her, put her over his knee and beat her, then shake her, and then make violent love to her. How
Jaw clenched, he vowed to get to the bottom of it. That there was something behind her stance he had not a doubt. Patience was sensible, even logical for a woman; she wasn't the sort to play missish games. There'd be a reason, some point she saw as vitally important that he, as yet, couldn't see at all.
He'd have to convince her to tell him.
Considering the possibilities, he conceded, given her first nonsensical view of him, that she might have taken some odd, not to say fanciful, notion into her head. There was, however, from whichever angle one viewed the proposition, no reason whatever that they shouldn't wed-that she shouldn't become his wife. From his point of view, and from that of anyone with her best interests at heart, from the viewpoint of his family, and hers, and the ton's, she was perfect for the position in every way.
All he had to do was convince her of that fact. Find out what hurdle was preventing her from marrying him and overcome it. Regardless of whether in order to do so he had to act in the teeth of her trenchant opposition.
As the roofs of Northampton rose before them, Vane smiled grimly. He'd always thrived on challenges.
Two hours later, as he stood on the lawn of Bellamy Hall and looked up at the dark window of Patience's bedchamber, he reminded himself of that fact.
It was after one o'clock; the house lay in darkness. Duggan had decided to sleep in the stables; Vane was damned if he'd do the same. But he'd personally checked all the locks throughout the Hall; there was no way inside other than by plying the front knocker-guaranteed to wake not only Masters, but the entire household.
Grimly, Vane studied Patience's third-floor window and the ancient ivy that grew past it. It was, after all, her fault that he was out here.
By the time he was halfway up, he'd run out of curses. He was too old for this. Thankfully, the thick central stem of the ivy passed close by Patience's window. As he neared the stone ledge, he suddenly realized he didn't know if she was a sound or a light sleeper. How hard could he knock on the pane while clinging to the ivy? And how much noise could he make without alerting Minnie or Timms, whose rooms lay farther along the wing?
To his relief, he didn't need to find out. He was almost up to the sill when he saw a grey shape behind the glass. The next instant, the shape shifted and stretched-Myst, he realized, reaching for the latch. He heard a scrape, then the window obligingly popped open.
Myst nudged it further with her head, and peered down.
'
