Vane's frown turned grim. 'It's all
'But it
'Indeed. But where?'
Vane was back in Aldford Street at one o'clock the next morning, assisting a weak-kneed Edmond up the front steps. Gerrard was steering Henry, chortling at his own loquaciousness. Edgar, a wide, distinctly silly grin on his face, brought up the rear.
The General, thank heavens, had stayed home.
Sligo opened the door to them, and instantly took charge. Nevertheless, it took another half hour and the concerted efforts of the sober members of the group, to install Edmond, Henry, and Edgar in their respective beds.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Gerrard slumped against the corridor wall. 'If we don't find the pearls soon, and get this lot back to the Hall, they'll run amok-and run us into the ground.'
The comment accurately reflected Vane's thoughts. He grunted and resettled his coat.
Gerrard yawned, and nodded sleepily. 'I'm off to bed. I'll see you tomorrow.'
Vane nodded. 'Good night.'
Gerrard headed down the corridor. His expression sober, Vane crossed the gallery to the stairs. At their head, he paused, looking down into the darkened front hall. About him, the house lay slumberous, the cloak of night, temporarily disturbed, settling back, a muffling shroud.
Vane felt the night drag at him, draining his strength. He was tired.
Tired of getting nowhere. Frustrated at every turn.
Tired of not winning, not succeeding.
Too tired to fight the compulsion that drove him. The compulsion to seek succor, support, surcease from his endeavors, in his love's arms.
He drew in a deep breath and felt his chest swell. He kept his gaze locked on the stairs, denying the impulse to look right, down the corridor that led to Patience's room.
It was time to go home, time to walk down the stairs, out through the front door, stroll the few blocks to his own house in Curzon Street, let himself into the silence of an empty house, walk up the elegant stairs and into the master bedroom. To sleep alone in his bed, between silken sheets, cold, unwarmed, unwelcoming.
A whisper of sound, and Sligo materialized beside him. Vane glanced sideways. 'I'll let myself out.'
If Sligo was surprised, he didn't show it. With a nod, he descended the stairs. Vane waited, watched as Sligo moved through the hall, checking the front door. He heard the bolt slide home, then the bobbing candle crossed the hall and disappeared through the green-baize door.
Leaving him in the silent darkness.
Still as a statue, Vane stood at the top of the stairs. In the present circumstances, inviting himself into Patience's bed was unacceptable, even reprehensible.
It was also inevitable.
His eyes fully adjusted to the dark, he turned right. Silently, he walked down the corridor, to the room at its end. Facing the door, he raised his hand-and hesitated. Then the planes of his face shifted, and set.
He knocked. Softly.
A silent minute passed, then he heard the soft patter of bare feet on the boards. A heartbeat later, the door opened.
Flushed with sleep, her hair a tousled crown, Patience blinked at him. Her long white gown clung to her figure, outlined by the glow from the hearth. Lips parted, her breasts rising and falling, she radiated warmth and the promise of paradise.
Her eyes found his; for a long minute, she simply looked, then she stepped back and gestured hinrin.
Vane crossed the threshold and knew it to be his Rubicon. Patience shut the door behind him, then turned- into his arms.
He drew her close and kissed her; he needed no words for what he wanted to say. She opened to him instantly, offering all he wanted, all he needed. She sank against him, all soft womanly curves enticing, encouraging.
Vane caught his breath, caught the reins of his demons, and knew, this time, he wouldn't hold them for long. She set his blood afire too easily; she was the very essence of need to him.
The sole and dominant object of his desire.
Lifting his lids, he glanced at her bed. Reassuringly large, it was shrouded in shadow. The only light in the room came from the embers glowing in the hearth.
He wanted her in his bed, but tonight, he'd make do with hers. He also wanted to see her, to let his eyes, all his senses feast. His demons needed feeding. He also had to find a way to tell her the truth, to tell her what was in his heart. To utter the words he knew he had to say.
Minnie, damn her ancient shrewdness, had pointed unerringly to the truth. And, as much as one part of him wished to, he was powerless to duck, powerless to escape.
He had to do it.
Lifting his head, he drew in a breath so huge, his chest strained against his coat. 'Come to the fire.'
Sliding one arm around her, registering the glide of fine lawn over bare skin, he guided her toward the hearth. Pressing close, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her hip against his, she acquiesced readily.
As one, they stopped before the hearth. With a naturalness he found enthralling, she turned into his arms. Sliding her hands over his shoulders, she lifted her face, her lips. He was kissing her before he thought of it.
With an inward sigh, Vane caught hold of his impulses, locked a mental fist about them, then, easing his arms from her, he closed his hands about her waist. And tried not to register the warmth beneath his palms, the softness under his fingers.
He lifted his head, breaking their kiss. 'Patience-'
'Sssh.' She stretched up on her toes and set her lips to his. Hers clung, softly teased; his firmed. Instinctively, he took charge again, effortlessly sliding into the next kiss.
Inwardly, Vane cursed. His reins were steadily fraying. His demons were grinning. In devilish anticipation. He tried again, this time whispering the words against her lips. 'I need to t-'
She silenced him again, just as effectively.
Even more effectively, she reached for him, slim fingers closing possessively about his already rigid length.
Vane caught his breath-and gave up. There was no point battling on-he'd forgotten what it was he had to say. He slid his hands down and around; cupping her bottom, he drew her hips hard against his thighs. Her lips parted, her tongue flicked temptingly; he accepted her invitation and plundered. Ravenously.
Patience sighed with satisfaction and sank into his hard embrace. She wasn't interested in words. She was prepared to listen to pants, moans, even groans-but no words.
She didn't need to hear him explain why he was here; she didn't need to hear any excuses for why he needed her-his reasons had been there, shining silver in his eyes, when he'd stood in the dark on her threshold, his gaze locked, so hungrily, on her. The strength of that silvery force was etched in the driven planes of his face, there for her to see. She didn't want to hear him explain-and risk tarnishing the silver with mere words. Words could never do it justice-they'd only detract from the glory.
The glory of being needed. Needed like that. It had never happened to her before; it would likely never happen again.
Only with him. His was a need she could fill; she knew, to her bones, she was made for the task. The unalloyed pleasure she received from giving to him-giving herself to him and assuaging his need-was beyond all words, beyond all earthly measures.
This was what it meant to be a woman. A wife. A lover. This, of all things, was what her soul craved.
She wanted no words to get in her way.
Patience opened her singing heart and welcomed him in. She kissed him as ravenously as he kissed her, hands greedily searching through his clothes.
With a hissed curse, he drew back. 'Wait.'
Dragging the long pin from his cravat, he laid it on the mantelpiece; swiftly, he unknotted and unwound the
