Rakes Vow

"Don't you like it?" The teasing question, clearly rhetorical, floated up from under the sheets. Then she squirmed again. "Perhaps you'd like this better."

Vane did, but he wasn't about to say so. Gritting his teeth, he suffered the hot, wet sweep of her tongue, the gentle caress of her lips. She didn't have the faintest idea what she was doing-thank God. What she was doing was bad enough. If expertise was added to the equation, he'd be dead.

He tried to remind himself that the experience was hardly new to him-the rationalization didn't work. He couldn't distance himself from Patience's touch, couldn't imagine she was some faceless lady with whom he was sharing a bed. No logic seemed strong enough to quench or control the fire she was igniting.

He heard himself gasp. He licked lips suddenly dry. "Where the devil did you get the idea…?"

"I heard some maids talking."

Inwardly cursing all wanton maids, he summoned the last of his strength. She'd gone far enough. Jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, he reached for her. Beneath the soft sheets, he found her head; he threaded his fingers through her hair, searching downward for her shoulders.

Beneath his hands, she shifted.

Hot wetness closed about him.

His fingers spasmed and clutched. The rest of his body reacted equally predictably. For one instant, Vane thought he'd die. Of heart failure. Then she released him. He groaned-and she took him into her mouth again. Eyes closed, he fell back on the pillows, and surrendered.

She had him at her mercy.

She knew it-she set about enjoying her newfound mastery. To the hilt. Extrapolating wantonly. Inventing with gay abandon.

Until, with a desperate groan, he was driven to expend his last ounce of strength and capture her, wrestle free, and find her waist and lift her. Over him. He lowered her, expertly nudging into the slick flesh between her thighs. Then he pulled her down, impaling her on the achingly urgent phallus she'd spent the last ten minutes inciting.

She gasped, then sank farther, her hands fastening tight about his forearms as she deliberately took him all. She rose on her knees immediately, pushing his hands from her, refusing to allow him to set the pace.

He acquiesced, filling his hands with her breasts instead, drawing the tight peaks to his mouth. She rode him with reckless abandon; he filled her and feasted, until, in a glorious, giddy rush, they fell over the edge of the world and, locked together, plunged into the selfless void.

They had no time to talk, no time to speak, no time to discuss anything at all. When, with the house waking about them, Vane, mildly irritated, left her, Patience was incapable of conscious thought.

Some four hours later, Patience sat at the breakfast table. Smiling. Glowingly. She'd seen the sight in her mirror, but hadn't been able to find any expression capable of disguising her joy.

She'd woken to find the tweeny quietly cleaning her grate, and Vane nowhere in sight. Which was undoubtedly just as well. The last sight she'd had of him would have driven the tweeny into hysterics. Lolling in her bed, which had looked like a whirlwind had struck it, she'd considered going and telling Mi

So she'd lolled some more, replaying Vane's declaration, committing every word, every nuance, to memory. No doubt of the veracity, or the strength of his feelings, could ever assail her-not with memories like that. She had, indeed, started to wonder if her desire to hear that particular assurance stated, in words, might, in the end, be too much to ask, an unrealistic expectation from a man like him. Men like the Cynsters did not set their tongue to that four-letter word lightly. "Love" was not something they gave readily, and, as Mi

Vane had.

In simple words so laden with feeling she could not doubt, could not question. She'd wanted that, needed it, so he'd given it. No matter the cost.

Was it any wonder her heart was light, singing joyfully?

In contrast, the rest of the household remained subdued; Gerrard's empty place cast a pall over the conversation. Only Mi

But Mi

"Have you heard anything?" Henry's nod to Gerrard's empty chair clarified his question.

Patience hid her face behind her teacup. "I haven't heard of any charges."

"I fancy we'll hear by this afternoon." Whitticombe, his expression coldly severe, reached for the coffeepot. "I daresay the magistrate was not available yesterday. Theft, I fear, is a common enough crime."

Edgar shifted uneasily. Agatha Chadwick looked shocked. But no one said anything.

Henry cleared his throat, and looked at Edmond. "Where shall we go today, do you think?"

Edmond humphed. "Not really in the mood for more sights today. Think I'll dust off my script."

Henry nodded glumly.

Silence fell, then Whitticombe eased back his chair. He turned to Mi

He concluded with an obsequious nod.

Everyone looked at Mi

Whitticombe for a full minute, then solemnly nodded. "If that is what you wish, then certainly, you may return to the Hall. However, I warn you I do not have any immediate plans to return there myself."

Whitticombe raised his hand in a gracious gesture. "You need not concern yourself with us, cousin. Alice and I can entertain ourselves well enough." He glanced at Alice, all in black. At no time since she'd entered the room had she looked anywhere but at her plate. "With your permission," Whitticombe continued, "we'll leave immediately. The weather looks like turning, and we have no reason to dally." He glanced at Mi

Mi

Bestowing a last unctuous, ingratiating smile on Mi

Without a word, without a glance, Alice rose and preceded Whitticombe from the room.

The instant the door closed behind them, Patience looked at Mi

Patience bit her lip, and munched her toast, and waited.

A few minutes later, Mi

She didn't need to be summoned twice. Dropping her napkin on her plate, Patience hurried to assist Timms help Mi