From the corner of her eye, Patience watched Vane retreat, watched the door close slowly behind him. As the latch clicked shut, she closed her eyes. And fought, unsuccessfully, to quell the shudder that racked her-of anticipation. And need.
The tension between them had turned raw. Taut as a wire, heightened to excruciating sensitivity.
Vane felt it the instant Patience appeared in the drawing room that evening; the glance she threw him made it clear she felt it, too. But they had to play their parts, fill their expected roles, hiding the passion that shimmered, white-hot, between them.
And pray that no one else noticed.
Touching in any way, however innocuous, was out of the question; they artfully avoided it-until, in accepting a platter from Vane, Patience's fingers brushed his.
She nearly dropped the platter; Vane only just stifled his curse.
Jaw locked, he endured, as did she.
At last they were back in the drawing room. Tea had been drunk and Minnie, wreathed in shawls, was about to retire. Vane's mind was a blank; he had not a single clue as to what topics had been discussed over the past two hours. He did, however, recognize opportunity when he saw it.
Strolling to the chaise, he raised a brow at Minnie. "I'll carry you up."
"An excellent idea!" Timms declared.
"Humph!" Minnie sniffed, but, worn down by her cold, reluctantly acquiesced. "Very well." As Vane gathered her, shawls and all, into his arms, she grudgingly admitted: "Tonight, I feel old."
Vane chuckled and set himself to tease her into her usual, ebullient frame of mind. By the time they reached her room, he'd succeeded well enough to have her commenting on his arrogance.
"Far too sure of yourselves, you Cynsters."
Grinning, Vane lowered her into her usual chair by the hearth. Timms bustled up-she'd followed close on his heels.
So had Patience.
As Vane stood back, Minnie waved dismissively. "I don't need anyone but Timms-you two can go back to the drawing room."
Patience exchanged a fleeting glance with Vane, then looked at Minnie. "If you're sure…?"
"I'm sure. Off you go."
They went-but not back to the drawing room. It was already late-neither felt any desire for aimless chat.
They did, however, feel desire. It flowed restlessly about them, between them, fell, an ensorcelling web, over them. As he strolled by Patience's side, by unspoken agreement escorting her to her chamber, Vane accepted that dealing with
that desire, with what now shimmered between them, would fall to him, would be his responsiblity.
Patience, despite her propensity to grab the reins, was an innocent.
He reminded himself of that fact as they halted outside her door. She looked up at him-inwardly Vane sternly reiterated the conclusion he'd reached after the debacle of the stillroom. Until he'd said the words society dictated he should say, he and she should not meet alone except in the most formal of settings.
Outside her bedchamber door in the cool beginning of the night did not qualify; inside her bedchamber-where his baser self wished to be-was even less suitable.
Jaw setting, he reminded himself of that.
She searched his eyes, his face. Then, slowly but not hesitantly, she lifted a hand to his cheek^ lightly tracing downward to his chin. Her gaze dropped to his lips.
Beyond his volition, Vane's gaze lowered to her lips, to the soft rose-tinted curves he now knew so well. Their shape was etched in his mind, their taste imprinted on his senses.
Patience's lids fluttered down. She stretched upward on her toes.
Vane couldn't have drawn back from the kiss-couldn't have avoided it-had his life depended on it.
Their lips touched, without the heat, without the driving compulsion that remained surging in their souls. Both held it back, denying it, content for one timeless moment simply to touch and be touched. To let the beauty of the fragile moment stretch, to let the magic of their heightened awareness wash over them.