Tying the ribbons of her chemise, Patience pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't want to marry."
The sound he made as he sat up was derisive. "All young ladies want to marry."
"Not me. And I'm not that young." Patience finished pulling on her stockings. Swinging about, she grabbed her petticoats.
She heard Vane sigh. "Patience-"
"We'd better hurry-we've been out all morning." Standing, she hiked up her petticoats and cinched them at her waist. Behind her, she heard the hay rustle as he rose. "They'll worry if we don't return for lunch." Under cover of swiping up her skirt, she turned. Not daring to look directly at him-he was, after all, still naked-she could nevertheless see him from the corner of her eye, and prevent him from touching her. From catching hold of her.
If he did, her shaky, somewhat confused resolution might disintegrate-and the trap might slam shut on her. She could still feel his hands on her skin, sense the imprint of his body on hers. Feel the heat of him inside her.
She yanked her skirts up. "We can't afford to dally." In a state bordering on the frenzied, she scanned the floor for her jacket. It was lying beside his breeches. She hurried over.
Aware that he was standing, naked, hands on hips, frowning at her, she picked up her jacket, and flung his breeches at his head.
He caught them before they hit. His eyes narrowed even further.
"Do come on," she implored. "I'll get the horses." With that, she rushed to the ladder.
"Patience!"
That particular tone had been known to snap unruly, half-drunk soldiers to immediate attention; to Vane's disgust, it had no discernible affect on Patience. She disappeared down the ladder as if he hadn't spoken.
Leaving him disgusted-thoroughly and absolutely-with himself.
He'd muffed it. Completely and utterly. She was annoyed with him-piqued to her toes-and she had every right to feel so. His offer-well, he hadn't even made it; he'd tried instead to slide around it, to arrogantly push her into agreeing without having to ask.
He'd failed. And now she was in a royal snit.
Not for an instant did he believe that she didn't want to marry, that was merely the first excuse that had sprung to her mind-a weak excuse at that.
Swearing roundly-the only viable way he could relieve his temper-he hauled on his breeches, then reached for his shirt. He'd tried to avoid making the declaration he knew he had to make-and now it was going to be ten times worse.
Gritting his teeth, he stomped into his boots, swiped up his jacket, and stalked to the ladder.
Now he was going to have to beg.
Chapter 13
Begging did not come naturally.
That evening, Vane led the gentlemen back to the drawing room, feeling as if he was marching to his execution. He told himself proposing wouldn't really be that bad.
Keeping the lid on his temper all the way back to the Hall, and then through the long afternoon, had tried him sorely. But having accepted the inevitable-Patience's right to a formal, precisely correct proposal-he'd swallowed his ire and forced his conqueror's instincts, which she'd very effectively raised to his surface, into line.
How long they'd toe that line was a moot point, but he was determined it would be long enough for him to propose and for her to accept him.
Strolling through the drawing-room doors, he scanned the occupants, and inwardly smiled. Patience was not present. He'd grasped the moment as the ladies were rising from the table, when they'd been close as he'd drawn back her chair, to say, sotto voce: "We need to meet privately."
Her eyes, wide and golden, had flown to his.
"When and where?" he'd asked, struggling to keep all command from his tone.
She'd studied his eyes, his face, then looked down. She'd waited until the last minute, when she was about to turn and walk from him, to whisper, "The conservatory. I'll retire early."
Suppressing his impatience, he forced himself to stroll to the chaise, where Minnie, as usual, sat in
shawled splendor. She looked up as he neared. He raised a languid brow. "I take it you are, indeed, improved?"