His eyes narrowed to grey shards. A long minute passed; he studied her face, her eyes. Then his chest swelled; he nodded once. "If you can tell me this morning meant nothing to you, I'll accept your dismissal."
Not for an instant did his eyes leave hers; Patience was forced to hold his gaze while inside, her heart ached. He'd left her no choice. Lifting her chin, she struggled to draw breath-and forced herself to shrug as she looked away. "This morning was very pleasant, quite eye-opening, but…" Shrugging again, she swung aside and stepped away. "Not enough to commit me to marriage."
"Look at me, dammit!" The command was issued through clenched teeth.
Swinging back to face him, Patience saw his fists clench-and sensed the battle he waged not to touch her. She immediately lifted her chin. "You're making too much of it-you, of all men, should know ladies do not marry all the men with whom they share their bodies." Her heart twisted; she forced her voice to lighten, forced her lips to curve lightly. "I have to admit this morning was very enjoyable, and I sincerely thank you for the experience. I'm quite looking forward to the next time-to the next gentleman who takes my fancy."
For one instant, she feared she'd gone too far. There was something-a flash in his eyes, an expression that flitted over his face-that locked her breath in her throat. But then he relaxed, not completely, but much of his frightening tension-battle-ready tension-seemed to flow out of him.
She saw his chest rise as he drew breath, then he was coming toward her, moving with his usual predatory grace. She wasn't sure which she found more unnerving-the warrior, or the predator.
"So you liked it?" His fingers, cool and steady, slid under her chin and tipped her face up to his. He smiled-but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you should consider the fact that if you married me, you would have the pleasure you experienced this morning every day of your life?" His eyes locked on hers. "I'm perfectly prepared to swear that you'll never want for that particular pleasure if you become my wife."
Only desperation allowed her to keep her features still, to stop them from crumpling. Inside, she was weeping-for him, and for her. But she had to turn him from her. There were no words on earth to explain to him-proud descendant of a prideful warrior clan-that it was not in his power to give her the one thing she needed to 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.