A Rake's Vow (Cynster 2)

"I'm determined to start a new sketch today. There's a particular view of the ruins, taking in the remains of the abbot's lodge, that I've always wanted to draw. The light's rarely good in that quarter, but it will be this morning." He drained his coffee cup. "I should get the essentials down by lunchtime. How about a ride this afternoon?"

"By all means." Vane returned Gerrard's grin. "You shouldn't spend all your days squinting at rocks."

"What I've always told him," humphed the General as he stumped out.

Gerrard pushed back his chair and followed the General. Which left Vane gazing at Edgar's mild profile.

"Which Bellamy are you currently researching?" Vane inquired.

Whitticombe's contemptuous sniff was clearly audible. He pushed aside his plate and rose. Vane's smile deepened. He raised his brows encouragingly at Edgar.

Edgar slid a careful glance at Whitticombe. Only when his archrival had passed through the door did he turn back to Vane. "Actually," Edgar confessed, "I've started on the last bishop. He was one of the family, you know."

"Indeed?"

Henry looked up. "I say-was this place-the abbey, I mean-as important as Colby makes out?"

"Well…" Edgar proceeded to give them a neat picture of Coldchurch Abbey in the years immediately preceding the Dissolution. His dissertation was refreshingly short and succinct; both Vane and Henry were sincerely impressed.

"And now I'd better get back to it." With a smile, Edgar left the table.

Leaving Vane and Henry. By the time Patience arrived, in a frantic froth of skirts, Vane's mellow mood had stretched to granting Henry his long-sought return match over the billiard table. Happy as a lark, Henry stood, and smiled at Patience. "Best go look in on Mama." With a nod to Vane, he ambled off.

Thoroughly enamored-softened by his mood and this unexpected consequence-Vane subsided into his chair, angling it so he could gaze unimpeded at Patience as she helped herself from the sideboard, then came to the table. She took her usual seat, separated from hi

s by Gerrard's vacant place. With a brief smile and a warning look, she applied herself to her breakfast. To the large mound she'd heaped on her plate.

Vane eyed it, straightfaced, then lifted his gaze to her face. "Something must have agreed with you-your appetite's certainly improved."

Patience's fork froze in midair; she glanced down at her plate. Then she shrugged, ate the portion on her fork, then calmly looked at him. "I vaguely remember being excessively hot." She raised her brows, then looked back at her plate. "Quite feverish, in fact. I do hope it isn't catching." She forked up another mouthful, then slanted him a glance. "Did you pass a quiet night?"

Masters and his minions were hovering-well within earshot-waiting to clear the table.

"Actually, no." Vane met Patience's gaze. Memory had him shifting in his chair. "Whatever had you in its grip must have disturbed me, too-I suspect the malady might last for some time."

"How… distracting," Patience managed.

"Indeed," Vane returned, warming to his theme. "There were moments when I felt enclosed in damp hotness."

A blush spread over Patience's cheeks; Vane knew it extended to the tips of her breasts.

"How odd," she countered. She picked up her teacup and sipped. "To me, it felt like heat exploding inside."

Vane stiffened-further; he fought to avoid a telltale shuffle in his seat.

Setting down her cup, Patience pushed aside her plate. "Luckily, the affliction had vanished by morning."

They stood. Patience strolled to the door; Vane sauntered beside her. "Perhaps," he murmured as they passed into the front hall, his voice low, for her ears alone. "But I suspect you'll find your affliction will return tonight." She cast a half-wary, half-scandalized glance at his face; he smiled, all teeth. "Who knows? You might find yourself even more heated."

For one instant, she looked… intrigued. Then haughty dignity came to her aid. Coolly, she inclined her head. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go and practice my scales."

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Vane watched as she glided across the hall-watched her hips sway with their usual unrestrained license; he couldn't quite stifle his wolfish grin. He was contemplating following-and trying his hand at disrupting her scales-when a footman came hurrying down the stairs.

"Mr. Cynster, sir. Her Ladyship's asking after you. Urgent, she says-quite in a tizz. She's in her parlor."

Vane shed his wolf's fur in the blink of an eye. With a curt nod for the footman, he started up the stairs. He took the second flight two at a time. Frowning, he strode rapidly for Minnie's rooms.

The instant he opened the door, he saw the footman hadn't lied; Minnie was huddled in her chair, shawls fluffed, looking like nothing so much as an ill owl-except for the tears streaming down her lined cheeks. Closing the door, Vane swiftly crossed the room and went down on one knee beside the chair. He clasped one of her frail hands in his. "What's happened?"