And had then had the courage to apologize.
This was also a woman who'd never before lain with a man, never before so much as shared a passionate kiss. Never given herself in any way-until she'd given herself to him.
At the age of twenty-six.
And she expected him to believe…
With a vitriolic curse, Vane hauled on the reins. He brought the greys to a halt, then proceeded to turn the curricle. He steeled himself for the inevitable comment from Duggan. His henchman's long-suffering silence was even more eloquent.
Muttering another curse-at his own temper and the woman who had, for some ungodly reason, provoked it-Vane set the greys pacing back to Bellamy Hall.
As the miles slid by, he went over everything Patience had said, in the conservatory and before. He still couldn't make head or tail of it. Replaying once again their words in the conservatory, he was conscious of a towering urge to lay hands on her, put her over his knee and beat her, then shake her, and then make violent love to her. How dared she paint herself in such a light?
Jaw clenched, he vowed to get to the bottom of it. That there was something behind her stance he had not a doubt. Patience was sensible, even logical for a woman; she wasn't the sort to play missish games. There'd be a reason, some point she saw as vitally important that he, as yet, couldn't see at all.
He'd have to convince her to tell him.
Considering the possibilities, he conceded, given her first nonsensical view of him, that she might have taken some odd, not to say fanciful, notion into her head. There was, however, from whichever angle one viewed the proposition, no reason whatever that they shouldn't wed-that she shouldn't become his wife. From his point of view, and from that of anyone with her best interests at heart, from the viewpoint of his family, and hers, and the ton's, she was perfect for the position in every way.
All he had to do was convince her of that fact. Find out what hurdle was preventing her from marrying him and overcome it. Regardless of whether in order to do so he had to act in the teeth of her trenchant opposition.
As the roofs of Northampton rose before them, Vane smiled grimly. He'd always thrived on challenges.
Two hours later, as he stood on the lawn of Bellamy Hall and looked up at the dark window of Patience's bedchamber, he reminded himself of that fact.
It was after one o'clock; the house lay in darkness. Duggan had decided to sleep in the stables; Vane was damned if he'd do the same. But he'd personally checked all the locks throughout the Hall; there was no way inside other than by plying the front knocker-guaranteed to wake not only Masters, but the entire household.
Grimly, Vane studied Patience's third-floor window and the ancient ivy that grew past it. It was, after all, her fault that he was out here.
By the time he was halfway up, he'd run out of curses. He was too old for this. Thankfully, the thick central stem of the ivy passed close by Patience's window. As he neared the stone ledge, he suddenly realized he didn't know if she was a sound or a light sleeper. How hard could he knock on the pane while clinging to the ivy? And how much noise could he make without alerting Minnie or Timms, whose rooms lay farther along the wing?
To his relief, he didn't need to find out. He was almost up to the sill when he saw a grey shape behind the glass. The next instant, the shape shifted and stretched-Myst, he realized, reaching for the latch. He heard a scrape, then the window obligingly popped open.
Myst nudged it further with her head, and peered down.
"Meew!"
Uttering a heartfelt prayer to the god of cats, Vane climbed up. Pushing the window wide, he hooked an arm over the top of it and managed to get one leg over the sill. The rest was easy.
Safe on solid timber, he bent down and ran his fingers along Myst's spine, then rubbed between her ears. She purred furiously, then, tail held high, the tip twitching, stalked off toward the fire. Vane straightened, and heard rustling from the direction of the huge four-poster bed. He was dusting leaves and twigs from his shoulders and the skirts of his greatcoat when Patience appeared out of the shadows. Her hair lay, a rippling bronze veil, over her shoulders; she clutched a shawl around her, over her fine lawn nightgown.
Her eyes were bigger than saucers. "What are you doing here?"
Vane raised his brows, and considered the way her nightgown clung to the long limbs beneath. Slowly, he let his gaze travel upward, until his eyes reached her face. "I've come to take you up on your offer."
If he'd had any doubt over his reading of her, the utter blankness that swamped her expression would have dispelled it.
"Ah-" Eyes still wide, she blinked at him. "Which offer is that?"
Vane decided it was wiser not to answer. He shrugged off his greatcoat and dropped it on the window seat. His coat followed. Patience watched with increasing agitation; Vane pretended not to notice. He crossed to the hearth and crouched to tend the fire.
Hovering behind him, Patience literally wrung her hands-something she'd never done in her life before-and frantically wondered which tack to take now. Then she realized Vane was building up the fire. She frowned. "I don't need a roaring blaze now."
"You'll be glad of it soon enough."
She would? Patience stared at Vane's broad back, and tried not to notice the play of his muscles beneath the fine linen. Tried not to think of what he might mean, what he might be planning. Then she remembered his greatcoat. Frowning, she drifted back to the window seat, stepping lightly, her feet cold on the bare boards. She ran a hand over the capes of the greatcoat-they were damp. She looked out of the window; the river mist was rolling in.
"Where have you been?" Had he been searching for the Spectre?