She didn't say a word. Instead, her eyes steady on his, she lifted one hand, one finger, and, slowly, giving him ample time to react, to stop her if he would, reached to touch his lips.

Vane didn't move.

The first tentative touch inwardly rocked him; he tightened his hold on his passions. She sensed the momentary turbulence. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. Then he stilled and she relaxed, and continued her tracing.

She seemed fascinated by his lips. Her gaze dropped to them; as her finger passed over his lower lip and returned to one comer, Vane moved his head just enough to brush a kiss across her fingertip.

Her eyes lifted again to his. Emboldened, she quested further, lifting her fingers higher to trace his cheek.

Vane returned the caress, slowly raising one hand to run the back of his fingers along the smooth curve of her jaw, then sliding them back until his palm cupped her chin. His fingers firmed; moving to the slow, steady drumbeat only he and she could hear, he tilted her face up.

Their gazes locked. Then he let his lids fall, knowing she did the same. In time with the slow beat, he lowered his lips to hers. >

She hesitated for one instant, then kissed him back. He waited one beat more before demanding her mouth; she yielded it instantly. Sliding his fingers further, beneath the silken coil of hair at her nape, he raised his other hand and framed her jaw.

He held her face steady-and slowly, systematically, moving to the compelling rhythm that held them, drove them, plundered her mouth.

That kiss was a revelation-Patience had never imagined a simple kiss could be so bold, so heavily invested with meaning. His lips were hard; they moved over hers, parting them further, confidently managing her, ruthlessly teaching her all she was so eager to learn.

His tongue invaded her mouth with the arrogance of a conqueror claiming victory's spoils. Unhurriedly, he visited every corner of his domain, claiming each inch, branding it as his-knowing it. After a lengthy, devastatingly thorough inspection, he settled to sample her in a different way. The slow, languid thrusting seduced her willing senses.

She'd yielded, yet her passive surrender satisfied neither of them. Patience found herself drawn into the game-the slide of lips against lips, the sensual glide of hot tongue against tongue. She was more than willing. The promise in the heat rising, steadily building between them, and even more the tension-excitement and something more-that surged like a slow tide behind the warm glow, drew her on. The kiss stretched and time slowed-the drugging effect of shared breaths sent her wits into a slow spin.

He drew back, breaking the kiss, letting her catch her breath. But he didn't straighten; his lips, relentlessly hard, remained mere inches from hers.

Aware only of compulsion, of the steady driving beat in her blood, she stretched upward and touched her lips to his.

He took her lips, her mouth, briefly, then again broke the contact.

Patience snatched a breath and, stretching up, followed his lips with hers. She needn't have worried-he wasn't going anywhere. His fingers firmed about her jaw; his lips returned, harder, more demanding as he angled his head over hers.

The kiss deepened. Patience hadn't dreamed there could be more, yet there was. Heat and hunger poured through her. She felt each caress, each bold, knowing stroke-she reveled in the hot pleasure, drank it in, and gave it back-and wanted more.

When next their lips parted, they were both breathing rapidly. Patience opened her eyes and met his watchful gaze. Subtle invitation, and even subtler challenge, melded in the grey; she considered the sight-and considered how much more he could teach her.

She paused. Then she stepped closer, sliding one hand, then the other, up over his broad shoulders. Her bodice touched his jacket; she moved closer still. Boldly holding his gaze, she pressed her hips to his thighs.

The locking of his control was palpable, like the sudden clenching of a fist. The reaction reassured her, allowed her to continue to meet his grey gaze. To meet the challenge in his eyes.

His hands had softened about her face; now they drifted away, resting briefly on her shoulders before, his gaze steady on hers, he swept them down, down her back, over her hips, drawing her fully against him.

Patience's breath caught. Her lids fell. Wordlessly, she lifted her face, offering her lips.

He took them, took her-as their lips fused, Patience felt his hands slide lower, deliberately tracing the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. He filled his hands, then kneaded-heat spread, prickling over her skin, leaving it fevered. Cupping her firm flesh, he molded her to him, easing her deeper into the V of his braced thighs.

She felt the evidence of his desire, felt the hard, heavy, throbbing reality pressed against her soft belly. He held her there, senses fully awake, fully aware, for one achingly intense instant, then his tongue slowly surged, thrusting deep into the softness of her mouth.

Patience would have gasped, but she couldn't. The evocative caress, his unhurried possession of her mouth, sent heat rolling through her. It pooled, hot and heavy, in her loins. As the kiss drew her in, drew her deeper, a heady langor spread, weighting her limbs, slowing her senses.

But not muting them.

She was achingly aware. Aware of the hardness that surrounded her, of the steely flex of hard muscle about her. Of her tightly furled nipples pressed hard to the wall of his chest; of the softness of her thighs held intimately against him. Of the relentless, driving passion he ruthlessly held back.

That last was a temptation, but one so potently, preeminently dangerous not even she dared prod it.

Not yet. There were other things she'd yet to learn.

Like the feel of his hand on her breast-different now he was kissing her so deeply, now she was so much in contact with him. Her breast swelled, warm and tight as his fingers closed about it; the nipple was already a niched bud, excruciatingly sensitive to his knowing squeeze.

And their kiss went on, anchoring her to her own heartbeat, to the repetitive ebb and surge of a rhythm that played at the very edge of her consciousness. The pattern swirled and deepened, but still the beat was there, a crescendo of slow-burning desire, conducted, orchestrated, so that she never lost touch, was never overwhelmed by sensation.

He was teaching her.

Quite when that became clear, Patience couldn't have said, but she'd accepted it as truth when the gong for lunch sounded. Distantly.

She ignored it; so did Vane. At first. Then, with obvious reluctance, he drew back from their kiss.

"They'll notice if we miss lunch." He murmured the words against her lips-then resumed kissing them.

"Hmm," was all Patience cared to say.

Three minutes later, he lifted his head. And looked down at her.

Patience studied his eyes, his face. Not the smallest hint of apology, of triumph, even of satisfaction, showed in the grey, in the hard, angular planes. Hunger was the dominant emotion-in him and in her. She could feel it deep within her, a primal craving stirred to life by their kiss but as yet unappeased. His hunger showed in the tension holding him, the control he'd never once eased.

His lips twisted wryly. "We'll have to go." Reluctantly, he released her.

Equally reluctant, Patience drew back, instantly regretting the loss of his heat and the sense of intimacy that, for the last uncounted moments, they'd shared.

There was, she discovered, nothing she wished to say. Vane offered his arm and she took it, and allowed him to lead her to the door.

Chapter 11.

After his afternoon gallop with Gerrard, Vane strode determinedly back to the house.

He couldn't get Patience out of his mind. The taste of her, the feel of her, the evocatively heady scent of her wreathed his senses and preyed on his attention. He hadn't been this obsessed since he'd first lifted a woman's skirts, yet he recognized the symptoms. He wasn't going to be able to concentrate on anything else until he'd succeeded in putting Patience Debbington in her rightful place-on her back beneath him.

And he couldn't do that until he'd said the words, asked the question he'd known had been inevitable since she'd first landed in his arms.

In the front hall, he encountered Masters. Purposefully, Vane stripped off his gloves. "Where's Miss Debbington, Masters?"

"In the mistress's parlor, sir. She usually sits with the mistress and Mrs. Timms most afternoons."

One boot on the lowest stair, Vane considered the various excuses he could use to extract Patience from under Minnie's wing. Not one was sufficient to escape attracting Minnie's instant attention. Let alone Timms's. "Hmm." Lips setting, he swung about. "I'll be in the billiard room."

"Indeed, sir."

Contrary to Masters's belief, Patience wasn't in Minnie's parlor. Excusing herself from their usual sewing session, she'd taken refuge in the parlor on the floor below, where the daybed, now no longer needed, sat swathed in Holland covers.