A Rake's Vow by Stephanie Laurens Page B

feet might be part of her penance, but she was sure it would be the lesser part. Vane, she was certain, would provide the greater.
    Abruptly, she pushed that thought aside—it was not a thought she need dwell on. What was to come would not be easy, but if she allowed herself to think too much, her courage would desert her.
    Quite how she had come to be so wrong she really couldn’t fathom. To have been wrong on one point would have been bad enough, but to find herself so comprehensively off target was incomprehensible.
    As she detoured around the first of the fallen stones, her jaw set. It wasn’t fair. He looked like an elegant gentleman. He moved like an elegant gentleman. In many ways, he behaved like an elegant gentleman! How could she have known that in nonphysical ways he was so different?
    She clung to the thought, trying it on for comfort, seeing if it would bolster her courage—then relucantly shrugged it aside. She couldn’t duck the fact that she was very much at fault. She’d judged Vane entirely by his wolf’s clothing. Although he was, indeed, a wolf, he was, apparently, a caring wolf.
    There was no way out but to apologize. Her self-respect wouldn’t accept anything less; she didn’t think he would either.
    Reaching the ruins proper, she looked about. Her eyes ached; she’d got even less sleep last night than she had the night before. “Where are they?” she muttered. If she could get this over with, and free her mind of its most vexing problem, perhaps she could nap this afternoon.
    But first, she had to give the wolf his due. She was here to apologize. She wanted to do it quickly—before she lost her nerve.
    “Really? I didn’t know that.”
    Gerrard’s voice led her to the old cloisters. His easel before him, he was sketching the arches along one side. Stepping into the open courtyard, Patience searched—and spotted Vane lounging in the shadows of a half-shattered cloister arch some paces behind Gerrard.
    Vane had already spotted her.
    Gerrard glanced up as her boots scraped on the flags. “Hello. Vane’s just been telling me that sketching’s considered quite the thing among the ton at present. Apparently, the Royal Academy holds an exhibition every year.” Charcoal in hand, he turned back to his sketch.
    “Oh?” Her gaze on Vane, Patience wished she could see his eyes. His expression was unreadable. Shoulders propped against the stone arch, arms folded across his chest, he watched her like a hawk. A brooding, potentially menacing hawk. Or a wolf anticipating a meal.
    Giving herself a mental shake, she stepped up to Gerrard’s shoulder. “Perhaps we can visit the Academy when we go up to town.”
    “Hmm,” Gerrard said, entirely absorbed with his work.
    Patience studied Gerrard’s sketch.
    Vane studied her. He’d seen her the instant she’d appeared, framed by a break in the old wall. He’d known she was near an instant before that, warned by some sixth sense, by a faint ripple in the atmosphere. She drew his senses like a lodestone. Which, at present, was not helpful.
    Gritting his teeth, he fought to block his memories of the previous night from crystallizing in his mind. Every time they did, his temper took flight, which, given she was near, within easy reach, was the opposite of wise. His temper was very like a sword—once unsheathed, it was all cold steel. And it took real effort to resheathe it. Something he hadn’t yet accomplished.
    If Miss Patience Debbington was wise, she would keep her distance until he had.
    If he was wise, he’d do the same.
    His gaze, dwelling, entirely without his permission, on her curves, on the play of her skirts about her legs, dropped to inspect her ankles. She was wearing kid half boots—and her skirts were distinctly wet.
    Inwardly, Vane frowned. He stared at her wet hems. She had changed tack—he’d thought she had over breakfast, then dismissed the idea as hopeful fancy. He couldn’t see why she would have changed her mind. He’d