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 already convinced himself there was nothing he could say to refute her accusations-they all held a grain of truth, and, if he was honest, he'd set himself up with his attempts at masterful manipulation. He'd concluded there was only one way to correct her misguided notions-he would prove them wrong, not by word, but by deed. And then he would be able to savor her confusion, and her apologies.

Straightening, pushing away from the stone arch, Vane realized that, somehow or other, her apologies were coming early. He wasn't about to place extra hurdles in her path. Slowly, he strolled forward.

Patience was instantly aware of him. She glanced swiftly his way, then looked back at Gerrard's sketch. "Will you be much longer?"

"Hours," Gerrard replied.

"Well…" Patience lifted her head and boldly met Vane's eyes. "I wonder, Mr. Cynster, if I could prevail on you to lend me your arm back to the house. It's more slippery than I'd thought. Some of the stones are quite treacherous."

Vane raised one brow. "Indeed?" Smoothly, he offered her his arm. "I know a route back that has a number of advantages."

Patience shot him a suspicious look, but she placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to turn her toward the old church. Gerrard absentmindedly acknowledged their good-byes, and Patience's sisterly admonition to return to the house in time for lunch.

Giving her no time to think of anything further to tell Gerrard, Vane led her into the nave. The single remaining arch soared above them; within minutes they were out of Gerrard's sight and hearing, strolling side by side down the long central aisle.

"Thank you." Patience made to lift her hand from his sleeve; Vane covered it with his.

He felt her fingers jerk, then still, sensed the ripple of awareness that streaked through her. Her head came up, chin tilting, lips firming. He caught her gaze. "Your hems are wet."

Hazel eyes flashed. "So are my feet."

"Which suggests you came on this expedition for a purpose."

She looked forward. Vane watched, with interest, as her breasts swelled, straining the bodice of her dress.

"Indeed. I came to aplogize."

The words were bitten off, uttered through clenched teeth.

"Oh? Why?"

Abruptly, she stopped and, eyes narrowing, faced him. "Because I believe I owe you an apology."

Vane smiled, directly into her eyes. He didn't try to hide his steel. "You do."

Lips compressed, Patience met his gaze, then nodded. "So I apprehend." She drew herself up, clasping her hands on the top of her parasol, tilting her chin determinedly. "I apologize."

"For what, exactly?"

One long look into his grey eyes told Patience she was not going to escape lightly. She narrowed her eyes anew. "For casting unjustified aspersions on your character."

She could see him considering, matching that against her unwise words. Rapidly, she did the same. "And your motives," she grudgingly added. Then she thought again. And frowned. "At least, some of them."

His lips twitched. "Definitely only some of them."

His voice had regained its purr; a shivery sensation slid down Patience's spine.

"Just to be clear, I take it you rescind absolutely all your unjustified claims?"

He was teasing her; the light in his eyes was definitely untrustworthy. "Unreservedly," Patience snapped. "There! Now what more can you want?"

"A kiss."

The answer came back so fast, so definitely, Patience's head whirled. "A kiss?"

He merely raised one arrogant brow, as if the suggestion barely rated a blink. None-too-subtle challenge lit his eyes. Patience frowned and bit her lip. They stood in the open central aisle, nothing within yards of them. Totally unscreened, totally exposed. Hardly a site that lent itself to impropriety. "Oh, very well."

Swiftly, she stretched on her toes; putting one hand on his shoulder for balance, she placed a quick peck on his cheek.

His eyes opened wide, then filled with laughter-more laughter than she could stand.

"Oh, no." He shook his head. "Not that sort of kiss."

She didn't need to ask what sort of kiss he wanted. Patience focused on his lips-long, lean, hard. Fascinating. They were not going to get any less fascinating. Indeed, the longer she contemplated them…

Hauling in a quick breath, she held it, stretched upward, shut her eyes, and fleetingly touched her lips to his. They were as hard as she'd imagined, very like sculpted marble. Sensation flared at the brief contact; her lips tingled, then throbbed.

Patience blinked her eyes wide as she lowered her heels to earth. And refocused on his lips. She saw the ends curve upward, heard his low, wickedly teasing laugh.

"Still not right. Here-let me show you."

His hands came up to frame her face, her jaw, tilting her lips up as his descended. Of their own volition, her lids fell, then his lips touched hers. Patience couldn't have quelled the shudder that passed through her had her life depended on it.

Stunned, poised to resist, she mentally paused. Strong, sure, his lips covered hers, moving slowly, langorously, as if savoring her taste, her texture. There was nothing threatening in the unhurried caress. Indeed, it was beguiling, luring her senses, focusing them on the practiced slide and glide of cool lips which seemed to instinctively know how to soothe the heat rising in hers. Hers throbbed; his pressed, caressed, as if drinking in her heat, stealing it from her.

Patience felt her lips soften; his firmed in response.

No, no, noo… Some small part of her mind tried to warn her, but she was long past listening. This was new, novel-she'd never felt such sensations before. Never known such simple delight existed.

Her head was whirling, but not unpleasantly. His lips still seemed hard, cool-Patience couldn't resist the temptation to return the pressure, to see if his lips would soften to hers.