"Thank you." With a stiff inclination of her head, she accepted the cup Vane offered her. With rigid calm, she sipped. And tried not to notice how easily he had isolated her-cut her out from her protective herd. She'd recognized him immediately as a wolf; apparently, he was an accomplished one. A fact she would henceforth bear in mind. Along with all the rest.

She could feel his gaze on her face; resolutely, she lifted her head and met his eyes. "Minnie mentioned you were on your way to Leamington, Mr. Cynster. I daresay you'll be eager to see the rain cease."

His fascinating lips lifted fractionally. "Eager enough, Miss Debbington."

Patience wished his voice was not so very deep; it made her nerves vibrate.

"However," he said, his gaze holding hers, his words a languid rumble, "you shouldn't sell the present company short. There are a number of distractions I've already noted which will, I'm convinced, make my unplanned stay worthwhile."

She was not going to be intimidated. Patience opened her eyes wide. "You intrigue me, sir. I wouldn't have imagined there was anything at Bellamy Hall of sufficient note to claim the attention of a gentleman of your… inclinations. Do, pray, enlighten me."

Vane met her challenging look, and considered doing just that. He raised his teacup and sipped, holding her gaze all the while. Then, looking down as he set his cup on its saucer, he stepped closer, to her side, so they stood shoulder to shoulder, he with his back to the room. He looked at her along his shoulder, and raised a brow. "I could be a rabid fan of amateur theatricals."

Despite her patently rigid resolve, her lips twitched. "And pigs might fly," she returned. Looking away, she sipped her tea.

Vane's brow quirked; he continued his languid prowl, slowly circling her, his gaze caressing the sweep of her throat and nape. "And then there's your brother." Instantly, she stiffened, as poker-rigid as Alice Colby; behind her, Vane raised both brows. "Tell me," he murmured, before she could bolt, "what's he done to get not only Whitticombe and the General, but Edgar and Henry, too, casting disapproving glances his way?"

The answer came, swift, decisive, and in distinctly bitter tones. "Nothing." After a second's pause, during which the defensive tension in her shoulders eased slightly, she added: "They've simply got totally inaccurate views of how youths of Gerrard's age might behave."

"Hmm." The explanation, Vane noted, shed very little light. Finishing his stroll, he halted by her side. "In that case, you owe me a vote of thanks." Surprised, she looked up; he met her eyes and smiled. "I stepped into the breach and stopped Gerrard responding to one of Whitticombe's set-downs with rather too much heat."

She searched his eyes, then looked away. "You only did so because you didn't want to listen to a deal of pointless wrangling."

Watching as she sipped, Vane haughtily raised his brows; she was, as it happened, half-right. "You also," he said, lowering his voice, "haven't yet thanked me for saving you from sitting in the flower bed."

She didn't even look up. "It was entirely your fault that I nearly did. If you hadn't sneaked up on me, I wouldn't have been in any danger of landing in the weeds." She glanced briefly at him, a touch of color in her cheeks. "A gentleman would have coughed or something."

Vane trapped her gaze, and smiled-a slow, Cynster smile. "Ah," he murmured, his voice very low. He shifted fractionally closer. "But, you see, I'm not a gentleman. I'm a Cynster." As if letting her into some secret, he gently informed her: "We're conquerors-not gentlemen."

Patience looked into his eyes, into his face, and felt a most peculiar shiver slither down her spine. She'd just finished her tea, but her mouth felt dry. She blinked, then blinked again, and decided to ignore his last comment. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not, by any chance, attempting to make me feel grateful-so that I'll imagine myself in your debt?"

His brows quirked; his mesmerizing lips curved. His eyes, grey, intent, and oddly challenging, held hers. "It seemed the natural place to start to undermine your defenses."

Patience felt her nerves vibrate to the deep tenor of his voice, felt her senses quake as she registered his words. Her eyes, locked on his, widened; her lungs seized. In a mental scramble, she struggled to marshal her wits, to lay her tongue on some sharp retort with which to break his spell.

His eyes searched hers; one brow lifted arrogantly, along with the ends of his long lips. "I didn't cough because I was entirely distracted, which was entirely your fault." He seemed very close, totally commanding her vision, her senses. Again his eyes scanned hers, again one brow quirked. "Incidentally," he murmured, his voice velvety dark, "what were you searching for in the flower bed?"

"There you are!"

Breathless, Patience turned-and beheld Minnie, descending like a galleon in full sail. The entire British fleet wouldn't have been more welcome.

"You'll have to excuse an old woman, Patience dear, but I really must speak with Vane privately." Minnie beamed impartially on them both, then laid her hand on Vane's sleeve.

He immediately covered it with his. "I'm yours to command."

Despite his words, Patience sensed his irritation, his annoyance that Minnie had spiked the gun he'd turned on her. There was an instant's hiatus, then he smiled charmingly down at Minnie. "Your rooms?"

"Please-so sorry to drag you away."

"Not at all-you're the reason I'm here."

Minnie beamed at his flattery. Vane raised his head and met Patience's eyes. His smile still in place, he inclined his head. "Miss Debbington."

Patience returned his nod and quelled another shiver. He might have surrendered gracefully, but she had the distinct impression he hadn't given up.

She watched him cross the room, Minnie on his arm, chattering animatedly; he walked with head bent, his attention fixed on Minnie. Patience frowned. From the instant she'd recognized his style, she'd equated Vane Cynster with her father, another smooth-tongued, suavely elegant gentleman. All she knew about the species she'd learned from him, her restless, handsome sire. And what she'd learned she'd learned well-there was no chance she'd succumb to a well-set pair of shoulders and a devilish smile.

Her mother had loved her father-dearly, deeply, entirely too well. Unfortunately, men such as he were not the loving kind-not the kind wise women loved, for they did not value love, and would not accept it, nor return it. Worse, at least in Patience's eyes, such men had no sense of family life, no love in their soul to tie them to their hearth, their children. From all she had seen from her earliest years, elegant gentlemen avoided deep feelings. Avoided commitment, avoided love.

To them, marriage was a matter of estate, not a matter of the heart. Woe betide any woman who failed to understand that.

All that being so, Vane Cynster was high on her list of gentlemen she would definitely not wish Gerrard to have as his mentor. The very last thing she would allow was for Gerrard to turn out like his father. That he had that propensity none could deny, but she would fight to the last gasp to prevent him going that road.

Straightening her shoulders, Patience glanced around the room, noting the others, before the fireplace and about the chaise. With Vane and Minnie gone, the room seemed quieter, less colorful, less alive. As she watched, Gerrard threw a brief, watchful glance at the door.

Draining her teacup, Patience inwardly humphed. She would need to protect Gerrard from Vane Cynster's corrupting influence-nothing could be clearer.

A niggle of doubt slid into her mind, along with the image of Vane behaving so attentively-and, yes, affectionately-toward Minnie. Patience frowned. Possibly corrupting. She shouldn't, she supposed, judge him by his wolf's clothing, yet that characteristic, in all her twenty-six years, had never proved wrong.