Read Online A Rake's Vow by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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and a brief wave accompanied the question. Patience stiffened—she stared. She knew precisely where Gerrard had picked up both those little mannerisms.
“How were the views?” Edmond paired his horse with Gerrard’s. They led the way down the rise, Gerrard responding readily, describing various vistas and expounding on the interplay of light, cloud, and haze.
Her gaze fixed on Gerrard, Patience set her horse to follow his. Consternation ensued. With Vane holding steady on her right, Penwick and Henry jostled for the position on her left. By dint of defter management, Penwick secured the prize, leaving Henry sulking in the rear. Inwardly, Patience sighed, and made a mental note to be kind to Henry later.
Within three minutes, she would gladly have strangled Penwick.
“I flatter myself, Miss Debbington, that you are clearsighted enough to comprehend that I have your best interests at heart.” That was Penwick’s beginning. From there he progressed to: “I cannot but be convinced it does your sisterly sensitivities, those softer emotions with which gentlewomen are so well endowed, no good at all to be constantly abraded by the youthful but sadly inconsiderate exploits of your brother.”
Patience kept her gaze on the fields and let Penwick’s dissertation pass her by. She knew he wouldn’t notice her abstraction. Other men always brought out the worst in Penwick—in his case, the worst was an unassailable belief in his own judgment, combined with an unshakable certainty that she not only shared his views, but was well on the way to being Mrs. Penwick. How he’d arrived at such a conclusion Patience was at a loss to understand; she’d never given him the slightest encouragement.
His portentous pronouncements flowed past her as they ambled on. Henry fidgeted, then coughed, then butted in with: “Do you think we’ll get more rain?”
Patience fell on the witless question with relief and used it to distract Penwick, whose other obsession, beyond the sound of his own voice, was his fields. By dint of a few artless inquiries, she set Henry and Penwick to arguing over the effect of the recent rain on the crops.
Throughout, Vane said nothing. He didn’t have to. Patience was quite sure of his thoughts—as cynical as her own. His silence was more eloquent, more powerful, more successful in impinging on her senses, than Penwick’s pedantic statements or Henry’s garrulous chatter.
To her right lay a sense of security, a front she did not, for the moment, need to defend. His silent presence gave her that; Patience inwardly sniffed. Yet another thing, she supposed, for which she should be grateful to him. He was proving adept at that cool, arrogant, subtle yet unrelenting maneuvering she associated with “elegant gentlemen.” She was not surprised. From the first, she’d identified him as an expert practitioner.
Focusing on Gerrard, Patience heard him laugh. Over his shoulder, Edmond threw her a smiling glance, then reapplied himself to Gerrard. Then Gerrard made some comment, underscoring his point with the same indolent wave he’d used before.
Patience set her teeth. There was nothing wrong, per se , with the gesture, although Vane did it better. At seventeen, Gerrard’s artist’s hands, although well made, had yet to gain the strength and mature form Vane Cynster’s hands possessed. When he performed that gesture, it reeked of a masculine power Gerrard had yet to attain.
But copying gestures was one thing—Patience worried that Gerrard’s emulation would not stop there. Still, she reasoned, glancing swiftly at Vane riding quietly beside her, it was only a mannerism or two. Despite Penwick’s beliefs, she was not a female overburdened with nonsensical sensivities. She was, perhaps, more acutely conscious of Vane Cynster and his propensities, more watchful than she would be with other men. But there seemed no real reason to intervene. Yet.
With a laugh, Gerrard broke away from Edmond; wheeling his
“How were the views?” Edmond paired his horse with Gerrard’s. They led the way down the rise, Gerrard responding readily, describing various vistas and expounding on the interplay of light, cloud, and haze.
Her gaze fixed on Gerrard, Patience set her horse to follow his. Consternation ensued. With Vane holding steady on her right, Penwick and Henry jostled for the position on her left. By dint of defter management, Penwick secured the prize, leaving Henry sulking in the rear. Inwardly, Patience sighed, and made a mental note to be kind to Henry later.
Within three minutes, she would gladly have strangled Penwick.
“I flatter myself, Miss Debbington, that you are clearsighted enough to comprehend that I have your best interests at heart.” That was Penwick’s beginning. From there he progressed to: “I cannot but be convinced it does your sisterly sensitivities, those softer emotions with which gentlewomen are so well endowed, no good at all to be constantly abraded by the youthful but sadly inconsiderate exploits of your brother.”
Patience kept her gaze on the fields and let Penwick’s dissertation pass her by. She knew he wouldn’t notice her abstraction. Other men always brought out the worst in Penwick—in his case, the worst was an unassailable belief in his own judgment, combined with an unshakable certainty that she not only shared his views, but was well on the way to being Mrs. Penwick. How he’d arrived at such a conclusion Patience was at a loss to understand; she’d never given him the slightest encouragement.
His portentous pronouncements flowed past her as they ambled on. Henry fidgeted, then coughed, then butted in with: “Do you think we’ll get more rain?”
Patience fell on the witless question with relief and used it to distract Penwick, whose other obsession, beyond the sound of his own voice, was his fields. By dint of a few artless inquiries, she set Henry and Penwick to arguing over the effect of the recent rain on the crops.
Throughout, Vane said nothing. He didn’t have to. Patience was quite sure of his thoughts—as cynical as her own. His silence was more eloquent, more powerful, more successful in impinging on her senses, than Penwick’s pedantic statements or Henry’s garrulous chatter.
To her right lay a sense of security, a front she did not, for the moment, need to defend. His silent presence gave her that; Patience inwardly sniffed. Yet another thing, she supposed, for which she should be grateful to him. He was proving adept at that cool, arrogant, subtle yet unrelenting maneuvering she associated with “elegant gentlemen.” She was not surprised. From the first, she’d identified him as an expert practitioner.
Focusing on Gerrard, Patience heard him laugh. Over his shoulder, Edmond threw her a smiling glance, then reapplied himself to Gerrard. Then Gerrard made some comment, underscoring his point with the same indolent wave he’d used before.
Patience set her teeth. There was nothing wrong, per se , with the gesture, although Vane did it better. At seventeen, Gerrard’s artist’s hands, although well made, had yet to gain the strength and mature form Vane Cynster’s hands possessed. When he performed that gesture, it reeked of a masculine power Gerrard had yet to attain.
But copying gestures was one thing—Patience worried that Gerrard’s emulation would not stop there. Still, she reasoned, glancing swiftly at Vane riding quietly beside her, it was only a mannerism or two. Despite Penwick’s beliefs, she was not a female overburdened with nonsensical sensivities. She was, perhaps, more acutely conscious of Vane Cynster and his propensities, more watchful than she would be with other men. But there seemed no real reason to intervene. Yet.
With a laugh, Gerrard broke away from Edmond; wheeling his
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