Vane met her wide gaze, and managed not to smile wolfishly-no need to frighten the prey. The view he now had-of delectable curves filling a gown of ivory sprigged muslin in a manner he fully approved-was every bit as enticing as the view that had first held him-the gorgeous curves of her derriere clearly delineated beneath taut fabric. When she'd shifted, so had those curves. He couldn't remember when a sight had so transfixed him, had so tantalized his rake's senses.

She was of average height, her forehead level with his throat. Her hair, rich brown, lustrously sheening, was confined in a sleek knot, bright tendrils escaping to wreathe about her ears and nape. Delicate brown brows framed large eyes of hazel brown, their expression difficult to discern in the gloom. Her nose was straight; her complexion creamy. Her pink lips simply begged to be kissed. He'd come within a whisker of kissing them, but tasting an unknown lady before the requisite introductions was simply not good form.

His silence had allowed her to steady her wits; he sensed her growing resistance, sensed the frown gathering in her eyes. Vane let his lips curve. He knew precisely what he wanted to do-to her, with her; the only questions remaining were where and when. "And you are…?"

Her eyes narrowed fractionally. She drew herself up, clasping her hands before her. "Patience Debbington."

The shock hit him, heavy as a cannonball, and left him winded. Vane stared at her; a chill bloomed in his chest. It quickly spread, locking muscle after muscle in reactive denial. Then disbelief welled. He glanced at her left hand. No band of any sort decorated her third finger.

She couldn't be unmarried-she was in her mid-twenties; no younger woman possessed curves as mature as hers. Of that, he was sure-he'd spent half his life studying feminine curves; in that sphere he was an expert. Perhaps she was a widow-potentially even better. She was studying him covertly, her gaze sliding over him.