Duchess in Love (33 page)

“That's absurd,” Carola managed.

But his fingers were dancing over her skin, and there really wasn't any point in arguing about terminology.

C
am was one of those people who slept so soundly that it was as if his spirit had gone visiting. Gina had never thought about it, but now she discovered that she was the opposite type of person. When Cam rolled over, she woke up. When his large hand settled on her hip and pulled her bottom snugly against him, she stared wide-eyed into the darkness, wondering what was going to happen next. Nothing happened. He just breathed heavily into her neck, and then after a while he started snoring, although he kept her pulled tightly against him.

The stretches of darkness gave her plenty of time for luxuriating in her own foolishness. By sleeping with Cam—if one could call it sleeping!—she had discarded all her dreams of marrying the responsible, kind marquess. As the wakesome hours wound on, Sebastian grew into a larger and larger figure in her mind: a figure of fatherhood, a man who would live in England and take care of his family. A man who would love her, as opposed to calling her “love.” Who would not spend his time fashioning naked women in stone, but doing responsible, organized things. She ignored her sense that Sebastian spent most of his time on horseback.
Anyway, he surely didn't snore. Sebastian was far too proper for snoring.

Most of all, she kept returning to the fact that not once, not even once, had Cam said that he loved her.

When dawn broke, Gina woke from a dream in which Cam gaily introduced her to a buxom woman he called “the lovely Marissa.” She pushed his hand off her hip and stared into the gray light, trying to decide whether it would be worse to marry Sebastian, who might have a mistress on the side but would never let her know about it, or Cam, who would likely parade his mistress before her. The very thought of it made her hand curl into a fist. She would
kill
the woman, she would…Gina was appalled at her own ferocity. What was she thinking?

It was more than likely that Cam would sail to Greece and not return for another twelve years. That meant she was going to spend the rest of her life in the sort of twilight marriage she had already experienced.

By the time morning finally came she was desperate for sleep. She was also irritable, exhausted, and incoherently anxious to let her husband know how dreadful a sleeping companion he was. And if her unspoken feeling was that he was a dreadful husband, well, she would let him know that too.

He on the other hand had the cheerful joy of a man who wakes up to find his hand on the thigh of a delectable woman.

Until he got a measure of that woman.

“You snore,” she said accusingly.

Cam tried to look innocent. “I do?”

“You snore and you groped my body during the night!”

He tried harder for the innocent look. “I
do
? It's only because you're so beautiful.”

She shot him a scornful look and he closed his mouth.

“I've had no sleep. None! When you weren't snoring, or groping, you were kicking, or pulling away the blanket.”

“I'm sorry. Is there some way I can make you feel better?”

He started kissing her neck as she sat on the edge of the bed.

She felt nothing but acute irritation. She leaped to her feet so fast that he almost toppled off the side. “Absolutely not. I am going to dress and return to my chamber immediately. I believe we shall have to keep separate rooms, if only so that I can sleep.”

“Shame on you, Gina. You who insisted that you would share a bedchamber with the marquess.”

“I'm quite certain that Sebastian would not be as disruptive a sleeper as you are!” she flashed back, pulling on her gown. “Will you check the corridor, please? I would hate to be seen leaving your chamber.”

Cam pulled on his trousers and thought for a moment. Then he asked, quietly, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I hardly think I need to detail the reasons why!”

“I would be interested in your reasoning.”

“Our marriage was annulled three days ago,” she pointed out. “Even if we didn't find out until yesterday, the fact remains that we are unmarried at the moment.”

“You sound as if you regret the fact we consummated our marriage,” Cam said.

She avoided his eyes. “Not at all. Are you?”

“Why on earth should I be?” he said in a lazy, rough tone.

Gina swallowed. Obviously he meant to carry out the plan he'd proposed in the ballroom—that they continue as they were, and simply share a bed on the few occasions when he visited England. “You won't be as free,” she stated.

“Free?”

“If we are truly married, you can't return to Greece.”

“No?” he asked.

“No.” Her voice almost wavered but she caught it. “If we are married, we should live together.”

“Greece is my home.”

“So is Girton. If you insist on leaving for Greece, well”—she hurried ahead—“I shall inform Finkbottle that I am not compromised after all.”

There was a moment's silence. Then: “I dislike blackmail, oh my duchess.”

“I don't mean to blackmail you,” Gina replied. “I simply believe—”

“You simply believe I am the sort of wastrel who would take my pleasure—and my wife's virginity—and waltz off to Greece without you as if nothing had transpired.”

She swallowed.

“I consider myself compromised,” he said tightly. “I am compromised by the situation and by my own lust for you. As it happens, I am not the sort of man who overlooks my responsibilities. But you don't believe that about me, do you?” There was a self-loathing to his voice that stung her heart. “After all, you easily believed that I would shape your naked body into pink marble and sell it in the public square.”

“I didn't mean to insult you. I thought you would fashion me in marble because that is what you do—”

“You are quite right,” he said, and his voice was full of rage now. “That
is
what I do. I sculpt naked women for a living. Moreover, I do it
in Greece
. You are a duchess, and you live in England. The two facts sound incompatible, don't they? You have no need for a husband who engages in disreputable sculpture. You see, Gina, I will not stop sculpting naked women. It is what I
do
. Stephen couldn't stop me, and neither can you.”

She frowned. “I have not asked you to stop sculpting women.”

He laughed. “If I am to stay at Girton and fashion bridges without nymphs, give up my house in Greece, and become a philanthropic duke, when will I engage in disreputable sculpture?”

“I hadn't thought of it,” she said, clenching her hands.

“You needn't think. I can see it for myself. After all, your idea of the ideal husband is the sticklike marquess. But it is impossible to fashion me into Bonnington, Gina. It won't work. Soil has never turned to gold. You might as well accept the fact, and consider whether you wish to continue in this marriage. Perhaps it was lucky that we were
not
compromised. Your wiggy marquess is still waiting in the wings.”

“At least he loves me!” Gina snapped.

He stared at her.

“He loves me,” she repeated shrilly. “He doesn't snore, and he lives in England.” To her dismay, her tired eyes filled with tears. “You're just going to leave me here at Girton and go back to your mistress—”

“Marissa is
not
my mistress,” Cam interjected.

“I'm sure you have a mistress somewhere on that island,” Gina snapped back.

Cam opened his mouth, but then he remembered Bella. She couldn't exactly be called a mistress, but Gina spoke before he could articulate the distinction.

“I thought you did! Perhaps Sebastian will keep a mistress. But at least I won't know about it.” The very thought of Cam sleeping with another woman sent a knifelike pain into her heart. “I just don't think I can bear it,” she said jerkily. “I can't—I can't. I don't think I
want
to…” she trailed off.

“You don't think you want to marry me,” he said. His voice was rather gentle, under the circumstances.

She bowed her head as a huge sob tore its way up her chest.

He pulled on his clothes. She kept crying. He walked over and put his hand on her hair. The caress made her weep harder. “You will have to decide for yourself. If you want to marry the marquess, you needn't give me another thought. I shall return to Greece. The annulment papers are there.” He nodded to the table. “You and Bonnington can be married by evening, if that's what you wish.”

He pulled on an overcoat that hung by his door. “If you'll excuse me, I think I will drive to London and speak to Rounton. I do think that a solicitor so bold ought to be reprimanded, don't you?”

He wasn't even going to argue with her. He didn't even care enough to argue with her. She gritted her teeth. “I would prefer to reprimand him for Finkbottle's unaccountable delay in giving us the annulment papers.”

His eyes were black and steady. “It is, of course, a question for your own moral temperament. No one knows what occurred in the plunge-bath, Gina. You should feel free to inform Bonnington that he may use his special license immediately.”

She felt a pulse of terror and sorrow under her breastbone.

“Cam—”

But he was leaving.

She blinked and ran into the corridor. “Camden!” she said. But he was nearly at the end of the corridor, so she shouted: “Come back!”

He swung around. His eyes were blazing with rage. “Was there something you wished?” he said. “Something
I
could give you?”

There was no point to standing in the corridor. But Gina stood until Cam's receding footsteps on the stairs had faded from her ears.

“Y
ou
wrote that letter to my wife? You—my solicitor—wrote a blackmailing letter and sent it to Gina's mother? Are you absolutely cracked?”

“I do not believe so,” Rounton replied. “But yes, I wrote the letter.”

Cam stared at Rounton in disbelief. “I find it hard to conceive that you, a respected solicitor, my father's own solicitor, would resort to such disgraceful lengths. And all for what? So that I would have a son and continue the Girton line? What the devil do you care, anyway?”

The only sign that Rounton was at all affected by his words was the way he jiggled his pocket watch. “It seemed to me a reasonable course of action.”

“Reasonable?”
Cam's voice rose. “It was a bloody imposition, and you know it as well as I do! My father's despicable methods appear to have rubbed off on you. It was one thing when he forced me to marry—” He broke off. His face took on such a menacing look that Rounton actually shifted backward in his seat. “Tell me that my father instructed you
to ensure that I consummate my marriage—tell me that and I'll kill you myself.”

“He did not,” Rounton replied. “After you left the country, he never mentioned your name again, to the best of my knowledge.”

“I assumed during that excuse for a marriage ceremony that you did not agree with my father's judgment. I clearly remember when you informed my father that his decree went against the law.”

Rounton nodded. “You are correct. I felt your father was making an error by forcing you to marry.”

“Then why did you take the opportunity to behave precisely as my father had? At least my father's demands were straightforward. He summoned me from Oxford, demanded that I marry the girl I considered my first cousin, and threatened to kill me if I didn't. You achieved much the same result by underhanded and devious means. Writing an anonymous letter that threatened my wife with exposure! Sending Finkbottle down to compromise us!
Despicable,
Rounton.”

“I would disagree,” the solicitor replied coolly. “I thought my letter was an ingenious touch. Of course, I rather expected that the marquess would withdraw his suit on learning that your wife was not only illegitimate herself, but had illegitimate siblings. Bonnington's reputation is of a man rigidly concerned with propriety. It seems the duchess did not share the letter with him. Perhaps I should have sent the letter directly to him.”

“How did you know of Wapping's existence?”

“I did not know his name. But your father's investigators uncovered the fact Countess Ligny had also given birth to a male child. Moreover, she had arranged to give the child to his father, a philosopher at the Sorbonne, precisely as she
did with your wife. Your father could think of no practical use for the information, but I thought it interesting. I had no idea, of course, that Wapping had traveled to England after the countess died, or that he was interested in Countess Ligny's bequest to your wife.”

Cam shook his head. “Why did you bother?”

Rounton answered at cross purposes. “Let me point out, my lord, that I could not force you to consummate your marriage. I simply made it possible for you to do so, if you wished.”

“If my father did not make such a request, why would you bother to influence my life in such a fashion?”

The solicitor's chin set. “I doubt you will understand what I am saying, my lord. My father and my father's father served the Girtons. Your father was a remarkably difficult man to work for, yet I did not leave his employ.” His eyes met Cam's. “The illegality of your marriage was only one of many such illegalities.”

“If you wish me to weep over your tainted lily white conscience, look elsewhere. You continued to work for him.”

“I was brought up in the expectation that the Girtons would be the center of my livelihood. That they would be my foremost client and first point of loyalty.”

“I fail to see why you think I can't understand your motives,” Cam said with a cynical twist of his lips. “In order not to lose your largest client, you complied with his dishonest schemes.”

“I could have all the clients that I wish,” Rounton said. “I remained with your father because I was taught that loyalty was important. And
that
is what I think you will not understand.”

Cam's blood chilled to the bone. “You think I have no loyalty?”

Rounton looked at him calmly. “Your father was bedrid
den in 1802. You did not return to England to manage your estate. Your father died in 1807. You did not return to England for another three years. When you left this country, you were a young man, but you are grown now. Yet you have shown little or no interest in the welfare of your wife or your estate.

“I judge the duchess to be an excellent manager of the estate, far better than you or your cousin is likely to be. I chose to do what was best for the Girton lineage and the Girton land. Make no mistake, my lord, I could make a great deal more money serving aristocrats who take the time to administer their own affairs, than serving a duke who fritters his time away on a Greek island.”

Cam forced himself to breathe quietly through the red haze of rage that clouded his vision. Rounton had not said anything that he had not thought himself since returning to England. He
had
neglected his land and his wife. He had lost himself in the keen pleasure of creation, and forgotten that his birth entailed unpleasant responsibilities that had nothing to do with sculpting marble.

“You have a point,” he finally said.

Rounton did not gloat. “I am sorry that I achieved my purpose through underhanded means.”

“I need a special license,” Cam said. “And someone will have to go to the isle of Nissos and close up my house.”

“I can arrange that.”

“I would prefer you to do it yourself. My statues will need to be packed with extreme care.”

Rounton blinked. He did not usually manage such matters himself, but perhaps in this situation he should be amenable.

“I shall return to Lady Troubridge's house tomorrow,” Cam said, standing up. “after I obtain a special license. If you would join me in Kent, I will give you more detailed information about my house in Greece.”

“My lord, I apologize if I have offended you in any way,” Rounton said.

“You haven't,” Cam said. His eyes were rueful, but the anger was gone. “I'm a careless bastard, Rounton. Always have been. I would rather work with marble than think about the Girton estate any day. But you are right to think that the duchess likes that sort of work. And there are marble quarries in England, after all.”

The solicitor bowed.