Never Romance a Rake (11 page)

Suddenly, he set the bottle down. “You are having a child,” he said, bracing his hands wide on the sideboard. He looked not at her, but at the gilt mirror above it. “Nash's heir, quite likely. And Pamela has done the same for Sharpe. Sometimes, Zee, a man—even one so steeped in depravity as I—begins to wonder at his legacy. One wonders if…if there will be anything left when one is gone.”

At last he turned around. She watched him warily for a long moment. Legacy, her arse, thought Xanthia. She had suspected from the first, really, what this was about. Now she was almost sure.
Sorry enough to marry her?
Telling words, those.

“No,” she finally said. “No, you won't cozen me with that one, either. You've never give a thought to your legacy and you aren't now. Don't forget, Kieran.
I have seen her
. Pamela has not.”

Kieran looked at her strangely. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “You just said you saw her
with
Pamela.”

Slowly, Xanthia shook her head. “No, I am not speaking of Mademoiselle Marchand,” she said. “I am talking about Annemarie.”

Her brother's visage stiffened. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

But he knew what she meant; Xanthia could see it in the taunt lines of his mouth, and in the faint twitch of his cheek where he had clamped his jaw together.

“I mean our dearly departed sister-in-law,” she repeated, gentling her tone. “Yes, Mademoiselle Marchand bears more than a passing similarity to Luke's dead wife. The dark hair and eyes. That lovely dark skin. The rich French accent. Perhaps she doesn't look like Annemarie—not the way Annemarie's daughter does, no—but there are some striking similarities.”

Her brother stared at her, his gray eyes suddenly glittering like silver. “I will thank you to cease this line of conversation, Xanthia,” he gritted. “Get out. Go home now. I am tired, and I've no wish to listen to such nonsense.”

Xanthia braced her hands to rise. “You cannot even admit it, can you?” she answered. “But you must, Kieran. That poor girl deserves to marry for love. Not because you pity her. Not because she reminds you of someone you once loved, but because—”

“Just get out, damn you!” he exploded. Then, to her horror, he hurled his glass into the fireplace. Crystal crashed and splintered. “Just get out, Xanthia! The dead are simply dead, and they aren't coming back. Do you think I don't know that?
Do you?
”

His face was twisted with rage. The brandy had caught on the banked coals and was licking up the back of the hearth in delicate blue flames. Unsteadily, Xanthia rose. Dear God. She really had pushed him too hard this time. “Kieran, I never meant—”

“Just get out!” he bellowed. “You did mean it, Xanthia. You always do. You just keep dredging it up.” He set the heel of one hand to his temple as if it hurt. “I swear to God, sometimes I think you'd needle at a bleeding wound. But Luke is still dead. His wife is still dead—and I have done all I could bring myself to do for her daughter. I have done my duty, damn you.”

“And Martinique knows that you have always looked after her,” said Xanthia. “But you couldn't look
at
her, Kieran. Good God, you sent her two thousand miles away from Barbados just because she reminded you of her dead mother. Of Annemarie. And now this poor girl—Camille—she deserves to marry someone who will love her for who she is. Not because she is another dark-eyed beauty who needs to be rescued.”

Kieran stalked toward her. “But I did not rescue Annemarie, did I?” he snarled. “Luke had the pleasure—and the pain—of that task.”

Xanthia laid a trembling hand on his arm. “Just wait a while, Kieran,” she whispered. “That is all I ask. Just wait until you and Mademoiselle Marchand come to know one another.”

“Why?” he gritted. “So she can refuse me? So that she can find a way out? That is what you mean, isn't it?”

Xanthia lifted her hand uncertainly. “I am so sorry,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to the rug beneath them. “You are quite right. This really isn't my business, is it? I will go, Kieran. Just promise me…promise me you will get some rest?”

When he did not snap back one of his angry retorts, Xanthia looked up. Her brother's face had gone white. His silvery eyes were shut, his visage twisted—not with rage, but with pain.

“Kieran?” She returned her hand to his arm. “Kieran, what is it?”

She felt a deep shudder run through him. “Aaahh, God!” he cried. Then he seemed to collapse beneath her like a house of cards, going down onto one knee, his fingers clawing desperately at the edge of the desk, the other hand clutching his lower ribs.

She had run to the door and flung it open before she knew what she meant to do. “Trammel!” she cried. “Trammel! For God's sake, come here!”

The butler was there in an instant. Panic sketched across his face when he saw Kieran. He knelt beside him on the floor, and hooked one arm under her brother's. “Can you get up, sir?” he asked. “I shall help you up to bed.”

Xanthia stared down at their bent heads, Trammel's tight gray curls contrasting sharply with Kieran's dark mane. When Trammel lifted, her brother grunted, and tried to stand. Somehow, the butler got him up, then turned to look at her.

“It's all right, Miss Zee,” he said. “He gets like this sometimes.”

“As of when?” Xanthia demanded.

“A while now,” he said vaguely. “Your brother needs a warm meal and a rest, Miss Zee, that's all. He's not been to bed”—here, the butler flashed a faint smile—“not in this house, at any rate—for three days.”

Xanthia surveyed him anxiously. Kieran must have had more to drink than she realized. But now he did indeed look steadier on his feet. The twisted agony had left his face to be replaced by a mere grimace. “Oh, go home, Zee, for God's sake,” he managed. “Haven't you a husband now to meddle with?”

Xanthia watched them go, Trammel's steps slow and dependable, Kieran's heavier but steady now. She was worried. Very worried. This business with Mademoiselle Marchand made less sense the more she learned of it. Kieran's was a logical and incisive mind, one which did not rationalize or cloud the truth, even when it brought him pain. He was a sinner, yes, but one who carried the burden of his own sin like a penance on his back. And his love for Annemarie—well, that he had worn like a heavy chain about his heart.

So what had changed since Xanthia's leaving this house? Kieran. He had changed. And she realized now, more than ever, how little she understood him—and what was worse—how little Kieran understood himself.

I
n the end, Lord Rothewell did not return to his cousin's house the following morning with a parson in tow. Lady Sharpe persuaded him that perhaps a fortnight's delay in marrying would do little harm and, quite possibly, a vast deal of good. Camille could not find it in her heart to explain that she no longer cared what society thought of her; not when the countess herself so clearly
did
care. And so Camille embarked on a whirlwind tour of fashionable London—or what little there was of it, given the lateness of the year.

On Tuesday there was an afternoon of shopping in Oxford Street with Lady Sharpe and her daughter Lady Louisa, who lived nearby. Friday brought a visit to the Royal Academy with Lord Sharpe, a large, affable man who knew nothing of art, but happily squired her around and introduced her to everyone they met. In between were a small soiree in Belgravia, a literary reading in Bloomsbury, and a visit to Kew Gardens.

At each outing, Lady Sharpe would introduce her to an endless stream of new faces—some of whom inevitably strolled away whispering. The countess's glib anecdote about her late governess went over well enough, but the subject of Camille's parentage was unavoidable.

“Never mind, my dear,” the countess would console her. “By next season—when it really matters—your name won't raise so much as an eyebrow.”

Indeed, despite the whispers, Lady Sharpe seemed to know everyone who was anyone, and to be able to almost extract invitations from thin air. Lord Rothewell might have been
persona non grata
within the
ton
, but his family certainly had connections.

As to Rothewell, he surprised Camille by paying a very brief call each day, usually in the afternoon. He said little but merely watched her across the room with his silvery, glittering gaze as Lady Sharpe served tea and prattled on about their plans.

For the most part, Rothewell looked as dissolute and brooding as ever, putting Camille in mind of an angry, caged beast, and to her undying annoyance, his occasional sidelong glance could still make her stomach bottom out most alarmingly. She wished desperately to forget that hot, mad kiss they had shared in her sitting room, and to stop thinking of how his body had felt as he had pressed her so relentlessly against the door.

But she could forget neither, and oftentimes, could not even take her eyes from the infernal man. Oh, it would not do to fall in love with Lord Rothewell. He would give her his name. He would give her, she prayed, a child to love. But never, ever would he give her his heart, and she must not become so weak and so naive as to hope for it.

On Saturday, Camille was invited to drive in the park with Rothewell's brother-in-law, Lord Nash, a man so elegant he could have cast the most debonair of Parisian dandies into the shade. He drove a team of twitchy black geldings hitched to a phaeton so delicate and so high Camille feared they'd strike a pothole and splinter to kindling. But Lord Nash proved to be both an admirable whip and a kindred spirit, being but half-English himself.

He put her at ease talking about his childhood spent on the Continent, outrunning Napoleon's mayhem, and about the death of his uncle, which had required his family to come to England.

“And was it terribly hard,
monsieur
?” she found herself asking. “Did you feel like a fish out of the pond?”

He laughed. “Yes, the
ton
was a challenge,” he confessed, cutting his horses neatly through the Cumberland Gate. “Until I grasped the fact that one must simply look down one's nose at them.”

“Look down one's nose?” Camille echoed.

“Indeed, for that is the only thing they respect,” he replied. “You see, Mademoiselle Marchand, one must think of the
beau monde
as something like a horse's arse.”

“A horse's arse?” Camille suppressed a laugh.

“Quite so,” said Lord Nash with specious solemnity, “for it is a well-muscled and potentially dangerous thing which is nonetheless capable of respecting something far smaller than itself”—here, he gave his whip a demonstrative little snap—“but only if you can make it fear your sting just a little. And to do that, one must simply behave with more condescension.”

“Oh, dear!” said Camille through her laughter. “Do I dare?”

“My God, woman, you are half-French,” said Lord Nash. “I can think of no creature better suited to such a task.”

“
Très bien,
” she said. “I shall try it.”

Lord Nash looked down at her and smiled—a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. He did not dislike her. Indeed, even his wife had come to tea the day before. As a husband, Rothewell would doubtless be a cheat and a scoundrel, but at least his family was kind.

Eventually, Lord Nash drew his phaeton up alongside the pavement in front of Hanover Street and leapt down to lift her out.

“Your wife tells me that you are anticipating a blessed event,” she said when her feet touched the earth again.
“Félicitations, monsieur.”

He smiled again, but this time it was the smile of a worried husband. “And my congratulations to you,” he said quietly. “I understand you will be making an announcement in a few days' time.”

“Merci, monsieur.”
Camille, too, flashed a weak smile. “It is a fearsome prospect, marriage,
n'est-ce pas
? I would welcome any advice which you should care to give.”

Lord Nash seemed to hesitate. “I am sorry,” he said. “I do not know Lord Rothewell very well. I married his sister just a few months past. I know my wife both adores him and despairs of him. I speak for both of us, Mademoiselle Marchand, in wishing you good luck.”

Good luck
.

As she went up the stairs and into the house, Camille considered Lord Nash's choice of words. Not
congratulations
. Not
may you have many happy years together
. Just
good luck
—as if she were wagering on a lame horse, or investing in a lead mine. But Lord Rothewell was just a little more complicated than a horse's arse. To manage him, she might need a very large whip indeed.

By her second day in Hanover Street, Camille had had the great good fortune to find the nursery—with little Lord Longvale tucked happily in it. She had been initially taken aback to learn that Lady Sharpe had just borne a child, but not surprised to see that the countess doted upon the babe. No blanket could be soft enough, no bathwater temperate enough, no draft more dangerous than those which entered Lord Longvale's sphere. The entire house revolved around the child's needs, and within a few days, so did Camille.

The countess was pleased when Camille asked to spend time with the boy. The nurse, Lady Sharpe suggested, would be glad to have an hour to herself, for she was a family retainer who had left retirement to attend the child. Lord Longvale was too young to do much more than sleep, but Camille was happy enough to sit by his cradle with a piece of needlework.

When the nurse had errands, Camille would happily report to the nursery. From time to time, the child would stir, and sometimes even cling to the end of Camille's finger when it was offered. Then, whilst his pale blue eyes gazed up at her, he would blow a spit bubble, or thrash his legs happily until he had kicked the covers from his feet. For Camille, it was utterly captivating—and utterly heartbreaking.

On this particular day, Camille had taken a book to read, then laid it aside. A shaft of midmorning sun was slicing through the nursery's draperies and illuminating the child's face like some holy icon. Lord Longvale was a truly precious gift. Such a child would have been priceless to her. She was prickly and bitter, yes—perhaps life had made her so, or perhaps it was simply her nature—but she was still a woman. She still felt a woman's yearnings.

Camille closed her eyes and felt the babe's tiny fingers clutching at her thumb. She prayed to God she had not waited too long. Surely, had she tried harder, she could have found a husband before now? Surely it needn't have come to this? A marriage to a man she did not know. A man who would marry her for money, without even the pretense of affection.

Ah, well. Maudlin sentiments brought one nothing. Camille extracted her thumb, pulled the child's blanket back down to cover his woolen booties. A
marriage
. A
child.
Perhaps she was soon to have both.

Camille remembered her mother's histrionics when she had announced, at the age of seventeen, her intent to elope with the gardener's son. Hartshorne in hand, Lady Halburne had taken to her bed for a se'night.

It was not that her mother had believed Camille too young—and probably not that she'd thought the gardener's son beneath them. Indeed, she rarely thought of Camille at all until Camille announced her intention of leaving. And then the illnesses and the petulance would come on. The swoons. The chills. The lingering diseases which she swore were certain to ravage her beauty and leave her with nothing but her precious daughter's love and companionship.

It was easy to be taking in by such balderdash when one was young, and craved a parent's affection—or anyone's affection, come to that. In those times, Camille at last became her mother's foremost concern. Her most treasured possession. Until the next handsome gentleman came along, or her mother scratched up enough money to go to Paris for a few months' amusement.

And so her dreams of the gardener's son had gone the way of all flesh—along with a local squire of comfortable means, a hollow-faced widower with four children, and a novice priest who suffered a sudden crisis of faith upon glimpsing Camille's ankles as she hopped across a puddle. None of those men had been meant for her—but any of them would have done better than the debauchee she had landed. Any of them could have given the babe she longed for. And yet she had let the clock tick on.

Lord Rothewell no doubt thought she wanted a child for financial reasons—if, there again, he thought of her at all. If he was as much like Valigny as one would assume, he thought only of the money she would bring him and the pleasures on which he would squander it.

Her somber musings were interrupted by the squeak of door hinges. She looked up to see Lady Sharpe enter the room. “Rothewell has come to call,” she said, her voice grave. “He wishes to stroll in the garden with you.”

Camille felt a sudden panic. “But the babe—”

The countess was offering her hand. “No, up with you, my dear,” she said. “Take your shawl. I shall stay until Thornton returns.”

Camille rose. Lady Sharpe gave her hand an encouraging squeeze. “You do not have to marry him, Camille,” she said quietly. “No one would blame you if you did not. But you do have to speak to him privately.”

She set her shoulders stiffly back. “I am not afraid of him,
madame,
” she said. “His bark is loud, perhaps? But I, too, can bite.”

The countess smiled. “Dear, dear,” she murmured, sliding into Camille's chair. “Has my wicked cousin met his match, I wonder?”

Camille snatched her shawl and her book, then made her way downstairs to find her betrothed husband. She prayed to God the man was a little more sober and a lot less disheveled than the last time she had been alone with him. He had seemed irascible, too. But then again, staying up all night drinking and gaming doubtless took a toll on one's temperament and wardrobe. Camille hoped, too, that he did not cast one of those silvery, sidelong looks in her direction and set her knees to melting. Surely she was not such a fool as that?

Lord Rothewell awaited her in a sunny parlor toward the back of the house. Camille found him staring out into the gardens, his legs slightly spread, one hand grasping a thin black crop, which he was slapping impatiently against his riding boot, the other set at the small of his back. And in looking at him thus, she was struck once again by the sheer size of the man.

She had thought perhaps his height and breadth had been some sort of emotional misimpression brought on by her anger the first night they had met. But she was increasingly aware that it was not. Rothewell was simply a large man and a commanding presence. His dark coat seemed stretched over dauntingly wide shoulders, and the black leather boots which encased his calves rose far higher than any mortal man's ought.

Yes, from this angle, at least, there was a good deal to admire—and yet no one would have thought him elegant, despite his obviously expensive clothes. When she broke this spell by speaking his name, would he turn round and disappoint? His complexion, she knew, was too dark; his hair nearly black, and from this vantage point, far too long. Indeed, Lord Rothewell looked like a man who belonged in the countryside, for he was simply too large and too austere for the elegant environs of Mayfair. And for some reason, looking at him today made her breath catch.

She lingered on the threshold an instant too long.

“Good morning,
mademoiselle
,” he said without turning. “I trust I find you well?”