Never Romance a Rake (13 page)

Camille considered it. Perhaps she and Rothewell had more in common than she had imagined. “My mother died in the spring,” she said. “I daresay it little matters what one calls her now.”

“I am sorry you lost her,” said Lord Rothewell. “From what did she die, if I may ask?”

“Hard living,
monsieur,
” said Camille. “Hard living, declining beauty, and—perhaps—a broken heart.”

Again, he flashed the faint half smile, and Camille found herself wondering what he would look like if he smiled with the whole of his mouth. Younger, she thought.

“A broken heart?” he said. “Broken by whom? Surely not Valigny?”

“
Bien sûr,
she adored him,” said Camille honestly. “Always, he was the one thing she could never have—not for very long.”

“Ah,” said Lord Rothewell. “You did not live as a family?”

Camille felt suddenly wistful. “Briefly,
oui,
” she said. “After that,
Maman
was just Valigny's occasional mistress. He never remained long in one place, and had many women. Of course, it was France, and
Maman
took lovers, too. But I think always,
monsieur,
all that she wished was to make him jealous.”

“Did it work?”

Camille nodded. “
Oui,
sometimes,” she said. “He would return to her, and there would be money for clothes and for jewels. Sometimes a gift for me. He would pamper her until she began to bore him, then he would go away again.”

“And they never married?” Rothewell asked. “Did Valigny have a wife?”

Camille shook her head. “He wed a girl in his village,
Maman
said, when he was young, but they, too, divorced,” she said. “For a time, it was common in France.
Maman
truly believed Valigny would marry her someday.”

“They could have done, after Halburne freed your mother,” he remarked.

Camille gave a sour smile. “Oh, but Valigny concocted a new story when the time came,” she answered. “He claimed the church would not allow him to marry again—a convenient discovery indeed.”

Rothewell looked at her incredulously. “
Valigny
is a devout Catholic?”

Camille's laugh was bitter. “
Non,
a devout liar,” she said. “Years later,
Maman
discovered his wife had died shortly after her second marriage, so Valigny had long been released from any religious obligation. Instead, for Valigny, Lord Halburne's divorce was—how do you say it?—the last straw on the camel?”

Rothewell smiled. “The straw that broke the camel's back.”

“
Oui,
the camel's back,” Camille continued. “After Halburne divorced her,
Maman's
father wrote to her and cut her off utterly. Valigny finally realized that there would never be an inheritance. His gamble had not paid off. After that, Valigny slipped in and out of
Maman's
life. We were fortunate his family accepted us—at least nominally—and left the roof over our heads and gave us a meager allowance.”

“And now your grandfather has left a part of his estate to you,” Lord Rothewell murmured. “But with harsh stipulations.”

“
Oui,
it was a decision made long ago,” she answered. “At the time he cut
Maman
off. As to the stipulations, something, I daresay, is better than nothing.”

Rothewell was no longer looking at her, but into the shadows of the boxwoods beyond the rose garden. “Tell me about her,” he said. “Your mother, I mean. About how she came to be involved with Valigny and exiled to France.”

Camille gave a bitter laugh. “
Maman
met him during her come-out,” she answered. “Valigny told her that for him, it was love at first sight.”

Rothewell crooked one eyebrow. “And she believed that, did she?”

Camille shrugged. “Some days,
certainement,
she believed. Especially at the first. And she loved him back. Desperately. She did not see—or would not allow herself to see—what he was.”

“How did they come to be living in France?” he asked.

“
Maman
was betrothed to Halburne,” she answered. “Against her wishes, of course, for she claimed to love Valigny. But her father disliked Valigny excessively, and after the marriage was arranged, he refused to let her see him. She finally agreed to the wedding—to escape her father, I think—then shortly afterward,
Maman
slipped out to meet Valigny. In response, Halburne slapped a glove to Valigny's head.”

“To his face, yes,” said Rothewell. “And so there was a duel for the lady's honor?”

Camille nodded. “
Oui,
Lord Halburne was shot,” she said. “Valigny stood unscathed. When
Maman
heard this, she thought it
très romantique.
”

“And you do not?”

“Non.”
Camille felt her temper spike. “I think it was
très stupide.
And irresponsible. And cowardly in the bargain.”

“I see.” Rothewell watched her levelly for a moment. “And then what happened?”

“They fled to France. This was in the early years of the war.”

“Good God,” muttered Rothewell. “Halburne was expected to die?”

“It was said that he would,
oui,
and that because of it, Valigny could never return to England,” Camille answered. “But somehow, Halburne did not die. Instead, he divorced
Maman
.”

Rothewell gave a low whistle. “What a row that must have been.”

“
Oui,
and a terrible embarrassment for Lord Halburne,” she whispered. “And now my coming here will surely stir up old gossip—and old hatred.”

Rothewell shook his head. “You will not likely meet him,” he said. “Moreover, he cannot fairly blame you. Valigny, however, is a different kettle of fish.”

Camille shrugged. “After the war ended,
monsieur,
Valigny resumed his visits here. If there has been trouble, it has not reached my ears.”

“Then Halburne is a damned sight more forgiving than I would be.” Lord Rothewell fell silent for a long moment, then he set his hands on his thighs as if to rise. “Well. We have a decision to make, I suppose. Do you wish, Camille, to go through with this business of marriage?”

“
Mais oui,
I thought this was decided,” she said.

He regarded her through hooded eyes. “You would willingly marry a haggard old roué?” he said, echoing the insult she had once flung at him.

She cut her gaze away, and did not answer. “I am some years older than you, Camille,” he went on. “And I have lived a very different life.”

She jerked her head around. “You know nothing of the life I have lived,
monsieur,
” she said. “I am not some naive innocent with whom you must concern yourself. I have no wish to be swaddled.”

“That's good to know,” he remarked, “given all your barbs and nettles.”

Camille felt her face warm. “Your pardon,” she said hastily. “I am too brusque. How old are you,
monsieur
?”

He looked taken aback. She could see him mentally calculating in his head. “Five-and-thirty, more or less,” he finally answered.

“Ça alors!”
Her eyes widened. “No more than this?”

“My dear, you are just full of compliments this morning,” he murmured. “I can scarce wait for our wedding day.”

“
Pardon, monsieur,
” she said. “It is just that you look…or you seem—”

“Yes, I know,” he interjected. “Old and haggard.”

Her blush deepened. “
Non
, that is not perfectly true,” she murmured. “You are very handsome, as I am sure you know, but you have the look of a man who knows much of life.”

“Aye, more than I might wish, perhaps,” he said musingly. “When do you wish to marry?”

“Tomorrow,” she answered. “I have no time to waste.”

“I understand the feeling,” said Rothewell dryly. “But perhaps it would be best, Camille, if we were seen courting for a time.”

“Better for whom,
monsieur
?” she asked.

His mouth drew tight for a moment. “Better for your reputation, perhaps, in the long run,” he said.

“Why do you care?”

“
Madame,
you will be my wife.”

“And you do not wish to be tainted by gossip?”

Irritation glittered in his eyes. “If you knew anything at all of my reputation, Camille, you would not even contemplate marriage to me,” he snapped. “But for my wife—possibly for my child—yes, I should mind the taint of gossip a great deal.”

He moved as if to rise. She surprised herself by touching him lightly on the arm. “My lord, I ask you again. Why do you do this?”

Rothewell's expression went blank. “I am told that at my age, one needs a wife and an heir,” he said, jerking to his feet.

“
Pardon, monsieur,
but you do not strike me as the sort of man who listens to what he is told,” she said, following him into the shadows of the garden. “Let us at least be honest with one another.”

When he did not respond, she caught him lightly by the elbow and felt the tautness of a hard, well-muscled arm beneath the wool of his coat. He spun around, and their gazes caught.

For a long moment, Lord Rothewell said nothing. “My sister recently married, and I have no one to manage my home,” he finally answered. “It is a simple enough matter, is it not?”

Camille watched him warily for a moment. He was lying. She knew it. “
Alors,
this is to be a true marriage of convenience?” she asked. “I will see to the running of your house, and you will give me a child?”

He nodded curtly.

“
Très bien,
” she said. “I accept this. But do not attempt to persuade me to trust you, Rothewell. All men are faithless. I will not depend upon you.”

He fell silent for a time, and she awaited the lies. Perhaps, even, some halfhearted pledge of fidelity. But that was not what she got.

“Indeed, you would be well advised not to depend upon me,” he answered. “You must build a life for yourself, Camille. I will not be available to you.”

There. She was fairly warned.

Perhaps she would not have to leave him in order to be left alone. Or perhaps, despite his pride, he would be glad enough to let her go—so long as her inheritance came as promised. It was a bit of a gamble, yes. But once again, what choice did she have?

She felt the heat of Lord Rothewell's gaze and looked up. His eyes were hard, his jaw harder still. To her surprise, he lifted his hand, and brushed the back of it along her cheek, a surprisingly intimate gesture. “For all your barbs and nettles, you are a beauty, Camille,” he murmured. “That first night—yes, I knew you were—and yet, a man sometimes doubts himself.”

“
Mon Dieu,
did you imagine I might have grown a beard and a tail overnight,
monsieur
?” Camille felt surprisingly wounded. “Or were you too drunk to remember what I looked like?” She held his gaze, and refused to look away. She was no shy, innocent miss, and she'd be damned if she would act like one no matter how dashing and handsome he appeared.

“I had been drinking, yes, and I was tired,” he acknowledged. “And I shan't deny that I have on occasion misjudged a woman's beauty during a long, hard night.”

Camille laughed. “That must come as a shock when one awakes to a gorgon in one's bed the next morning.”

He smiled faintly, but it was somehow turned inward. His gaze drifted over her, and for an instant, some nameless emotion sketched across his face. Not lust, she thought, but something harder to comprehend. Longing? Or regret, perhaps? But how foolish she was. Men like Rothewell did not feel regret—and if they longed for something, they found it, and took it.

“Oh, well,” he finally said. “A man usually gets what he deserves, Camille. But you—ah, your beauty would disappoint no man—at any time of day.”

“
Merci bien,
” she replied.

But she had become acutely aware that the mood was oddly shifting. They stood near the far wall of the garden now, and he was holding her gaze, his silvery eyes almost mesmerizing.