Never Romance a Rake (16 page)

Camille smoothed her hands anxiously down her skirts and awaited their chance to alight. She was almost disconcertingly eager to see Lord Rothewell again. She owed him, perhaps, an apology—but
he
owed
her
an explanation.

Oh, she could not stop him from keeping a mistress. But she would not have that cat hissing and spitting in her face again, and the sooner Rothewell knew it, the smoother life would go for both of them.

As she watched the scenery inch forward, Camille told herself she was not jealous of Mrs. Ambrose. The woman's ivory skin and pale blond locks meant less than nothing to her. But then she remembered Rothewell's lips on hers in the garden, and the strange ache began anew. She tried to force it away by returning her gaze to Lady Sharpe.

“It is most kind of Lord Nash to host this dinner party,
madame,
” Camille said. “But I feel…oh, I don't know the right word.”

“Nervous, I daresay,” Lady Sharpe murmured. “Poor dear. In a few days' time, you will be married to a man you scarcely know. And tonight you must meet a great many more relatives.”

“
Oui, madame,
” said Camille quietly. “It is daunting.”

“Daunting but necessary.” The feathers in her small hat bounced as she nodded. “Nash's stepmother, the Dowager Lady Nash, and her sister Lady Henslow shall be there—the most frightful gossips in town.”

“Gossips?” said Camille. “
Ça alors,
this will make matters more difficult.”

The countess wagged a finger. “No, no, no, dear child,” she said. “Gossip is unavoidable. One can only hope to steer it. Tomorrow the talk will be of Rothewell's engagement, and yes, of your mother's unfortunate situation. That will be but a five-minute conversation. Then the gossips will have to acknowledge that the family has embraced you, and has trotted you out just as we would any blue-blooded bride.”

Camille had to acknowledge it made a certain amount of sense.

The carriage rocked to a halt, and Camille felt a flush of heat from her breasts up her throat. Soon. Soon, she would see him again.

Oh, but what a goose she was! Lady Sharpe's optimism aside, Rothewell was not apt to be a faithful husband. He had no reason to be. For her part, Camille understood how the world worked. She must remember she wanted but one thing of Lord Rothewell—and it was not, she reminded herself, the man's heart.

They were greeted at the door by Rothewell's sister, who smiled, and clasped both of Camille's hands in her own. Lady Nash had reconciled herself, it seemed, to her brother's unfortunate marriage. Camille forced a smile and kissed her hostess's cheek.

A whirlwind of introductions followed, along with the oft-repeated tale of Lady Sharpe's French governess. The first to hear it were Nash's stepmother, a lovely but rather silly woman, and her sister, a stout, good-humored matron of perhaps sixty years. The matron's husband, Lord Henslow, attended, as did two pretty girls, Lord Nash's half sisters. There was a handsome golden-haired gentleman—a business associate of Lady Nash's—and his wife, a quiet, strikingly beautiful woman. The pair was introduced as the Duke and Duchess of Warneham. And Lord Nash had a younger brother, Anthony Hayden-Worth, a politician who flirted charmingly with the ladies.

It was all a bit much to take in. Camille had been prepared to be faintly snubbed—that, she could have borne. But these people were entirely civil. Even warm. She went in to dinner on Lord Nash's arm and passed what should have been a pleasant two hours. Except that it was not. She kept looking down the table at Rothewell. She knew what he was, yes. So why did she keep remembering their kiss in the garden? Remembering how his mouth had molded to hers? How he had touched her, arousing in her a hundred complicated emotions?

Fleetingly, she closed her eyes. Oh, he was not for her, that dark-haired devil with his lean, hard face and somnolent eyes. She might well marry him, but she could ill afford to be besotted by him. She knew his type too well and had seen the ruin heartbreak brought firsthand.

But even now, she could not quite take her eyes from him—not even when Mr. Hayden-Worth had asked her a perfectly earnest question about the resignation of the Villèle cabinet. Camille had been required to turn round and ask him to repeat himself. The gentleman had cheerfully done so, then tore off on a rattle about France's position on covert slave-trading, a subject of obvious interest to him. Camille was compelled to nod and answer his questions until his mother appeared to kick him beneath the table, ordering him to keep his politics from the dining room.

And so Camille's gaze had returned to Rothewell, almost against her will. He was picking at his food, she noticed. That seemed odd, for he looked to be a man of great appetites, in every sense of the word.

He had been late tonight, arriving well after all the other guests, and Camille's pique had been replaced by a sudden sense of foreboding. Rothewell's sister's smile, too, had begun to look a little brittle as her eyes kept darting toward the door. Whilst a withdrawing room full of guests had laughed, sipped champagne, and offered their congratulations, Camille had quietly convinced herself that Rothewell was not coming at all.

She was trying to decide if she felt relieved or jilted when he swept into the entrance hall wearing a long black opera cloak and carrying a gold-knobbed walking stick. Camille watched through the double doors of the withdrawing room as a footman lifted the cloak from his shoulders. Beneath it Rothewell wore his usual black, accented by a pewter brocade waistcoat and an expression just as forbidding as Camille remembered.

Upon seeing her, however, he had crossed the room at once, then shocked her by pressing a kiss to her hand; a surprisingly fervent kiss, too, not some faint gesture made upon the air. Camille had found herself blushing, much to the delight of Lord Nash's stepmother and aunt.

Now the dinner was over and the ladies were awaiting the gentlemen in the long blue-and-gold withdrawing room. Camille watched from a distance as Rothewell's sister poured more coffee for those who wished it, then turned her attention to the lady next to her. Camille drifted toward the grand piano which she had noticed upon her arrival. It was a gorgeous beast of an instrument in warm, burled wood with gilt trim and carved legs so delicate one wondered how it held its weight. A little awed, she sat down upon the bench, and stroked her hand across the wood.

“Beautiful, is it not?”

Camille looked up, startled to see Rothewell standing near. She had not seen the gentlemen return from their port. A sudden vehemence roiled up inside her. “
Mais oui,
” she answered coolly. “It is
incroyable
.”

For a moment, he said no more. She hardened her gaze, and a look passed between them, dark and turbulent. He knew, of course, that she was angry.
Good
.

She was chilled by her wish to lash out at him. To tell him, in no uncertain terms, that his days with Mrs. Ambrose were numbered. But that would not do, when so many eyes were upon them. It would have been a hollow warning anyway.

Rothewell rested one forearm on the piano and leaned nearer, as if tempting her to slap him. “I know very little about music, of course,” he went on, as if the dark moment had never occurred. “But I do know good craftsmanship when I see it.”

“The gilt and carving alone must have cost a fortune,” she managed to reply.

Rothewell surveyed her in silence for a moment. “You look lovely tonight, Camille,” he murmured. “Are you well? Has everyone been kind to you here?”

Was that a note of genuine concern in his voice? “
Merci,
my lord,” she answered, some of the fight going out of her. “Everyone has been most gracious. And the kiss—the kiss on my hand—it was unnecessary. But thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful?” he echoed flatly.

Just then, Lord Nash saw them from across the room and approached with a cup of coffee in hand. Camille suppressed a vague sense of disappointment. “Do you play, Mademoiselle Marchand?” he asked.

“
Mais oui,
” she said. “The fortepiano, mostly.”

“This is a six-octave Böhm,” said Nash, drawing up beside her. “It was bespoke from Vienna. The veneer and giltwork were my stepmother's doing.”

“
Mon Dieu,
to possess such a thing.” Camille's voice was laced with awe.

“By all means, try it,” Lord Nash encouraged. “You will fall in love, I think.”

His choice of words sent a strange frisson up Camille's spine. She tried to focus on the piano. Oddly aware of Rothewell's gaze, she carefully laid back the fallboard, then set both hands down on the keys. The chord which rang out was both light and rich. Extraordinary.

“And now you behold the true beauty of the Böhm.” Lord Nash surveyed her over his cup. “The giltwork and carvings are meaningless by comparison.”

Camille played a few notes. “
Oui,
the sound—the
résonance
—all is perfection,
monsieur
.”

“I know it is bad form to ask a guest of honor to perform, Mademoiselle Marchand,” Nash continued. “Still, I hope you will?”

Camille looked up at Rothewell, who said nothing but inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Camille drew a deep breath and smiled. Then she lifted her hands, and set them dramatically down upon the keyboard. As was usual with her, she did not choose the piece, so much as the piece chose her. The sound washed over the room in luxurious, rippling waves as if from another's hands.

As she played, Camille was aware of nothing but Rothewell's strong, steady gaze upon her hands as they moved upon the keyboard. Soon, she was lost to the music, unsure even of how long she played. Music was her solace. Her means of survival. It always had been—and during the last three years, as her mother's illness had worn on, confining Camille and stripping from her all other joys, she had become more than competent at the piano.

Long moments later, when at last the final chords rang out, Camille lifted her hands from the ivory, and looked up to see Rothewell's sister standing beside him. From the other side of the sofa, someone was slowly clapping.

“Well done! Well done!” said Lord Nash's stepbrother, standing. “My hat—if I wore one—would surely be off to you, Mademoiselle Marchand.”

Murmurs of appreciation ran through the small crowd, then one by one, most returned to their coffee and their conversation. Though he watched her still, Rothewell's expression was strange, almost bleak. Then he, too, turned and walked away. He went to the window, and stood there rigid and alone, staring out into the night.

“That was extraordinary,
mademoiselle,
” said Nash, setting his coffee aside. “A Haydn sonata, was it not?”

“
Mais oui,
Number 54 in G-major.” But Camille's attention was fixed on Rothewell's back.

“
Allegretto innocente,
” murmured Nash. “What a remarkable piece to choose.”

Camille forced her attention to her host. “
Oui,
his sonatas are not as popular as his symphonies, I think?”

“Nonetheless, you played it to perfection, Mademoiselle Marchand.” Nash smiled. “You did not give in to the temptation to rush it or to drive it too harshly, as so many do with Haydn.”

“My lord, you are too kind.
Merci.
”

“No, it was extraordinary,” Rothewell's sister chimed in. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Marchand.” She glanced at her husband. “My dear, Gareth wishes to speak with you. Something about a filly coming up at Tattersall's?”

“Ah, that,” said Nash. “We are going to have a look on Thursday. Unless he has changed his mind?”

His wife lifted one shoulder. “You must ask him, I daresay.”

Lord Nash excused himself, and crossed the room to join the golden-haired duke. Lady Nash smiled down at Camille. “Will you play again, Mademoiselle Marchand?”

She jerked her head up. “Camille, please.”

Lady Nash's smile warmed. “Camille, then.”

“No, I shan't be greedy,” she went on, rising. “I must let one of the other ladies take a turn.”

Lady Nash laughed lightly. “I rather doubt, my dear, that any of us will wish to humiliate ourselves by following
that
performance,” she said. “And I see that Tony is getting up a hand of whist with the others. Would you care to come upstairs and see our nursery?”

It was another olive branch, perhaps. Camille seized it. “
Merci,
” she answered. “I would like to.”

Rothewell was not perfectly sure how long he stood there by the windows, looking out into a night so dark, there was nothing to be seen. He watched instead the watery reflection of the room. Of
her
. The Black Queen. As proud and as beautiful as she had been on the night he'd first laid eyes on her.