Never Romance a Rake (20 page)

“Excusez-moi.”
Camille rose abruptly in the middle of a discussion about ladies' hats. “I…I should speak with Rothewell.”

She went at once to the window. “My lord, you are unwell?” she murmured, drawing up beside them.

Xanthia cast her an uncertain glance. “Kieran?” she asked pointedly. “Are you?”

His lips thinned as if with irritation—or pain—and his forehead, Camille noted, was beaded with perspiration. “Thank you, it is nothing,” he managed.

Then, without another word, he left them by the window, and crossed the room to pour himself a brandy at the sideboard.

Xanthia cursed beneath her breath. “
That,
” she muttered, “is the very last thing he needs.”

Camille suspected Xanthia was right. But Rothewell was a stubborn man. She rather doubted his sister's chiding—or hers—would change that.

She did not have long to fret about Rothewell's mood, however, for the first of the guests began leaving shortly thereafter. Lady Nash looked exhausted by the time she escorted the last of them to the door. She hugged everyone in turn, Camille included, and sent them down the steps to their waiting carriages.

Camille climbed into the shadows of Lord Sharpe's barouche, greatly relieved to be making her escape. She wanted very much to be alone. To lie in bed and consider the gravity of what she had just done—and, if she were honest, to relive it in her mind. She looked down and realized that her hands were still trembling a little at the memory of Rothewell's touch. Hastily she pressed them to her thighs and forced herself to smile.

Just then, Rothewell himself came down the steps, his walking stick in hand, and his sister on his arm, urgently whispering.

Lady Sharpe leaned out the still-open door. “Kieran, may we take you up in our carriage?”

Rothewell's head jerked round. “It is out of your way,” he answered. For a man so dark, his face looked deathly pale. What had Lady Nash said to him?

“Oh, do come along, Kieran,” said Lady Sharpe again. “A gentleman should see his betrothed safely to her door, do you not think?”

“You should go,” said his sister quietly, setting one hand between his shoulder blades.

Lord Sharpe, still standing on the pavement, held his hand toward the door. “The womenfolk have decided, old fellow,” he said. “You may as well climb in gracefully.”

Rothewell's troubled expression did not abate, but he thanked Sharpe and climbed inside to sit opposite the ladies. Lady Sharpe kept up a constant stream of pleasant chatter as the carriage made its way the length of what Camille now recognized as Mayfair. She was curious to see Lord Rothewell's home.

The house, as it happened, was in Berkeley Square, and it was very elegant indeed. Camille marveled that she had ever thought Rothewell penniless. Perhaps he had been fleetingly strapped for cash, or perhaps he was simply unable to resist the lure of the game. But impoverished he certainly was not.

The grand front door swung open, and a servant appeared, a slender Negro gentleman wearing a starkly elegant black coat. The butler, she thought, studying him.

Rothewell, however, did not stir. He was looking across the carriage at Lady Sharpe.

“I think,” he said very quietly, “that we have waited long enough for this wedding.”

Lady Sharpe stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

Rothewell turned his gaze to Camille. “I wish us to be married,” he said. “In the morning.”

“In the morning?” said Lady Sharpe incredulously. “Kieran, no one is ready.”

“We are as ready as we shall ever be, Pamela,” said Rothewell firmly. “I wish us to be married at once. Sharpe, will you make the arrangements?”

Lord Sharpe seemed to agree with this course of action. “Indeed, old chap, if that is your wish,” said the earl, his bald head nodding. “Have you a special license?”

“Yes, for some days now.” Rothewell looked at Camille. He was doing this, she supposed, because he had taken her virginity tonight. She had not thought him as old-fashioned as that.

“My dear, I think we ought not wait.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “Will you trust me?”

Will you trust me?

Camille swallowed hard at the words.

Rothewell's mesmerizing, silvery gaze held hers across the gloom, and for an instant, it was as if they were alone in the carriage. This was it. Her last chance to refuse him. To cling to her sanity, perhaps, and to the safe but empty life she had lived for so long.

Lord and Lady Sharpe, too, were looking at her, awaiting her answer.

Camille closed her eyes. No, it was too late, she realized, to refuse. Not because of what they had done tonight. She wished it could be so simple as that. But no, it was too late because of how he made her feel. Because he was what she wanted. God help her,
he was what she wanted.

Fool. Fool. Oh, what a fool she was.

Camille opened her eyes, and drew a deep breath.
“Oui, monsieur,”
she said, her voice amazingly steady. “I should be honored to marry you tomorrow.”

I
n the end, Rothewell and his bride stood up to speak their vows in the late afternoon before a blazing fire in Lord and Lady Sharpe's withdrawing room, with only Xanthia and her husband in attendance. It was an unusual time of day for a wedding, but it was a wedding under unusual circumstances.

Lady Sharpe, however, did her best to maintain a celebratory air. With only a few hours' preparation, and despite a miserable cold snap which brought gray skies and a whipping wind, the good lady had decorated the room with springlike bouquets of white lilies and sprays of fresh greenery, and laid out a cold supper which would have done a sultan proud.

Camille, however, barely saw the flowers. Despite her outward calm in the carriage, she had passed a sleepless night, her mind going over and over everything which had passed between Rothewell and her in the library. This marriage was not to be the mere formality she had wished to believe it. This was a holy sacrament. Already she had given this man her body, and even as she stood before the priest and the blazing fire, surrounded by the dizzying scent of the lilies, she was frightened by the depth of her reaction to him.

She felt as if she were stepping off the edge of a precipice, and into a black, unknowable void. Involuntarily—and perhaps absurdly—Camille's nails dug into the wool of Rothewell's coat sleeve.

The priest opened the prayer book, and began to read. “
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here…
”

The words quickly faded from Camille's consciousness in a buzz of sound and a blur of light. She had to remind herself to breathe.

Rothewell, perhaps sensing her discomfort, laid his hand over hers and drew her nearer. The gesture oddly strengthened her and stopped her knees from shaking. She managed to murmur her vows, and when Rothewell whispered, “Give me your hand,” she responded mechanically, then watched in mute amazement as he slid a band of bloodred rubies onto her finger.

“
Send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name,
” intoned the priest, “
that, as Isaac and Rebecca lived faithfully together, so these persons may surely perform and keep the vow and covenant betwixt them made, and may ever remain in perfect love and peace together, and live according to thy laws; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

In perfect love and peace together.
Camille closed her eyes and let the gravity of the words sink in.

But was there to be either love or peace for her? She had given herself to this man; this dark, seemingly dangerous man whom she still did not know. And would likely never know.

When the blessing was finished, Rothewell's hand fell away. Camille watched as the stones twinkled and blurred before her, and realized in some embarrassment that she was on the verge of tears.

The final prayer followed, then Camille was caught in the crush of one embrace after another.

Two hours later, after having been kissed and toasted and set to blushing more times than she could count, Camille sat shivering in Rothewell's carriage, waving good-bye to her new sister and to her kind and generous hostess. Despite the unseasonable cold, Lady Sharpe stood upon the top step, fluttering a lace handkerchief as the horses clopped away. Camille's time of sanctuary was at an end.

“Well, Camille,” said her husband in his low, rumbling voice, “we have done it.”

Camille drew a steadying breath. “
Oui,
we have done it,” she echoed. She prayed to God that neither of them regretted it.

He spoke not another syllable during their short journey through Mayfair. It was to be, she suspected, the first of many silences their marriage would endure. Rothewell was a man of few words.

By the time they reached the house in Berkeley Square, dusk had settled over London. The air was sharp, and once again thick with the metallic tang of coal, which burned in the hearth of nearly every drawing room and coffeehouse in London. They entered the shadowy portals to be greeted by the same butler whom Camille had seen standing on the top step the previous evening.

Rothewell introduced the servant as Trammel. Inside the broad, unadorned entry hall, the air was laced with some exotic, spicy scent. The only ornament, a fine Persian carpet in shades of red and gold, rolled down the passageway and up the stairs. The butler bowed and welcomed her warmly, then threw open the doors to a large if somewhat austere drawing room.

“Given the dreadful chill,” he said, “I thought my lady might wish tea?”

“Or something stronger, perhaps?” Rothewell suggested. “My new wife has a something of a backbone, Trammel, when it comes to wine and spirits. And if I recall, she prefers claret.”

“
Merci,
” said Camille, surprised that he had remembered—or even noticed. “Any sort of strong red wine would be most welcome.”

Trammel made a gesture to a waiting footman, then motioned them into the room. Inside, a low fire burned in the grate, but as Camille's eyes adjusted to the light, something small came hurtling off the sofa. The creature skidded to a halt at Trammel's feet, its tongue lolling cheerfully out.

“What the hell is that?” said Rothewell, frozen.

“Oh, yes,” said Trammel as the tiny creature danced about their feet. “This is Chin-Chin, my lord.”

“The devil!” said Rothewell.

“Bonté divine!”
declared Camille, her anxieties instantly forgotten. “Is he a cat?”

“Yip! Yip!” said the creature, as if insulted.

“He is a dog, ma'am,” said the butler. “Some sort of Asian spaniel, I'm told.”

“A
dog
—?” Rothewell looked down dubiously. “We've got rats in the alley twice his size. What is he doing here anyway?”

Trammel drew himself up an inch. “You said, sir, to get a dog,” he replied as Camille and Rothewell settled by the fire. “Yesterday afternoon, in fact.”

“The devil!” said Rothewell again. He sat down, wincing a little as if in pain. Camille said nothing—it would have done little good—but made a mental note to keep a watchful eye on him.

The little creature, however, held no such reservation. He leapt onto the settee beside Rothewell and set his chin upon his forepaws. His hindquarters, however, remained in the air, his backward, fanlike tail waving madly.

Camille leaned over to stroke him. “
Bonjour,
Chin-Chin,” she cooed.
“T'es trop mignon!”

“Where, pray, did he come from?” asked Rothewell. “Wherever it was, by God, he's going back tomorrow.”

“Alas, my lord, Chin-Chin is homeless,” Trammel intoned. “He has nowhere
to
go.”

“Homeless, my arse,” said Rothewell, glaring down at the tiny black-and-white fluff ball. “He's fat as a Christmas goose, and freshly brushed. Now where the devil did you get him?”

Trammel sighed as if put upon. “Across the square at Mrs. Rutner's—excuse me,
Lady Tweedale's
—house,” he said. “The late Mr. Rutner brought him back from a trading venture in Malaya. But Lord Tweedale took a dislike to the poor mite after their marriage and threw him out. Said he'd rather have a bulldog.”

Rothewell made a sound of disgust. “Well, with a name like Tweedale, he can't afford to take any chances, can he?” he said. “If I were Mrs. Rutner, I'd send him packing and keep the dog.”

“
Mon Dieu,
” murmured Camille, picking up the little spaniel and tucking him beneath her chin. “What sort of person gives up a pet to appease a tyrant?”

Rothewell snorted. “A spineless one,” he said.

“But you are trying to give yours away, sir,” said the butler, drawing the tea table nearer to Camille.

“Damn it, Trammel,
it isn't my dog.”

Further argument was forestalled by the reappearance of the footman carrying a galleried silver tray with a decanter of ruby-colored wine and two glasses. Just then, the spaniel leapt from Camille's lap back onto Rothewell's settee. The little dog circled twice, then flopped down against Rothewell's well-muscled thigh with a satisfied grunt. Clearly, he had chosen his new master—and did not appear to be mourning the inconstant and cowardly Lady Tweedale.

Camille smiled and poured the wine.

An hour later, Trammel returned to inform Camille that her trunks had arrived. Camille refused the butler's offer of a late meal, and Rothewell surprised her by following suit. It struck her as odd that such a man would have no appetite.

After a brief stroll through the lower floors of the house, they retired a little awkwardly upstairs. Rothewell's bedchamber, Camille noted, was a study in asceticism. No carpets or bed hangings adorned the room, which was neither large nor grand. The bed, however, was a massive mahogany affair with tropical carvings on the towering bedposts, and it had not, she was sure, originated in England. The counterpane was woven of heavy, cream-colored cotton, and the windows were hung with similarly colored draperies. On the whole, the room was colorless, but Camille found it oddly soothing. Perhaps that was the intent.

Trammel helped Rothewell remove his coat, then rang the bellpull. “I fear the chambermaids are not quite ready for you,” he said to Camille. “We turned out the adjoining room this morning when we learnt of the wedding.”

So she had been expected. She had half feared that Rothewell might treat his staff with the same detachment he apparently treated marriage; something to be thought about—or mentioned—on a whim.

At that thought, shame flooded over her. Was she any better than Rothewell? Had she not set out to marry someone—anyone, really? Indeed, she had offered herself to him the very first night they'd met in exchange for marriage. She had wanted a husband, to escape Valigny and her cold, hollow existence. Whatever came of it now was as much her fault as anyone's. And if she gave her heart to this man, that, too, would be her fault.

The room which was to be her bedchamber was directly connected to Rothewell's, with neither a dressing room nor a sitting room as a buffer. At the entrance, she hesitated and sniffed suspiciously.

“Fresh paint, ma'am,” said Trammel. “I apologize. The door was just put in last week.”

Camille stepped back and looked at it, curious. “Was it?”

“There were no connecting bedchambers in the house,” the butler went on as they entered a lighter, much larger room. “His lordship wished you to have the main bedchamber. He has taken the smaller.”

Yes, expected indeed. So much for her theory about Rothewell's detachment. He had given her his bedchamber? Oh, how she wished that he had not.

Inside, the furnishings were similar to those she had already seen, but the bed was smaller and more delicately made, and the room contained a writing desk and a brocade settee. All the lamps were lit, and two maids were in the process of rolling out the carpets and re-hanging the draperies. They were inordinately curious, and kept cutting sidelong glances in her direction when they thought she was not looking.

As to the room, she could not fault Rothewell's servants. It smelled clean and well aired, and she saw not a trace of dust anywhere. Her trunks sat by the dressing-room door, one of them open to reveal her carefully folded nightclothes.

“I have sent for hot water, my lady,” said Trammel, returning to Rothewell's door. “Your maid is in the kitchen having a late supper. Shall I send her to assist you?”

“
Non,
not tonight,
merci.
” Camille looked about the vast room, feeling vaguely lost. “Tell Emily to retire for the evening. We can see to all this unpacking tomorrow.”

When the water arrived, and the last of the maids departed, Camille locked the door so that she might bathe and brush out her hair. As she removed the evening's finery, she was surprised by the weariness which overtook her. Her bones seemed to ache with the weight of it.

The water was blessedly hot, the soap a good French-milled cake scented mildly of almonds. She splashed her face, then methodically washed. But when she noted the slight tenderness between her legs, it sent her hurtling back to that one instant of pain when Rothewell had claimed her. The scent of him. The heat. His strength as he had lifted her against the wall, impaling her. Camille shivered. It seemed a lifetime ago, instead of mere hours.

She closed her eyes, and set her hands on the edge of the washstand to steady herself. The evening—all of it—seemed like a dream to her now.

But it was not a dream. Camille shook off the feeling and turned to stand before the cheval glass. Slowly, she let her gaze run down her length. So this was the woman Lord Rothewell had wed. The woman he had made love to last night. Passionate, impetuous love—and in the wickedest of ways, too.

Pictured thus, she did not look like the sort of woman who would stir a man to such lust. Indeed, she looked small and thin. One would have imagined him with someone more voluptuous. More exciting and experienced.