Never Romance a Rake (21 page)

But he had chosen to marry her. And not for her money, it now seemed. And not for love. That left only kindness, so far as she could see, and Rothewell was not a kind man. If ever he had been, something had wrung it from his heart, or so he wished people to believe.

She sighed, then drew on her nightclothes and began to put out the lamps. Would Rothewell come to her bed tonight, she wondered? Or invite her to his? She would agree, of course. In part, because it was her duty. And because she wanted a child so desperately. But there was another, deeper, more frightening reason.

She did not have to wonder at it long. As she passed by the connecting door, there was a soft knock. The door swung open to reveal her husband silhouetted in the lamplight, his broad shoulders and height filling the doorway. He wore a dark silk dressing gown and, it appeared, little else.

When he held out his hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. It was a warm hand, callused in places, and still hard with masculine strength. Wordlessly, he drew her into the room.

Trammel was gone, and the lamp by his bed was turned down to a mere flicker. A half-empty glass of brandy sat upon his night table, and the glow from the hearth cast a warm sheen over the room.

“Ah,” she murmured, glancing at the foot of the bed. “I see you have a happy bedmate.”

“Not for long.” Rothewell tossed a disparaging glance down at the dog.

Chin-Chin gave a huge yawn, then snapped his mouth shut and wriggled deeper into the bedcovers.

Rothewell scowled. “Look at the little beggar,” he said. “He acts as if he owns the bloody place.”

“What do you mean to do with him?”

“Tomorrow, I'll take him back across the square, I daresay, and put the fear of God in Tweedale.”

As if he understood English, Chin-Chin slunk off the bed with a resentful glance and went to the hearth rug, stretching himself out before the fire.

Camille laughed and squeezed his hand. “Will you indeed?” she said. “I am not at all sure he means to go.”

Suddenly, Rothewell closed his eyes, and dropped his voice. “I hope, Camille, that you will not regret this,” he rasped. “I hope that I have done the right thing.”

He was not talking about the dog, and his uncertainty strangely touched her. Camille stared into the fire, once again wishing he would revert to the arrogant, drunken rake she had first met in her father's parlor.

“You have done only that which I asked you to do from the very first,” she admitted.

Some nameless emotion flared in his eyes when he opened them. “I may have occasion to remind you of that, my dear.”

Camille lifted one shoulder. “If there are regrets, whom can I blame save myself?”

For the first time that she could recall, he looked away. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “In the library last night,” he finally said, his voice hoarse, “had I exercised a little restraint, this sudden marriage would not have been necessary.”

“I believe,
monsieur
, that there were two of us in that library,” she said a little tartly. “Do not suggest to me that I had no choice. I know what my choices are, and I make them as it suits me.”

Rothewell glanced down at their clasped hands. “Until last night, Camille, I…I was toying with the ungentlemanly notion of backing out of this betrothal. Would you have let me?”

“
Oui, bien sûr,
” she said. “But not gladly.”

“Pamela would have helped you,” he said. “Had either of us asked, she would have thought of something. She has grown fond of you. In her heart, she does not wish to see you tied to me.”

“But she is your cousin,
monsieur,
” Camille answered. “How could she not wish it?”

“Because Pamela knows the kind of husband I'll be,” said Rothewell. “A bad one. But you already know that, do you not? You don't expect much out of me, so you won't be disappointed, I daresay.”

“I have few expectations, my lord,” she said quietly. “And you know what they are.”

He looked at her with something like sorrow in his eyes, and to her surprise, his hands came up to gently cradle her face. “You will not…develop any foolish, feminine attachments to me, will you, Camille?” he murmured. “You are too wise for that, I think.”

“
Oui,
” she said softly, dropping her gaze. “I am too wise.”

Camille shifted to move away, but he surprised her by drawing her into his arms. “All our regrets and bad luck aside, we
are
married,” he said. “And it has been a long day for us both, I think. For a few hours, let us pretend that life, perhaps, holds a little more hope than we think. That happiness can be a real and tangible thing—even for the likes of such jaded folks as us.”

When Camille made no answer, he kissed her lightly, then threaded one hand through her hair. “Such glory,” he murmured, pulling back to look at her.

“
Pardon?
” she whispered.

He smiled, a rare thing. “Your hair,” he murmured. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I have wanted to see it down.” Again, he slid his fingers through it. “Like black silk, hanging to your waist. Will you promise me something, Camille?”

She swallowed hard. “I…
oui,
perhaps. What do you wish?”

He brushed his mouth over the apple of her cheek. “I wish, Camille, that so long as I live, you will never cut it,” he said. “Will you promise me that? Is it too great a thing for a husband to ask?”

She found his choice of words a little odd. “It—It is not such a great thing,” she admitted. “
Oui,
if it matters to you.”

As if pleased by her agreement, Rothewell pulled her into his arms and kissed her gently with only his lips, but thoroughly, as if they had all the time in the world. Yet Camille could think only of how she had felt with her body joined to his last night. Of the passion and almost uncontrollable yearning which had burnt inside her. She came against him stiffly, hesitantly, wondering how on earth she was to give this man her body whilst holding on to her heart.

“Open your mouth, Camille,” he whispered against her lips.

He pressed her body closer, and a shudder of suppressed lust ran through her. She opened her lips beneath his, reveling in the feel of his tongue slowly thrusting into her mouth. He slid deep, tasting her, plumbing the depths of her mouth and her soul until finally, Camille felt herself surrender. She rose onto her toes, melting to him, her breasts pressed high against the silk of his dressing gown.

With her eyes drowsy slits, the lamp and the firelight seemed to twinkle in an otherworldly blur, much as her wedding ring had done. Rothewell's hand was on her buttock, slowly circling, urging her hips to his. In mere moments, she felt lost—lost to all good sense, filled only with warmth and need and sensation.

He broke off the kiss on a groan, his nostrils wide. His hands went to the tie of her wrapper, drew it impatiently free, and pushed the garment from her shoulders. Her remaining clothes soon followed, and then she stood before him, her body as bare as her soul. The chill of the room drifted over her, making her nipples harden and her cheeks flood with color.

Rothewell's eyes slid down her length, hot and hungry. “You are so lovely,” he rasped. “I want you, Camille. I want you in my bed tonight.”

She turned, drew back the covers, and lay down.

His gaze raked over her again, his eyes flaring appreciatively. He loosened the tie of his dressing gown and let it slither to the floor. Camille almost gasped aloud when she saw him fully naked. Rothewell was quite shockingly male, even to one who had often seen the masculine nude in painting and sculpture. Despite the width of his shoulders, he was sleek and muscled like a cat, his waist almost impossibly lean. His chest was solid, and his arms were not those of some idle nobleman, but those of a man who had known hard work.

Rothewell's thighs were thick, and lightly dusted with hair, and between them his manhood hung firm and almost disconcertingly large. As if to shield it from her view, he set one knee to the bed, and crawled over her, again clasping her face almost tenderly between his hands as he kissed her deep.

“Do you want me, Camille?” he whispered when he broke the kiss. “Do you want…this?”

She looked away. “You can make me want it,” she whispered.

He slid a finger beneath her chin and gently turned her face back to his. “You are a passionate woman, yes,” he said. “There is no shame in that, Camille. No weakness. Is that what you think?”

Camille did not wish to think at all. And so she did the one thing sure to distract him. She closed her eyes and pulled his face to hers, kissing him deeply.

For long moments there was nothing but the sound of their growing passion in the gloom. Rothewell made love to her with his mouth, and with his hands, gently and unerringly. She sighed beneath him. With his careful skill, he drove her sighs and her hunger to a fevered pitch.

His ravening mouth sought her breast, his eyes closing in a sweep of thick black lashes across his cheeks. As if he meant to madden her, Rothewell suckled at her nipple until it drew into a hard, aching peak. Until the dark desire began to twist through her body again, tugging at her womb in that sweet, familiar way. His lips slid softly to her breastbone, his tongue coming out to draw a sweet, simmering trail of heat all the way down to her navel. There, he kissed her, licking it lightly then delving inside until she shuddered.

At that, he made a sound of pleasure deep in his throat and let his hands slide round to her buttocks. With one knee, he gently urged her legs wider. When she obeyed his command, he let the weight of his erection ease through her warm, slick folds, just grazing the sweet spot he had tormented last night.

“
Oui, oui,
” she whispered, her head thrashing a little on the pillow.

He entered her a little roughly. Camille sucked in her breath through her teeth, but the feeling was one of both pleasure and pain.

“Good God,” he rasped. “Forgive me.”

“I want this,” she whispered. “Oh. Do not stop.” Her hands had gone to the hard muscles of his hips, her fingers digging deep. Her wetness was audible now, almost embarrassingly so.

Rothewell lifted his weight from her body, his heavy black hair falling forward, casting his face in deep shadow as he drew back and entered her again. “Ah, Camille!” he cried. “Oh, sweet.”

He captured her hands in his, pushing them high above her head, then thrust again, the muscles of his throat and his belly going taut. It was a perfect rhythm of pleasure. Her need circled higher and higher, his every stroke pushing her toward that delicious, frightening edge.

He made love to her, it felt, with every element of his being; loved her until her breath came sharp in the night, and she was crying out for him. Vowing her need—and perhaps even more than that. The intensity spiraled inside her. She wanted to feel, not think. Not to doubt herself or to doubt this.

His driving thrusts pushed her closer and closer. The heat and scent of his body enveloped her. His breathing grew rough. His strokes deepened. She let her head arch back against the pillow again, let herself go to him without reservation. When she came, it was not the flash of brilliance and heat of the previous evening, but a tender, languid slide into the abyss. Her soul, it seemed, flew to him, and he went with her over the edge, crying her name.

When Camille returned to the present, Rothewell still lay atop her, the breath heaving in and out of his chest. She whimpered when his lips moved down her throat, the stubble of his dark beard lightly scrubbing her tingling skin. She felt alive, as if for the first time. As if the whole of her life—the waiting and oftentimes, yes, the loneliness, had been but a preamble to this. To this…sheer and utter joy.

When Rothewell lifted his head and looked at her, some inscrutable emotion still burned in his eyes. His hand, when he lifted it, shook. It was not her imagination. He cradled her cheek, kissed her again, then rolled to one side, drawing her protectively to him, burying his face in the tangle of her hair.

A part of her knew, even then, that this was a time out of place. A moment of fantasy and otherworldly joy. But her heart was raw, her mind not yet ready to return to the grim certitudes of her existence. Not yet ready to consider the folly of what she was allowing to happen. So Camille let herself imagine that happiness was a real and tangible thing. That her husband loved her. And that she had married him for a reason which went beyond her own selfishness.

R
othewell awoke sometime near dawn to the sound of his house bumping and clanging to life. Today, for once, he found it vaguely comforting instead of annoying. He rolled up onto his elbow and listened. Grates were being cleaned, coal hauled in, drapes drawn, and the upper servants were hastening along the corridors, stepping lightly as they passed his door. Rothewell was not known for his good humor when his sleep was disturbed after a hard night.

A hard night.
He dropped his gaze to the woman who lay beside him, and a harsher reality returned. Camille Marchand—
Lady Rothewell
—lay on her side, one hand curled into his bedsheet, her dark hair spread out like a fan of black silk across his pillow. Even as his desire for her began to build again, he considered his folly. He had vowed to be strong—for her sake and for his. And then, inexplicably, something had happened last night. He had
allowed
something to happen. To change.

On that thought, Rothewell collapsed back into bed and dragged an arm across his eyes to shut out the muted daylight. It was the beast, perhaps, weakening him. But good Lord, he was not some besotted fool—and he did neither himself nor Camille any favors by behaving as if he were. It was just sex with a beautiful woman, he reminded himself. It could be no more than that. And yet, the depth of his feelings last night, seen in the bright light of day, were just a little chilling.

Camille.
Camille
. He had no wish to break her heart—but there was no denying he had lost a little of himself last night, and no one was more shaken by that than he was.

It was strange to awaken to find her in his bed. And the dog, if one could even call it that, was now asleep by her feet. Good God, how had this all happened? His home had heretofore been an impermeable fortress. He did not entertain, or invite anyone to so much as pay a morning call. And now someone was inside his walls to stay. That was all very well; after all, he had agreed to marry her. But
sleeping
with her—sharing a bed for something other than sex—today that felt like a dangerous and sentimental business. It would not happen again. And the dog—Jim-Jim, or whatever the hell it was called—was going back to Tweedale's before breakfast.

The frustration did not stop him from rolling over, however, and allowing himself the pleasure of looking at Camille. Her face held the soft blush of sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and she looked far younger than her twenty-seven years.

Rothewell was beginning to fear his wife mightn't be as hard-hearted as she let on. That might prove unfortunate. He did not want anyone's sympathy, or to be mollycoddled. He did not want the girl growing attached to him. He hoped he could give her a child, yes. But he still rued the day he had laid eyes on that lively little bundle of Pamela's. Perhaps it had been his grim mood at the time, but in that moment, something inside him had caught—or torn?—no,
altered.
That was the word he wanted.

The babe had been so beautiful. So full of life. A real person, wholly fleshed out, with his own will and determination. He had been the embodiment of hope and light and innocence; things heretofore unknown to Rothewell. And now this woman…this beautiful woman…Good Lord, he was going soft.

He listened to the sound of someone sweeping in the passageway beyond his door, and wondered if he could make love to her again this morning—but without losing his head.

He did not have long to wonder. When he glanced at her again, Camille was looking up at him, wide-awake, her eyes roaming over his face. Searching, he thought, for something.

“Good morning,” he murmured. And then, after a few long and lingering kisses, he turned her onto her back and mounted her. He was not ungentle—no, he would never be that, he vowed. But he held himself a little apart from her as he coaxed her and entered her, and yes, even as she spasmed, and cried out beneath him, though it cost him dearly to do so.

Long moments later, when his business was finished and she lay limp and sated, Rothewell rolled away, feeling suddenly irritated with the world. Why? His body was spent. His hunger well slaked.

Camille must have sensed something was wrong. “Rothewell?” She reached out and laid a warm, soft hand upon his chest.

Gingerly, he pulled back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees.

He realized at once he should have drawn on his dressing gown. He could feel the heat of her gaze trailing over his back, could hear her faint gasp. Hell, he could hear the unasked question upon her lips. And when she reached out to touch him, her fingers tracing lightly over the web of scars, he did not even flinch.

“Rothewell?” she said again, her voice wavering.

Good Lord
. Not now, on top of all else. He turned and forced a grim smile. “What?”

She pushed up a little awkwardly, her dark eyes solemn as they regarded him. “You are well?”

“Well enough, I daresay,” he answered.

Her gaze trailed over him, her mind forming the words. “Your…Your back,” she finally said. “The scars—they are…
mon Dieu,
I don't know what they are.”

He felt his faint smile turn to a sneer. “I was a recalcitrant youth,” he answered. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

She looked at him unflinchingly, and yet he could see the pity in her eyes. “I do not think this was a rod,” she said, setting one hand to the small of his back.

“No, it was whatever my uncle had closest to hand,” he said. “A sapling branch, a horsewhip, his cane. He had a wide appreciation of all things flagellatory.”

“How can you speak so lightly of it?”

Impatiently, he rose and snatched his drawers from the chair over which he'd tossed them the preceding night. The dog leapt down from the chair he'd retreated to and came to join him.

“It wasn't meant to be light, my dear,” he said, hitching up his drawers. “It was my uncle's philosophy—a philosophy that extended to anyone or anything in his path. If you think this looks bad, you should have seen his slaves. Or my brother.”

Camille watched him—her husband—jerking on his clothes, and wondered what she had said to frustrate him. When his trousers were hitched up over his lean hips, Rothewell turned to face her. He seemed different this morning. Distant once again.

“I'm going to Tattersall's this morning with Warneham and Nash,” he said, scrubbing his hand round a day's worth of dark beard stubble. “Tell Trammel to introduce you to the staff.”

Camille tried not to feel disappointment. Rothewell had not misled her into thinking this was anything other than a marriage of convenience. And the passion last night had been…well, just a physical release for him, no doubt. The realization was a little lowering. This morning…ah, that had been more what she'd expected of him.

“
Très bien,
” she murmured.

He bent down and scooped up the dog, then dropped him on the bed beside her. “Have someone see to him, will you?” The words were not curt, but merely emotionless. “He'll want…walking and feeding and such, I suppose.”

“Oui, bien sûr.”
Shutting away the hurt, Camille folded back the bedcovers and rose. She pulled on her nightdress and wrapper, then went to the windows and began to draw the draperies. “When may we expect you back?”

“I don't know.” His voice was emotionless. “I keep late hours. If you will excuse me, I shall ring for my bathwater now.”

She shrugged and started toward her bedchamber door. It was his loss if he wished to be an ass this morning. But as she crossed the room, something by his washbasin caught her eye. She glanced over her shoulder. Trammel had come in at once and stood listening to Rothewell. Camille went to the washstand, picked up the small towel which lay there, and turned it to the morning light. For an instant, she could not get her breath.

Blood
. There was no mistaking it. Spatters of pinkish, watery blood, not a bright red streak from a shaving cut. Moreover, one look at Rothewell would confirm that he had not recently shaved.

Camille was not perfectly sure how long she stared at the bloodstains, but when she looked up, Rothewell was staring at her. He looked…not angry, but a little querulous, perhaps. As if he were challenging her to make something of it. Camille lifted her chin, and considered it.

No, she would not give him the satisfaction of an argument. It was probably nothing, and in his present mood, he might well tell her to mind her own business. She laid the towel back down, then opened the connecting door. Just then, she heard Rothewell utter a vile curse. She turned around to see that Chin-Chin had cocked his leg over one of his new master's evening slippers.

With an inward smile, Camille left. She was almost relieved to see her maid standing by the dressing-room door, a pile of stockings in her hands. “
Bonjour,
Emily.”

“Oh!” said the maid, a little taken aback. “It's just you, miss. I thought…dear me, I don't know what I thought.”

Camille managed to smile as she slipped off her wrapper. She tried not to think of the blood; tried not to think of the many things it might mean. “It's all right, Emily,” she said. “We will get used to living here, I daresay.”

Emily cut a strange look in her direction. “Yes, miss—I mean, my lady,” she answered.

“Everyone has treated you well so far?” Camille enquired.

Emily nodded. “Of course, I've met but a few—the kitchen maids, the footmen who carried up our trunks, and the butler—but he doesn't look like any butler I've ever seen.”

Camille went to her windows, and stared down into the square. “Mr. Trammel is from Barbados,” she said. “The cook is his wife, according to Lady Nash. I am sure they are excellent at their jobs.” Otherwise, Camille silently added, they would not have long survived in Rothewell's employ.

“Well.” Emily brightened. “Will you be wanting your bathwater, miss?”

“I suppose,” said Camille. She had begun to chew absently on her thumbnail. “Yes, bathwater. And then the blue muslin day dress? I think it's time I dressed, and went down to meet the staff myself.”

In a fit of stubbornness, Rothewell decided to walk down to Hyde Park Corner, eschewing Trammel's advice that he not only stay in, but that he
put his feet up!
Rothewell would be damned before he'd do the latter, and with Camille in the house, he was not sure he could bear to do the former. He had already seen one too many questions in her beautiful brown eyes, and he'd no intention of answering any of them. Thank God she had slept through the brief, bad turn he'd taken in the wee hours of the night.

Contrary to Trammel's grim prognostication, the walk did not kill Rothewell, nor did London's morning air—contrary to his own long-held suspicion. Instead, it did a vast deal to clear his head. Going to bed before dawn perhaps had its benefits, though he did not plan to make a habit of it. Indeed, he rather doubted he'd see dinnertime sober, or his bed much before cockcrow, provided the beast did not come crawling back out to gnaw at him tonight.

Yes, in marriage, he had decided, it was best to begin as one meant to go on. There was no point in giving Camille the idea that theirs would be a normal union of husband and wife—not that she necessarily would care—and no point in allowing himself to feel regret. A man got whatever time God allotted him, and developing hindsight or hope too late in one's life would only make matters worse. To Rothewell's way of thinking, you made your bed—or your grave—and you lay in it without complaint.

Rothewell turned down the narrow lane to Tattersall's and found his friends in the Jockey Club's subscription room poring over the descriptions of the horses to be auctioned that day. Tattersall's was London's premier auction venue for bloodstock, and all of London's most raffish turfites passed regularly through their doors. Lord Nash had been practically enshrined there.

Today, Nash's booted legs were languidly crossed, his dark head bent to Gareth's lighter one, both men wholly absorbed in their task. For a moment, Rothewell considered not interrupting. He was glad the two had come to be friends. There had been a time he feared it mightn't be possible, for both men had once been in love with his sister Xanthia. But the dark and dashing Lord Nash had won out.

For his part, Gareth was now the Duke of Warneham, and but a few weeks' married himself. And only in seeing Gareth as he was now—in love and happy—did Rothewell realize how desperately
unhappy
the poor devil had been for all those years which had come before.

For many years, they had lived almost like a family; he, Xanthia, and Gareth, united by their miserable childhoods and a general mistrust of nearly everyone else. And yet Gareth had always kept a part of himself
to
himself. The change in him was truly revealing.

Just then, Gareth looked up and smiled as a shaft of morning sun caught his golden locks. He was considered by the ladies to be a remarkably handsome man, Rothewell knew, and today he looked almost like Gabriel come down to earth. But he still swore like the wharf rat he was. “Damn me if it isn't the devil himself!” he said. “And up before noon, at that.”