Never Romance a Rake (26 page)

“So glad to have been of service!” Kem chortled, downing the glass. “Well, must run! I've a thousand things to do.”

“Or a thousand things to fence,” said Rothewell.

“Tut, tut!” said Kemble. “One mustn't fling about unsubstantiated rumors. I have my good name to think about.”

“Yes,” said Rothewell dryly, “and I'm the new church-warden.”

With one last flashing grin, Kemble melted into the teeming crowd. Rothewell left his dark corner as he'd entered it—alone and deeply frustrated. He waded into the morass of human foolishness in hope of finding a servant who might go and fetch his greatcoat, his steps so steady few would have guessed how much he'd had to drink.

Just then he felt a warmth pressing close beside him. He turned to see a blonde in a worn satin gown sidling up—one of Straight's regulars, he assumed. Women who were paid to entertain the patrons and keep them at the tables. She was small with a coquettish face, but he couldn't put a name to it.

“Lord Rothewell!” Eyes sparkling, she set her head to one side like a curious bird. “Do you remember me?”

He hesitated but a moment, uncertain. “Of course, my dear,” he lied. “How could a man forget?”

“I've a sudden wish to watch the faro table,” she said, slipping her hand round his elbow. “Perhaps such a handsome man needs a lady on his arm to bring him luck?”

Rothewell hadn't the heart to tell her she was neither a lady nor apt to bring him anything but the clap. “Thank you, my dear, but no,” he said quietly. “I believe it is too late to salvage my evening.”

The blonde pressed herself against him. “We could go into the back, then?” she suggested. “Just a little something to make you forget your ill luck?”

It was the last straw for Rothewell. He lifted her arm from his waist and stepped away. Fleetingly, something like panic lit her face.

“I'm sorry,” he said firmly. “Not tonight.”

The expression—if it had existed—vanished. Without another word, she backed away, then melted into the crowded room.

Rothewell settled his business with Straight, found his greatcoat, then went up the steps to set briskly off in the direction of home. The walk back to Berkeley Square was scarcely a mile, but he wished sorely that he had had the sense to come out in his carriage.

The truth was, he abruptly realized, that wanted to see Camille—even though seeing her was like playing with fire. He just needed to reassure himself that…well, he did not know what. He had simply been struck by a sudden distaste for who and what he was, and with it came a strange, fierce longing to go home.

Home.
Well. Perhaps he had one after all.

But at this hour, he was not apt to see Camille. She had likely been abed for hours. And he could not very well just barge into her bedchamber. What was he to say?
I'm drunk and feeling sorry for myself?
No. That was a weak and intolerable sentiment. Not even to himself would he admit such a thing.

Impatient, he stopped beneath a streetlamp to check the time. But his vest pocket held no watch. Nor did his coat pockets, he realized as he patted through them. How very odd. He never left home without his watch.

And then it struck him. The woman in the faded gown! Rothewell cursed violently. Hang upon his arm, indeed! The little strumpet had pawed him over as neatly as if he'd been some rustic farm boy newly come to town. At this very minute, his watch was likely going out the back door and down the alley. Bloody hell. With luck like his, it really was time for him to go home. A pilfered watch was the least of his worries.

The night was chilly, but fortified by his temper and his brandy, Rothewell pressed on through the gaslit gloom of Soho, keeping to the less dodgy streets lined with their orderly, middle-class homes. To take his mind off Camille, he actually began to look at them. Neatly swept steps. Glossy black shutters. Flowers, sometimes in pots upon the stairs, or in boxes beneath the windows. A man began to notice odd things, he supposed, when time became a precious commodity.

Or perhaps he was simply drunker than he realized? No matter. As he looked at the houses, his mood began slowly to shift. Even in the dark, their narrow faces appeared oddly snug and inviting. Not like his house. Funny how he'd never seen it before.

Near the end of Portland Street, a front window was still lit in one of the houses. Despite the gloom, one could see that the tidy window boxes cascaded with yellow and purple pansies. Inexplicably, Rothewell hesitated, and stared up at the soft, welcoming light which spilled through the window. He could hear laughter, muffled yet cheerful. Through the sheer veil of drapery, one could see the silhouette of a seated woman, her hair up in what looked like a soft arrangement. She turned, and reached up with both arms. A man bent down to embrace her. For an instant, they clung to one another, the very picture of domesticity.

And then the man straightened up, and stepped back. Rothewell began to imagine what they might have been laughing about. Something delightfully mundane, he supposed. And now she was reminding him, perhaps, to take his tonic before going to bed. Or he might be offering to carry up her hot water. They likely had few servants, and worked from daylight to God only knew when. And yet he envied them. He
envied
them. They sounded happy. They had a long life together to look forward to.

There was a sudden knot in his throat. His chest ached and his eyes stung—the coal smoke, no doubt. Dear Lord, he was becoming that most annoying of creatures, a sentimental drunk. He had been mad—
mad
—to give in to his desire for this woman. And now his only hope was to keep a carefully cultivated distance, lest her already difficult life was to have the added poignancy of grief and loss piled onto it.

He left the little house at a brisk clip, his walking stick clicking lightly against the pavement as he went. He did not expect any warm, welcoming light to spill through his windows in Berkeley Square. He did not expect pansies, though for all he knew, there were some. Why did he not know this? Why did he not remember?

But the feeling of happiness which the house behind him had exuded had nothing to do with geography. It had nothing to do with class or wealth or soft embraces. It had to do with the people who lived and breathed and loved there. In his heart, he knew that. And he knew that it was not meant for him.

L
ord Rothewell had forgotten all about the watch by the time he reached his front door. He had also forgotten that he'd surrendered his bedchamber to his wife. Rather than disturb a servant, he let himself in with his key, tossed his greatcoat over the newel post, and headed up the staircase.

For almost a year now, he had been treading up the steps of this house in the gloomy hours near dawn, some nights more sober than others. And like a horse headed to the stable, each time he turned right, then left, and entered the second door on his left. Tonight was no exception. Despite the fact that he was drinking, Rothewell prided himself on his catlike grace. Bumbling, tripping, and staggering were for lesser men.

Once inside, he found no lamp lit for his arrival, and no sound of Jim-Jim's
clickity-click
paws, either—he'd forgotten about taking the little imp back to Tweedale. Shrugging it off, Rothewell shucked his coat and tossed it over his usual chair. But there was no chair. The coat sailed to the carpet with a soft
whuff
. Undeterred from his folly, Rothewell stripped naked and pitched his clothes on top of it.

Suddenly there was the rustling of bed linen.
“Qui est là?”
someone whispered.

Bloody hell.
Camille.

“It's just me,” he answered, feeling his way along the foot of the bed. “My apologies.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Apologies?” Her voice was cool in the pitch-black room. “For what do you apologize, Rothewell? Barging into my
chambre
uninvited? Or staying out all day and night?”

His hand on the bedpost, he stiffened. “You are my wife now, Camille,” he replied. “I do not believe I am required to ask permission to enter your bedchamber—or to go out.”

Camille heard the gruffness in his voice, and the almost imperceptible slurring of his words. What gall the man possessed—especially after a night of carousing. It took her a moment to sit up and light the candle by her bed. He must have heard her rattling around.

“You might not wish to do that,” he said warningly.

“
Non?
” she said as the wick caught.
“Pourquoi?”

“Because I'm naked.”

Camille turned around slowly, willing herself to appear nonchalant. “Indeed you are,” she murmured, letting her gaze trail down him as she rose from the bed. “
Quel dommage,
Rothewell. You have taken off your clothes for nothing.”

He stood there for a moment, his expression as daunting as his naked body. “I see,” he finally replied. “And you think I came in to…to do what, precisely?”

Camille lifted one shoulder and pretended not to notice his sculpted arms. The dark dusting of hair on his chest. And then there was—
good Lord!
She jerked her gaze up. “I daresay you came in to do whatever a man normally does when he is naked in a woman's bedchamber,” she returned, coming to her feet. “But if you think I will succumb to
that
—”

“Now wait,” he ordered, holding up his hand. “Wait just a damned minute.”

“
Non,
” she said sharply, pacing away from him. “
You
wait. Do not ever come to my bed after you have been out drinking and whoring all day and half the night.”

He followed her, glowering. “Look, Camille, I haven't—”

“Do not dare lie to me,” she interjected, spinning around to face him. “I can
smell
her on you.”

“No, you can't,” he said firmly.

“And you're drunk,” she returned, unwilling to concede even an inch of moral high ground.

“Somewhat, aye,” he admitted.

“There is no
somewhat
to it,” she snapped. “Either one is or one isn't—and you reek of it.”

This time, he sneered. “New standards, Camille?” he asked. “I was drunk when I agreed to marry you. You made no objection then. Had I known that eternal sobriety and a shrew in my bed were part of the bargain, perhaps I would have declined the honor.”

Camille's spine went rigid. She was scarcely aware she'd raised her palm to slap him. In a flash, his hand came up, catching hers.

Rothewell looked at her in stupefaction. Then he grabbed her wrist and jerked, hitching her up against him. “By God, don't you
ever
.” His voice was an awful rasp in the gloom. “Don't you ever—
ever
—try to hit me again, Camille.”

They were so close, she could smell the anger and the heat of his skin. She should have been terrified. But all she felt was hurt and outrage. “I am not afraid of you, Rothewell.” Her voice was low and angry. “You are nothing but a rake and a bully and I am not afraid of you.”

He stared down at her, his eyes narrow, his nostrils wide with anger. “God damn it, Camille,” he roared. “I am
not
your father. I am nothing like Valigny.”

“Are you not? Tonight, you seem very like him to me.”

Rothewell stared down into his wife's eyes. She was angry, yes. He had left her alone in a house where she knew no one so that he might slink off to brood on his own troubles. Gareth was right. It had been a callous thing to do. And what was the difference, really, between him and Valigny? Damned little, he supposed. The truth shamed him.

As her gaze held his, his mind searching for the right words to say, the fight inside her seemed to collapse. She looked lonely, and suddenly very alone.

“Come, Camille, don't,” he whispered, embracing her gently. “I'm sorry. Let's not allow the servants to hear us quarreling.”

“Et alors?”
Her face twisted as if she might cry. “Let them hear. I do not care.”

He drew her nearer, and set his mouth to her ear. “Yes, my dear, you do,” he gently countered. “Rail at me till hell freezes over—but quietly, all right? I don't wish you to be the subject of gossip.”

She pulled back a few inches. “Do not do that,” she whispered. “Do not be kind to me. I…I don't know who you are when you do that.”

He stared down at her, at the wide, limpid brown eyes and sweetly heart-shaped face, and he knew suddenly why he had come home. Dear God. Rothewell swallowed hard. “So you'd rather I be the cheating rakehell you were expecting? Is that it?”

She shook her head and cut her gaze away. “I do not know,” she whispered, almost to herself. “It might be easier if you were.”

“At least it's something I'm good at,” he muttered. Then, with one finger, he turned her face back to his. “Look Camille, you've married a cad. I don't deny it. But I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

“
Vraiment?
” she retorted. “Now I am to be grateful for your honesty?”

Her gaze was heating again—with temper, not lust—but he was drowning in it. Yearning for something he could not explain. Slowly, purposefully, he bent his head and kissed her, half-expecting the little hellcat to try to backhand him again. He kissed her like he meant it, opening his mouth over hers, and stroking his tongue along the seam of her lush lips.

Camille hesitated at first, pushing halfheartedly at his shoulders with the heels of her hands. But her mouth, her lithe, trembling body—ah, they did not hesitate. She opened so sweetly beneath him, allowing him to delve into her mouth, her tongue entwining sinuously with his. In response, something inside his chest lifted as if suddenly unburdened.

And yet, even as he deepened the kiss and thrilled to her soft moan of surrender, he could sense her conflicted emotions. Her hands were still on his shoulders, but no longer shoving him away. When at last she twisted her mouth from his, it was sudden. Her breathing was rough, her eyes a little teary.

Rothewell speared his fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck, and banded the other arm even tighter about her slender waist. She wanted him—wanted him, perhaps, as desperately as he wanted her—but she was none too happy about it.

Cradling her head as she turned her face away, he stroked his lips over her ear, along her jaw, and all the way down the long, perfect length of her throat. “Camille,” he murmured. “Please, Camille, you are my wife.”

She muttered something in French; cursing herself, he thought.

He dropped his hand to the turn of her derrière, cupping one sweet swell of it in his palm. It filled his hand perfectly, just as he'd known it would. He didn't care that she'd just tried to slap him, or that she'd insulted him. It was a sign, he feared, of how far he had fallen. “God, how you tempt me, Camille,” he rasped. “I have burned for you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

Was he mistaken, or was she trembling ever so slightly? “
Oh, mon Dieu!
” she whispered, lowering her lashes in an inky sweep. “You madden me. I—I cannot think straight.”

Rothewell took it as surrender and kissed her again, a little too roughly. Nonetheless, Camille rose onto her toes to kiss him back with newfound urgency. He surged into her mouth triumphantly, slanting his mouth over hers again and again as he lost his head to the taste of her.

Camille's hands roamed down his shoulders, stroking his bare biceps, then sliding round his waist, down the small of his back. Lower and lower until she caressed the muscles of his buttocks. Until he groaned, and a faint shiver ran down him, too.

Rothewell had begun this game in total control, but that control was fast slipping away. He had forgotten this morning's vow to keep his distance. Camille was like fire and ice in his arms. Their bodies were entwined now; heart to heart, her belly pressed to the hard, eager weight of his erection.
He wanted her. He wanted her
. His blood throbbed to the sound of it. He was going to pick her up and carry her to the bed. He was not going to let her say no. He would convince her. Would woo her if he had to.

Suddenly, she pushed him away—and she meant it. “
Très bien,
” she said, her breath gasping. “Just…just do it, then.”

“
Do
it?”

“Just…have me, Rothewell. That's what you want,
n'est-ce pas
?” She left him and went to the bed. “I am weak. And I—I want a child. So just…do it.”

But it was as if his feet were nailed to the floor. “Camille, what is wrong?”

She sat down on the bed slowly, her small feet peeking from beneath the lace hem of her nightgown. “Nothing. I just want you to…” Her words trickled away, and she shook her head.

He stood there feeling foolish. And naked. “Just say it,” he demanded.

Her heavy black hair swung over one shoulder as she leaned forward, almost as if in pain, wrapping her arms almost protectively round her stomach. “I just…I just cannot be like this with you,” she whispered. “I cannot afford to lose my—”

“Lose
what
?” he demanded. “Camille, what are you afraid of?”

At that, she looked up at him with anguish in her eyes. “
Myself,
” she whispered.

Confused, he went to the bed, his cock still erect, damn it all. He set one knee to the mattress and tipped up her chin. Good Lord. He had not pursued a woman in almost two decades. Not since his mad, impassioned
affaire
with Annemarie.

Desperately, he looked down into Camille's eyes, searching for the right thing to say. The thing that would impassion her again, and get him what he wanted—her.
All
of her. But he was no good at it. He was too rough and too blunt to know how to court a woman.

“Bloody hell, Camille, just kiss me again,” he said. “Everything was fine two minutes ago.”

She shook her head and drew a deep breath. “I just want to do it without…without all the emotion,” she said. “I thought this was to be just a transaction, Rothewell. My grandfather's money. Your seed.”

His cock twitched impatiently. “My dear, I am not a stud service.”

“
Oui, oui.
You are.” Her voice was gentle as she pushed past him and rose. “Rothewell, don't you see? That's all you can be to me.”

“By God, I never agreed to that!” he answered tightly—though in truth, it would have been better for them both. “And don't you dare try to convince either of us that I did. I made it plain what I wanted that night at Valigny's.”

At that, her mouth twisted bitterly. “
Oui,
let us see if I can recall it,” she said. “Ah, yes! You wished me to ‘eat my prideful words, and do your every bidding.' That is right,
n'est ce-pas
? Is that what you mean?”

“What if it is?” he growled. “Are you willing? After all, Camille, you married me.”