Never Romance a Rake (39 page)

“
Mais oui
. Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“It isn't enough, Camille,” he said. “Not for the life you deserve. Trust Xanthia to run the business, or go and help her if you like. You could do it, I know. Gareth has stepped down, but he can give you advice. And I want you to—”

“
Très bien,
” she interjected, snatching the papers back. “I have taken them. Now,
s'il vous plaît,
you will answer my questions?”

His eyes darkened. “I am sick, Camille,” he said quietly. “I haven't been well in months now. There is nothing more to say in the matter.”

Camille laid aside the fold of papers. She forced her voice to be calm but unyielding. “
Mais oui,
there is much to say,” she insisted, leaning over the bed to cup his face in her hand. “What is the nature of this illness,
mon cœur
? Why have we not called a doctor?”

His mouth twisted grimly. “Perhaps God means to strike me down for my iniquities,” he said acerbically. “In any case, my dear, there's nothing to be done about it.”

“Nothing to be done?” she echoed, drawing back. “You do not mean even to try?”

He fell back against the pillows. “Christ Jesus, Camille!” he rasped. “Are you listening to me?”

Camille felt her temper slipping, and desperation setting in. “
Mon Dieu,
Kieran, this self-punishment—this
martyrdom
—it is insanity,” she cried. “Why must you be so hard and unfeeling, save for those moments we are in bed? How can you be one man there, and another one here? What is it, Kieran, that you cannot say to me?”

His gaze shuttered, and he shook his head.

Camille curled her fingers into his nightshirt. “Are you already lost to me, Kieran?” she whispered. “Is that what you are so certain of?”

“Camille, I…”

Wearily, she let her head fall forward to touch his. “A man such as you,” she whispered, “giving in to what? To hopelessness?
Pour l'amour de Dieu,
Kieran! You are a better, stronger man than that. You are not honest, not even with yourself.”

“Camille,” he finally said, his voice flat. “We all make our choices in life, then we live with them. As to honesty—are you honest with yourself?”

“I see the truth of what life is,” she answered, straightening up. “But I do not let it defeat me.”

“What about your grandfather's letter?” he gently countered.

“
Oui?
What of it?” she asked.

“I read it carefully,” he answered. “That's why you were left with nothing, Camille. And for the life of me, I cannot understand why you are not angrier about it.”

“Angrier at whom?” she asked. “My grandfather? Bah. I do not waste my time.”

“No,” said her husband. “At your mother, for hiding it. My God, it wasn't just a dowry or an inheritance, Camille. Did you read it? The man offered to take you. To raise you. To get you away from the father you hated and a life of impecunity. He wanted to give you life's every luxury.”

Camille cut her gaze away. “My mother did not wish to lose me,” she said quietly. “I was all she had. That is how I must look at it now.”

“Very well,” he said. “Let us concede, then, that she was merely selfish instead of thoroughly spiteful. Why did she not give you the letter on her deathbed? Why not then? Instead, it took you what?—six weeks? Six months?—to find it?”

Camille dropped her head. “A little more.”

“And all the while, the clock was ticking,” he said. “You had mere weeks left in which to find a husband, Camille, when you met me. So now you are saddled with me because I was the best you could do. And now I'm the only one who's angry about it? Why is that, Camille?”

Camille clasped her hands in her lap. She did not wish to answer that question; did not wish to revisit the pain of those last, awful years—nor did she wish to consider that there might well be more such years ahead of her if she did not stand firm.

“I know, Kieran, that my mother was a selfish woman,” she said quietly. “I lived it. I
know
. Many times,
oui
, she wounded me, and a part of me is still angry. But
Maman
did not know about the letter on her deathbed. Or I should say, she could not remember it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My mother,” said Camille. “She became a—a—what is the word? A drunkard? I spent the last three years of her life watching her slowly kill herself because her beauty was gone, and Valigny had forsaken her.” She paused to drag in a ragged breath. “On a good day, Kieran,
Maman
scarcely knew her own name, let alone her father's. At the last,
mon Dieu
!—she didn't even know mine.”

He was stunned into a moment's silence. “I am sorry, Camille,” he said, reaching out for her hand. “I ought not have said anything.”

Camille shrugged. “No, you ought not have,” she agreed, her husky voice bitter. “You must pardon me, Kieran, when I do not know if we are sharing our lives with one another or not. It is so very hard to tell.”

“I just don't wish to worry you, my dear, or to hurt you.”

“
Et alors,
” she rasped, pulling away. “I have hurt before. I will hurt again. Perhaps, Kieran, I am already hurting?”

“Camille, listen—”

“
Non!
” she said sharply. “You listen. I hurt when you are cold to me. I hurt when you stay out all night, and I do not know where you are. I hurt when I watch you poisoning yourself with too much drink and never—”

“Camille, I told you when we married—”

“I know what you told me!” She cut him off with a chop of her hand. “But it is over, that marriage! Do you hear me? Whatever we said, whatever we agreed—
it is over
. Can you not see it, Kieran, in my eyes? I—I need you now. Our child will need you. I am not begging you. I am
telling
you.”

The pain and the weariness were pressing in on Kieran, weighing him down. “Perhaps, Camille, if you—”

She shook her head. “Perhaps I do not wish to waste more of my life sitting by the bed of another invalid who has brought his troubles on himself?” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears. “Perhaps that, Kieran, is what I think unfair.”

She was angry, and by God, he hated to admit she had a point. At least Camille had never said she loved him. That, he could not have borne. “Camille,” he said quietly, “this is who I am. It is who you married. I made that plain.”

“
Menteur!
” she rasped, springing off the bed. “Liar!” It is not who you are.
Oui, oui,
I know what you said—and if you were that man I met at first, perhaps I would not care. But you do not enjoy this life you have made for yourself, Kieran. You come home as restless and as unhappy as you were when you left. You scarcely eat. You scarcely sleep. I tell you it is the life of a coward.”

“A
coward
—?”

“One who will not fight,” she answered, leaning over him. “Not his devils. Not his illness. You promised to give me a child—a child I need you to help me love and bring up, Kieran—and now you are all but willing yourself to die.”

The word
coward
was ringing in his ears. “Oh, I see.” His voice was flat. “I see what this is about.”

Camille crossed her arms over her chest and turned away from the bed. “Whatever this is
about,
” she said quietly, “you promised me. And you cannot keep your promise if you are gone,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“I didn't promise you a damned thing,” he answered. “I saved you from marrying a sick, perverted bastard because you were too bullheaded to listen to reason.
That
is what I did for you. And as you say, perhaps you are already carrying that child. Why do you think I demanded this travesty of a marriage?”

“A travesty?” she whispered in her husky voice. She turned around and walked slowly back to the bed. “
Mon Dieu,
is that what you think this is?”

His lips thinned with frustration. “No,” he returned, dragging his hands through his hair. “I am sorry. I misspoke.”

But it was too late. He could see the tears beginning to trickle from her eyes. God damn it, he should have known it would come to this. He should never have let another woman into this house. Into his life. The pain in his gut he could bear. Camille, crying, was harder.

“
Sacré bleu,
Kieran,” she whispered, “do you think I am going to let you just lie there and die?”

“We aren't apt to have much choice, my dear,” he returned. “God makes those decisions.”

“
Non!
” she replied sharply. “No, I will
not
believe that. God gave us brains so that we might use reason.”

She was fishing through her pocket now, looking, most likely for a handkerchief. Hell and damnation. “In the top drawer of the chest,” he said, gentling his tone. “Help yourself.”

“
Merci,
” she sniffled, turning away.

Rothewell's hands were balled into fists, his frustration turning to fury. Fury at fate. Fury at himself. But somehow, through all the rage and frustration, he knew it was not Camille's fault. And he knew in his heart that everything she had said was right.

“I am sorry Camille,” he said, as she returned from the chest. He held out his arms. “Please, may we just forget all this? Just for tonight? Tomorrow you can scold me anew. Come here, my dear.”

She blew her nose then returned to sit beside him. He enfolded her in his arms, and she came against him, pressing her cheek to his nightshirt. “Oh, Kieran!” Her small, warm hands went round his neck.

Rothewell closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Camille smelled of roses, and of that exotic spicy scent he could never quite identify. It was simply
her
. And he loved her. He had come to accept that now.

Whether he was worthy or not, he felt for her a deep, profound, bittersweet love which was tinged with regret. A love he could never have imagined, and would never shake off, no matter how far he roamed or long he stayed away. One which would, ultimately, transcend the grave.

And if he loved her that much, what harm would it do to simply acquiesce to her wishes? There was nothing to keep from her now. He could no longer shelter her, or obscure the truth. He had meant to keep a distance between them—to spare her, to spare himself—but he was weak, and it was no longer possible. His every thought was of her. Of how it would feel to lose her. Worrying about how she would go on, financially, and yes, emotionally. Moreover, he was not ashamed to admit to himself that he was frightened of what lay ahead. That he needed her.

“Go on, then,” he said, murmuring into her hair. “Tomorrow morning, call the doctor if it will make you feel better.”

“Tomorrow?” Her voice caught on the last syllable.

He stroked a hand down her hair. “Camille, will one night make a difference?” he reassured her. “I feel well enough now. Truly. Just…stay with me tonight. Sleep here. Please.”

She lifted her cheek, her smile halfhearted. “
Très bien,
” she said softly, dabbing at her tears. “But I do not know a doctor to call. Will Trammel know of someone?”

Rothewell stared into the fire which had caught to a roaring blaze now. This was another coil he'd snared himself in. Finally, he spoke. “There is a doctor in Harley Street,” he said quietly. “Dr. Redding. I cannot recall the number—somewhere near the street's end. I shall tell Trammel to send for him first thing.”

She drew back, her eyes searching his face. “You know him,” she whispered. “You have seen this doctor before.”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “A few days before we met.”

Understanding dawned in her face. “
Je vois,
” Camille murmured. “And…what did he say?”

Rothewell gave a wry, sideways smile. “That I drink too much and smoke too much,” he answered. “That I have lived too hard and waited too long. That I likely have a cancer in my stomach—or a cancer that has spread from my liver. And given the blood loss, he thought it was…far gone.”

He watched her face crumple; watched her fight for control as her lower lip trembled. “
Oui?
” she whispered. “What is…what is the treatment?”

He cupped her face in his hands. “Camille,” he said, his voice gently reproachful. “You and I both know there is no treatment. A doctor can do nothing but treat the pain when it becomes intolerable.”