The Glass Orchid (8 page)

Even as he stormed down the streets following a now-familiar route, he still pretended to himself there was some question as to where he would end up that night.

• • •

A cool evening breeze blew in from the open window, causing the delicate silk curtains to billow and ripple on the current. Del drew her robe closer around her as she closed the book on her lap with frustration. She had been trying all evening to read the overwrought gothic romance but she was having difficulty focusing. She found herself reading the same paragraph over and over again, and when she was finally able to read through an entire chapter, she was plagued with a distraction of a different kind. Every time she encountered a description of the aggressive raven-haired hero sweeping the heroine into his arms, he somehow changed into a soft-spoken blond man in her mind. Somehow, it was Camden she envisioned storming the haunted mansion to rescue the quivering maiden.

Del tried to banish such ridiculous images from her mind, but her mind refused to cooperate. It conjured memories of Camden, of his eyes peering into hers, his voice soft against her ear, his hand strong and firm on her back. It created visions of him. Camden riding on his horse as she had seen him yesterday afternoon in Hyde Park, except in her head he was wearing no cravat or waistcoat, and his linen shirt was open to the waist, exposing his muscled chest.

“Ugh, stop it,” Del told herself.

She rose from the settee and went to the sideboard to pour a tumbler of brandy. She took a gulp, reveling in the warmth that burned a trail down her throat. She wiped the sticky liquid from her lips with the back of her hand and went to sit back down, the half-full tumbler still clutched in her fingers.

She simply had to stop thinking about Camden, had to stop romanticizing who he was and what they could be together. She had thought in the beginning it was simply curiosity. He had intrigued her with his young innocence tinged with a hard, still-burgeoning masculinity. It had caught her off-guard how forthright he was with her, how he treated her as a person with desire and needs, and not just a vessel to fulfill his lust. She had agreed to accompany him to the theater because she thought that if she spent time with him the alluring sense of newness and mystery would wear off and she could go back to the way she was — independent, in control of her own destiny, free.

Instead, she had been left wanting more. She wanted more time in his presence, more quick-witted conversation, more of the stolen glances and small touches neither of them could curtail. The encounters with Ashe and Hutchence and shown her how futile it was for her to pursue even a friendship with Camden, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to stay away from him. He had come round her townhouse the day before and suggested they take a stroll through the park, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from agreeing. She had tried, it had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Camden they could no longer see each other, in any capacity, but the words had died in her throat. It was as if someone else, a person who wasn’t struggling to defend herself against the vagaries of fate and society, had overtaken her and it was that person who told Camden in a far too eager voice that she would love to spend the afternoon with him. Again, she told herself the lie that she would soon tire of him, that her interest would be sated and she could walk away from him. And once again the falsehood was revealed at the end of the afternoon when, as Camden had walked her home and she had dallied at her door, she was loathe to leave him.

Del was pulled back to the present by a sudden gust of cold wind and the sound of rain pelting her townhouse. She hurried to the window and shut it before the rain could soak her carpets. She was about to pour herself more brandy when she was stopped, decanter held mid-air, by an insistent knocking on her front door.

Blakely
, she thought as she entered the foyer. She knew he would show up at her door eventually and demand to know why she had been avoiding him. She wondered what she should tell him, because it certainly couldn’t be the truth. She wasn’t even ready to fully admit it to herself — that she hadn’t been able to be with anyone because her mind had become too crowded by thoughts and memories of Camden. That it felt somehow wrong to be with a man that wasn’t him. She would have to eventually, she knew. She couldn’t be with Camden and she couldn’t support herself staying shut up in her townhouse, alone.

She put her hand on the knob, ready to disarm Blakely with a dazzling, if not altogether sincere, smile and some carefully spoken platitudes. Her smile froze and any witty remark flew from her head as soon as she opened the door, however. It wasn’t Blakely standing on her step.

It was Camden.

His great coat was pulled tight around him to ward off the wind and rain, and his hat was pulled down low on his brow, nearly concealing his blond hair, but Del knew instantly who it was. She had replayed her memories of him often enough to know his stance, the way he stood with his feet apart and his head tilted slightly to the left. She knew him by his long, strong fingers holding his coat close around his neck, by the squareness of his shoulders, his height. She knew she could identify him by the smallest part.

He looked up at her, his dark brown eyes on hers. “Del,” he said simply, softly, and she could tell something had upset him. She had seen him ungoverned once before, when he was riding his horse in Hyde Park. It had been unrestrained happiness she had seen in him then, but it was something else — anger? frustration? — that now seeped out from behind his carefully controlled exterior.

“Camden. Come in.” Del stepped back to allow him entry and took his hat and greatcoat as he passed.

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, causing droplets of rainwater to fly off him.

“Let me get you a drink.” She led the way back to the study and poured him a brandy. “Please sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite the settee.

They said nothing for a moment, though they watched each other from over the rims of their tumblers. Del wondered what had him so riled. He sat tensely in the chair, his large booted feet set stiffly in front him. He held his brandy tumbler so tightly his knuckles were turning white. His brows were drawn, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid. Though he always had a serious, reserved look about him, tonight he looked almost — dangerous, as if there was an energy building up within him that threatened to explode. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but she hesitated, as though moving or speaking too suddenly would be the spark that lit his fuse. She didn’t fear for herself, of course, but she didn’t want to see him self-destruct.

He inhaled, about to speak, but then shook his head and downed the brandy. Wordlessly, Del rose and refilled his glass. And waited.

“Why am I so drawn to you?” he said finally. His voice was strained, as if he were speaking against his will.

Del eyed him, deciding whether to be affronted. Was this what was making him so surly? The fact that there was an attraction between them? What part of it was the worst for him, she wondered, that he was experiencing something he couldn’t control, or that he was experiencing it with
her
? By rights, she shouldn’t be offended by any of it, for she was just as irritated by her lack of composure when it came to him. Still, she didn’t like hearing him speak of it aloud, his expression like that of someone who had eaten something gone rotten weeks before.

“
Are
you drawn to me?” Del asked, deciding to be difficult.

Camden looked at her, his face clearly showing anger, frustration, confusion, and something else, something Del couldn’t quite identify. “Yes,” he said, gritting his teeth. “In defiance of everything I am, everything I’ve been told to be — I can’t stay away.”

“Everything you’ve been told to be?”

Camden pushed out of his chair as if it had suddenly caught fire. He stalked around the study, looking at Del and then looking away. Many times he stopped, drew in his breath, ready to speak, before letting it out in a frustrated rush and resuming his pacing. Del waited quietly. She would not press him to explain himself. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he needed time before he could tell her.

“I have always done what he asked, behaved as he expected,” Camden said finally. “I have obeyed him without question. But in this, I cannot.”

Del knew Camden referred to his father, and she could guess what order he was rebelling against. “Your father told you not to see me anymore,” she said. She brought her glass to her lips and sipped the brandy, then leveled her gaze at Camden. He nodded, confirming her statement. “And yet here you are, sitting in my study, drinking my brandy,” she said.

She wasn’t sure yet what she thought about the situation. It was not unexpected, that a father would warn his son away from her, that he would be concerned with her effect on the family’s social standing. It
was
unexpected, however, that she should feel such pang of irritation and — hurt from hearing Camden say it.

“Yes, here I am.” Camden walked over to the sideboard and distractedly fingered the decanter and glasses. His fingers curled tightly around the neck of the decanter and released, then curled again, as if he were trying to restrain himself from choking it. “When I should be at the shipping office working, or home at my townhouse calculating the quickest way into some society maiden’s heart, or even off getting drunk with Farber. I should be anywhere but here.”

Suddenly, Camden was at the settee, looming over Del like an angry storm cloud. “Bloody hell, woman, why can’t I stay away?” He dropped on his haunches in front of her, searching her face as if it held the answers to his torment.

Del knew she should say something. She should lay a hand gently on his arm and murmur reassurances. Or she should feign outrage and righteous indignation and throw him out of her townhouse with admonishments to never darken her door again, so he would be released from his anguish by the knowledge that now he had no choice but to leave her alone. But she couldn’t. Like Camden, she was conflicted, torn between wanting him to go away and never return, and feeling like she would be empty if he ever left her.

Camden took her by the arms and pulled her toward him. His grip was strong and there was tension in his fingers, yet there was strange tenderness about him too. “Is it just me?” he asked, his voice low and husky. “Am I the only one fighting this madness?”

He leaned into her, and Del was warmed by the heat of his body, touched by the energy thrumming just below the surface of his skin. She simultaneously wanted to move closer to him until his warmth enveloped her, and to pull away before she was singed by his fiery restlessness.

“No,” Del said, her voice barely a whisper. She brought her hand up to his face, traced the rough outline of his jaw. “I can’t stop thinking about you, though it would be better for both of us if I could.”

“Bloody hell,” Camden said again.

He lifted her off the settee and brought her down to the floor with him. Her nightgown and robe were billowing out around her, pooling around her knees and tangling with Camden’s booted legs. He cupped her cheek with one hand, snaked the other arm around her waist and drew her tightly against him. Del felt trembling, but she wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking. He brought his face down to hers, his breath hot against her cheek, and Del parted her lips in anticipation. He hesitated for a moment, and Del knew he was still fighting himself, still fighting the attraction between him. Merciless, she threaded her fingers through his hair and brought her lips to his.

Camden made a strangled sound low in his throat, and then some of the tension in him eased, though he didn’t become relaxed. That energy was still there, pulsing harder, and Del knew he had given into it and would fight it no longer. He kissed her, hard, like a man long denied of sustenance finally getting his fill.

It was as if all her mental faculties had left Del. Normally in such situations, she felt little and thought much — touch him
here
, make a hungry noise
now
, don’t forget to pant heavily as if overcome with desire. All of it to create the illusion that she returned her lover’s ardor, experienced the same sexual passion. Now, here, with Camden, there was no thinking, no illusions, no careful control of her responses.

She had no control of anything.

Her entire body responded to him automatically, from the fullness of her lips to her genuine lack of breath to the wetness between her legs. It startled and scared her, that her body had overtaken her mind, that she was not carefully orchestrating their every move. In her fear, she wanted to pull back, to demand he leave so she wouldn’t have to feel the burgeoning terror of an actual physical and emotional connection with someone.

Camden seemed to sense her hesitation, and he withdrew his lips from hers, though his thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “Del,” he said, and that simple word, gruffly spoken, was her undoing. It was a question, an answer, a plea, and a pledge. It was infused with both an anguished longing that said he wanted everything from her, and a solemn promise that he would never take what she couldn’t give. It told her he was filled with a yearning for her he could barely contain, but that if she said the word, he would muster up an inhuman strength and walk away. It wasn’t just about what he wanted and what Del could give him. She could see he would do nothing unless she wanted it too.

“Camden,” she breathed, leaning into him. She pushed gently until he was lying on his back, and then she followed him down. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again. She pressed her hips into him, his hardness pressing back.

Camden’s hands were on her, tentatively at first. They were warm and firm on her back, and when they started to drift lower, he brought them back up to her waist. It was if he was afraid — of what he would do to her, or she to him, Del couldn’t tell. She straddled him, tugged at his cravat. Now that she had allowed herself to respond to him, she wanted all barriers between them gone. She rocked her hips against him until he growled. In a sudden explosion of movement, Camden rolled over, one arm under her back so she wouldn’t slam against the floor, the other arm holding some of his weight off her.