by Jade Lee
But that made no sense. The very nature of what they’d done was to be unrestrained. She couldn’t imagine doing it while still being tied into a corset and with her hair gripped into a fist-like bun. That would be horrible.
She had to know. She couldn’t possibly marry a man who didn’t enjoy this.
The mantel clock chimed the hour, but instead of looking at it, her gaze went to the table and the place where her fingers had gripped the wood. Her face heated, and her legs shifted with a secret thrill. What a difference a single hour had made. Now she had a whole new requirement in a husband, and nothing would satisfy her but to know if Mr. Camden could make her feel like that as well. She didn’t even know if the gentleman still wished to marry her, but she could not have an answer for him until she’d learned the truth of this.
So it was that when Lady Illston’s butler knocked quietly on the door, she was already reaching for her reticule. A moment later, she’d collected her maid and climbed into her carriage. How easy it was to be wicked, she realized. Here she had just had the most scandalous experience imaginable as an unwed woman, and yet she had adhered to the proprieties. Or at least the appearance of them. And better yet, with her maid in the carriage with her, she had someone here to help her adjust her hair to a less flyaway style.
The trip through London was tedious as always, but it was necessary. Indeed, the urgency to answer her question was building to the point that she feared she would do something extremely improper. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself. So when the carriage stopped in front of Mr. Camden’s office building, she went in with her head held high.
It wasn’t proper for her to be here. Ladies, especially unwed ones, didn’t enter such places of business, even with a maid in tow. She did it anyway and barely even blinked at the shocked expressions of the men toiling in wretched darkness at their desks. At least her father’s place of business let the secretaries sit by windows.
“Wait here,” she instructed her maid. Then she turned to the nearest secretary and spoke with an imperious accent. “Please show me to Mr. Camden’s office.”
“Er, um, is Mr. Camden expecting you?”
She didn’t want to be mean to the man, but a certain level of boldness was required. “If he were expecting me, he would be waiting out here.”
“Oh. Of course.” To which the man glanced awkwardly at his fellow workers, as if to say what should I do? Mari didn’t allow them to answer.
“Direct me to his office now.”
Her tone was enough to make him leap out from behind his desk with a “Yes, miss.” A few moments later, he led her to an unimposing door in a row of unimposing doors. How disappointing for Mr. Camden, she thought.
“I’ll announce myself,” she said before her escort could knock. “Good day, sir.”
He flushed at being so clearly dismissed. Meanwhile, she turned her back on him, rapped loudly on the door, and turned the knob.
She sailed through the room as if she had a right to enter like this, only to be stopped short at the cluttered disaster that was this tiny space. Books, papers, and ink bottles choked every surface. Or at least what she could see from the fitful light that made it through the very dirty window. And in the middle of it all, behind a small desk, sat Mr. Camden, hunched in obvious misery, one hand wrapped around a bottle of gin.
“I said no one—” His words cut off as his red-rimmed eyes caught sight of her. “Miss Powel?”
“Oh goodness.” She glanced behind her. Yes, the secretary was still standing there, his mouth even more gaping than before. “I believe you have work to occupy yourself?” she said tartly.
The man flushed a dark red. She shut the door on him. Then she turned to face Mr. Camden, who was scrambling to his feet, knocking over a stack of papers as he did so.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed, then cursed again as he tripped over another stack. He righted himself quickly enough, though his expression was particularly florid, before giving her a critical frown. “Ladies do not visit a gentleman’s place of business.”
“Gentlemen do not become gin-soaked in their offices in the middle of the afternoon,” she responded.
He pushed out his lower lip and managed to look like a particularly stubborn boy. “What a man does is his own affair.”
She was about to say something churlish in response, but she held her tongue. Obviously the man was a great deal more upset by Lord Rossgrove’s defection than he’d let on before. In one light, it might seem almost chivalrous that he’d pretended not to care that she’d mucked up his chances. Now, of course, she saw that he was deeply affected and it was all her fault.
Given that, she was predisposed to forgive him an afternoon’s inebriation. So she felt very warm toward Mr. Camden as she stepped carefully over a pile of books and took hold of his hands.
“I am terribly sorry about earlier today. I came to…to find out how you fared.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but an especially noxious burp came out instead. He flushed crimson then covered his lips. “I beg your pardon,” he muttered behind his hand.
“It’s all right. I do that sometimes as well,” she offered.
He reached beside him and grabbed a jug of water hidden behind a tall bookcase. He quickly poured himself a drink then swallowed the liquid in loud, steady gulps. Mari waited patiently, wondering how she could turn the conversation to where she wanted. Also, she wondered where exactly she could sit among the stacks of books. Meanwhile, Mr. Camden finished his glass, set it down with a click, and then turned to her with a compressed smile.
“That should do it,” he said overly loud. “I’m fit to be seen.” He straightened his waistcoat then gave her a cheerful smile. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss Powel?”
How to answer that? She reached for his hands again. She wanted him to caress her like Peter had so she could compare the two experiences. She wanted a kiss, but it would be too bold to ask for that. So instead, she smiled at him and stayed with her first lie.
“I came to see how you fared.”
“I’ve been laid low, as you see.” He gestured wanly toward the bottle of gin. “Even tea taken with my mum failed to cheer me up.”
“Oh dear.” She knew that tea with his mother was one of his most cherished rituals. “Was she horribly disappointed?”
“She was. She took to her smelling salts three times, I’m afraid. Seeing her set so low was what brought me back here and…” Again he gestured to the bottle. Or he might have been reaching for it and checked the motion. It was hard to tell.
“My. Three times,” she echoed feebly. “But do you forgive me?” she asked. “After all, I’ve heard it said that Lord Rossgrove is…well, somewhat of an ass.”
His eyes widened, and he drew back. “You must not say such things! Not of so great a man!”
“Oh,” she said, dismay pooling in her belly. This was not going at all as she’d planned. “But surely if he doesn’t see how perfect you are for his plans, if he doesn’t recognize—”
“All is not lost yet.” He grabbed her hand and patted it overly hard. “Never fear, he may still come around. Women say such silly things sometimes. Surely he understands not to listen. He’ll realize that soon enough. I shall write him a letter tomorrow. Something that apologizes for you. Love is such an unpredictable thing, you know. Sometimes a man cannot control whom he marries.”
There was her opening. There was the question she longed to answer, and she voiced it without checking her words. “So is that it, Mr. Camden?” she asked. “Do you…do you love me?”
He looked at her, his eyes widening to the point where she could see every reddened vein, even in this dim light. “Well, Miss Powel, um, I mean… I’m not one who speaks well on these things.”
She blew out a breath, feeling her head start to ache. “Just a yes or no, if you please. It would make things so much clea
rer.”
“Oh. Oh yes, I see.” He paused and looked at her, obviously waiting.
She returned his stare, her own eyebrows rising in anticipation. “Mr. Camden?”
“Yes.”
Her insides tightened, but not in a pleasant way. “Yes?”
He blinked. “Yes?”
Was he echoing her question or answering it? “Mr. Camden!” she cried. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
And then it happened, nearly as she’d hoped. He leaped forward and took her head between his hands. He wasn’t as large as Lord Whitly, and his aim was off, so one of his fingers landed painfully in her ear. But the intent was the same, and that was what she focused on. Better yet, his mouth was headed toward hers, and she obediently closed her eyes in anticipation. After all, the view of the man’s pointed nose was not all that appealing.
Then their mouths met.
His was wet and tasted of acid. She pulled back in shock, even though she had been the one to create the situation. But as she gasped, his tongue invaded her mouth.
Oh. Oh my. She hadn’t remembered this being so very wet before. And his tongue was forceful, nearly gagging her.
She tried to enjoy it. She really did. She did not want to think that she could only enjoy waywardness with Lord Whitly. But…oh, this was getting very slobbery.
She coughed and wrenched backward, breaking the seal of their mouths. She tried to step back, but there was little room, and he was holding her tightly, kissing a wet trail along her cheek. In her mind, she just kept thinking No, no, no. This is not how it is supposed to go! But he obviously couldn’t hear her, and his hands now slid down her back to grip her bottom.
That was wrong, she decided, as panic began to tighten her throat. She was shoving at him now, pushing against his chest and trying to squirm away. He must have misunderstood, because he gasped out a fevered, “Miss Powel!”
Which was when she lost her temper. Thankfully, she had a brother who had taught her a few things. She was in her strong half boots, and while Mr. Camden was busy trying to angle his face back to hers, she lifted her foot and slammed it down hard onto his.
He leapt back with a howl, only to trip over a stack of books and tumble to the ground. The sound was deafening, but no louder than the rapid pound of fury in her ears.
She knew she was being irrational. She had instigated this particular encounter, but it was supposed to be pleasurable. It was not meant to leave her face slimy and a feeling of nausea in her gut.
Mr. Camden was righting himself while she busily fished out a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped her face. Meanwhile, a sudden pounding on the door had her cursing under her breath.
“Mr. Camden! Is everything all right?” called the secretary.
She looked to Mr. Camden, who was red-faced as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “Just tripped over the books, is all.”
“But—”
He stomped over to the doorway and wrenched it open. As Mari was still patting her hair back into place, she found this to be particularly alarming. Hopefully the young man didn’t see anything. Although one look at his wide eyes had her cursing anew. Just how discomposed did she look? Was wayward now emblazoned across her forehead? Or perhaps it was written in her wild hair.
“Go back to work,” Mr. Camden snarled in a darker voice than she’d ever heard before. Apparently it was a shock to the young man as well, who jumped as if poked. Then he nodded and scrambled away without so much as a peep.
“He will talk to his friends,” she said miserably. Bad enough to be the subject of gossip among the ton, but it upset her to know that now she would be an object of fun among Mr. Camden’s subordinates. Whatever had possessed her to think this was a good idea?
Meanwhile, Mr. Camden turned back to her, his expression tight. What he had to be angry about, she didn’t know. This was all his fault. What man turned kissing into an attack by an ill-bred mastiff?
“Your hair is untidy,” he said as he straightened his waistcoat.
“You made it so,” she shot back as she tried to smooth the strands down. She couldn’t without a brush, but she did her best.
“No,” he countered, “it was messy when you first arrived. I noticed it right away.”
Of course he did. “I don’t like pinning it so tight. It gives me a headache.”
“And I don’t like wearing shirt points that stab my neck, but there are some things we do because it is appropriate.”
“You’re not wearing high shirt points,” she said. “And that is nothing like spending the day with something trying to pull your scalp off your head.”
He dropped his hands onto his hips, his expression severe. “You are discomposed, Miss Powel.”
That was the final straw. The nerve of any man talking to her like a stern father when he was both a disgusting kisser and in no way affianced to her. And after weeks of careful cultivation on her part!
“And you, Mr. Camden, need not call on me ever again.” Then, just to prove the point, she pulled her list of gentlemen out of her purse, flattened it on the only clear space of his desk, and with great flourish, crossed his name out.
Number 27 no more.
Then with a huff, she spun on her heel and stomped out.
Fifteen
Peter got the message while he was still dressing for Lord and Lady Vinson’s ball. He’d spent the day trying to ferret out the differences between his father’s ledgers and Mr. Powel’s statement that there had been only one middling payout from their joint investment. All it had gotten him was a headache. Now he was looking forward to an unencumbered evening with Mari. He was both anxious and excited to tell her the things he needed to share. And it turned out that both those emotions led to a state of arousal that was highly embarrassing in the presence of one’s newly hired valet. But then his father’s footman rushed into the room, and he had to redirect his thoughts.
“Mrs. Evans sent me, yer lordship,” the man huffed.
Mrs. Evans was his father’s cook and Peter’s best ally in that household. “Really?” he said, lifting his chin so his new valet could finish off the cravat. “Whatever for?”
“Said she remembered that name you’d asked for. Her cousin’s cousin’s nephew, she said.” The footman’s expression spoke volumes about the illogic of running through London just to relay such a benign message. What it really meant was that something odd was going on at his father’s household.
“Did she say more?”
“No, milord. Just that her memory being what it was, it be best if you came right away. I tried to get her to write it down, but—”
“Don’t question her, man. Mrs. Evans has her own way of doing things, and neither you nor I can change that.”
The footman didn’t have an answer. Didn’t matter. Peter let his valet finish off the cravat, and then he pulled on his coat. He’d look damned stupid riding a horse in all this finery, but a hackney would take too long. Mrs. Evans had said to come right away.
So he flipped the footman a coin as thanks and then left. He made it to his father’s back door in a frustratingly slow twenty minutes. When he slipped in the kitchen door, he could see she was ready for him. The entire kitchen area was empty except for Mrs. Evans, who was just pulling a kettle off the stove and bringing it to three teacups already laid out on a tray.
“Mrs. Evans,” he said warmly. Some of his happiest childhood memories were of the two of them sharing a bit of tea and a sweet. “I got your message.”
“Got here faster than I expected, but your boots have suffered.”
Peter looked down and sighed. He’d been quite pleased by the shine on his Hessians, but now they were mud-splattered, and somewhere he’d picked up a scuff. “Where is everyone?”
“I sent them on errands or let them dally as they want. Figured it would be b
est to speak to you alone.”
“It’s serious, then?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the tray and smiled at a third person who’d just walked in the room. “Mrs. Osborn, just in time.”
The housekeeper? He barely knew her, but obviously the two women wanted a private word with him. “Good evening, Mrs. Osborn,” he said with a generous dip of his head.
“Lord Whitly,” she returned with a curtsy. “I thought we’d be cozier in my sitting room.”
“Excellent idea,” returned Mrs. Evans, as if this hadn’t been planned. Then she led the way, with Mrs. Osborn holding open the door. A minute later, everyone was seated on rickety little chairs around a tiny table that was too small for the tea tray, but they made do.
“Well, this is lovely,” he said by way of opening.
“It’s not fancy enough for you, I’m sure,” said the housekeeper. “But we enjoy a comfortable chat every now and then.”
“Indeed we do,” agreed Mrs. Evans.
Peter opened his mouth to comment, but the ladies went on as if he weren’t there. “Why, just yesterday we were talking, weren’t we? About how I found little Betsy crying her eyes out.”
“Terrible thing. Seems she must have tripped in the back parlor. Was bruised something awful.”
Then both women looked directly at him. Was it his turn to talk now? “Something awful?” he echoed dumbly.
“Yes. The back parlor is where your father likes to read his paper. He does it when the maids come to dust, you know. Says he likes looking at something pretty.”
Oh hell. He knew his father enjoyed a little pinch and tickle with a lively maid every now and then, but he’d always done it with willing servants. It sounded as if his father had gotten more aggressive. “Just how badly was Betsy hurt?”
“Oh, not bad at all,” Mrs. Osborn reassured him. “Just a bump and a scare, but she won’t go in to dust again. Not with the earl there.”