He opened the door to reveal a sitting room. Lady Merrick’s, he guessed, by the plump chairs and primrose draperies. More knickknacks than books lined the shelves on either side of an empty marble fireplace. And before the window stood a delicately carved lady’s writing desk with a matching chair, whose occupant did not raise her head from her work.
“Oh, Miss Burke,” the butler said. “I did not know you were here. Lord Ashborough has come to call.”
If the butler’s voice, or the sound of Gabriel’s name, produced any reaction, she did not show it. No start of recognition. No turn of her head, even, until she had put the point to whatever she was writing and laid her pen aside. When she rose, she stayed standing before the escritoire, her back to it, her ink-stained hands folded demurely in front of her. “Then you must tell Lady Merrick he has arrived, Wafford,” she prompted.
With another stiff bow in Gabriel’s direction, the butler left.
For a moment, Gabriel stood in the doorway and simply soaked in the sight of her, a chiaroscuro of bright and dark, her head tilted slightly to the side, the light from the window behind limning her body and shooting through wisps of her black hair like stars in the night sky. Then he stepped closer, skirting a table with curving legs whose marquetry top was almost entirely obscured by an enormous bouquet of rather ordinary-looking spring flowers arranged incongruously in a crystal vase.
Another three steps and he could see that her spectacles had slid down to perch at the end of her nose. A smudge of ink along her cheekbone, near her ear, suggested that impatient fingers had brushed away an errant lock of hair, perhaps more than once. Scattered across the desktop behind her lay a half dozen sheets of closely printed paper, with lines scored through and words crammed in between to replace them. At this distance, he could not read what she had written, but she caught the direction of his gaze and shifted nonetheless, blocking his view.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you,” he said, returning his eyes to her face.
Camellia dipped her head to acknowledge his apology but did not demure as ladies often did. Obviously, she had been hard at work, and she resented his interruption. She made no move to sit down again nor offered him a chair. She did not curtsy. He did not bow.
Hang good manners. He wanted to kiss her, and not just on the hand.
And he was used to getting what he wanted.
While he struggled to bring his basest impulses under control, she spoke. “I must thank you for the flowers.” The cadence of her voice curled through him like soft music. “Your servant must have been put to some trouble to find camellias in London, in May.”
“I’ve sent my man to do many things for me, and he rarely disappoints.” He allowed himself one step closer, close enough that he might easily reach out and take her hand in his, though he did not. “But when the task concerns pleasing a woman, I do it myself.”
Understanding chased through her eyes, followed closely by pleasure. Yes, it pleased her that he had chosen the flowers—and her own pleasure seemed to catch her unawares. Oh, she was better than most at hiding her telltales. He would not want to sit down at the card table across from such a one. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for them both, he was equally adept at reading the signs.
“And they did, did they not?” he murmured. “Please you, I mean.”
Unlocking her intertwined fingers, she reached up to adjust her spectacles. “I was surprised by them.”
She might bear the name of a flower with smooth, glossy leaves and sweet-smelling petals, but then children were generally christened before their personalities were either known or developed. Gabriel had the distinct impression her father might better have chosen to name her after some plant with thorns.
Something rumbled in his chest. A laugh of amusement or a growl of frustration? Before he could decide which, and whether to let it escape, she added a prim concession.
“Though I suppose it would be fair to say I was pleasantly surprised.”
A small triumph, but still it left him almost giddy. She was not indifferent to him. He dipped his head, partly in a bow of acknowledgment, and partly to hide what he feared might be a foolish grin. “Then I shall consider myself amply rewarded for the trouble of finding camellias in London, in May.”
When he raised his eyes to her once more, she was studying his expression. “Wildflowers cannot have been much easier to come by,” she said after a moment.
Wildflowers?
Gabriel, who had built his reputation on never revealing more than he meant to reveal, blinked. Twice.
A dreadful tell. Little old ladies who played nothing more daring than loo would have tittered at him knowingly behind their cards. A sharp would have called his bluff on the spot.
Camellia did neither. But she knew he had come up empty this hand. Of that, he had no doubt. The corners of her brows drew together ever so slightly, and her gaze slid past him, to the extravagant arrangement on the table.
Oh. Wildflowers.
“And was Lady Felicity also…pleased?” he heard himself say.
“You must ask her yourself.” Camellia’s bright eyes were still focused on some point behind him, but higher now. The object of her gaze was something other than the flowers.
They were no longer alone.
“My lord. How good of you to call.” On silent feet, Felicity crossed the room, her voice brittle and dull, like the wintry leaves on a tree from which the sap of life had been sucked. No, she was certainly not eager. But she had come, nonetheless.
When she stopped and stood beside her cousin, comparison between them was inevitable. In the unforgiving morning light, filtered through yellow draperies, Camellia looked drawn and tired, every bit ten years Felicity’s senior. Dark and more than a little defiant.
Next to her, the daughter of the Earl of Merrick glowed gold, like a beam of sunlight herself. She was not smiling; in fact, her expression was so blank, he suspected she had spent some time in the looking glass perfecting it, having seen the animation in her face when she spoke with others. An English rose, which he was to prune and train and pluck as he saw fit. She would never shock or scold him. She would never, never tell him no.
No other man of his acquaintance would have thought it a decision worth weighing. Felicity was in every respect the ideal toward which marriage-minded English gentlemen strived, and if not for her brother’s foolishness and her father’s weakness, he would have lost any chance at her hand long ago. His choice was clear. So clear, he ought not even call it a choice.
But oh, he craved something quite different in a woman. A challenge. A contest of wits, of wills—one he was not certain to win. The companionship of one as sharp and cynical as he. For beneath that diamond-honed edge of defiance that glittered in Camellia’s green eyes, he saw passion. Throbbing, aching, scratching, clawing, dangerous, deadly passion. It might destroy him, but he would revel in his destruction.
Worse, though, he would destroy her.
Turning slightly, he bowed to Felicity. He thought of the promise Fox had extorted from him. He must be a gentleman. He must marry this girl and do his duty by Stoke and the memory of his father. “How lovely you look this morning, ma’am,” he said to her.
A curtsy, accompanied by a careful smile. “Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” With the wave of one arm, she gestured him to the chairs behind her, then cleared her throat nervously. “Mama wishes to speak with you, Cousin.”
So, they were to have a moment’s privacy. Time enough for him to speak his piece, if he chose. A glance darted between the two women. He expected to see desperation in Felicity’s eyes, a plea not to be left alone with this monster. But she was braver than he had realized. He saw only resignation to her fate.
Camellia gave a sharp nod. “Of course. I’ll just…” She turned and hastily gathered her papers, so dense with ink they crinkled and crackled in her hands
. In another moment, she was gone, the door left open behind her.
“I fear I disturbed Miss Burke at her work,” he said as he sat. Rather than giving under his weight, the overstuffed cushion resisted, as if trying to push him onto the rug. Onto one knee, perhaps. Firmly, he planted the soles of his boots flat against the floor.
“Oh, it is nearly impossible not to disturb her work. She’s always writing. Mama says she goes through paper and ink at an alarming rate.”
Bristling at the implied criticism of Camellia, he said, rather more loftily than he had intended, “On Lady Merrick’s behalf, I suppose.”
“On occasion, yes. But my mother is…”
Too lazy for letter writing, Gabriel silently supplied.
After pausing and pressing her lips together, giving the unexpected impression that she had restrained a similar observation, Felicity began again. “The letters, I believe, go to some Irish correspondent of my cousin’s. She has several family members in Dublin.”
Gabriel nodded. “Yes. I believe Fox mentioned something about it.”
But those overwritten outpourings of Camellia’s pen surely were not destined for a doting parent or a curious sibling. A lover, jealousy whispered petulantly in his ear.
Damn it, why did he care to whom she wrote?
Because he did not like to imagine those eyes scouring some other man’s face. Because he wanted to believe that she too had spent a lifetime seeking a match she had never found, a game of chess in which she would not have to resort to swiping at the pieces like a bored house cat merely to liven up the contest. Because when he thought of her a thrill of something like terror chased through his veins, and because he knew he didn’t frighten her at all.
Though God knew, she should be frightened.
“My dear Felicity,” he began, determined to do the thing he must do. Utter madness to be thinking of anything other than his duty. Utter madness to be thinking of Camellia.
Her breath caught. Anticipation, but not of the pleasurable sort. “Yes, my lord?”
My lord. He might have corrected her. After all, they were to be married, were they not?
Curious that he had no particular desire to hear his given name on her lips.
Afterward, he could not have said what his next words to her had been. Some commonplace about the weather, he thought, and after she had recovered from her surprise, Felicity had turned the conversation toward Lady Penhurst’s musical evening, which promised to be dread…er, delightful.
Once five endless, respectable minutes had ticked and tocked their way into ten, he allowed the chair to propel him to his feet. “I will wish you good morning, ma’am. I will be disrupting your plans for the day, otherwise.”
She rose with him, bewildered though not disappointed. “You could do no such thing, my lord,” she insisted, curtsying. “My time is at your disposal.”
True, of course. Everything of hers was at his disposal. Lord Trenton had played the game and lost. Gabriel had played and…won, as he almost always did. One final card to toss on the table, and he would have everything he needed.
And nothing he wanted.
Better that way, his conscience scolded. Yes, yes…but he was finding it damned difficult to force himself to the point, nonetheless. He bowed and excused himself from the room. Only when the butler had shown him out the door and he was striding freely down Brook Street did he realize Felicity had never mentioned the flowers, conspicuous though they had been in the cozy sitting room.
It was as well. After all, they had as good as been chosen for her by Fox.
Chapter 8
“Miss, the carriage is here.”
At Betsy’s shout, Cami’s hand jerked. “Drat!” She had pressed down so fiercely on the tip of her pen, it had left a little blot and nearly made a hole in the paper.
Most of the manuscript will have to be recopied anyway, she consoled herself as she laid the pen in its tray. Mr. Dawkins could not be expected to make heads nor tails of her scribbles. Once it was legible, however, she felt certain he would agree that she had transformed her villain utterly, from a pasteboard shadow in a pantomime to a complex and compelling man. The changes to Lord Granville would make his attempt to destroy Róisín more forceful, more heart-wrenching. Surely even an English audience would grant that much.
From time to time, though, she found herself wondering if the closing scene as she had first written it was consistent with the character he had become. Would readers feel too much sympathy for Granville? Would it blunt the savage critique of England’s treatment of Ireland that lay behind Róisín’s tragic story?
“Miss?”
Betsy was still in the stairwell, but closer now, and the note of anxiety in her voice meant Cami would not have long before the door opened. After wiping her hands, she laid the still-damp page atop the rest of the manuscript of The Wild Irish Rose, already safely ensconced in her lap desk. Those last pages would have to wait until tomorrow.
Though Aunt Merrick had never been noted for her equanimity, since her head cold the servants had gone out of their way to avoid trying her patience further. Her increased peevishness, as everyone knew, was entirely a consequence of Lord Ashborough’s failure to come to the point. Three outings in the last week, three opportunties discreetly provided for him to propose to Felicity, and still nothing.
Cami had not been required to accompany them on those outings. She had, however, received a minute recounting—once from her aunt, and once from her cousin—of both his behavior and his appearance. As a consequence, Gabriel had been constantly in her thoughts; even her dreams had not been safe from him. More than once, she had awakened with her pulse pounding and damp sheets tangled around her limbs. And it had not been fear that had made her heart race.
Never one to waste an experience, however, she had used every detail she gleaned, every moment of the time she had spent in his imagined company, to better her book.
From her aunt, she had learned that Lord Ashborough did not even glance into the card room at the Crawfords’ ball. “Proof,” she had insisted, “that he means to turn over a new leaf.” Privately, Cami suspected that the card room at a ton ball was not up to his usual standards. Or at least, his usual stakes. Felicity had revealed his unexpected but similarly portentous move to Grosvenor Square, into the previously abandoned Finch House. “Not abandoned,” Lady Merrick had corrected her. Apparently, he had always kept a full complement of servants employed to care for the place, even though he did not live there. Aunt Merrick seemed to regard it as proof of his munificence, and certainly it would be futile to argue about pointless displays of wealth with a woman who seemed determined to live so that no one would suspect the Trenton family was teetering on the brink of ruin.
Unlike her mother, Felicity never rhapsodized about his good looks or his gallant behavior. Instead, her accounts of the time she spent with the marquess were frequently interspersed with some mention of Mr. Fox, who must, it seemed to Cami, be hovering over his friend like a guardian angel determined to keep him on the straight and narrow path. Felicity was always quick to recall some pleasant remark he had made, to recount an amusing story about his dogs, or once, to remark, quite apropos of nothing, that she had always thought gray eyes expressed uncommon intelligence.
Not content to watch her cousin sacrifice either her affections or herself, Cami was determined to make certain that Felicity did not suffer in real life the way Róisín had in the pages of fiction. So she had formulated a plan.
“Miss?” Betsy sounded almost desperate.
“I’m coming.” Cami shook the wrinkles from her skirts as she rose to leave the room. The movement stirred the air and brought the scent of camellias to her nose. Lord Ashborough had, through word and deed, revealed his interest in her, an interest she dared not reciprocate anywhere but in her dreams.
But with any luck, Lady Penhurst’s musical eve
ning would provide the perfect opportunity to exploit that interest.
Inside the carriage, she took the place beside her cousin. Aunt Merrick looked her up and down before tapping on the ceiling to order the driver to move on. “I would gladly have sent King to dress your hair, Camellia.”
“Thank you, Aunt. But there was no need.”
“I think it’s quite…” Felicity reached up to tuck a wayward lock into the loose arrangement. “Is it an Irish fashion, Cousin?”
Cami smiled. “You may say so. It is entirely my own invention.” Aunt Merrick huffed in disapproval and turned to look out the window.
Given her own way, Cami would have walked the short distance to Lady Penhurst’s, rather than be confined in the now silent, increasingly stuffy carriage. Though dusk was falling, the sky was still light, the air unseasonably warm—perfect for a meandering stroll through Mayfair. Aunt Merrick would have protested that the weather was changeable and, worse, the behavior was unseemly. But Cami cared little for the consequence conveyed by the crest on the door of the coach or the well-matched team of horses that drew it.
When the carriage slowed just a few moments later, Aunt Merrick remarked on the number of arriving guests. “Lady Penhurst should be pleased. She could not have been sure of a crush after last spring’s scandal about her niece, the one they called the Disappearing Duchess.”
A scandal? That explained Cami’s inclusion in the invitation. Lady Penhurst must have been eager to fill out her guest list. For her own part, Cami could imagine little worse than an evening designed to showcase the dubious musical talents of assorted young ladies. And as for the young men before whom those talents were to be displayed…were there not more important things to discover about a potential wife than her ability to perform on the pianoforte?
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