Nevertheless, his pulse ticked upward at the sight.
Before the footman could open the door and show him out, Gabriel bid a hasty retreat, following Camellia.
Chapter 9
Cami listened, unmoving, to the slow tap of his footsteps as he crossed the empty gallery and came to stand behind her. It was hardly a sneak attack. This was what she had planned, what she had hoped for, was it not? But at the sound of his voice, she jumped nonetheless.
“You came.”
Was it her imagination, or did disappointment edge his words?
Cami wished now that she had turned around before he had reached her, stepped away from the deep window alcove where she had taken shelter. She needed to see his face, to read the expression in his eyes. Raising her gaze to the glass, she sought their reflection instead. But the window was just a window, no mirrored portal into his mind. The gallery behind them was too dark, clearly not intended to be among the public spaces for this evening’s entertainment. And the last violet light of day still illumined the garden before them. Topiaries cast eerie, jagged shadows along the gravel paths.
“Why?” he whispered when she did not speak.
Because you asked me to.
Caught off guard by her own unspoken confession, she flinched again. Could that be the reason? Was everything she had ever said about independence, self-determination, autonomy, a lie? Had she been waiting all her life for a man merely to ask?
No. She most certainly had not.
Forcing herself to stand a bit taller, she spun on one foot to face him and found him standing so close it was an effort not to touch him.
“Because I wanted to.”
His eyes flickered over her face, searching. “I felt certain you would prove too wise to do such a foolish thing.”
“Was it foolish, then?” The words were a whisper on her lips.
Another sweeping glance along the ribbon at her throat; she could have sworn she felt the heat of that look like a touch. “Very.”
She fought to keep from cutting her gaze away. “Yes, well…” Speaking was an effort. “My brother Paris delights in telling me I am too smart for my own good.” The smile that rose to her lips at the memory was genuine, if weak. “But no one has ever accused me of being too wise.” His answering expression, a sort of half smile that mirrored her own, did nothing to settle her jangling nerves. “I came because I wish to speak with you about Lady Felicity,” she said finally. “She does not wish to marry you.”
The revelation did not seem to surprise him. “She will be a marchioness,” he reminded her. “Fine clothes, beautiful homes, jewels to make the queen herself envious. Society would say that a dowerless girl should account herself fortunate.”
“Ah, yes.” Cami nodded again, growing braver. “But Society is not being asked to make a devil’s bargain.”
At that, a soft laugh tinged with bitterness parted his lips. “So you met me here to plead on her behalf.”
Her head began to bob of its own volition. But she would not lie….
Not even to herself.
Oh, she had set out this evening with a plan in mind, a plan to help Felicity. But somewhere along the way, on the long journey from her writing table to where she stood now, she had been forced to admit she was doing this for herself. Because he wanted her, and his desire gave her a new, heady power that flushed through her veins and left her trembling. Because he was sardonic and rakish and forbidden…and she wanted him, just the same.
His head tilted to the side as he studied her expression. Cami feared her face revealed more than it should.
“If I did not know better, I would suspect you of trying to compromise me, Camellia,” he said, softly teasing. “Wearing that ribbon. Luring me here. Were you hoping to save your cousin by exposing me for a rogue? I can assure you, everyone already knows.” One hand rose to sweep a lock of her hair out of her eyes. The same wayward curl that Felicity had tried to restrain, perhaps. But the brush of his fingers behind her ear, the warmth of his palm beside her cheek were not at all the same. “You should be considerably more worried that I will compromise you.”
Her mouth was dry, too parched for speech. She longed for a glass of the ice-cold champagne that had been flowing so freely in the other room, though she feared if one were in her grasp now, she would have tossed it back like a trollop.
“Y-you couldn’t,” she managed to say at last, all the while a prisoner to his heated gaze.
“Is that a challenge?” His hand slid forward and he traced the curves and dips of her upper lip with the pad of his thumb, then dragged it across the fullness of the lower. Inexplicably, her tongue longed to dart out and chase the sensation of his touch. Not the first time, certainly, that her Irish tongue had got her in trouble. She did not part her lips until she could be certain it was under her control.
“You cannot compromise me,” she declared. And she meant it. “No one gives a fig about my reputation. I am a woman of mature years—almost eight and twenty of them, if you must know—no green girl whose innocence must be carefully guarded. And most important of all, I am a lady’s companion, not a lady.”
He took in her words without blinking, without releasing her, without reacting in any way. As if he expected them, or accepted them in any case. Until she reached the end of her litany.
“You are a niece of the Earl of Merrick.” His voice was firm, correcting her error. “A granddaughter of the late earl, if my understanding of your family tree is not faulty. Therefore, by birth, a lady.”
If he had not been touching her, she would have shaken her head in denial. But the gesture would only have nestled her cheek into his palm. “I am the daughter of a noblewoman, it is true, but one severed from her family with the neatness and completeness that ordinarily requires a surgeon’s scalpel. I am also the daughter of a Dublin solicitor,” she reminded him. “Not a gentleman, in the common usage of the term. I cherish no hope of rising to a rank to which I have never belonged.”
“Why then did you come to London?”
“Partly for my mother. My uncle expressed a desire to heal the rift in their family.”
“But you are skeptical of his success?”
“At present, he is in no position even to help himself. As you well know.”
Those words did produce some reaction. For the briefest of moments, his eyes slid away from hers. But almost before she had noticed their movement, they were once more focused sharply on her face. “If not only for your family, then why?”
It was her turn to shift her gaze, to let it drift over his lips to settle in the vicinity of his cravat. “I have reasons of my own.”
“Which are not to be divulged…”
“Not at present.”
“And never to me.” Once more, she heard disappointment in his voice. Along with a note of certainty that he deserved to be disappointed.
She longed to smooth a cool hand over his brow, to wipe away the cynicism etched there. But how foolish, really, to imagine that she of all people—sharp tongued, skeptical—had such a gift. If he could be soothed, improved, sweet Felicity would be far better suited to the task, would she not? “I came here to speak with you about the fate of my cousin,” she insisted. “Her brother and her parents have behaved shockingly. And I do not wish to see her hurt.” That, at least, was the truth. Certainly Cami did not want to be the one causing her pain.
“Lady Felicity will be perfectly safe,” he vowed. His thumb now traced the edge of her jaw, then slipped lower to brush back and forth across the silk ribbon encircling her throat. Reflexively, she swallowed, though she knew he would feel that proof of her nervousness, could not miss the flutter of her pulse. A wicked smile curved his lips, and the pressure of his hand increased. He was drawing her closer, lowering his mouth to hers. “You, on the other hand…”
Awareness of what was to come hov
ered like a freshly dipped quill suspended above a blank page. Her fingertips, the ones he had once kissed, tingled. When she laid that hand against his chest and slid her palm upward to his shoulder, anticipation gathered and grew, trembled at the edge for a moment, then tumbled headlong, chasing through every vein, every fiber of her being, the way a droplet of ink fell from a pen, seeped into the very fibers of the paper, and could never be erased.
The slightest movement—she would not even have to stretch onto her tiptoes—and she would be kissing him.
Instinct told her to close her eyes but the writer in her resisted, determined to absorb every detail of this moment: the unexpected softening of his expression, the sparkle in his heavy-lidded eyes, the grain of beard peppering his skin.
“You should go.” His breath whispered across her lips. “Now.”
But she was not even wise enough to heed the warning in his voice.
Did he move, or did she? In that moment, all that mattered was the meeting of their lips, gentler than she had expected. Gentler than she needed. Sliding her hand higher, around his neck, she pressed closer to him and was rewarded with the hard length of his body, fitted perfectly against her softness. His other arm came around her waist, his palm settling on the flare of her hip, his fingertips tracing lightly along her curves. Oh, yes. He was a rake. He was not in the habit of denying himself pleasure, and a woman’s body was no mystery to him. And she would revel in that knowledge. Just this once. Just this once.
The kiss deepened, grew firm. When his tongue touched the seam of her lips, she parted them eagerly to his invasion. But he pressed no further. Instead he teased her, little flicks of slick sensation that had her chasing and darting after them, until her tongue was right inside his mouth, and he was sucking on it, drawing her in, drawing her down. Proving she could be tempted. A moan of longing rumbled in her throat, and she was not ashamed.
Still, she did not close her eyes. He held her gaze as she held his, and it was more intense, more intimate than the dance of their tongues, the kneading hand at her bottom, the hot weight of his erection against her belly. She was lost, utterly lost in his dark eyes. This was the descent, the fall. The end. She had been wrong about not being ruined. This was not her first kiss, but it would surely be her last. It would ruin her for any other.
Her left hand rose and met her right at his nape, fingertips tangling together in his hair where it fell over his collar. Did the tug of her searching fingers give him pain? If so, his only answer was to hitch her higher against him, to plunder her mouth with a kiss so greedy, breath was an afterthought. Then his eyelids drifted closed at last, breaking the spell.
Before she knew it was over, she was standing apart, her feet flat on the floor, her hands sinking to her sides. As free of his embrace as if it had never happened. Cooler air slipped between them.
He tugged one coat sleeve into place, an entirely unnecessary gesture. Did she look as unmussed, unrumpled, unaffected by their kiss as he? Well, she might lack his expertise in such matters, but she would not be bested by his practiced composure. She forced her ragged breathing to slow, though her nostrils flared at the effort. Perhaps, in the dimly lit room, such a small detail would go unnoticed.
No such luck. A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he reached up to straighten her skewed spectacles. The movement made her aware of smudges across each lens. Mastering her annoyance, the way her fingers itched to tug them off and wipe them clean, she met his gaze. Squarely. Sternly.
In answer, the curve of his lips shifted into something that threatened to melt her insides. “Am I always to be the subject of such careful study, Camellia? Well, the next time I kiss you, you’ll close those eyes.”
It wasn’t a threat, or even a command. It was a promise. A promise that one day, he would offer safety enough to conquer her fears, knowledge to quench the thirst of her curiosity. A promise that part of her longed for him to keep right that moment. Her breath came faster, despite her best efforts. “Next time? But we can’t—”
“Don’t be tiresome, my dear. Obviously we can. We did.” He crossed his arms over his chest and arced one brow. “The only question now is whether we will do it again.”
What about Felicity? her conscience prompted. She tried to shake off the question. Felicity did not want his kisses. But one day soon, she’d have them, whether she wanted them or not. Something very like jealousy flickered through Cami at the thought. Oh, how could she be attracted to the man who was supposed to be her perfect villain? What had she done?
She squared her shoulders and tipped her chin upward. “We must not.”
The familiar sardonic mask slipped over his face as he bowed and stepped aside, freeing her to walk away. “You see, I was right. You are a wise woman.”
Not truly wise, no—but wise enough to take the avenue of escape he offered this time, her steps measured at first, then quicker as she drew closer to the door. What had she been thinking when she had left the safety of the salon to meet him?
On the one hand, she had extracted an unexpected promise that Felicity would come to no harm. Truth be told, Felicity might be better off as Lady Ashborough than she was now, the pawn of a family driven to desperation. And strange though it might seem, Cami trusted him to keep his word. He had always been honest with her, even about his villainy. And she had never been certain that all of the things that looked like villainy really were.
On the other hand, he had behaved as badly as she had hoped he might, touching her, kissing her…. But what did it change? As he himself had pointed out, no one had ever denied his reputation for petticoat chasing, or anything else. Her aunt and uncle had known of it from the first and were still resigned to his suit; Felicity grew more so every day.
On the…well, she was out of hands, but there was still a third point to be raised in this internal, infernal debate: She had wanted his kiss. Still did. Fought with each footstep not to whirl around and race back to his arms and betray her weaknesses, rather than expose his.
In the end, she had mustered proof not of his wicked nature, but of her own.
As she exchanged the dimness of the gallery for the brightness of the salon, she paused to polish her spectacles, stopping near two gentlemen in earnest conversation at the back of the room. Who could be blamed for seeking some distraction from the shrill yet flat notes of a duet that was hopefully winding to a close? She would have gone by without a thought if she had not caught a few whispered words—whispered not just because the speaker feared to be overheard or to interrupt the performance, but because he could not seem to fill his lungs to put sufficient breath behind them.
“I trust I can count on your vote, Penhurst.”
The words themselves were almost as familiar as the rough voice. Another deal, no doubt accompanied by another threat. Another young nobleman at someone’s mercy. The man seemed confident he would get his way.
She kept walking, did not turn to look at the speaker until she was back at her aunt’s side. Under cover of tepid applause, she leaned toward Lady Merrick and asked, “Who is that gentleman conversing with Lord Penhurst?”
Making no effort to disguise her intentions, Lady Merrick twisted in her chair. “Where? I don’t—oh, at the back. Hmm…one doesn’t often seem him out and about, especially at functions like this. Come, come,” she said, nudging Felicity to her feet. “We ought to make our curtsies.”
With her thoughts still on Gabriel, Cami followed in their wake, not having been instructed to stay put.
“Ah, Lord Sebastian. I hope your attendance here this evening is a sign you are in good health.”
“Lady Merrick,” he gasped out, the words followed by the slightest dip of his head. He did not seem inclined to waste his precious breath on a response to her remark, and indeed, it was perfectly unnecessary. He obviously was not a healthy man. He was thin, too thin, and his skin had both the color and texture of cha
lk.
“May I introduce my daughter, Lady Felicity Trenton? And Merrick’s niece, Miss Burke.”
One shallow bow sufficed for both of them, and his surprisingly sharp-eyed gaze was reserved entirely for Felicity. “Sebastian Finch.”
“Uncle to Lord Ash,” Aunt Merrick explained, low, to her daughter.
Whatever his other ailments, Lord Sebastian’s hearing seemed to be perfectly acute, and the shortened form of his family title did not sit well with the man. Though he did not scold with words, the scowl he shot in her aunt’s direction was sufficient to send a chill through Cami too.
Gabriel’s uncle was the man she had twice overheard plotting to ruin some unknown gentleman. And he did not strike her as the kind of man who would scruple to make even his own nephew miserable.
Or worse.
“Then you and I may soon be—” Felicity began, speaking more to herself than to him. Now that cold, ruthless look turned to her, and her words squeaked to a halt. Rather than acknowledge the rumors of his nephew’s pending engagement to the young woman standing before him, Lord Sebastian cut her instead. With a sharp jerk of his chin he gave silent orders to a goggling Lord Penhurst to show him to a chair.
Felicity paled, then flushed red. Tears glittered along her eyelashes. Instead of returning to their seats, Aunt Merrick huffed and marched them toward the door. The footman was just returning to his post.
“The Trenton carriage. Immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Though the footman moved with alacrity, the carriage’s arrival was not immediate. They had to wait several long, awkward minutes for their coach to be sorted from the others and brought around to the front of the house. Ample time for Felicity’s embarrassment to advance from crimson-cheeked embarrassment to pale, trembling mortification. Meanwhile, Lady Merrick’s indignity seethed and boiled and began to spill from her lips like a foaming pot the cook had forgotten to remove from the fire.
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