“Yet, you are here,” he pointed out.
“Because I could not help myself,” she replied, pressing her face against his chest and resting there, inhaling his heady scent. “When I saw you in the marquess’ drawing room looking so dashing in your evening clothes and watching me as if you wished to devour me … I knew I was lost again. I could not have said no if I’d wanted to.”
“Then this isn’t good-bye?” he asked. “I will understand if it is. I just want to hear it from your lips this time instead of a note.”
She placed a kiss on his left breast, just above his nipple. “Well, the season hasn’t ended yet. Perhaps it needn’t be over just now.”
He sighed as if in relief, holding her tighter against his side. “No,” he agreed. “It is only the beginning.”
Chapter Fourteen
Camden met Maggie again the following evening. It was risky—asking her to creep away two nights in a row—yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself. When he thought of going to bed alone after the night they’d had together, it left him feeling disappointed. Lonely, even. He could have fulfilled his needs with any available woman, but found he truly wanted her company.
He arrived at midnight, as agreed, dressed all in black with the hood of his cloak covering his head. Peeling herself away from the dark shadow cast by the garden wall, she dashed toward the phaeton. Reaching out, he took her hand and lifted her onto the seat beside him, then took up the reins. They were off without incident, concealed by a dark night barely lit by the moon shadowed by clouds.
“I trust you found a suitable excuse for escaping the Astons’ fête this evening,” he said, darting a glance toward her.
She smiled, her eyes glittering in the dark and alight with excitement.
“I spent the entire day in bed after telling my abigail that my courses had begun. No one suspected otherwise. Mama and Papa left after dinner and will not return for hours.”
“Then we shall simply make the most of our time,” he declared, facing her and returning her smile.
Her gaze grew heated, searing him to the bone. He studied her face, on full display with the hood of her cloak pushed back. She exuded freshness and youth, reminding him yet again that she’d been an innocent when he’d found her. It had been quite some time since he’d been with a woman who possessed Maggie’s zeal and openness. Since his brother’s death, he’d tended to gravitate toward the jaded, cynical people of the world. It had seemed easier that way.
Watching her now, he was suddenly struck with an idea. “Have you ever walked in the park at night?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no, never.”
He nodded. “Would you like to? I find it quite liberating to stroll there alone at times. Without so many people, horses, and carriages clogging the lanes, it is easier to appreciate the park’s natural beauty.”
“I would love it.”
“To the park, it is,” he declared, spurring the horses on.
They rode in silence, with Maggie seeming content to sit beside him without speaking. Surprisingly, he found no need to fill the void with conversation. Guiding the greys with one hand, he took hers with the other and threaded his fingers between hers.
When they arrived, he steered the phaeton along one of the winding lanes, until reaching his desired location. Veering off the path, he dismounted from the carriage and rounded it to her side. Taking her by the waist, he lowered her to the ground, then wrapped one arm around her and pulled her close against his side.
They set off at a sedate pace with the faint moonlight streaming between the boughs of the trees. As he’d expected, they were the only ones in the park this time of night.
“Tell me more,” she said, after they’d walked a while without speaking. “About Garrett.”
Camden frowned. He never spoke of Garrett to anyone but his aunt, and even then, they never allowed themselves to grow melancholic. It was just too damned hard to talk about him without sinking into a pit of grief. He hadn’t had time to allow himself to sink too far into the pit when there was a dukedom that required his attention. He cleared his throat.
“Why the devil would you want to talk about Garrett?” he asked, aware that his voice sounded a bit rougher than it should. It wasn’t her fault that his brother was dead, any more than it was her fault that he hated talking about it.
She paused, forcing him to stop with her, and glanced up at him with guileless eyes. “I meant what I said last night, Camden. I want to know you. You offered me a glimpse … will you shut me out, even after that?”
His furrowed brow softened and he sighed. “You’re right. Forgive me.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “So, you wish to know about Garrett?”
“I knew of him, of course” she said as they continued walking. “Everyone did. But we knew him as the duke. You knew him as a man.”
“Even as the duke, he was the sort of person everyone liked,” he said, a smirk curving one corner of his mouth. “Always laughing, always in good humor. There wasn’t a person he couldn’t charm, male or female. Which is why, for the life of me, I cannot fathom why he remained unmarried for so long.”
“Probably for the same reasons you’ve remained unmarried,” she murmured. “He was waiting for someone who loved him, not his title, his name, or his wealth.”
He shrugged. “I, Maggie, am not waiting for anything or anyone. But you’re right about Garrett. He never found that person.”
Choking down grief, he forced himself to ignore the pain, to carry on as he always had. As Garrett’s heir, he had no other choice.
“I don’t believe you,” she insisted, pausing again. They’d wandered off the path a bit, and were shaded from the light of the moon by a large tree. Its boughs hung over them, casting them into shadow.
“No?” he said, forcing a slightly mocking edge to his tone. “Oh dear, however will I convince you?”
“Enough, Camden. You told me once that I could be myself with you. I would like to think you could trust me to do the same.”
He grunted in exasperation, running a hand through his tousled locks. “What do you want from me, Maggie? Do you want me to tell you that I miss him every day that he’s gone? Or that I do not think I could ever fill his shoes as a duke, or as a man?”
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Yes, if that is how you feel.”
Resting his cheek in her palm, he closed his eyes. “What about you? You cannot tell me that you are happy, either. When I saw you in the marquess’ drawing room, I saw a hollow shell. A quiet, prim little lady behaving herself like a puppet on a string. That is not the woman I’ve come to know.”
Dropping her hand from his face, she stared up at him earnestly. “You are right. I’ve never been truly happy. I’ve been well provided for, sheltered, pampered, cosseted, and then trotted out for the world to inspect and judge whether or not I’m fit to be part of society. All my life, I’ve been groomed for this time in my life—the season when I would be brought out and begin my search for a man to go on sheltering, providing for, pampering, and cossetting me. One caretaker to pick up where my parents left off. It’s my lot in life as a woman—is it not—to obediently go from father to husband and bear it without the tiniest hint of defiance. No, Camden, it did not particularly make me happy to spend my childhood learning manners and decorum, or how to hold a spoon or carry on a mundane conversation, while my male cousins were allowed to ride, and learn to shoot, and get dirty, and have fun. No, I do not particularly like attending Almack’s week after week and having to pretend that I enjoy being partnered by men who are merely inspecting me to determine if I will make them a suitable bride, thinking me interchangeable with the rest of the women in the room. No, I am not happy.” She faltered, then smiled up at him. “Except when I’m with you.”
He studied her in earnest, the little bit of it he could see in the shadows shrouding them. Before he could stop himself, he brought his hands up to her face. Gently cradling it, he lowered his lips t
o hers, taking them in a languid kiss. She responded as eagerly as she always did, raising up on tiptoe to wrap her arms around his neck and pressing her body to his. The primal male response ensued, but he tamped it down, content to kiss her just for the feel of her lips and her taste on his tongue, not as a prelude to something more.
She was breathless when he pulled away, lips parted, wide, doe eyes raised to his. Caught in her stare, he opened his mouth to say the words he knew he shouldn’t.
“I feel happy with you, too. A little less lonely, and a bit freer.”
She smiled and kissed the bridge of his nose. The sweet gesture made him smile.
“I think, Avonleah, that you are not as horrible as you’d like people to think you are.”
He dislodged from her hold, taking her hand in his and leading her back toward the carriage.
“Dear God, what have I done?” he quipped. “Now you’ll bare my secret to everyone. My reputation will be ruined.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “It would serve you right.”
They indulged in small talk as they walked back to the phaeton. Camden felt lighter than he had in weeks, and truly as carefree as he’d confessed. What the devil had this woman done to him?
He still puzzled over the question as he handed her up into the phaeton, and while he drove the horses. No answer had made himself apparent by the time they’d arrived to their destination.
Maggie gave him a quizzical glance as she realized he’d returned them to the lane running behind the Seymours’ townhouse.
“Why are we here? Don’t you want to—”
He cut her off with a swift, short kiss.
“I do. More than you know. But, there is something to be said for anticipation, isn’t there? Next time, Maggie.”
Confusion flickered across her face for a moment, then she recovered and gave him a sly glance. “Oh, my lord, you are really in trouble now. Never let anyone know that you are courting me.”
He snorted. “You climbed over a garden wall to meet me in the dead of night. I’d hardly call that courting.”
Her smile grew knowing, and she shook her head at him. “Oh, but you took me for a ride, and then a lovely walk in the park. How romantic of you, Your Grace. However will your reputation recover?”
He kissed her again, giving her thigh a light squeeze. “I promise you, when we meet again, I will do every wicked thing to you I can imagine. That ought to do the trick.”
Leaving the carriage, he came around to her side and assisted her to the ground. He allowed his hands to linger at her waist as he pressed her to the side of the carriage again to drink from her lips. She went limp against him, opening her mouth and meeting his tongue with hers. He sank against her soft body, reluctant to leave her embrace, but knowing he must.
He finally forced himself to pull away, tenderly stroking a stray lock of hair back from her forehead. “Good night, Maggie.”
“Good night, Camden,” she whispered breathlessly, before turning to make her way toward the garden wall.
He waited until she disappeared over the wall, then gave her a few more minutes until he was certain she’d made it safely inside. Then, climbing back into the vehicle, he made his way home, once again, alone.
Chapter Fifteen
“Miss Seymour, Mr. Cranfield, what a happy coincidence, seeing you here!”
Margaret fought the urge to smile as Camden’s high-sprung phaeton rolled to a stop alongside her and Sheridan Cranfield out together for a walk with her abigail acting as chaperone. He’d invited her for a stroll in Hyde Park, and she could hardly have refused. What could she have said?
I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Cranfield, but I’m afraid I’ve fallen madly in love with the Duke of Avonleah. Oh, and you should probably know that we are indulging in an illicit affair.
“Avonleah,” Sheridan said, his tone a bit strained as he bowed to acknowledge Camden. “Good to see you on this fine day.”
“Yes, the weather is most exquisite this afternoon, is it not, Miss Seymour?”
The duke’s cerulean gaze found hers and held.
She froze, her body reacting as it always did when in his presence. She feared she sounded a bit breathless when she answered. “So it is, Your Grace. Quite mild.”
She felt his gaze tracing the planes of her face and neck, settling on the demure neckline of her walking dress. He pursed his lips slightly and arched an eyebrow at her.
“I say, Miss Seymour, your hat is most becoming. You should wear lavender more often. It quite suits your complexion.”
Sheridan’s bicep flexed beneath her hand. As she snuck a glance at him from the corner of her eye, she noticed the perceptible tightening of his jaw.
“Yes, I said quite the same thing not an hour ago. With her complexion, Miss Seymour could wear anything.”
Camden’s gaze slid over her again suggestively. “Indeed.”
Her cheeks flamed, and she lowered her head to hide the telltale blush she knew had flushed her face.
“You gentlemen are too kind,” she murmured with as much grace as she could muster.
“Shall I see you both at Almack’s this evening?” Camden asked, his gaze remaining upon her. Not once did he acknowledge Sheridan.
“I do believe Mother has asked me to escort her this evening,” Sheridan answered. “Miss Seymour, what of you?”
Margaret forced a smile, suddenly feeling like a juicy steak caught between two rabid dogs. “I plan to attend, as well.”
“Splendid!” Camden said with a boyish grin. “Will you save a dance for me?”
Her breath caught in her throat at his question. Dancing with him in public was something she’d always wanted. To have him smile at her and sign her dance card. To spend time in his company at all.
“Your Grace does flatter me,” she managed once she’d found her voice. “I will be certain to save a dance.”
“A waltz,” he insisted. “I shall accept nothing less.”
Sheridan cleared his throat noisily from her side.
“Miss Seymour has not been permitted to waltz,” he reminded them both, breaking the haze of their conversation and the words that went unsaid between them. “I am sure Your Grace would not wish to incite a scandal.”
Camden finally acknowledged Sheridan. “Of course not. Though, I have it on good authority that the Patronesses met this Monday, as they always do, and considered which debutantes to bless with the honor of a waltz this evening. Perhaps, Miss Seymour, you will find your name among them? A man can only hope.”
Her eyes widened at what Camden said and what he didn’t say. Had he used his influence to ensure they could waltz together? It could prove a dangerous move on his part, to risk showing interest toward her in any way. The gossips would love nothing more than to speculate over what it meant that the Duke of Avonleah had gone to such great lengths in order to participate in such a scandalous dance with a baron’s daughter.
However, she also found the gesture terribly romantic. If they hadn’t been in the company of hundreds of other walkers and riders in the middle of Hyde Park, she’d have climbed up onto his phaeton and kissed him full on the mouth.
“At any rate, I must be off,” Camden said, touching his whip to his hat and inclining his head to them both. “Miss Seymour, Mr. Sheridan. Good day.”
“Good day,” they both murmured as he urged his pair of greys on down the lane in the opposite direction.
They began their leisurely pace again with her abigail trailing them. She knew the woman’s ears burned from the juicy exchange she’d just witnessed. She’d be filled with questions and chatter tonight as she helped Margaret dress for Almack’s.
“The duke showed a marked interest toward you,” Sheridan said after they’d walked a ways. He tried to keep his voice level, but the edge could not be blunted. “I had not realized you were friends with him.”
“Oh,” she replied, shrugging. “I am not, really. He and my father seemed to strike up quite a rapport at
the marquess’ dinner party. I am certain he is only attempting to show kindness to a new acquaintance’s daughter.”
Sheridan nodded, but his clenched jaw and flashing green eyes told her the truth. He was jealous.
“I would hope that once you are granted permission to waltz, you would also be inclined to save one for me.”
She turned to stare up at him and smiled, patting his arm with a gloved hand. “Of course, Mr. Cranfield.”
He smiled back at her, and she studied him, hoping to find the same magnetism in him that she did in Camden. While he did not possess the duke’s dark beauty, he had his own claim to good looks. His tawny hair and green eyes were a pleasing combination, his features soft and warm. He cut a dashing figure in his trousers and coat, a beaver hat sitting at a rakish angle on his head, his artful curls perfectly arranged.
Yet, there existed none of the sexual pull toward him that she felt for Camden. The subtle air of danger and rakish wickedness was absent, and while it shouldn’t have made him less attractive to her, it did.
She supposed, in time, she could learn to love him. If nothing else, she could learn to respect and care for him as a friend. It could be the quiet, warm sort of relationship her parents shared. Yet, the thought left her feeling bereft. She didn’t want warm and comfortable. She wanted passion, fire, and adventure. All of which she’d experienced with Camden.
Camden has offered you nothing beyond your affair, and he never will.
The reminder brought a much-needed dash of reality, splashing her in the face like a bucket of frigid water. Sheridan Cranfield remained her best hope for a good match that would please both her parents and see her settled well and off the marriage mart. She had to attempt to strike up a romance with him—though, if Camden’s assertion that he intended to offer for her proved true, she hardly needed to try at all.
“Mr. Cranfield, might I ask you something?” she ventured as they walked arm in arm.
Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) Page 9