“Good day, Lady Camellia, you look positively sparkling today, even though we all had such a late night. You must tell my sisters the secret.”
She turned those soft brown eyes upon him, and warmth filled him – an odd quivering warmth, which made him almost forget that there were others in the room.
“You, Your Grace, are a flatterer. I doubt that I look that wonderful – certainly no more bright than your sisters look! We have been discussing last night, and have decided that it may be accounted a great success. And…” she waved her hand about the room, and he suddenly realised that each table and shelf bore vases, filled with a plethora of flowers. “…your sisters seem to have collected an enviable number of admirers, all of whom have sent flowers – nearly all of which are actually tasteful.”
“Which is, I agree, an indicator of the gentleman’s taste in everything. So, does this mean that we are also declaring the ‘anti-gossip’ campaign a success?”
“Yes. I am so relieved that it is working. After a few more successful Balls, everyone will forget the previous gossip, and focus on whatever new scandal comes along – and you can all get on with your lives.”
As she spoke, a shadow of sadness passed over her face, then was gone. It was so fleeting, he wondered if he had imagined it.
They spoke for a little longer, then Lady Camellia rose, explaining that she had promised to call upon her sister, Lily, on the way home, and that she should take her leave. A footman was sent to summon her carriage, his sisters bid her farewell, thanking her again, then Damien stood, bowed, and offered her his arm.
“Might I escort you to your carriage, my Lady?”
She blushed charmingly, and placed her hand upon his arm. Heat spread from that touch, running like fire through his veins.
“You may.”
They left the room, her maid trailing after them, and went through the house, and out of the front door. As they stood near the bottom of the steps, watching the carriage round the corner and come towards them, Damien swallowed – if he was to do this, he needed to do it now. He leaned close to her, and spoke softly, urgently.
“Lady Camellia… might I… might I call upon you tomorrow? And… aaah… frequently… after that?”
Those soft brown eyes met his, widened in surprise, and her cheeks coloured again.
“Your Grace… Blackwater… are you asking to… court me?”
The word took his breath away, and for a moment, fear filled him. Then he remembered Lady Prunella’s misery and loneliness, and also the apparent happiness of Lady Camellia’s sisters and parents. He wanted that happiness, not that bitter isolation.
“Yes, Lady Camellia, I am.”
“Then… yes. Yes, you may.”
Unable to resist it, right there on the public street, he bent quickly and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips, before stepping away to a proper distance. She sighed, and the sound ran across his skin like the trail of a fingertip, leaving him utterly breathless in return.
“Thank you – I will see you tomorrow – at two?”
“Yes.”
The footman let down the steps of the carriage, then opened the door, and Damien handed her in, and then assisted her maid as well. The door was closed, and he met her eyes again through the carriage window. He did not look away until they had turned the corner, and she was no longer visible.
<<<
Camellia sat in the parlour at Elbury House, having chased all of her family out of it, and fidgeted, waiting for Blackwater to arrive. In the corner, where the sun warmed her through the window, even though, outside, the March day was quite chill, Emma, Camellia’s maid, sat with a book in her hands. Already, the book was dropping towards her lap, and Camellia suspected that Emma, just like the black and white cat on the window ledge near her, was about to succumb to the power of the sunbeam, and fall asleep.
Which, came the very naughty thought, rather suited Camellia. Perhaps, if she was lucky, Blackwater might kiss her again – more than that fleeting touch of yesterday….
Which fleeting kiss had not been out of her thoughts for one waking moment since, and which had also haunted her dreams.
She did not quite know what to expect, for he had, from the moment that she had first met him, shifted seemingly randomly between being warm, and being aloof – but surely, having asked to court her…
From outside, the sound of carriage wheels on cobbles came every so often, and she stilled her fidgets, listening – but they went past, and did not stop. Which was reasonable, as the clock on the mantle had not yet neared two. She closed her eyes, and forced herself to stillness, remembering every time that he had ever touched her, whether simply to bow over her hand, or something far more. To do so was torture, and fuelled her hope, yet she could not resist.
Finally, a carriage stopped outside. She leapt to her feet, then forced herself to stillness again, listening as the front door opened, and footsteps came across the marble. Marks tapped on the door, and opened it.
“The Duke of Blackwater, my Lady.”
He stepped into the room, and she saw his eyes scan the space, and fall upon Emma. A wry smile curled the corner of his lips before he stepped forward to take her hand and bow over it. He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm, slowly, and she felt herself melt inside. The force of his focussed attention made her weak in the knees. He rose from the bow, still holding her hand, that smile now broader, and when he spoke, his voice was intentionally soft, and his head inclined towards Emma.
“Good day, Lady Camellia, I see that propriety is served.”
She felt herself flush – something which, until this man, she had not made a habit of – and quickly searched for a suitable answer.
“Aah… yes… well, I didn’t have the heart to wake her.”
It was rather hopeless, as answers went, but he accepted it. They turned to the couch and sank onto it, without a further word said between them. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek and she found herself leaning into it slightly. It was like one of her dreams, and she barely dared breathe, lest she wake and find it not real. But the warmth of his hand was real, she could not doubt that. It was matched by the warmth in his eyes.
“I have wanted, Lady Camellia, to do this almost from the first moment that I met you, and now, I cannot resist. Please tell me that you do not object, that I have not misread your feelings, as I misread my own for so long?”
As he spoke, he leaned down, slowly, oh so slowly, giving her the chance to pull away should she wish to. Instead, she tilted her face up, her lips parting softly, and whispered in return.
“You have not misread me.”
It was all he needed, to release him from that slow movement, and within bare seconds, his lips were upon hers, full of hunger, and heat, as his hand slipped from her cheek to cup the back of her neck, pulling her into him.
She went without hesitation, intensely sure of her feelings in the moment, suddenly aware that her love for this man had been growing steadily for months, and had flared into something deep and abiding on the day when he had chosen kindness over vengeance with Lady Prunella. She loved him.
Dared she hope that he loved her?
Minutes passed, and she responded with as much passion as he gave her, exploring these new sensations, revelling in the feel of his hard body against hers, and in the touch of his hand and lips. Suddenly, so many things which Lily and Hyacinth had said made perfect sense, where before they had not, not entirely.
Finally, they drew apart, both breathing unsteadily. Camellia lifted her hand, and gently traced the scar on his cheek, her mind full of wonder at the contrasts he presented. His lips so soft, and yet so demanding, the scar harsh, and yet the skin beside it soft to her touch, marred only by the slight stubble which had grown since he had last shaved, his cold aloofness, which had melted into this fiery passion, his initial ferocity in defending his sisters, which had transformed into kindness to Lady Prunella, once he had truly understood her circumstances.
All of it, she realised, made her love him more – for he was not like any other man of the ton she had ever met – and that was utterly for the good.
“You said…, her voice was hesitant, yet she had to ask, “…that you had misread your own feelings. What did you mean?”
“That I love you, and have been far too much of a fool to realise it. I was so trapped in the belief that love could only lead to betrayal, that I was afraid to admit what I felt.”
“You… you love me?”
“I do. And I hope…”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I love you too. From the first, you have had the strangest effect upon me – to begin with, I did not understand it. But then… then, when I saw the way that you chose to treat Lady Prunella, and when you accepted my investing, rather than castigating me for it, then… I realised that I loved you. I was afraid…”
“That I did not return your feelings? What fools have we been? Now… now that we have both admitted this, I will waste no time – I will spend every moment that I can with you.”
At that moment, Emma started awake, and looked across the room, startled. Camellia drew back a little from Blackwater, as if they only sat and conversed, but they shared a smile at the maid’s concerned look – little did she know…
“Of course. I will be most glad of that.”
“Then I will call again tomorrow. Perhaps a drive in the Park, if the weather remains pleasant?”
“That would be perfect, thank you.”
<<<
Damien stepped through the door of the house on Swallow Street, and looked about curiously. It still rather stunned him that his father had owned this house, for many, many years, and no one had known of it. Thomas closed the door behind him, and then led him down the hallway. The building boasted a street frontage wide enough for three windows, and had two main floors, an attic floor, and a below street level floor which housed the kitchens.
On each floor, there were rooms to each side, and a room at the back, with the stairs central to it all.
They stepped into a pleasant parlour to one side of the entry and found Lady Prunella sitting in a large armchair with embroidery on her lap. She looked up and smiled tentatively.
“Your Grace, thank you for the invitation – I don’t quite know what to say. I haven’t been to a Ball since… since before Augusta made her mistake.”
“Then it is high time that you attended one.”
“But… what if people remember? It’s all very well for me to socialise with the older spinsters and the widows, but to be visible to all of the high flyers again… what if they cut me, remembering the fact that my family have done so for so many years?”
“I very much doubt that anyone will remember. There are far newer scandals for them to focus on. And what matters is that my friends will treat you kindly – and others will follow their lead. In this, your efforts for all of those years to keep your sisters disgrace a secret, to allow her, and you, to simply fade from the memory of the ton, are to your benefit. As is your association with the widows like Lady Weatherby. They may not be at the centre of the social whirl, but they are respected. If they accept you, so will everyone else. So, be brave, and simply attempt to enjoy yourself. You have had a ballgown made, haven’t you? If you haven’t, I insist that you order one immediately.”
“Oh! You are both so kind to me – and after what I did…”
Thomas shook his head and smiled at her.
“Lady Prunella, through whatever unfortunate circumstance it came to be, you are family – and we will treat you as such. The ton have far more cause to give me the cut, given that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, but, at my brother’s insistence, I will also gather my courage and attend. The idea that I have family – family who actually want me to exist, is still something I am coming to terms with. But I appreciate it.”
Lady Prunella gave a wry little smile at his words, and then spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You know, Thomas, when you speak like that, you sound so very much like your mother…”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next few weeks passed in a blur for Camellia, as March gave way to April, and the Season became unbelievably busy. Her mother insisted that she attend almost every event, and, although Camellia had quietly spoken to her parents about Blackwater’s wish to court her, her mother had simply looked at her sternly, and said “Until he asks your father, it’s not official, and you will do your best to consider other gentlemen too.”
Camellia had grimaced, and agreed, whilst quietly wondering if Blackwater actually intended to ask her father, formally. Since the day of that incendiary kiss in the parlour, he had called regularly, and taken her for drives in the Park, for ices at Gunter’s and for walks in the square – always with Emma trailing them, for propriety’s sake, of course. Camellia often wished propriety to the devil – for she longed to be alone with Blackwater again, longed for more kisses.
Patience, she thought, was overrated. Still, she applied it, and appreciated every moment she spent with him. His sisters were a great success, and much sought after as well.
Camellia watched, at event after event, as young men almost fought for their attention, and thought, amused, that she was as proud as a mother would be.
This evening, however, would be special. This evening, there was to be a Ball at Blackwater House – the first event to be held there since well before the death of the old Duke and Duchess – and who attended, and who did not, would be the indicator of how well their ‘anti-gossip’ campaign had succeeded, and how much of society had decided to accept Blackwater and his sisters without any stain on their reputations.
As she prepared for the Ball, her gown laid out, and the copper tub set in her dressing room, the footmen running back and forth with pails to fill it with deliciously warm water, her mother came rushing into the room, waving something in her hands.
“Look Camellia – look at this!” She thrust a newspaper into Camellia’s hands. It was the Daily Tattler, and for a moment, Camellia quailed – what terrible thing had happened now? She took a deep breath, then dropped onto her bed, and spread it out beside her. Her mother pointed to a specific article. “There.”
‘It seems that the queen of this Season has been crowned. Last night at the theatre our correspondent overheard Lady Fotheringhampton and Lady Gillieston discussing the young ladies who are out this Season. As all know, these two ladies are the arbiters of the fashionable and the popular amongst the ton, and their declarations carry great weight. And what did they have to say, you may ask?
They have declared Lady Camellia Gardenbrook a true Diamond of the First Water – the only young woman worthy of that designation this year!’
Camellia stared at the words in complete shock, then looked up and met her mother’s eyes.
“Me…? Why…?”
“Because, dear daughter, all of the effort which I have been nagging you to put in has produced exactly the effect that I wanted. Wealthy men will be falling at your feet, begging for your attention now. You will have an excellent choice of suitors.”
“But Mother… I don’t want a choice. I want Blackwater.”
“Then he had best declare himself to your father, hadn’t he, before some other man proposes.”
With that, her mother swept from the room, leaving Camellia staring at the newsprint, her mind spinning. Would Blackwater formally ask her? It had been weeks now, since that day when they declared their feelings to each other – weeks of drives, and conversations, and clandestine small touches. Weeks in which he could have gone to her father at any point.
She was left with the worrying question – was he serious? Did he truly love her?
She did not know, and all through the process of being washed, dressed, her hair done, and the best jewels placed upon her, that worrying question stayed with her. By the time she went down to the carriage, to go to the Ball, she was no cl
oser to having an answer.
<<<
Damien’s eyes sought Lady Camellia, from the moment that he stepped into the ballroom, his sisters by his side. He had seen her briefly when she arrived, but at that point, he had been trapped, standing in his entryway, greeting everyone as they arrived. Being the host came with an annoyingly long list of responsibilities. But that was now done – the vast majority of the guests had arrived – and he was pleased that those also represented the vast majority of those who had been invited – and he could escape duty, and begin to consider pleasure.
It was not hard to discover Lady Camellia – for she was surrounded by hopeful swains, all hanging on her every word. He exchanged a glance with Georgette, who inclined her head in Lady Camellia’s direction, then leaned close to whisper to him.
“Shall we go and rescue her?”
“Definitely. As the host, I am sure that it is my prerogative to claim a dance….”
“Of course.”
His sisters giggled slightly, and they all set off across the floor, smiling at everyone they passed. When they reached Lady Camellia and her family, the cluster of young men grudgingly gave way, until he stood before her. He bowed to her, and to her family, greeting everyone before turning back to Lady Camellia. She looked so worn by all of the attention that he wanted, in that moment, to gather her up and whisk her away to somewhere private.
Which was not such a bad idea at all.
The orchestra struck up for the next dance set, and he smiled, bowing again.
“Lady Camellia, I believe that you promised me this dance?”
Behind him, someone spluttered – no doubt whichever young man had actually claimed this dance, but Damien ignored them. A smile lit her face, and her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“I believe that I did.”
He offered his arm, and she placed her hand upon it. As they began to move away, Lady Primrose gave him an approving look, and a wink. How very improper of her – and how very perfectly it illustrated how much Lady Camellia’s family cared for each other. They joined the line forming up, and he noted that his sisters had both been claimed by dance partners as well. He was beginning to believe that all would be well, that their chances for finding a man they wished to marry had not been damaged by the previous gossip.
A Diamond for a Duke : Book 4: Camellia: Clean Regency Romance (A Duke's Daughters - The Elbury Bouquet) Page 16