Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  He walked out the door, and Camilla went limp with relief. She glanced up at the maid then, afraid that she had noticed her reaction to her supposed husband’s departure. But Millie was paying not the slightest attention to her. Her hands had fallen away from Camilla’s dress, and her eyes were fixed dreamily on the door through which Benedict had departed. She released a long sigh.

  “Oh, mum, what a handsome man he is. And so polite…”

  “Yes, thank you, Millie.”

  Millie returned to unbuttoning Camilla’s dress, but her irrepressible tongue did not stop. “Everyone in the servants’ hall is so happy for you, Miss Camilla. They been talking of nothing else ever since Her Ladyship told Mrs. Elliot about it. And tonight—when you come in with him, well, you can imagine, they were that excited. Such a fine gentleman.”

  Camilla squirmed a little inside with guilt. She wished everyone was not so excited about her supposed marriage. It made her feel like a wretch. For the first time, it occurred to her what outpourings of sympathy she would get when her pretend husband “died.” The thought made her feel even worse.

  She hurried through her undressing, afraid that Benedict might walk back in, right at the worst moment, though she did take time for a quick bath to rid herself of the last vestiges of mud. When Millie seemed inclined to linger and talk, she practically shooed her out the door. Millie smiled knowingly at this behavior, and Camilla realized with a blush that Millie thought she was eager for Benedict’s return.

  She closed the door behind the girl and turned the oil lamp on the small bedside table down to its lowest, then hopped into the high bed. She wanted to be in bed and at least pretending to be asleep by the time Benedict returned.

  As it turned out, she had quite a while to wait. She tossed and turned and squeezed her eyes shut over and over again, but sleep did not come, only boredom and a growing curiosity over where Benedict was and what he was doing. She was on the point of wondering whether he had gotten cold feet over the whole project and decided to scale the garden wall when at last she heard the scrape of a boot heel in the hall outside and the door to her room opened quietly. She closed her eyes immediately, watching through her lashes as Benedict eased into the room and shut the door softly behind him.

  He glanced toward her, then crossed the room almost stealthily. It occurred to Camilla that perhaps he had intentionally waited until he thought she would be asleep before he came back to the room. She wondered if he had done it to be thoughtful or simply because he did not want to have to talk to her again. She suspected it had been for the latter reason. He carried a single candle with him, which he set down on the small table at one end of the fainting couch. He shrugged out of his jacket and folded it, carefully laying it across the back of a straight chair. Camilla’s chest tightened as she realized that he was about to undress.

  She closed her eyes tightly at the thought. But she could not resist opening them a narrow slit again. It occurred to her that she was violating his privacy as he had not violated hers, but she shoved the thought aside. It was not as if he were going to take off all his clothes, she told herself. Surely he would not lie on the couch naked. Nor could she quite picture him undressing and pulling on a nightgown such as her grandfather wore. But if, perchance, he did, she would close her eyes.

  Benedict removed his cuff links and set them aside, then rolled up his sleeves, revealing tanned, muscled arms. He sat down on the couch and began to pull off his boots—a gesture so masculine and at the same time so intimate that it stirred an odd sensation deep in her abdomen. His hands were large and long-fingered, their movements supple. Camilla remembered the strength of them around her arms, and the way they had slipped over her body as she and he had struggled in the mud, touching her in places where no man had ever touched her—and not entirely by accident, in her opinion. His muscles moved beneath the skin of his arms as he tugged off the boots.

  Camilla’s mouth felt dry as dust. His boots were off now, and he stripped off his stockings and wiggled his feet appreciatively, leaning back against the couch with a sigh. His fingers went to work on the intricacies of his cravat, and after a moment, he pulled off the long strip of white cloth and dropped it on the floor. His waistcoat he removed more carefully and placed with the jacket. He stood and began to unbutton his shirt.

  Camilla knew that she should stop watching now, but she could not close her eyes. They were riveted to his chest as the sides of his shirt fell away, button after button, revealing a swath of flesh all the way down to his trousers. He peeled the shirt back off his shoulders and dropped it on the chair. Camilla’s eyes traveled over him, from the bony outcroppings of his shoulders down the length of his chest, smoothly padded with muscle, to his narrow waist. Camilla had never seen a man’s naked chest before, and she could not control her curiosity enough to look away or close her eyes. She stared at the dark circles of his flat masculine nipples and at the dark, curling hairs that grew in a vee down his chest, narrowing into a thin line as it drew near his stomach. A dark line curved around his lower rib cage on the right side; she realized that it must be a scar.

  Benedict turned away and walked over to the fireplace, and Camilla studied his back. The muscles were thick along his shoulders and back, curving to the bony outline of his spine. Camilla was aware of a curious desire to touch his back, to feel the contrast of hard bone and smooth muscle beneath the skin.

  He squatted beside the fire and stuck the poker into the coals, sending up a shower of sparks and making the coals burn a bright red. He was half turned from Camilla, and she could see the play of the firelight on his face and chest, lighting his skin with a golden glow. She pressed her legs together tightly, aware of an unaccustomed warmth between them.

  When he had the fire adjusted to his liking, Benedict rose and turned, starting toward Camilla’s bed. Camilla barely suppressed a gasp, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She lay tensely, listening to the approach of his soft footfalls. He was almost there, she could sense his presence, but she did not dare to open her eyes. He stood beside the bed for a long moment. Her heart raced. What was he doing? What was he going to do? He leaned forward, and it was all Camilla could do to keep from shrinking away from him.

  He stretched over her. She could feel the heat of his body, sense his bulk. Her throat tightened; she could scarcely breathe.

  He picked up the pillow on the other side of her and straightened up. Tucking it under one arm, he pulled a blanket from the bed as well, and started toward his couch. Camilla’s taut muscles went limp.

  He turned back to look at her and, in a mocking whisper, asked, “Well, Miss Camilla? Did you see enough to satisfy you?”

  He had known she was awake and watching him!

  Her eyes flew open. He was standing two feet from her bed, his eyes alight with amusement, a smile curving his lips. Heat flooded her face, and she was glad for the concealing dimness of the room. In that moment, she hated him. She picked up the closest thing at hand, a pillow, and, with an unintelligible shriek, she threw it at him. He laughed, ducking and lifting an arm to deflect the soft missile. He blew out the oil lamp burning beside the bed, then turned and walked back to his couch, still chuckling to himself.

  He pinched out the candle, and the room was plunged into darkness. Camilla lay in the darkness, still flooded with humiliation, and thought furious thoughts about him. It was even worse when, in a few minutes, she heard the slow, steady sound of his breathing and knew that he had fallen asleep, while she lay wide awake and thoroughly humiliated.

  She tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot, but it seemed hopeless. She was still awake some time later when the door to her room opened stealthily, and a man crept into the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOR AN INSTANT, fear paralyzed Camilla. Then the man turned toward her bed, his candle casting light on his face, and she recognized him. She started to speak
, but in the same instant Benedict came off his makeshift bed in one smooth motion, a drawn pistol in his hand.

  “Stop right there,” he barked.

  The other man jumped, startled. “Ow! Damnation!” He let out a string of oaths. “You scared the devil out of me. Burned myself with candle wax.” He peered across the room at Benedict. “Who the bloody hell are you, anyway, and what are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question,” Benedict retorted. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my wife’s bedroom?”

  “Your wife!” the other man ejaculated, staring.

  “Oh, hush!” Camilla said to the room in general, scrambling out of bed and running across the room to the young man. “Anthony!”

  “Milla!” He grinned and opened his arms, catching her as she flung herself at him. He lifted her up and hugged her tightly.

  Benedict, surveying them sourly, lowered his pistol and waited.

  The young man set Camilla down with a final squeeze, saying, “Careful, you’re going to light your hair on fire. Lord save us, what sort of game are you at now?”

  Camilla giggled. “Shut the door and come in and I’ll tell you.” She turned as he went to the door to do as she said. “Oh, Benedict, do put that gun away. ’Tis not a thief, only my cousin Anthony.”

  Benedict put the gun down but continued to look at Anthony with disapproval. “What’s he doing creeping into your bedroom at this time of night, anyway?”

  “Who is this man?” Anthony countered indignantly. “And what in the name of all that’s holy is he doing in your bedroom, Camilla?”

  “Well…” Camilla grinned, a look of mischief coming over her face. “Actually, he is my husband.”

  “What?”

  Camilla laughed at his outraged expression. “I’ll tell you all about it. I promise you. But first come over here and let me look at you. I swear, you’ve grown at least two inches since I saw you last.”

  She lit the oil lamp, turning it up, and pulled Anthony into the circle of its light. Its glow revealed a young, gangly man, already grown to a man’s height, but with the narrow leanness of youth. His face was square-jawed and handsome, his eyes a pale blue, and his hair a fine blond cloud of curls. He would have looked angelic, had it not been for the spark of mischief that usually lay in his eyes and the burgeoning muscles of his arms and shoulders.

  “I was disappointed when we got here and Purdle said that you had retired,” Camilla told him, smiling. “I was sure you must be sick.”

  Anthony groaned. “I can’t stand sitting around with Aunt Beryl after dinner, making polite chitchat and listening to Kitty and Amanda murder Mozart. It’s even worse now that Mama has arrived with that puppy Thorne in tow, always spouting off poetry to her eyes and such. Why, do you know, he wrote an ode to her brow the other day. Her brow! Now, I ask you…what can one say about a forehead? Then there’s Cousin Bertram, with all his airs, and that silent chap with him. It’s enough to drive a fellow straight into a megrim, I’ll tell you.” He looked aggrieved, thinking of the many wrongs he had to endure. “But, wait, you are not getting me off the subject that way. We were talking about him.” He scowled in Benedict’s direction.

  “She told you,” Benedict said blandly. “I am her husband.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s never said a word about you.”

  “Why, hasn’t Lady Marbridge told you that Camilla is now married?”

  “But that’s just some flummery of hers,” Anthony protested. “It isn’t true.”

  “Stop teasing him,” Camilla told Benedict, then turned to Anthony. “Of course it isn’t true. Benedict is merely pretending to be my husband.”

  Anthony stared at her, thunderstruck. Benedict let out a low growl. “Camilla, I thought we agreed…”

  “But that was not to tell Aunt Lydia. Anthony is different. I promise you, he can be trusted with a secret. He’s kept hundreds of mine over the years. And he tells bang-up lies.”

  “What a recommendation,” Benedict said dryly.

  “Well, it is. He could always tell whoppers with the straightest face.”

  “Yes,” that worthy young gentleman agreed, “it was always you who got us caught.”

  “That’s not true!” Camilla protested.

  Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Oh, no? What about that time we hauled the pig up the stairs to—”

  “Oh!” Camilla’s eyes flashed, and she set her hands on her hips. “You dare to throw that up to me? It was you who insisted on doing it, and then we couldn’t get him down again!”

  “How was I to know he would balk?”

  Benedict interrupted them. “Children, please… Could we get back to the subject at hand? I’d like to find out whether Mr….uh…”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Anthony, this is Mr., uh, Lassiter. Benedict, this is my cousin, the Viscount Marbridge. He is Aunt Lydia’s son.”

  “I see.” Benedict executed a slight bow toward the younger man. “Lord Marbridge. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Anthony bowed back, his face still stamped with suspicion. “Yes, well, that’s all well and good, except that I know your name’s not Lassiter. He is the chap Camilla made up.”

  “Yes, and I am he. A figment of Camilla’s imagination.”

  “He is pretending to be my husband,” Camilla explained.

  “And he is staying in here?” Anthony’s voice rose in outrage. “A man who is not your husband is sleeping in your bedroom? Good God, Camilla, what do you think you are doing? Your reputation will be ruined.”

  “I told you,” Benedict said wearily, shooting Camilla an exasperated glance. “You’re going to bring us both down if you persist in telling everyone what we are really doing.”

  Camilla was a little surprised at her easygoing cousin’s consternation. In general, Anthony was the most adventurous of young men, always off on some lark or other. “I never thought that you, of all people, would try to put a damper on my scheme. After all the things you have done…”

  “This is different.”

  “Yes, it’s me having an adventure instead of you.” Camilla crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin pugnaciously.

  “That’s not it, and you know it!” Anthony protested. “Anyway, I certainly never brought a girl into my room.”

  “There is nothing wrong with it, and no one will know that he isn’t my husband unless you blather it about.”

  “You know I would never rat on you.” Anthony looked indignant at this slur upon his honor. “But—” He glanced over at Benedict, who was watching their exchange with interest. “Oh, dash it! Camilla, this is most peculiar, and I cannot help but think that you are getting yourself into trouble.”

  “I am afraid that Miss Ferrand is already in trouble,” Benedict pointed out. “She hasn’t been out of it from the moment she started concocting all these lies. Let me remind you, Lord Marbridge, the whole house knows that Camilla and I went into this bedroom as husband and wife. It is too late for her to back out of our deal now. Her reputation would be in shreds. The only way she can save it is if we convince everyone that we are married.”

  “I said I wasn’t going to tell, and I won’t. Word of an Elliot. It’s just—well, I wish you had talked with me about it first, Milla. That’s all.”

  “I probably would have if I had had time. But I didn’t.”

  “Speaking of Miss Ferrand’s reputation,” Benedict put in. “Do you make a practice of visiting her bedroom in the middle of the night?”

  Anthony goggled at him. “You mean— You aren’t suggesting that I— Good Gad, man, that means nothing. Camilla and I have known each other forever. No one would think anything wrong of it.”

  “I suspect there are quite a few ruling ladies
of the ton who would find long acquaintanceship no excuse for such intimacy.”

  Anthony’s face turned red with anger, and he took a step toward Benedict, doubling his fists. Camilla caught his arm, flashing a speaking look at Benedict. “Really, must you be so disagreeable with everyone?”

  She turned toward the door, tugging at her cousin’s arm. “Come along, Anthony. Let us visit someplace else.”

  “You are going to gossip in the hall? That should be enlightening to your family.”

  “No one is up this late except us,” Camilla assured him. “Anyway, we won’t talk in the hall. We shall go up to the nursery. It’s where we always hatched our schemes, isn’t it, Anthony?”

  Anthony did not reply, but he went with her without protest, though he did pause at the door to cast a threatening look back at Benedict. Unfortunately, Benedict was turned away, calmly remaking his bed on the fainting couch, and did not see it.

  The nursery was on the third floor and consisted of a large room where the children had studied and played, as well as several bedrooms for them. Not as high as most of the servants’ rooms on the fourth floor, it was still far away from the larger adult rooms.

  Anthony had chosen to remain in his bedroom there as he grew older, rather than move down to the second floor and a room more befitting his age and station in life. It was well-known that Aunt Beryl disliked climbing stairs, and their cousins would rarely think of venturing up to the realms of childhood. Even their grandfather, before he grew ill, and Aunt Lydia had preferred to visit Anthony in their own rooms or one of the drawing rooms downstairs. His room was plain to the point of severity, but Anthony barely noticed the lack of luxury and considered it a sacrifice well worth it.

  Camilla followed her cousin up the back stairs and into the large schoolroom. She glanced around with fondness as Anthony used his candle to light an oil lamp and bring the room into greater light. She had grown up in this house, and the nursery held many memories for her. There were still a trunk of toys and shelves of her and Anthony’s favorite books, as well as a table of tin soldiers arrayed for battle, but Anthony used the room now for his studies, so there were also the more recent additions of an adult-size table and chairs. It was here that the cousins sat down.