by Liz Carlyle
For an instant, their eyes locked, and again she had the sense that he was searching for something. Grappling with some notion she could not comprehend. She was beginning to think she better understood him as a drunken roué. This strong, stern man seemed far more controlled, and much less predictable.
“You once spoke, Camille, of your wish to live alone,” he continued, his voice a low, soft rumble. “I dislike the notion, but we live in a world of uncertainty. Are you strong enough to rear a child alone?”
“I am strong enough,” she answered firmly. “Never doubt me, my lord. I am strong enough. To persevere. To survive. To do whatever must be done.”
When she said no more, Rothewell led her toward one of a pair of benches which sat in the center of the rose garden and drew her down beside him. She noticed he had begun, unbidden, to use her Christian name.
“I want to understand something,” he finally said. “I want to know how you came to be here in England. What led up to this point in your life.”
It was not an unreasonable demand, given the circumstances. Lord Rothewell wished to know more about her. He was going to marry her. In all likelihood, she would bear him a child. So why did his curiosity feel intrusive? Had she somehow imagined the man would simply turn up one day with a parson in tow, no questions asked?
And then it struck her that his questions, his explanations—all of this—was a sort of intimacy. The giving and sharing of one’s life. But she had no wish to share her life with anyone; to be emotionally bound by even such a simple act as this—getting to know one another. She was afraid of Lord Rothewell. She did not wish him to rescue her. She could not bear to have her heart broken as her mother’s had been. She just wanted a child. Someone of her own to love. And then she wanted to be left alone by Rothewell and by the rest of the world—because in the end, that was how life worked anyway.
But Rothewell was holding her gaze, his eyes unwavering, and to her shock, Camille felt that odd sensation in the pit of her stomach again. She knew it for what it was, too, though she had rarely felt it. Lord Rothewell was not a beautiful man, no. But he was striking, with his hooded gray eyes and his hard facial bones. And the set of his jaw said he wanted an answer to his question.
Camille dropped her gaze to her lap. “Très bien,” she finally said. “What do you wish to know, monsieur?”
“I am not perfectly sure,” he admitted.
Fleetingly, Camille wondered if perhaps this was as awkward for him as it was for her.
“I suppose I wish to know what happened between your mother and Valigny,” he said. “She was the Countess of Halburne, was she not?”
Camille nodded. “Oui, or so she called herself,” she answered. “But Halburne divorced her when I was two or three. Perhaps the name was no longer hers to use?”
Rothewell shrugged. “I cannot say,” he admitted. “There were no divorces where I came from.”
“Where you came from?” She looked at him in some surprise. “Do you not come from here, monsieur?”
He shook his head. “No, I spent the whole of my life—or pretty near it—in the West Indies,” he said. “I have lived in London less than a year. The place still strikes me as strange.”
Camille considered it. Perhaps she and Rothewell had more in common than she had imagined. “My mother died in the spring,” she said. “I daresay it little matters what one calls her now.”
“I am sorry you lost her,” said Lord Rothewell. “From what did she die, if I may ask?”
“Hard living, monsieur,” said Camille. “Hard living, declining beauty, and—perhaps—a broken heart.”
Again, he flashed the faint half smile, and Camille found herself wondering what he would look like if he smiled with the whole of his mouth. Younger, she thought.
“A broken heart?” he said. “Broken by whom? Surely not Valigny?”
“Bien sûr, she adored him,” said Camille honestly. “Always, he was the one thing she could never have—not for very long.”
“Ah,” said Lord Rothewell. “You did not live as a family?”
Camille felt suddenly wistful. “Briefly, oui,” she said. “After that, Maman was just Valigny’s occasional mistress. He never remained long in one place, and had many women. Of course, it was France, and Maman took lovers, too. But I think always, monsieur, all that she wished was to make him jealous.”
“Did it work?”
Camille nodded. “Oui, sometimes,” she said. “He would return to her, and there would be money for clothes and for jewels. Sometimes a gift for me. He would pamper her until she began to bore him, then he would go away again.”
“And they never married?” Rothewell asked. “Did Valigny have a wife?”
Camille shook her head. “He wed a girl in his village, Maman said, when he was young, but they, too, divorced,” she said. “For a time, it was common in France. Maman truly believed Valigny would marry her someday.”
“They could have done, after Halburne freed your mother,” he remarked.
Camille gave a sour smile. “Oh, but Valigny concocted a new story when the time came,” she answered. “He claimed the church would not allow him to marry again—a convenient discovery indeed.”
Rothewell looked at her incredulously. “Valigny is a devout Catholic?”
Camille’s laugh was bitter. “Non, a devout liar,” she said. “Years later, Maman discovered his wife had died shortly after her second marriage, so Valigny had long been released from any religious obligation. Instead, for Valigny, Lord Halburne’s divorce was—how do you say it?—the last straw on the camel?”
Rothewell smiled. “The straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Oui, the camel’s back,” Camille continued. “After Halburne divorced her, Maman’s father wrote to her and cut her off utterly. Valigny finally realized that there would never be an inheritance. His gamble had not paid off. After that, Valigny slipped in and out of Maman’s life. We were fortunate his family accepted us—at least nominally—and left the roof over our heads and gave us a meager allowance.”
“And now your grandfather has left a part of his estate to you,” Lord Rothewell murmured. “But with harsh stipulations.”
“Oui, it was a decision made long ago,” she answered. “At the time he cut Maman off. As to the stipulations, something, I daresay, is better than nothing.”
Rothewell was no longer looking at her, but into the shadows of the boxwoods beyond the rose garden. “Tell me about her,” he said. “Your mother, I mean. About how she came to be involved with Valigny and exiled to France.”
Camille gave a bitter laugh. “Maman met him during her come-out,” she answered. “Valigny told her that for him, it was love at first sight.”
Rothewell crooked one eyebrow. “And she believed that, did she?”
Camille shrugged. “Some days, certainement, she believed. Especially at the first. And she loved him back. Desperately. She did not see—or would not allow herself to see—what he was.”
“How did they come to be living in France?” he asked.
“Maman was betrothed to Halburne,” she answered. “Against her wishes, of course, for she claimed to love Valigny. But her father disliked Valigny excessively, and after the marriage was arranged, he refused to let her see him. She finally agreed to the wedding—to escape her father, I think—then shortly afterward, Maman slipped out to meet Valigny. In response, Halburne slapped a glove to Valigny’s head.”
“To his face, yes,” said Rothewell. “And so there was a duel for the lady’s honor?”
Camille nodded. “Oui, Lord Halburne was shot,” she said. “Valigny stood unscathed. When Maman heard this, she thought it très romantique.”
“And you do not?”
“Non.” Camille felt her temper spike. “I think it was très stupide. And irresponsible. And cowardly in the bargain.”
“I see.” Rothewell watched her levelly for a moment. “And then what happened?”
“They fled to
France. This was in the early years of the war.”
“Good God,” muttered Rothewell. “Halburne was expected to die?”
“It was said that he would, oui, and that because of it, Valigny could never return to England,” Camille answered. “But somehow, Halburne did not die. Instead, he divorced Maman.”
Rothewell gave a low whistle. “What a row that must have been.”
“Oui, and a terrible embarrassment for Lord Halburne,” she whispered. “And now my coming here will surely stir up old gossip—and old hatred.”
Rothewell shook his head. “You will not likely meet him,” he said. “Moreover, he cannot fairly blame you. Valigny, however, is a different kettle of fish.”
Camille shrugged. “After the war ended, monsieur, Valigny resumed his visits here. If there has been trouble, it has not reached my ears.”
“Then Halburne is a damned sight more forgiving than I would be.” Lord Rothewell fell silent for a long moment, then he set his hands on his thighs as if to rise. “Well. We have a decision to make, I suppose. Do you wish, Camille, to go through with this business of marriage?”
“Mais oui, I thought this was decided,” she said.
He regarded her through hooded eyes. “You would willingly marry a haggard old roué?” he said, echoing the insult she had once flung at him.
She cut her gaze away, and did not answer. “I am some years older than you, Camille,” he went on. “And I have lived a very different life.”
She jerked her head around. “You know nothing of the life I have lived, monsieur,” she said. “I am not some naive innocent with whom you must concern yourself. I have no wish to be swaddled.”
“That’s good to know,” he remarked, “given all your barbs and nettles.”
Camille felt her face warm. “Your pardon,” she said hastily. “I am too brusque. How old are you, monsieur?”
He looked taken aback. She could see him mentally calculating in his head. “Five-and-thirty, more or less,” he finally answered.
“Ça alors!” Her eyes widened. “No more than this?”
“My dear, you are just full of compliments this morning,” he murmured. “I can scarce wait for our wedding day.”
“Pardon, monsieur,” she said. “It is just that you look…or you seem—”
“Yes, I know,” he interjected. “Old and haggard.”
Her blush deepened. “Non, that is not perfectly true,” she murmured. “You are very handsome, as I am sure you know, but you have the look of a man who knows much of life.”
“Aye, more than I might wish, perhaps,” he said musingly. “When do you wish to marry?”
“Tomorrow,” she answered. “I have no time to waste.”
“I understand the feeling,” said Rothewell dryly. “But perhaps it would be best, Camille, if we were seen courting for a time.”
“Better for whom, monsieur?” she asked.
His mouth drew tight for a moment. “Better for your reputation, perhaps, in the long run,” he said.
“Why do you care?”
“Madame, you will be my wife.”
“And you do not wish to be tainted by gossip?”
Irritation glittered in his eyes. “If you knew anything at all of my reputation, Camille, you would not even contemplate marriage to me,” he snapped. “But for my wife—possibly for my child—yes, I should mind the taint of gossip a great deal.”
He moved as if to rise. She surprised herself by touching him lightly on the arm. “My lord, I ask you again. Why do you do this?”
Rothewell’s expression went blank. “I am told that at my age, one needs a wife and an heir,” he said, jerking to his feet.
“Pardon, monsieur, but you do not strike me as the sort of man who listens to what he is told,” she said, following him into the shadows of the garden. “Let us at least be honest with one another.”
When he did not respond, she caught him lightly by the elbow and felt the tautness of a hard, well-muscled arm beneath the wool of his coat. He spun around, and their gazes caught.
For a long moment, Lord Rothewell said nothing. “My sister recently married, and I have no one to manage my home,” he finally answered. “It is a simple enough matter, is it not?”
Camille watched him warily for a moment. He was lying. She knew it. “Alors, this is to be a true marriage of convenience?” she asked. “I will see to the running of your house, and you will give me a child?”
He nodded curtly.
“Très bien,” she said. “I accept this. But do not attempt to persuade me to trust you, Rothewell. All men are faithless. I will not depend upon you.”
He fell silent for a time, and she awaited the lies. Perhaps, even, some halfhearted pledge of fidelity. But that was not what she got.
“Indeed, you would be well advised not to depend upon me,” he answered. “You must build a life for yourself, Camille. I will not be available to you.”
There. She was fairly warned.
Perhaps she would not have to leave him in order to be left alone. Or perhaps, despite his pride, he would be glad enough to let her go—so long as her inheritance came as promised. It was a bit of a gamble, yes. But once again, what choice did she have?
She felt the heat of Lord Rothewell’s gaze and looked up. His eyes were hard, his jaw harder still. To her surprise, he lifted his hand, and brushed the back of it along her cheek, a surprisingly intimate gesture. “For all your barbs and nettles, you are a beauty, Camille,” he murmured. “That first night—yes, I knew you were—and yet, a man sometimes doubts himself.”
“Mon Dieu, did you imagine I might have grown a beard and a tail overnight, monsieur?” Camille felt surprisingly wounded. “Or were you too drunk to remember what I looked like?” She held his gaze, and refused to look away. She was no shy, innocent miss, and she’d be damned if she would act like one no matter how dashing and handsome he appeared.
“I had been drinking, yes, and I was tired,” he acknowledged. “And I shan’t deny that I have on occasion misjudged a woman’s beauty during a long, hard night.”
Camille laughed. “That must come as a shock when one awakes to a gorgon in one’s bed the next morning.”
He smiled faintly, but it was somehow turned inward. His gaze drifted over her, and for an instant, some nameless emotion sketched across his face. Not lust, she thought, but something harder to comprehend. Longing? Or regret, perhaps? But how foolish she was. Men like Rothewell did not feel regret—and if they longed for something, they found it, and took it.
“Oh, well,” he finally said. “A man usually gets what he deserves, Camille. But you—ah, your beauty would disappoint no man—at any time of day.”
“Merci bien,” she replied.
But she had become acutely aware that the mood was oddly shifting. They stood near the far wall of the garden now, and he was holding her gaze, his silvery eyes almost mesmerizing.
The world seemed suddenly more distant, as if the here and now existed only in this place—this small circle of dying roses and dead leaves—with only the two of them in it. And Lord Rothewell was…different somehow. Dangerous. Oh, this man was dangerous. To her sanity. Even, perhaps, to her heart.
When he lifted his hand to gently cup her cheek, Camille felt suddenly as if the earth had tilted. “It will be no disappointment, Camille, to have you in my bed,” he murmured, threading his fingers through the hair at her temple. “Have you any experience? Or am I to be your first?”
But Camille was now trembling inside with an emotion she did not comprehend. She did not like this disconcerting reaction to his touch. “Ça alors!” she snapped. “What sort of question is that?”
“A logical one, I should think,” he murmured, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The scent of his cologne—the scent of him—was enveloping her. Cowardice got the best of Camille, and she shut her eyes.
“Do not mistake me, monsieur, for the fool that my mother was,” she managed. “I saw enough of h
er world to last me a lifetime. I know the value of virginité far too well to sell it cheap.”
“That sounded like a yes,” he murmured. “But I would find you desirable, Camille, regardless.”
Camille felt herself shiver, and yet an unseasonable warmth seemed to swirl about them. “You do not have to flirt with me, monsieur,” she murmured. “I know what my duty is to my husband, and I will do it.”
“I do not flirt.” His voice had gone husky. “Kiss me, Camille.”
“Mais pourquoi?” she whispered.
“Because,” he said quietly, “for the second time in my life, I should like to taste innocence.”
His grip on her arm seemed to tighten. She said neither yes, nor no. And despite the fact that her eyes were still shut, she was acutely aware of his mouth hovering over hers. Of his strong arm banding round her, and their bodies coming inexorably together as her thoughts spun out of control again.
It was inevitable. And strangely, in that moment of heat and scent and soft words, Camille did not care. She wanted him. Her arms slid round his waist unbidden. His mouth skimmed along her jaw, brushing at her ear. “Teach me, Camille,” he murmured. “Teach me to be gentle.”
Her body went willingly, fully against his. Unlike the first time, Rothewell settled his lips over hers in a kiss which was slow in its seduction. His mouth slanted back and forth, molding softly and perfectly to hers, drawing her into him. Coaxing her. His hands were big, his body sheltering, and the kiss exquisitely tender, ratcheting up her pulse. Melting her to him. Yes, seduction was the word for this.
Fleetingly, she wondered if she’d lost her mind. But this was her fate, and she had agreed to it. Why resist? Her body was already answering his, and he knew it. Rothewell drew his tongue enticingly across her lips, tempting her to surrender. In response, Camille tipped back her head. He made a sound—something between a sigh and a groan—and crushed her against him as he plunged his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. And then she was truly lost, caught up in the heady spiral of passion.
Her hands slid beneath his coat and went skating up the warmth of his back, making him shiver. It was empowering. Compelling. He drew back and brushed his lips across the apple of her cheek. “Camille,” he whispered.