Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  Camille looked up, startled to see Rothewell standing near. She had not seen the gentlemen return from their port. A sudden vehemence roiled up inside her. “Mais oui,” she answered coolly. “It is incroyable.”

  For a moment, he said no more. She hardened her gaze, and a look passed between them, dark and turbulent. He knew, of course, that she was angry. Good.

  She was chilled by her wish to lash out at him. To tell him, in no uncertain terms, that his days with Mrs. Ambrose were numbered. But that would not do, when so many eyes were upon them. It would have been a hollow warning anyway.

  Rothewell rested one forearm on the piano and leaned nearer, as if tempting her to slap him. “I know very little about music, of course,” he went on, as if the dark moment had never occurred. “But I do know good craftsmanship when I see it.”

  “The gilt and carving alone must have cost a fortune,” she managed to reply.

  Rothewell surveyed her in silence for a moment. “You look lovely tonight, Camille,” he murmured. “Are you well? Has everyone been kind to you here?”

  Was that a note of genuine concern in his voice? “Merci, my lord,” she answered, some of the fight going out of her. “Everyone has been most gracious. And the kiss—the kiss on my hand—it was unnecessary. But thoughtful.”

  “Thoughtful?” he echoed flatly.

  Just then, Lord Nash saw them from across the room and approached with a cup of coffee in hand. Camille suppressed a vague sense of disappointment. “Do you play, Mademoiselle Marchand?” he asked.

  “Mais oui,” she said. “The fortepiano, mostly.”

  “This is a six-octave Böhm,” said Nash, drawing up beside her. “It was bespoke from Vienna. The veneer and giltwork were my stepmother’s doing.”

  “Mon Dieu, to possess such a thing.” Camille’s voice was laced with awe.

  “By all means, try it,” Lord Nash encouraged. “You will fall in love, I think.”

  His choice of words sent a strange frisson up Camille’s spine. She tried to focus on the piano. Oddly aware of Rothewell’s gaze, she carefully laid back the fallboard, then set both hands down on the keys. The chord which rang out was both light and rich. Extraordinary.

  “And now you behold the true beauty of the Böhm.” Lord Nash surveyed her over his cup. “The giltwork and carvings are meaningless by comparison.”

  Camille played a few notes. “Oui, the sound—the résonance—all is perfection, monsieur.”

  “I know it is bad form to ask a guest of honor to perform, Mademoiselle Marchand,” Nash continued. “Still, I hope you will?”

  Camille looked up at Rothewell, who said nothing but inclined his head almost imperceptibly. Camille drew a deep breath and smiled. Then she lifted her hands, and set them dramatically down upon the keyboard. As was usual with her, she did not choose the piece, so much as the piece chose her. The sound washed over the room in luxurious, rippling waves as if from another’s hands.

  As she played, Camille was aware of nothing but Rothewell’s strong, steady gaze upon her hands as they moved upon the keyboard. Soon, she was lost to the music, unsure even of how long she played. Music was her solace. Her means of survival. It always had been—and during the last three years, as her mother’s illness had worn on, confining Camille and stripping from her all other joys, she had become more than competent at the piano.

  Long moments later, when at last the final chords rang out, Camille lifted her hands from the ivory, and looked up to see Rothewell’s sister standing beside him. From the other side of the sofa, someone was slowly clapping.

  “Well done! Well done!” said Lord Nash’s stepbrother, standing. “My hat—if I wore one—would surely be off to you, Mademoiselle Marchand.”

  Murmurs of appreciation ran through the small crowd, then one by one, most returned to their coffee and their conversation. Though he watched her still, Rothewell’s expression was strange, almost bleak. Then he, too, turned and walked away. He went to the window, and stood there rigid and alone, staring out into the night.

  “That was extraordinary, mademoiselle,” said Nash, setting his coffee aside. “A Haydn sonata, was it not?”

  “Mais oui, Number 54 in G-major.” But Camille’s attention was fixed on Rothewell’s back.

  “Allegretto innocente,” murmured Nash. “What a remarkable piece to choose.”

  Camille forced her attention to her host. “Oui, his sonatas are not as popular as his symphonies, I think?”

  “Nonetheless, you played it to perfection, Mademoiselle Marchand.” Nash smiled. “You did not give in to the temptation to rush it or to drive it too harshly, as so many do with Haydn.”

  “My lord, you are too kind. Merci.”

  “No, it was extraordinary,” Rothewell’s sister chimed in. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Marchand.” She glanced at her husband. “My dear, Gareth wishes to speak with you. Something about a filly coming up at Tattersall’s?”

  “Ah, that,” said Nash. “We are going to have a look on Thursday. Unless he has changed his mind?”

  His wife lifted one shoulder. “You must ask him, I daresay.”

  Lord Nash excused himself, and crossed the room to join the golden-haired duke. Lady Nash smiled down at Camille. “Will you play again, Mademoiselle Marchand?”

  She jerked her head up. “Camille, please.”

  Lady Nash’s smile warmed. “Camille, then.”

  “No, I shan’t be greedy,” she went on, rising. “I must let one of the other ladies take a turn.”

  Lady Nash laughed lightly. “I rather doubt, my dear, that any of us will wish to humiliate ourselves by following that performance,” she said. “And I see that Tony is getting up a hand of whist with the others. Would you care to come upstairs and see our nursery?”

  It was another olive branch, perhaps. Camille seized it. “Merci,” she answered. “I would like to.”

  Rothewell was not perfectly sure how long he stood there by the windows, looking out into a night so dark, there was nothing to be seen. He watched instead the watery reflection of the room. Of her. The Black Queen. As proud and as beautiful as she had been on the night he’d first laid eyes on her.

  The music did not resume. He was glad. Relieved, really. He realized that he had broken into a cold sweat and extracted his handkerchief to blot his forehead. He felt vaguely ill, like a boy on the verge of his first round of fisticuffs, knowing he would likely be pummeled.

  Good God, it was just music. Just a beautiful woman playing the piano. But playing it with an almost sensuous grace, her mind lost to the music as if it were a lover’s caress. Her finely boned hands had moved across the keyboard with an elegance he had no right to know, and yet he could not help but imagine those hands caressing him with that same passion. Would she ever long to touch him as she had longed to touch that piano?

  No. No, why should she? What a mistake this marriage was going to be. Camille was everything that he was not. Delicate. Polished. Graceful. And underneath all of it, she was passion personified. Never had he known a woman so clearly full of heat and light. Her husky bedroom voice still made him shiver, and her scent still filled his nostrils, though he had walked away from the piano minutes ago.

  Tonight her black hair was swept high on the back of her head again, revealing that delicate place just below her ear where Rothewell imagined he could see her heartbeat. He had watched her, almost mesmerized, and felt something inside himself tear away.

  Yes, a fight was indeed coming—and at the most inopportune point in a man’s life. And just now, it felt like a fight he was destined to lose.

  “Rothewell?” The voice was impatient. “Wake up, old chap.”

  “What?” He turned just as his friend Gareth took him by the arm.

  “I think you’ve gone deaf.” Gareth, the Duke of Warneham, grinned at him. “We’ve been calling you from across the room. Zee has absconded with your bride.”

  Rothewell looked round the room. “Yes, I see,” he muttered. “Prob
ably warning her off, eh?”

  “Probably.” Gareth’s grin did not fade. “You don’t deserve her, you know.”

  It was meant lightheartedly, he knew, but the words hit so close to home, Rothewell nearly flinched.

  But Gareth was still talking. “Listen, Rothewell, I’ve a mind to go to Tattersall’s Thursday morning with Nash. He’s looking to buy a filly—a famous one, I gather, but I’ve forgotten whose. Want to come along?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Rothewell managed. “I have some things I must get done.”

  “Yes, it’s too early in the day for you, I know,” said Gareth. “Moreover, the end of your bachelorhood draws nigh, doesn’t it? You must have much on your mind.” Gareth set a hand on Rothewell’s shoulder, and his smile faded. “Antonia and I are so pleased for you,” he said, dropping his voice. “We wish you many years of happiness, Kieran.”

  Many years of happiness. Well, that was not apt to happen.

  He thought again of how brittle and angry she was. Ironic how one could recognize it in another and not see it in one’s self. What was it Xanthia had said? “You will ruin her life, Kieran.”

  Those words had stung even as he had acknowledged there might be a hint of truth behind them. Was his sister right? Was he destined to drag Camille down into his own misery rather than lift her from her own?

  Shaking off the mood, Rothewell returned his attention to Gareth, thanked him, then resumed his solitary vigil by the window.

  Camille followed Rothewell’s sister up a wide, twisting staircase to the second floor. As they went, Lady Nash talked about what they might name the child. They were favoring Mihalo if a boy, and Katerina if female, her hostess explained, for they were the names of Nash’s maternal grandparents.

  Halfway along the passageway, she stopped, and pushed open a door. Camille followed her into a large, airy chamber with high ceilings and three wide windows. It smelled of beeswax and well-scrubbed floors. A sturdy rocking chair and a tufted armchair sat by the bank of windows. In the center of the room was an old wooden cradle stripped bare. The fireplace was surrounded by a tall brass fender, liberally padded with leather. But beyond that, the room was empty.

  Lady Nash turned round and opened her arms expansively. “Well, Camille, this is it,” she said. “My blank slate. My canvas, as it were. I only wish I knew where to begin.”

  Camille turned around in the room. “You have invited the wrong guest, madame, if you seek advice,” she said ruefully. “Perhaps your female relations might advise?”

  Lady Nash’s expression shifted. “I have no one, really, save Pamela,” she said quietly. “And Nash’s stepmother, of course. She is well-intentioned, but a bit scatty. No, I really just wished a moment of privacy with you, Camille. I wished to…well, to apologize, I suppose.”

  “Pardon, madame?” Camille murmured. “To apologize for what?”

  Her smile muted, Lady Nash set a hand on her faintly rounded belly, and eased down into the rocking chair. “I know I have seemed less than enthusiastic about this marriage,” she said quietly. “But it has nothing—nothing—to do with you. I swear it.”

  Camille joined her in the other chair. “Merci, madame,” she replied. “I am much relieved.”

  “As am I,” said Lady Nash, her gaze distant. “At first, I feared…well, never mind that. The truth is, Camille, you seem a thoroughly sensible woman. You may, in fact, be just what my brother needs. But is he is what you need?”

  “I need a husband,” said Camille quietly.

  Her hands braced on the arms of the rocker, Lady Nash shook her head. “Every woman wants more than that,” she replied. “To fall in love with a handsome prince. To be swept off one’s feet. You ought not settle for less than your dream.”

  “I have no dream, madame,” she lied. “The decision is made.”

  Lady Nash pursed her lips. “Then you must make Kieran toe the mark,” she said warningly. “You must give him and his bad habits no quarter. You must love him, and defend him fiercely—sometimes, perhaps, against himself. For if this is the marriage you mean to make, then you must make the marriage into something worth having. Only then will there be hope.”

  Camille looked at her quizzically. “Hope for what, madame?”

  Her head relaxed against the arching back of the rocking chair. “Call me Xanthia,” she said. “Or Zee.”

  “Merci,” she returned. “Xanthia.”

  Lady Nash’s gaze seemed far away. “I love my brother, Camille,” she said fervently. “I love him with all my heart. Never doubt it. He is an extraordinarily strong man, with a capacity for love which I suspect you cannot yet imagine.”

  “I…I must trust your judgment in this, madame.”

  Lady Nash turned to face her. “He was not always like this, you know,” she said quietly. “He was not always so cold and grim. He did not always drive himself hell-for-leather. Or drown himself in drink and…well, dissolution. Inside, Camille, that is not who he is.”

  “You had a good and loving family, madame?” Camille suggested. “Sometimes even that is not enough for a wayward soul.”

  Lady Nash gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Oh, God no!” she said. “I never even knew my parents. Perhaps your father left something to be desired, Camille, but at least you knew him. You knew he loved you.”

  Camille was quite sure Valigny had never loved anyone save himself, but it did not bear being said just now. “If you had no parents, how did you…come up? Is that the word?”

  The distant look deepened. “We were sent out to Barbados to my father’s older brother,” she answered. “He was the sixth Baron Rothewell, and the worst ever to bear the title, I am sure.”

  “In Barbados?” murmured Camille. “Alors, he was a…a governor? A diplomat?”

  Lady Nash shook her head, heedless of her hair scrubbing on the back of the chair. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “There was a scandal, I collect, when he was a young man, and he was sent away by his father. He was given a plantation—a run-down, ramshackle thing which threw off just enough money to keep him in brandy and bad company.”

  “Oui, je vois,” Camille murmured. “It was a difficult childhood?”

  She focused on a point somewhere far in the distance. “It was horrific,” she quietly admitted. “And it could have been even worse for me, I daresay. But my brothers saved me from the worst—and took the brunt of it instead. Kieran, especially. He never could keep his mouth shut. And Uncle was…not kind, to say the least.”

  Something like grief or guilt needled at Camille. “But why did they send you to such a horrible man?”

  “It was decided by my aunt—Pamela’s mother—that we should go there because Luke was our uncle’s heir, and Uncle had no wife or children,” she said.

  “And Luke—he was your brother, too?” said Camille. “Pardon, but I do not follow.”

  Lady Nash’s eyes looked weary. “Yes, our elder brother, but he died some years past,” she explained. “There was an accident. Kieran inherited most everything; the plantations—we had three by then—and a large part of Neville Shipping. And, of course, the baronial seat in Cheshire, which is vast.”

  Camille felt her eyes widen. “Vraiment?” she murmured. “Rothewell possesses an estate? And plantations?”

  Lady Nash looked at her strangely, then laughed. “My God, Camille!” she said. “No one will accuse you of marrying him for his money.”

  Camille’s mind was suddenly racing. Marry him for his money? Was Rothewell not the impecunious rake she had believed him?

  “And this Neville Shipping,” she murmured. “That is a…a very great thing? A prosperous thing?”

  Again, she gave a trill of laughter. “It had better be,” said Lady Nash. “I have slaved away at it for nearly the whole of my life. Luke taught me to read and write using the manifests. Kieran and I own a quarter each, our niece owns a quarter, and Gareth—the Duke of Warneham—owns the balance.”

  “A niece?” Camille searched her
brain. “The child of your dead brother?”

  Lady Nash smiled. “His adopted child, yes,” she said. “Martinique. She is married and living in Lincolnshire now. Luke wed her mother when Martinique was a child. But there, I am throwing out too many names. You needn’t worry about any of this.”

  Camille’s head was spinning. Rothewell had an estate and plantations. A sad childhood. A brother who died too young. A sister who worried for him. This marriage was beginning to feel terribly real to her. These were real people. A family—with all the tragedy and drama and history a family brought with it. This was not just Rothewell. And never mind the fact that he had deceived her about his wealth.

  At the outset, she had told herself she did not wish to know him. Did not need to know him. She needed his name and his seed, and nothing more. So why did she now hang upon his sister’s every word? Why was she so angry about Mrs. Ambrose? Was not one scoundrel very like another?

  Suddenly, Lady Nash sat erect in the rocker, her hands braced on the arms as if she might spring to her feet. “Just promise me this, Camille,” she said quietly. “Promise me that you will be a good wife to him—or as good a wife as he will permit you to be. I love him, you see. And…And I want you to love him. Promise me—promise me—that you will be kind to him. That you will love him.”

  Camille tore her gaze away, unable to look Lady Nash in the face. What was she to say? How could she promise anything to anyone? “We cannot know what the future holds,” she finally answered. “I…I will be a good wife, Xanthia. I will do my best to be kind.”

  Her omission, she thought, did not go unnoticed. Sadness sketched across Lady Nash’s face, then she rose from her chair. As if on impulse, she hugged Camille, then just as swiftly set her away again.

  “Well, I have neglected my guests too long, I daresay,” she said quietly. “Come, Camille. Shall we go back down?”

  Once inside the drawing room, Lady Nash excused herself to confer with one of the footmen regarding the coffee service. Most of the guests were playing cards now at one of two tables which had been pulled to the center of the room. Rather than hover over them, Camille drifted around the perimeter, admiring a fine collection of French landscapes. She was particularly absorbed by one when she felt a light touch at her elbow.