by Liz Carlyle
“Yip! Yip!” said the creature, as if insulted.
“He is a dog, ma’am,” said the butler. “Some sort of Asian spaniel, I’m told.”
“A dog—?” Rothewell looked down dubiously. “We’ve got rats in the alley twice his size. What is he doing here anyway?”
Trammel drew himself up an inch. “You said, sir, to get a dog,” he replied as Camille and Rothewell settled by the fire. “Yesterday afternoon, in fact.”
“The devil!” said Rothewell again. He sat down, wincing a little as if in pain. Camille said nothing—it would have done little good—but made a mental note to keep a watchful eye on him.
The little creature, however, held no such reservation. He leapt onto the settee beside Rothewell and set his chin upon his forepaws. His hindquarters, however, remained in the air, his backward, fanlike tail waving madly.
Camille leaned over to stroke him. “Bonjour, Chin-Chin,” she cooed. “T’es trop mignon!”
“Where, pray, did he come from?” asked Rothewell. “Wherever it was, by God, he’s going back tomorrow.”
“Alas, my lord, Chin-Chin is homeless,” Trammel intoned. “He has nowhere to go.”
“Homeless, my arse,” said Rothewell, glaring down at the tiny black-and-white fluff ball. “He’s fat as a Christmas goose, and freshly brushed. Now where the devil did you get him?”
Trammel sighed as if put upon. “Across the square at Mrs. Rutner’s—excuse me, Lady Tweedale’s—house,” he said. “The late Mr. Rutner brought him back from a trading venture in Malaya. But Lord Tweedale took a dislike to the poor mite after their marriage and threw him out. Said he’d rather have a bulldog.”
Rothewell made a sound of disgust. “Well, with a name like Tweedale, he can’t afford to take any chances, can he?” he said. “If I were Mrs. Rutner, I’d send him packing and keep the dog.”
“Mon Dieu,” murmured Camille, picking up the little spaniel and tucking him beneath her chin. “What sort of person gives up a pet to appease a tyrant?”
Rothewell snorted. “A spineless one,” he said.
“But you are trying to give yours away, sir,” said the butler, drawing the tea table nearer to Camille.
“Damn it, Trammel, it isn’t my dog.”
Further argument was forestalled by the reappearance of the footman carrying a galleried silver tray with a decanter of ruby-colored wine and two glasses. Just then, the spaniel leapt from Camille’s lap back onto Rothewell’s settee. The little dog circled twice, then flopped down against Rothewell’s well-muscled thigh with a satisfied grunt. Clearly, he had chosen his new master—and did not appear to be mourning the inconstant and cowardly Lady Tweedale.
Camille smiled and poured the wine.
An hour later, Trammel returned to inform Camille that her trunks had arrived. Camille refused the butler’s offer of a late meal, and Rothewell surprised her by following suit. It struck her as odd that such a man would have no appetite.
After a brief stroll through the lower floors of the house, they retired a little awkwardly upstairs. Rothewell’s bedchamber, Camille noted, was a study in asceticism. No carpets or bed hangings adorned the room, which was neither large nor grand. The bed, however, was a massive mahogany affair with tropical carvings on the towering bedposts, and it had not, she was sure, originated in England. The counterpane was woven of heavy, cream-colored cotton, and the windows were hung with similarly colored draperies. On the whole, the room was colorless, but Camille found it oddly soothing. Perhaps that was the intent.
Trammel helped Rothewell remove his coat, then rang the bellpull. “I fear the chambermaids are not quite ready for you,” he said to Camille. “We turned out the adjoining room this morning when we learnt of the wedding.”
So she had been expected. She had half feared that Rothewell might treat his staff with the same detachment he apparently treated marriage; something to be thought about—or mentioned—on a whim.
At that thought, shame flooded over her. Was she any better than Rothewell? Had she not set out to marry someone—anyone, really? Indeed, she had offered herself to him the very first night they’d met in exchange for marriage. She had wanted a husband, to escape Valigny and her cold, hollow existence. Whatever came of it now was as much her fault as anyone’s. And if she gave her heart to this man, that, too, would be her fault.
The room which was to be her bedchamber was directly connected to Rothewell’s, with neither a dressing room nor a sitting room as a buffer. At the entrance, she hesitated and sniffed suspiciously.
“Fresh paint, ma’am,” said Trammel. “I apologize. The door was just put in last week.”
Camille stepped back and looked at it, curious. “Was it?”
“There were no connecting bedchambers in the house,” the butler went on as they entered a lighter, much larger room. “His lordship wished you to have the main bedchamber. He has taken the smaller.”
Yes, expected indeed. So much for her theory about Rothewell’s detachment. He had given her his bedchamber? Oh, how she wished that he had not.
Inside, the furnishings were similar to those she had already seen, but the bed was smaller and more delicately made, and the room contained a writing desk and a brocade settee. All the lamps were lit, and two maids were in the process of rolling out the carpets and re-hanging the draperies. They were inordinately curious, and kept cutting sidelong glances in her direction when they thought she was not looking.
As to the room, she could not fault Rothewell’s servants. It smelled clean and well aired, and she saw not a trace of dust anywhere. Her trunks sat by the dressing-room door, one of them open to reveal her carefully folded nightclothes.
“I have sent for hot water, my lady,” said Trammel, returning to Rothewell’s door. “Your maid is in the kitchen having a late supper. Shall I send her to assist you?”
“Non, not tonight, merci.” Camille looked about the vast room, feeling vaguely lost. “Tell Emily to retire for the evening. We can see to all this unpacking tomorrow.”
When the water arrived, and the last of the maids departed, Camille locked the door so that she might bathe and brush out her hair. As she removed the evening’s finery, she was surprised by the weariness which overtook her. Her bones seemed to ache with the weight of it.
The water was blessedly hot, the soap a good French-milled cake scented mildly of almonds. She splashed her face, then methodically washed. But when she noted the slight tenderness between her legs, it sent her hurtling back to that one instant of pain when Rothewell had claimed her. The scent of him. The heat. His strength as he had lifted her against the wall, impaling her. Camille shivered. It seemed a lifetime ago, instead of mere hours.
She closed her eyes, and set her hands on the edge of the washstand to steady herself. The evening—all of it—seemed like a dream to her now.
But it was not a dream. Camille shook off the feeling and turned to stand before the cheval glass. Slowly, she let her gaze run down her length. So this was the woman Lord Rothewell had wed. The woman he had made love to last night. Passionate, impetuous love—and in the wickedest of ways, too.
Pictured thus, she did not look like the sort of woman who would stir a man to such lust. Indeed, she looked small and thin. One would have imagined him with someone more voluptuous. More exciting and experienced.
But he had chosen to marry her. And not for her money, it now seemed. And not for love. That left only kindness, so far as she could see, and Rothewell was not a kind man. If ever he had been, something had wrung it from his heart, or so he wished people to believe.
She sighed, then drew on her nightclothes and began to put out the lamps. Would Rothewell come to her bed tonight, she wondered? Or invite her to his? She would agree, of course. In part, because it was her duty. And because she wanted a child so desperately. But there was another, deeper, more frightening reason.
She did not have to wonder at it long. As she passed by the connecting door, there was a soft knock. The d
oor swung open to reveal her husband silhouetted in the lamplight, his broad shoulders and height filling the doorway. He wore a dark silk dressing gown and, it appeared, little else.
When he held out his hand, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. It was a warm hand, callused in places, and still hard with masculine strength. Wordlessly, he drew her into the room.
Trammel was gone, and the lamp by his bed was turned down to a mere flicker. A half-empty glass of brandy sat upon his night table, and the glow from the hearth cast a warm sheen over the room.
“Ah,” she murmured, glancing at the foot of the bed. “I see you have a happy bedmate.”
“Not for long.” Rothewell tossed a disparaging glance down at the dog.
Chin-Chin gave a huge yawn, then snapped his mouth shut and wriggled deeper into the bedcovers.
Rothewell scowled. “Look at the little beggar,” he said. “He acts as if he owns the bloody place.”
“What do you mean to do with him?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll take him back across the square, I daresay, and put the fear of God in Tweedale.”
As if he understood English, Chin-Chin slunk off the bed with a resentful glance and went to the hearth rug, stretching himself out before the fire.
Camille laughed and squeezed his hand. “Will you indeed?” she said. “I am not at all sure he means to go.”
Suddenly, Rothewell closed his eyes, and dropped his voice. “I hope, Camille, that you will not regret this,” he rasped. “I hope that I have done the right thing.”
He was not talking about the dog, and his uncertainty strangely touched her. Camille stared into the fire, once again wishing he would revert to the arrogant, drunken rake she had first met in her father’s parlor.
“You have done only that which I asked you to do from the very first,” she admitted.
Some nameless emotion flared in his eyes when he opened them. “I may have occasion to remind you of that, my dear.”
Camille lifted one shoulder. “If there are regrets, whom can I blame save myself?”
For the first time that she could recall, he looked away. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. “In the library last night,” he finally said, his voice hoarse, “had I exercised a little restraint, this sudden marriage would not have been necessary.”
“I believe, monsieur, that there were two of us in that library,” she said a little tartly. “Do not suggest to me that I had no choice. I know what my choices are, and I make them as it suits me.”
Rothewell glanced down at their clasped hands. “Until last night, Camille, I…I was toying with the ungentlemanly notion of backing out of this betrothal. Would you have let me?”
“Oui, bien sûr,” she said. “But not gladly.”
“Pamela would have helped you,” he said. “Had either of us asked, she would have thought of something. She has grown fond of you. In her heart, she does not wish to see you tied to me.”
“But she is your cousin, monsieur,” Camille answered. “How could she not wish it?”
“Because Pamela knows the kind of husband I’ll be,” said Rothewell. “A bad one. But you already know that, do you not? You don’t expect much out of me, so you won’t be disappointed, I daresay.”
“I have few expectations, my lord,” she said quietly. “And you know what they are.”
He looked at her with something like sorrow in his eyes, and to her surprise, his hands came up to gently cradle her face. “You will not…develop any foolish, feminine attachments to me, will you, Camille?” he murmured. “You are too wise for that, I think.”
“Oui,” she said softly, dropping her gaze. “I am too wise.”
Camille shifted to move away, but he surprised her by drawing her into his arms. “All our regrets and bad luck aside, we are married,” he said. “And it has been a long day for us both, I think. For a few hours, let us pretend that life, perhaps, holds a little more hope than we think. That happiness can be a real and tangible thing—even for the likes of such jaded folks as us.”
When Camille made no answer, he kissed her lightly, then threaded one hand through her hair. “Such glory,” he murmured, pulling back to look at her.
“Pardon?” she whispered.
He smiled, a rare thing. “Your hair,” he murmured. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, I have wanted to see it down.” Again, he slid his fingers through it. “Like black silk, hanging to your waist. Will you promise me something, Camille?”
She swallowed hard. “I…oui, perhaps. What do you wish?”
He brushed his mouth over the apple of her cheek. “I wish, Camille, that so long as I live, you will never cut it,” he said. “Will you promise me that? Is it too great a thing for a husband to ask?”
She found his choice of words a little odd. “It—It is not such a great thing,” she admitted. “Oui, if it matters to you.”
As if pleased by her agreement, Rothewell pulled her into his arms and kissed her gently with only his lips, but thoroughly, as if they had all the time in the world. Yet Camille could think only of how she had felt with her body joined to his last night. Of the passion and almost uncontrollable yearning which had burnt inside her. She came against him stiffly, hesitantly, wondering how on earth she was to give this man her body whilst holding on to her heart.
“Open your mouth, Camille,” he whispered against her lips.
He pressed her body closer, and a shudder of suppressed lust ran through her. She opened her lips beneath his, reveling in the feel of his tongue slowly thrusting into her mouth. He slid deep, tasting her, plumbing the depths of her mouth and her soul until finally, Camille felt herself surrender. She rose onto her toes, melting to him, her breasts pressed high against the silk of his dressing gown.
With her eyes drowsy slits, the lamp and the firelight seemed to twinkle in an otherworldly blur, much as her wedding ring had done. Rothewell’s hand was on her buttock, slowly circling, urging her hips to his. In mere moments, she felt lost—lost to all good sense, filled only with warmth and need and sensation.
He broke off the kiss on a groan, his nostrils wide. His hands went to the tie of her wrapper, drew it impatiently free, and pushed the garment from her shoulders. Her remaining clothes soon followed, and then she stood before him, her body as bare as her soul. The chill of the room drifted over her, making her nipples harden and her cheeks flood with color.
Rothewell’s eyes slid down her length, hot and hungry. “You are so lovely,” he rasped. “I want you, Camille. I want you in my bed tonight.”
She turned, drew back the covers, and lay down.
His gaze raked over her again, his eyes flaring appreciatively. He loosened the tie of his dressing gown and let it slither to the floor. Camille almost gasped aloud when she saw him fully naked. Rothewell was quite shockingly male, even to one who had often seen the masculine nude in painting and sculpture. Despite the width of his shoulders, he was sleek and muscled like a cat, his waist almost impossibly lean. His chest was solid, and his arms were not those of some idle nobleman, but those of a man who had known hard work.
Rothewell’s thighs were thick, and lightly dusted with hair, and between them his manhood hung firm and almost disconcertingly large. As if to shield it from her view, he set one knee to the bed, and crawled over her, again clasping her face almost tenderly between his hands as he kissed her deep.
“Do you want me, Camille?” he whispered when he broke the kiss. “Do you want…this?”
She looked away. “You can make me want it,” she whispered.
He slid a finger beneath her chin and gently turned her face back to his. “You are a passionate woman, yes,” he said. “There is no shame in that, Camille. No weakness. Is that what you think?”
Camille did not wish to think at all. And so she did the one thing sure to distract him. She closed her eyes and pulled his face to hers, kissing him deeply.
For long moments there was nothing but the sound of their growing
passion in the gloom. Rothewell made love to her with his mouth, and with his hands, gently and unerringly. She sighed beneath him. With his careful skill, he drove her sighs and her hunger to a fevered pitch.
His ravening mouth sought her breast, his eyes closing in a sweep of thick black lashes across his cheeks. As if he meant to madden her, Rothewell suckled at her nipple until it drew into a hard, aching peak. Until the dark desire began to twist through her body again, tugging at her womb in that sweet, familiar way. His lips slid softly to her breastbone, his tongue coming out to draw a sweet, simmering trail of heat all the way down to her navel. There, he kissed her, licking it lightly then delving inside until she shuddered.
At that, he made a sound of pleasure deep in his throat and let his hands slide round to her buttocks. With one knee, he gently urged her legs wider. When she obeyed his command, he let the weight of his erection ease through her warm, slick folds, just grazing the sweet spot he had tormented last night.
“Oui, oui,” she whispered, her head thrashing a little on the pillow.
He entered her a little roughly. Camille sucked in her breath through her teeth, but the feeling was one of both pleasure and pain.
“Good God,” he rasped. “Forgive me.”
“I want this,” she whispered. “Oh. Do not stop.” Her hands had gone to the hard muscles of his hips, her fingers digging deep. Her wetness was audible now, almost embarrassingly so.
Rothewell lifted his weight from her body, his heavy black hair falling forward, casting his face in deep shadow as he drew back and entered her again. “Ah, Camille!” he cried. “Oh, sweet.”
He captured her hands in his, pushing them high above her head, then thrust again, the muscles of his throat and his belly going taut. It was a perfect rhythm of pleasure. Her need circled higher and higher, his every stroke pushing her toward that delicious, frightening edge.
He made love to her, it felt, with every element of his being; loved her until her breath came sharp in the night, and she was crying out for him. Vowing her need—and perhaps even more than that. The intensity spiraled inside her. She wanted to feel, not think. Not to doubt herself or to doubt this.