He didn’t want that.
He wanted more, though he had never given himself leave to entertain what more would even look like.
“You are never to see that woman, nor any other person such as her, again.”
Camden opened his mouth to give the expected words of acquiescence, but then stopped himself. He was flooded with images of Del. Of her running through the darkened streets, breathless and mysterious and beautiful. Of her walking in the park with him, teasing him with jests and shocking him with honesty until he felt the mortifying blush of embarrassment flush his cheeks. Del at the theater, her lovely face softly lit by the glow from the footlights as she raptly watched the performance. How her entire countenance lit up with mirth as she laughed along with the crowd. How afterward she had surprised him with astute commentary on the social and gender implications of the play. He thought of all this, and he knew he couldn’t make any promises to his father.
He wouldn’t be able to stay away from her.
Camden brought his gaze to meet his father’s, saw how red and mottled his face had become. He knew there was a rage building in his father that would soon boil over, and still he couldn’t force himself to say the words that would stem the angry tide.
“What is wrong you, boy?” George’s voice cracked slightly and Camden knew he was barely hanging on to his control. “What possible charms could this whore possess that make you even think of defying me and destroying everything I have worked so hard to build?”
Though phrased as a question, Camden knew his father’s words were meant to be an accusation, not an inquiry. The man had no real interest in what made Del so intriguing, but Camden found himself wanting to try to explain it to him anyway. What could he say, though? How could he make his father understand what made Del so different? She was extremely intelligent, wholly independent, and so completely without pretense that it quite literally took his breath away at times. How could he phrase it so it would make sense to his father? Camden wasn’t sure George even understood the concepts of independence or disregard for social intrigue and machinations.
“She is — different from any person I have ever met,” Camden said.
George’s eyes bulged, and Camden knew he was both surprised and enraged that Camden had actually tried to explain himself. “Different?” George shouted. “Different? You would squander our fortunes and reputation on the childish notion that this whore is somehow different? Let me tell you something, boy, there is nothing special about her. Nothing. She is nothing more than a common whore that can be bought of any street of London.”
“She’s not a common whore,” Camden said as he began to rise from his seat. “She’s — ”
“Enough!” George yelled as he slammed his hands down on Camden’s desk. Camden instinctively sat back down, hardly aware of what he was doing. “I am through speaking with you on this matter. It is over. No more. You are not to see her again. Ever.”
Camden looked down at the papers scattered across his desk and said nothing.
“Do you understand? Never again. Hear me?”
“Yes,” Camden and though he was defiant, he was still not ready to give voice to his complete thought. Yes, I hear you, but I make no such promises.
George glared at him for several seconds, and Camden felt the heat and weight of it, as if his anger were a corporeal being ready to physically strike him. And then it was gone as George stalked out of the office, his father seemingly satisfied that he had procured a promise of obedience from his son. He had no reason to believe otherwise. Camden had thus far always done as he was told, behaved as he was expected. And parts of Camden wanted to do that now, wanted to stave off any further conflict by doing what his father ordered. He should cease all contact with Del and redouble his efforts at the shipping company. Then his father would be happy — or at least not overtly furious; Camden doubted his father was ever actually happy — and Camden could continue living his rote life in relative peace.
He just — couldn’t. There was something in him, some small spark that became a little more inflamed every time he thought of Del, which prevented him from meekly submitting to his father’s demands. Yes, he could avoid any contact with her and buy himself a reprieve from his father’s fury, but he was beginning to think the price he paid — had been paying his entire life — was becoming more than he could bear.
He stared down at his desk until the numbers in the ledgers blurred, and he knew he would get no more work done tonight. He rose abruptly, toppling his chair over and scattering papers, but he was too frustrated to care about setting his office back to rights. He grabbed his coat and left the shipping offices. He needed air, needed to move, needed time to think. He would walk the streets until he was calmer, and then he would return to his office to finish the accounting.
Even as he stormed down the streets following a now-familiar route, he still pretended to himself there was some question as to where he would end up that night.
• • •
A cool evening breeze blew in from the open window, causing the delicate silk curtains to billow and ripple on the current. Del drew her robe closer around her as she closed the book on her lap with frustration. She had been trying all evening to read the overwrought gothic romance but she was having difficulty focusing. She found herself reading the same paragraph over and over again, and when she was finally able to read through an entire chapter, she was plagued with a distraction of a different kind. Every time she encountered a description of the aggressive raven-haired hero sweeping the heroine into his arms, he somehow changed into a soft-spoken blond man in her mind. Somehow, it was Camden she envisioned storming the haunted mansion to rescue the quivering maiden.
Del tried to banish such ridiculous images from her mind, but her mind refused to cooperate. It conjured memories of Camden, of his eyes peering into hers, his voice soft against her ear, his hand strong and firm on her back. It created visions of him. Camden riding on his horse as she had seen him yesterday afternoon in Hyde Park, except in her head he was wearing no cravat or waistcoat, and his linen shirt was open to the waist, exposing his muscled chest.
“Ugh, stop it,” Del told herself.
She rose from the settee and went to the sideboard to pour a tumbler of brandy. She took a gulp, reveling in the warmth that burned a trail down her throat. She wiped the sticky liquid from her lips with the back of her hand and went to sit back down, the half-full tumbler still clutched in her fingers.
She simply had to stop thinking about Camden, had to stop romanticizing who he was and what they could be together. She had thought in the beginning it was simply curiosity. He had intrigued her with his young innocence tinged with a hard, still-burgeoning masculinity. It had caught her off-guard how forthright he was with her, how he treated her as a person with desire and needs, and not just a vessel to fulfill his lust. She had agreed to accompany him to the theater because she thought that if she spent time with him the alluring sense of newness and mystery would wear off and she could go back to the way she was — independent, in control of her own destiny, free.
Instead, she had been left wanting more. She wanted more time in his presence, more quick-witted conversation, more of the stolen glances and small touches neither of them could curtail. The encounters with Ashe and Hutchence and shown her how futile it was for her to pursue even a friendship with Camden, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to stay away from him. He had come round her townhouse the day before and suggested they take a stroll through the park, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from agreeing. She had tried, it had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Camden they could no longer see each other, in any capacity, but the words had died in her throat. It was as if someone else, a person who wasn’t struggling to defend herself against the vagaries of fate and society, had overtaken her and it was that person who told Camden in a far too eager voice that she
would love to spend the afternoon with him. Again, she told herself the lie that she would soon tire of him, that her interest would be sated and she could walk away from him. And once again the falsehood was revealed at the end of the afternoon when, as Camden had walked her home and she had dallied at her door, she was loathe to leave him.
Del was pulled back to the present by a sudden gust of cold wind and the sound of rain pelting her townhouse. She hurried to the window and shut it before the rain could soak her carpets. She was about to pour herself more brandy when she was stopped, decanter held mid-air, by an insistent knocking on her front door.
Blakely, she thought as she entered the foyer. She knew he would show up at her door eventually and demand to know why she had been avoiding him. She wondered what she should tell him, because it certainly couldn’t be the truth. She wasn’t even ready to fully admit it to herself — that she hadn’t been able to be with anyone because her mind had become too crowded by thoughts and memories of Camden. That it felt somehow wrong to be with a man that wasn’t him. She would have to eventually, she knew. She couldn’t be with Camden and she couldn’t support herself staying shut up in her townhouse, alone.
She put her hand on the knob, ready to disarm Blakely with a dazzling, if not altogether sincere, smile and some carefully spoken platitudes. Her smile froze and any witty remark flew from her head as soon as she opened the door, however. It wasn’t Blakely standing on her step.
It was Camden.
His great coat was pulled tight around him to ward off the wind and rain, and his hat was pulled down low on his brow, nearly concealing his blond hair, but Del knew instantly who it was. She had replayed her memories of him often enough to know his stance, the way he stood with his feet apart and his head tilted slightly to the left. She knew him by his long, strong fingers holding his coat close around his neck, by the squareness of his shoulders, his height. She knew she could identify him by the smallest part.
He looked up at her, his dark brown eyes on hers. “Del,” he said simply, softly, and she could tell something had upset him. She had seen him ungoverned once before, when he was riding his horse in Hyde Park. It had been unrestrained happiness she had seen in him then, but it was something else — anger? frustration? — that now seeped out from behind his carefully controlled exterior.
“Camden. Come in.” Del stepped back to allow him entry and took his hat and greatcoat as he passed.
He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, causing droplets of rainwater to fly off him.
“Let me get you a drink.” She led the way back to the study and poured him a brandy. “Please sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite the settee.
They said nothing for a moment, though they watched each other from over the rims of their tumblers. Del wondered what had him so riled. He sat tensely in the chair, his large booted feet set stiffly in front him. He held his brandy tumbler so tightly his knuckles were turning white. His brows were drawn, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid. Though he always had a serious, reserved look about him, tonight he looked almost — dangerous, as if there was an energy building up within him that threatened to explode. She wanted to ask him what was wrong but she hesitated, as though moving or speaking too suddenly would be the spark that lit his fuse. She didn’t fear for herself, of course, but she didn’t want to see him self-destruct.
He inhaled, about to speak, but then shook his head and downed the brandy. Wordlessly, Del rose and refilled his glass. And waited.
“Why am I so drawn to you?” he said finally. His voice was strained, as if he were speaking against his will.
Del eyed him, deciding whether to be affronted. Was this what was making him so surly? The fact that there was an attraction between them? What part of it was the worst for him, she wondered, that he was experiencing something he couldn’t control, or that he was experiencing it with her? By rights, she shouldn’t be offended by any of it, for she was just as irritated by her lack of composure when it came to him. Still, she didn’t like hearing him speak of it aloud, his expression like that of someone who had eaten something gone rotten weeks before.
“Are you drawn to me?” Del asked, deciding to be difficult.
Camden looked at her, his face clearly showing anger, frustration, confusion, and something else, something Del couldn’t quite identify. “Yes,” he said, gritting his teeth. “In defiance of everything I am, everything I’ve been told to be — I can’t stay away.”
“Everything you’ve been told to be?”
Camden pushed out of his chair as if it had suddenly caught fire. He stalked around the study, looking at Del and then looking away. Many times he stopped, drew in his breath, ready to speak, before letting it out in a frustrated rush and resuming his pacing. Del waited quietly. She would not press him to explain himself. Whatever it was he wanted to say, he needed time before he could tell her.
“I have always done what he asked, behaved as he expected,” Camden said finally. “I have obeyed him without question. But in this, I cannot.”
Del knew Camden referred to his father, and she could guess what order he was rebelling against. “Your father told you not to see me anymore,” she said. She brought her glass to her lips and sipped the brandy, then leveled her gaze at Camden. He nodded, confirming her statement. “And yet here you are, sitting in my study, drinking my brandy,” she said.
She wasn’t sure yet what she thought about the situation. It was not unexpected, that a father would warn his son away from her, that he would be concerned with her effect on the family’s social standing. It was unexpected, however, that she should feel such pang of irritation and — hurt from hearing Camden say it.
“Yes, here I am.” Camden walked over to the sideboard and distractedly fingered the decanter and glasses. His fingers curled tightly around the neck of the decanter and released, then curled again, as if he were trying to restrain himself from choking it. “When I should be at the shipping office working, or home at my townhouse calculating the quickest way into some society maiden’s heart, or even off getting drunk with Farber. I should be anywhere but here.”
Suddenly, Camden was at the settee, looming over Del like an angry storm cloud. “Bloody hell, woman, why can’t I stay away?” He dropped on his haunches in front of her, searching her face as if it held the answers to his torment.
Del knew she should say something. She should lay a hand gently on his arm and murmur reassurances. Or she should feign outrage and righteous indignation and throw him out of her townhouse with admonishments to never darken her door again, so he would be released from his anguish by the knowledge that now he had no choice but to leave her alone. But she couldn’t. Like Camden, she was conflicted, torn between wanting him to go away and never return, and feeling like she would be empty if he ever left her.
Camden took her by the arms and pulled her toward him. His grip was strong and there was tension in his fingers, yet there was strange tenderness about him too. “Is it just me?” he asked, his voice low and husky. “Am I the only one fighting this madness?”
He leaned into her, and Del was warmed by the heat of his body, touched by the energy thrumming just below the surface of his skin. She simultaneously wanted to move closer to him until his warmth enveloped her, and to pull away before she was singed by his fiery restlessness.
“No,” Del said, her voice barely a whisper. She brought her hand up to his face, traced the rough outline of his jaw. “I can’t stop thinking about you, though it would be better for both of us if I could.”
“Bloody hell,” Camden said again.
He lifted her off the settee and brought her down to the floor with him. Her nightgown and robe were billowing out around her, pooling around her knees and tangling with Camden’s booted legs. He cupped her cheek with one hand, snaked the other arm around her waist and drew her tightly against him. Del felt tre
mbling, but she wasn’t sure which one of them was shaking. He brought his face down to hers, his breath hot against her cheek, and Del parted her lips in anticipation. He hesitated for a moment, and Del knew he was still fighting himself, still fighting the attraction between him. Merciless, she threaded her fingers through his hair and brought her lips to his.
Camden made a strangled sound low in his throat, and then some of the tension in him eased, though he didn’t become relaxed. That energy was still there, pulsing harder, and Del knew he had given into it and would fight it no longer. He kissed her, hard, like a man long denied of sustenance finally getting his fill.
It was as if all her mental faculties had left Del. Normally in such situations, she felt little and thought much — touch him here, make a hungry noise now, don’t forget to pant heavily as if overcome with desire. All of it to create the illusion that she returned her lover’s ardor, experienced the same sexual passion. Now, here, with Camden, there was no thinking, no illusions, no careful control of her responses.
She had no control of anything.
Her entire body responded to him automatically, from the fullness of her lips to her genuine lack of breath to the wetness between her legs. It startled and scared her, that her body had overtaken her mind, that she was not carefully orchestrating their every move. In her fear, she wanted to pull back, to demand he leave so she wouldn’t have to feel the burgeoning terror of an actual physical and emotional connection with someone.
Camden seemed to sense her hesitation, and he withdrew his lips from hers, though his thumb brushed lightly over her cheek. “Del,” he said, and that simple word, gruffly spoken, was her undoing. It was a question, an answer, a plea, and a pledge. It was infused with both an anguished longing that said he wanted everything from her, and a solemn promise that he would never take what she couldn’t give. It told her he was filled with a yearning for her he could barely contain, but that if she said the word, he would muster up an inhuman strength and walk away. It wasn’t just about what he wanted and what Del could give him. She could see he would do nothing unless she wanted it too.
Time After Time Page 35
