“I’ve made my choice.”
“You have not sampled all your options,” she shot back. “I’ll prepare a list.”
Again she mocked him, but that didn’t anger Gareth so much as the fact she refused to accept him—his proposal, a future they could have together.
Camilla bobbed in a bare curtsey, her gaze on his the entire time. She hid behind her matchmaking profession like it was a shield. Gareth watched her turn and walk away.
“Damn.”
Frustrated, he ran a hand down his face. He hadn’t been subtle in his pursuit of Camilla Primsby. She was right in that—the entire town talked of them being seen together. It was so obvious to him, yet how had she not realized he pursued her?
Maybe he should’ve agreed to have her as his mistress then moved on from there. Taken things one step at a time. Standing there in the empty hallway, Gareth debated following Camilla out of the Darlingtons’.
He certainly didn’t want to return to that room where a hundred women vied for his favors. Irritated, he stalked away from the ballroom.
“Damn.”
* * * *
THE SINGER, WHO was actually quite good, stopped for a break, and the crowd dispersed for refreshments. With her head pounding and still bothered by Axton’s assumption and her own mixed feelings, Camilla rose and signaled for a footman.
“Mrs. Primsby,” Mrs. Darlington said before she could do more than order the footman to fetch her wrap and call for her carriage. “May I have a word?”
“Of course, Mrs. Darlington.” Camilla smiled but it felt forced, false. “I do apologize for retiring early, but I’ve the most vicious headache.”
Mrs. Darlington’s lips pursed, but she nodded. Instantly wary, Camilla braced for the coming conversation. She truly could not handle more prattling about the lovely Darlington daughter.
“Do not worry about that.” Mrs. Darlington waved her words away. “I’ve noticed.” Her lips pursed even tighter. “I’ve noticed the duke’s attentions on you. And I’m certain they’re not to engage your services.”
Camilla had no idea Mrs. Darlington was so observant, but played it off. “Actually,” she said coolly, “I’m in search of a proper match for the Duke of Axton.”
“I believe the duke is more interested in you as his match,” Mrs. Darlington sneered. “And, my dear, as you know, all men are scoundrels, rakes of the first order. Do not let his beauty, or his title, tempt you.”
Mrs. Darlington eyed her with a gaze that moved carefully over Camilla. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt. Or,” she added with a very clear warning, “your position as the premier matchmaker diminished.”
“An affair with a duke would only add to my standing,” Camilla said with even more coldness in her tone. “However,” she conceded, “I understand.”
Camilla accepted her wrap from the footman with a slight nod and turned sharply from Mrs. Darlington. Rather than wait inside, she stepped through the doors and let the cold night air cool her cheeks. She hadn’t lied to Mrs. Darlington when she said her head ached, and the cold air eased the pounding.
Her carriage pulled up and she climbed in, leaning her head against the back of the bench. Camilla tapped her fingers on the bench of her carriage.
Axton was a fool—one who wanted a matchmaker as a wife, not as a mistress. And he’d been angry. Not merely seemed so, but the anger in his tone, in his stance, shouted genuine feeling.
Or was she the fool for not accepting?
No. She made it her life’s work to match people with similar passions and pedigrees. Or at least match people who wouldn’t cause such scandal as to be talked about for the next century.
How could Axton think himself in love with her and want her for his wife, in so short a time? They only knew each other for mere weeks. It’s true she matched others who became besotted in a single day. However, she and Axton were not children who fancied themselves in love with the first beautiful face who paid them attention.
She wanted him in her bed, that was true. It was also true that on their first meeting Camilla found him enticing. Camilla admitted she offered herself to him as his mistress—but he wanted her as his wife.
As much as she studied the opposite sex, there was still mystery that lay there, and Axton was among those mysteries.
Frustrated, she blew out a breath and shook her head. Could Axton truly be that honorable? At his age, was he truly a man to want marriage over an affair? He had to have had many mistresses. Why did he see her so differently?
If she married Axton, she’d be remembered in history books as the woman who married her way up in society. Who matched herself with a duke.
Was he unaware he courted such scandal? Of course he was, and he didn’t care. Axton was a duke, for heaven’s sake. Because of his title and position, he’d be unaware of all the insidious ways the ton could cut them.
Invitations would vanish. Any business dealings he had, current or potential, would vanish as well. Her business would vanish.
How could Axton not be aware of that? Aware that type of scandal could not be weathered? It might not be as salacious as Miss Lyndell and Lord Granville, but it would still impact him, her, their families, their place in society. He’d weather it far easier than her, of course, being the Duke of Axton.
But Camilla would have to live with the scandal for the rest of her life.
Camilla refused to allow it. Not for herself and certainly not for him. No. The best course of action—the only course remaining—was to place a suitable miss in his path. Either Axton soon forgot about her, or…or she would become his mistress.
Either option was far superior to what Axton wanted.
Wife.
Camilla snorted and exited the carriage. How did he not see all this? Even half-blind Mrs. Darlington, who was so invested in her own little world she rarely saw anything, saw how Axton looked at her. No, she needed to ensure most of the ton believed she simply wanted to match him with a suitable wife.
Her fingers chilled, she walked up the steps to her townhouse. Chilled though she may be, the heat of anger flooded through her.
Eddards, her butler, greeted her with a raised eyebrow. He silently took her coat, gloves, and hat, though the curiosity in his silence did not go unnoticed. Camilla simply refused to acknowledge it.
She nodded to him and turned for her study. Restless, she walked around her desk and looked at the banked fire. No, she didn’t want it stoked, didn’t want any interruptions. Camilla picked up several papers and blindly looked at her correspondence. The words blurred in front of her. With a huff of annoyance, she dropped the papers back to the desk.
Axton had her tied in knots, and she didn’t like it one damn bit.
She preferred making her own decisions, choosing her own path. She had done so for the majority of her life, since her family lost everything. No, one scandal was quite enough to live through in her lifetime.
“His Grace had these delivered,” Margaret said without bothering to knock.
Margaret set the box on the desk, seemingly oblivious to Camilla’s mood. Oblivious, no, as Margaret was very good at reading others. One of the reasons Camilla took her on as her protégée. She chose to ignore her boss’s mood.
“He was to deliver it hours and hours ago,” Margaret continued and held out the small note.
Until tonight.
—Axton
She frowned and dropped the note by the box of chocolates from Denberry’s. How had he known she enjoyed that chocolatier? Or had he simply guessed? Perhaps he preferred them as well.
Oh, did it matter?
Camilla huffed and whirled from the desk. She paced to the windows but could see naught in the dark winter’s night.
“Did the duke mention the chocolates?” Margaret pressed then offered a light laugh. “I can just imagine your look if he had.”
“He did not,” Camilla snapped.
But it lost some of its sting. Weariness settled over her, heavy and dra
ining, and suddenly she was too tired to verbally spar with Margaret. She was too tired for anything. Camilla placed her palm on the cold window panes and let it seep through her flushed skin.
“Such a humble man,” Margaret continued. “Not taking credit for his own gift.” She paused but only for a breath. “How was your dinner and concert? Did you speak to him? Did he sit near you during the concert?”
Camilla met her own gaze in the window. No matter what she wished, she remembered every moment of dinner, of their conversation. How he leaned closer to her, how he watched her as if no one else mattered in the entire room save her.
“He sat next to me during dinner,” Camilla heard herself say. “And we stood during the concert.”
Stood, yes, but not in the ballroom for the concert. They discussed his proposal, if it could be called that, and then he left. And she returned to the room to suffer through and try not to think of the Duke of Axton. Not that she remembered one bit of the concert. She didn’t even remember it starting or what the singer sang. Or, for that matter, who the singer was.
“It was a very enlightening conversation,” she added softly.
“Enlightening?” Margaret repeated a tad too enthusiastically for Camilla to handle. “How so? Did he make mention of making you his duchess?”
“Margaret.” She sighed but didn’t turn around. “We’ve had this conversation many times now.” She took a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. “Since Lord Hawkhurst has presently decided not to seek a match, I’ve decided the fee shall go toward finding a match for Axton.”
Margaret’s entire continence fell. She looked utterly forlorn and at a compete loss. Her shoulders drooped, and her mouth fell open in astonishment. Camilla turned back to her reflection.
The cold seeped into her bones, despite her earlier heat of anger. Camilla dropped her hand and curled it into a fist at her side.
“I do not understand,” Margaret admitted. “The duke is smitten with you. Why find someone else?”
The sigh came from her soul, long and jaded.
“I’ve no interest in being his duchess,” she said with more force than she felt. “Or anyone’s duchess. I’m perfectly happy with what I have and who I am.” She nodded but wasn’t certain if it was to convince herself of her own words, or Margaret.
“I’ve no need to be immersed in scandal. Nor do I want Axton to suffer through a scandal.” She scoffed, but it felt halfhearted. “A duke and a matchmaker?”
Camilla shook her head and finally turned. She schooled her face into contempt, though all she wanted was to lie down and ignore the world for a little while.
“The broadsheets would continually stab at us until we were both bloodied.” She nodded again, more determined now. “Therefore, I’ll show His Grace there are much better options for him.”
She stepped forward with her head held high, though doubt churned in her belly, and it felt as if her loss slipped through her fingers. But Camilla ignored it and smiled at her young apprentice.
“Shall we begin, Margaret?”
Chapter Seven
“HOW UNUSUAL,” HIS mother said in that imperious tone she took with society. “My son has turned into a statue in my own doorway.”
Gareth only grunted and pushed off the door and entered the room properly. Claudia was well known for her dramatics. His mother offered her cheek for him to kiss, and her smile widened.
“Your father used to grunt like that when I gave him…” She trailed off, her shrewd blue eyes narrowing in on him. “Difficulties,” she finished.
“I do not blame him, Mother,” Gareth replied.
He shook his head in refusal of tea. He most certainly was in no mood for tea. Frankly, he wasn’t in the mood for company, either, but the only person he trusted enough to speak with today was his mother. And Hawkhurst was otherwise occupied helping Granville hunt down those responsible for Mr. Lyndell’s imprisonment and death.
“Sometimes, the way women think is more annoying than…” He trailed off.
The analogy eluded him, and that frustrated him all the more. He growled and stood again. Gareth ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, but despite that he restlessly paced the room. Never before had he been so frustrated over a woman.
Then again, never before had he met anyone like Camilla.
“More annoying than a missed stitch in a petit point pillow,” she grumbled.
Gareth looked at her askance, but she set aside her needle and focused all her attention on him. Claudia nodded gravely.
“I understand, son.” She studied him for a long moment then asked softly, “Who is she?” Then she straightened and looked in horror. “And please don’t say it’s that Miss Richardson. I beg of you, son.”
“No,” Gareth assured her firmly.
His mother relaxed, her entire body limp with relief. Then she straightened and eyed him again as she sipped her tea. “Then who?”
Gareth hesitated for a moment, but what did it matter? He’d come here for…what? Advice? To speak his mind to the someone he knew would never gossip?
“Mrs. Camilla Primsby. And before you ask, no, there is no husband.”
Claudia waved it off with an impatient hand. “Of course not, she’s styled that way for her work.”
Caught off guard, he could only blink.
“I quite like Mrs. Primsby,” Claudia declared. “She’s quite lovely. A bit older than other women in society you might meet. But I think you need that. A woman who knows her own mind, not one who’s looking for a fairy-tale prince. Or a fairy-tale duke.”
She nodded once and set her teacup down with a decisive click. “Yes, I think she’s a very level choice. And still youthful enough to bear children. What is the problem, my dearest?”
He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. He hated to admit this, even to his mother. Gareth sighed and sat again. “She doesn’t want to be my duchess.”
Claudia looked startled and blinked silently at him for several long minutes. “Heavens,” she breathed. “Why? It’s a perfectly good position for her.” Then she frowned and leaned forward. “Is there another she loves? Or desires?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe there is. She’s responded to me.”
More than that, he knew she wanted him as he wanted her. Felt it in the brief touches they shared, heard it in her tone. Watched as her eyes darkened and she deliberately provoked him. Camilla wanted him—that wasn’t the problem.
“She fears there’ll be scandal.”
His mother’s entire face brightened. “Ah, she protects you.” Claudia nodded happily and picked up her tea again. “I like her more already.” She waved a hand again in dismissal. But she didn’t speak immediately and sipped her tea. “But it’s truly foolishness. As a duke, there’s much you can command. And Mrs. Primsby is accepted proudly—admired in most circles. I think she’s afraid,” she confided. “A woman’s heart is a complicated matter.”
Claudia sighed and eyed him. Gareth returned her steady gaze and waited. Granted she was his mother, but Claudia was quite perceptive and knowledgeable about much in society Gareth chose to shun.
“Be persistent, my son,” she advised. “And make her feel loved. Not just wanted.”
Gareth watched his mother for another long minute. Claudia smiled serenely and waited. Slowly he nodded, her words running through his head.
Some of his frustration, that restless need to do something, eased. Standing, Gareth kissed his mother’s cheek and bowed in goodbye. He stalked quickly through the house and grabbed his things from the waiting butler.
Once outside on the street, he drew in a deep breath of cold air, winter more than a hint on the breeze. He took the reins from the kitchen boy and tossed him a coin before swinging up. He urged the horse into a trot and let his mind focus on the problem at hand.
“Make her feel loved,” his mother said.
Had he ever reacted to another woman as he had Camilla? He
met other sophisticated women, of course, but with Camilla that grace and knowledge came naturally.
Was he in love? Could he say that about what he felt for her? Admit it aloud? Or was this a reaction to the game they played? Honestly, he hadn’t thought that when he made his choice, when he chose Camilla, she’d reject him.
Now she wished to find him a suitable match. And with her skills, she’d likely come close. Gareth didn’t want an imitation, a close. He already found the perfect match, the most suitable woman for him.
Smiling, he guided his horse off the main streets. Oh, he’d play her game. But he’d let her know unequivocally that she was the right match for him—and he for her.
* * * *
PITY STRATHMORE WASN’T around. Or Hamilton. Or Hawkhurst. Gareth needed one of them to take a bit of attention from him so he could—quietly, of course—talk with Camilla.
They were otherwise occupied, and rightly so. Gareth hadn’t heard anything about Granville’s missing fiancée; as far as he knew, they still searched for her. The woman well and truly disappeared.
Tonight’s card party, put together at the last minute in order to keep Camilla from disappearing from wherever she dragged him to, had been met with pleasant surprise; nearly every invite had been accepted.
Which explained the noise currently pounding behind his left eye. Normally Gareth enjoyed cards. Normally he didn’t mind parties, or people, either.
His townhouse was warm, stuffy with the fireplaces roaring against the cold December night and far too many people crowded around tables. With draperies pulled tight against the evening and each candle lighted, it looked like a stage.
Gareth narrowed his gaze and tilted his head as he surveyed the room again. A stage—yes, a very good analogy. He set the stage for his own purposes and now only waited for the main player to arrive.
There she was. Camilla Primsby was, by far, the most beautiful woman there. Her whisky eyes glinted in the candlelight, and a curl of her soft brown hair lay against her cheek. Gareth tightened his hands into fists behind his back. He wanted to brush that curl behind her ear, feel her hair beneath his touch, let his fingers linger on her skin.
Improper Duke: Scandalous Encounters Page 5
