He only agreed to attend Almack’s Solstice Ball because he knew Camilla planned to do so. The missive he sent round yesterday had not been acknowledged, not that he thought she’d immediately write him. Storm into his study, perhaps. Camilla was nothing if not passionate.
The wind seeped through the window coverings, but he ignored it. Flexing his fingers in his fine leather gloves, Gareth ran a hand over his face. Oh, the lengths one went to, to show a woman his interest.
No, not merely a woman. Camilla was more to him than a vessel for an heir. He trusted her. He wanted her as his partner, not as a polished duchess to preen for society.
And if she wished to continue matchmaking, he certainly had no issue with that. Camilla was exceedingly good at her profession and chose wisely for her clients. As duchess, she could, of course, continue her work. Sponsoring young ladies was a pastime his mother enjoyed, from what he recalled.
Entering Almack’s, he ignored the decor, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the orchestra. People milled around, some dancing, some eating, some laughing in small groups. He also ignored several calls for his attention and prowled the room for Camilla.
Off the dance floor, with several other women, he finally saw her. She laughed, a slight smile on her face at something one of the others said. Her hair was simply done in a bun on the nape of her neck, with several small braids draped around it. The deep purple of her gown accented her fair skin and dark hair.
For the first time in his life, Gareth hesitated. He didn’t necessarily want to interrupt her; he did respect what she did and how well she accomplished her work. That did not, however, mean he couldn’t stand directly in her line of sight.
Gareth knew the instant she spotted him. Her smile dimmed—no, not dimmed. Changed. From the light, pleased expression she showed her coterie, to a slight tilt to her lush lips and, though he stood across the room, a calculating one.
His own lips twitched in acknowledgement. Camilla spoke with the other women and, with a nod to a tall, raven-haired woman beside her, stepped away. Gareth watched her move around the group, his attention solely focused on her. On the sway of her hips and the steadiness of her golden gaze.
So it took him more time than he’d like to admit to realize the tall woman she spoke to also crossed the room to where he stood.
It took Gareth no more than a beat of the musician’s instruments to realize who the woman was: Camilla’s latest attempt to match him with someone she deemed appropriate.
Anger beat through him, hot and rash. His hands clenched around each other behind his back, and his eyes narrowed on Camilla’s. She gazed serenely back at him, her steps even, head held high, and hips still swaying enticingly.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Camilla said with a slight twist to her lips and a raised eyebrow. She bowed in greeting, but her gaze never left his. “I do hope you’ve been well since our last encounter.”
Oh, well played, Camilla. Well played.
Gareth offered her a begrudging smile and nodded once. “Well enough, Mrs. Primsby,” he returned, purposely keeping his gaze on her.
“Do allow me to introduce Lady Cora MacRae-Hamilton, daughter of the Duke of Kinclaven.” Camilla looked to the side, her hand waving elegantly to indicate the other woman.
“Pleasure to meet you, Lady Cora,” Gareth said politely, but he purposely kept his gaze entirely on Camilla.
He knew exactly what game she played, and he refused to be drawn in. Gareth made his intentions perfectly clear; if Camilla wanted to continue introducing him to supposedly acceptable matches, he’d fight back.
“Duke,” Lady Cora greeted him in a soft lilt. He did not turn to acknowledge her. “It’s my understanding you occasionally journey to Scotland for sport.”
He continued to watch Camilla, who looked alternating between annoyed and unsurprised. Her eyes snapped with fire, a hot golden flame that drew him in. She knew exactly what he did and, Gareth realized, admired him for it even as it angered her.
“My family is hosting a winter shoot after the new year,” she continued. “We’d love to have you as our guest.”
“Thank you for your gracious invitation, Lady Cora,” Gareth responded evenly. “But I’m afraid my duties keep me in London through the winter.” He barely glanced at the woman and did feel a pang of remorse over his rudeness. “If you’ll excuse us, I need a word with Mrs. Primsby.”
Lady Cora muttered her farewells, turned sharply on her heel, and left. Gareth still didn’t look at her. But Camilla’s eyes darkened, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Even over the crush of Almack’s, he heard her snarl in annoyed anger.
“You did not have to be so incredibly rude!” Camilla snapped. “Lady Cora is likely a better match for your temperament than Lady Julianna!”
“I thought we’d come to an understanding,” he growled.
Clenching his jaw, Gareth stepped back. He didn’t know when he moved so close to Camilla, but certainly didn’t want to argue with her in the middle of Almack’s Assembly. He had no need to be the center of gossip on a good day, let alone while disagreeing in public with the woman he planned to marry.
“The only understanding we’ve come to is how we both desire each other,” she hissed, careful to keep her voice from carrying. She stopped, glanced around the room and forced a smile before she continued. “That alone does not make a proper match.”
“Allow me to make myself perfectly clear,” he shot back. “There are to be no further attempts at a match. You’ll simply disappoint the girl.”
Gareth wanted to shake Camilla—he wanted to kiss her and show her exactly who it was he wanted. He did neither. Calling on every bit of control he ever possessed, he stood straight and still, if perhaps a tad closer to Camilla than proper.
He didn’t care.
Her eyes narrowed. “You will be the one disappointed when you don’t get exactly what you want.”
“Camilla.”
But she lifted her chin and purposefully stepped back. The curtsey she offered was mocking and sardonic, though her gaze never wavered. With a final glare, she turned sharply and left.
Gareth watched her walk through the crowd, not in the direction of her former group of female friends, but into the crush. He lost her in the moving bodies, but made no move to follow her.
After a moment he found her again, seeing her speaking with Lady Cora. Apologizing, no doubt. He supposed he should feel somewhat bad for being so unpardonably rude to Lady Cora, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He made his intentions clear. He didn’t want a match set up between him and any woman in the ton. Gareth wanted Camilla. Why could she not understand?
For another hour he watched her work the room and speak with others, but she never smiled and her shoulders remained stiff and tense. Gareth barely acknowledged the men who circled him, barely paying attention to their conversation.
He kept Camilla in sight the entire time she stayed in Almack’s, but when she headed for the doors, Gareth excused himself and followed her. Several people stopped him, and he lost sight of her once when he heard a disparaging remark about Edmund, Lord Granville. Despite his haste to find Camilla, Gareth stopped long enough to glare at the man.
“One should not believe every rumor put forth by the broadsheets,” he snapped. “It’s hardly the young lady’s fault, and if Granville sees fit to marry her, he’ll have the full backing and support of the Duke of Axton.”
With a final sneer to the assembled group, he turned back to his own woman.
She climbed into her carriage without so much as a backward look.
Gareth called for his carriage, returned inside for his hat, gloves, and walking stick, and followed her. She might have gone to another ball or house party, but he trusted his instincts and directed his driver to her townhouse.
Before the carriage stopped, Gareth leapt from it and ran for the door. It just closed behind her; he didn’t know how he managed to arrive at the same time as her, and
didn’t much care.
“Camilla.”
Her butler looked startled and then angry, no doubt ready to summon the footman and the Bow Street Runners to have him hauled out. Gareth ignored the man.
“We have more to discuss,” he told her.
Camilla watched him warily, her eyes still dark with anger, but she looked tired. That pulled him up short, and he almost faltered. But then she scowled at him and stepped back.
She nodded once and breezed through the foyer and into the front parlor. The room was shuttered against the cold December night and the frigid wind that whipped through the city. The fire was banked, leaving the room dark and uninviting.
The butler set a candelabrum on the low table by the settee and made a hasty retreat, closing the pocket doors behind him.
Gareth watched Camilla in the flickering shadows of the candles. Her shoulders pulled back tightly, and her eyes stayed on him.
“Is this a duke’s tantrum?” she demanded. “Is this your way of railing against me when you do not get what you want?”
Her fingers jerked at her cloak, shrugged it off, and tossed it over the settee. The candle flickered and jumped, casting her in deepening shadows and light.
“I want you,” he returned, his words clipped. “That’s no secret between us. And after the last time we were together, after what we shared—”
“We shared a few kisses,” she snapped. “Our bodies touched. It was pleasant but it was not life altering.”
Gareth stepped closer, wanting to see her more clearly. Camilla hadn’t moved, nor had her anger dissipated. It only fueled his own.
“Are you certain? Because I saw the way you responded.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Or should I say I felt the way you responded.”
Camilla tossed her head back and snorted. “As I said before, desire between us is not the issue. You want me?” She nodded once, a hard snap of her head. “You can have me.”
She stepped closer and even in the dim light, he saw her eyes narrow, the spark in their golden depths. “You can have me on my terms. But you are a duke and not accustomed to compromising with the terms of others.”
She tossed her head again and sneered at him. He’d never seen a woman sneer so much, and at him, as Camilla had this night. Gareth probably shouldn’t find it attractive, but he did. Her hands landed on her hips and for a moment she stood still, perfectly still, and glared at him.
Then she stepped back, not in retreat—never that, not his Camilla—but in a release of the anger that continued to burn.
“I am baffled by your terms,” he snapped. “What woman would rather be a mistress than a duchess?”
“You don’t know me,” she shot back. “Not truly. You’re just a boy who has never, in his entire life, suffered for anything. Everything you’ve ever wanted has been handed to you since birth. Handed to you with no struggle and no thought whatsoever.”
Her words shot around them in a blast of truth and revulsion.
“I’ve clawed my way into the position I have now,” she continued, her voice low and vibrating with anger and loathing. “I was never handed anything. It was taken from me. Taken from me and my family.”
She stalked closer, her movements erratic in the flickering light. Her words stopped him and made him step back and look at her in a new light. And maybe that was what she wanted, what the purpose of this conversation was. To make him see how selfish a bastard he truly was.
“Many of whom have not survived. You’ve never been afraid where your next meal came from or if you’d have a roof over your head the next night. You don’t know me or what I want.”
In the heavy silence of her outburst, Gareth watched her. Then, purposely loosening his clenched hands, he stepped back and tried to take a calming breath. But the only scent around him was Camilla, and it clouded his mind.
“Let me know you.” He watched her blink warily at his words. The words he didn’t plan and didn’t understand. They came from someplace deep inside him, so honest that each word hurt to say. “Let me be the one you tell everything to. The one you share your fears with.”
But she stepped back, her eyes wide. He saw her shock, the uncertainty. Her hands hung limp at her sides, breath erratic. Camilla blinked slowly at him but said nothing for several long minutes. She shook her head once, and his heart clenched in fear. But she remained silent and Gareth realized the movement wasn’t in denial, but in confusion.
“You’re wrong,” he said in the silence between them. “I might not know what you’ve gone through, but I know what it’s like not to know if you’ll be fed. Not to know if you’ll still be breathing the next day.”
She cleared her throat, a soft sound in the shadowed parlor. Her shoulders relaxed slightly and her head tilted, as if inviting him to continue.
“How is that possible?” But the words slipped softly from her lips, didn’t demand as they might’ve. “What do you mean?”
“I was a prisoner during the war.” Gareth cleared his throat and took a step back from her as if he needed air. His throat dry, he struggled to find the words to tell her. To voice the horrors he witnessed, those he experienced.
“I was tasked with inspecting our fortifications along the French coast. One night when I was with Hawkhurst’s men, we were ambushed and captured by the French. We thought we were dead. I thought…I’d never see my home again.”
He stopped and swallowed. The echoes of those cries, the screams of pain. The sear of a hot iron on his chest and the kick of a boot on his back. He shuddered and tried to blink away the images, the phantom memories of pain and desperation and anger.
“We were tortured.” His voice cracked, and he swallowed again. “Not given food or water. And they threatened to kill us every day.”
Gareth breathed deeply and stepped closer. She didn’t back away, her eyes wide as she listened. He thought he saw a sheen of tears in her gaze, with understanding and sorrow as she watched him.
“My captivity can be measured in months,” he whispered. “Maybe not as long as you feared. But it left me humbled. And ready to fight. Fight for what I want.”
Taking her hand, he ran his fingers over her knuckles and raised his other hand to brush along her cheek. She met his gaze, but her tears didn’t fall. Her fingers flexed around his.
“Camilla, I’d never diminish you in any way. I only ask for your trust.”
Chapter Ten
“THIS IS WHAT I want.” Camilla swallowed hard and looked up at him. She studied his face, hard with memories and fierce with determination.
In the darkness of the parlor, she saw him in a new light. A man who understood more about life and loss, about fighting and surviving, than she ever thought he had. She wondered about his scars, the physical as well as the emotional, but more she wondered how she hadn’t noticed that survivalist instinct before.
Camilla prided herself on her ability to read people, to understand them far better than the surface conversation she normally had with potential clients.
“You,” she corrected, “are who I want.” She paused and licked her lips, running her fingertips along his cheek. “And I know you desire me as well.” She stepped closer, unsure when she had moved so near him. “Why must a disagreement keep us apart?”
She didn’t know what changed his mind; all Camilla knew was his lips pressed to hers, his mouth moving against hers, his hands holding her close. She wound her arms around his neck, her fingers pressing through his hair to keep him there.
And she opened herself to him, despite her words and her wants. Camilla opened herself to Axton’s touch, his kiss, his caresses.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she managed, gasping for breath.
He didn’t verbally respond, but backed out of the room. Camilla wasn’t entirely certain how they moved from the dark front parlor to her bedroom, how neither of them tripped or fell on the stairs, or how no one heard them. But somehow, they made it.
The instant he closed the door behind them
, Axton pressed her against it, his body hard and insistent against hers, his hands bunching up her skirts. And oh, his touch on her bare skin sent a shiver down her spine and white-hot heat through her blood.
With a sharp rend, her gown parted and hung loose on her shoulders. Camilla tried to care—honestly she did. She loved this gown. But then Axton’s mouth kissed down newly bared skin and his hands cupped her breasts, and nothing else mattered.
He crouched slightly, his fully clothed body pressed against her naked one. His hands slid over her hips, down her thighs, a slow, knowing caress. His touch sent shocks of need through her, a clawing, desperate hunger that matched his own.
His calloused touch sent arousal pooling low in her belly. Camilla gasped and tugged his lips back to hers. She arched into his touch, her body afire, nerves tingling with need. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders and fumbled blindly with the buttons to his waistcoat. Felt his own fingers against hers in their haste to disrobe him.
Clothing ripped, but she didn’t care—she wanted to feel his body against hers, moving inside her, and she wanted him now.
Axton hooked his hands on the back of her thighs and lifted her. Camilla wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tangling her hands in his hair and deepening their kiss. She was unable not to touch him, to taste him. She tightened her legs around his hips and rocked against him.
He pressed her to the door; the rough wood dug into her skin, but she ignored it. His cool fingers cupped her breast, rolled her nipples, and tugged hard until she gasped, arching into him. One hand cupped her bum, holding her securely against the door.
It sparked through her, a hot rush of need that broke through her control and consumed her. Camilla rolled her hips and rocked against him.
Axton growled, maybe her name, she couldn’t be certain, and stepped from the door. Camilla whimpered, but then he moved; with every step from the door to the bed, he brushed his cock against her wet sex.
He sat her on the bed and leaned over, still kissing her, his fingers tracing over her breasts, along her ribs. The barest stroke, the lightest brush as he teased and aroused. He tasted down her belly and over her hip, his fingers just grazing her sex.
Improper Duke: Scandalous Encounters Page 7
