by Eloisa James
“I didn’t mean to insult you. I thought you would fashion me in marble because that is what you do—”
“You are quite right,” he said, and his voice was full of rage now. “That is what I do. I sculpt naked women for a living. Moreover, I do it in Greece. You are a duchess, and you live in England. The two facts sound incompatible, don’t they? You have no need for a husband who engages in disreputable sculpture. You see, Gina, I will not stop sculpting naked women. It is what I do. Stephen couldn’t stop me, and neither can you.”
She frowned. “I have not asked you to stop sculpting women.”
He laughed. “If I am to stay at Girton and fashion bridges without nymphs, give up my house in Greece, and become a philanthropic duke, when will I engage in disreputable sculpture?”
“I hadn’t thought of it,” she said, clenching her hands.
“You needn’t think. I can see it for myself. After all, your idea of the ideal husband is the sticklike marquess. But it is impossible to fashion me into Bonnington, Gina. It won’t work. Soil has never turned to gold. You might as well accept the fact, and consider whether you wish to continue in this marriage. Perhaps it was lucky that we were not compromised. Your wiggy marquess is still waiting in the wings.”
“At least he loves me!” Gina snapped.
He stared at her.
“He loves me,” she repeated shrilly. “He doesn’t snore, and he lives in England.” To her dismay, her tired eyes filled with tears. “You’re just going to leave me here at Girton and go back to your mistress—”
“Marissa is not my mistress,” Cam interjected.
“I’m sure you have a mistress somewhere on that island,” Gina snapped back.
Cam opened his mouth, but then he remembered Bella. She couldn’t exactly be called a mistress, but Gina spoke before he could articulate the distinction.
“I thought you did! Perhaps Sebastian will keep a mistress. But at least I won’t know about it.” The very thought of Cam sleeping with another woman sent a knifelike pain into her heart. “I just don’t think I can bear it,” she said jerkily. “I can’t—I can’t. I don’t think I want to…” she trailed off.
“You don’t think you want to marry me,” he said. His voice was rather gentle, under the circumstances.
She bowed her head as a huge sob tore its way up her chest.
He pulled on his clothes. She kept crying. He walked over and put his hand on her hair. The caress made her weep harder. “You will have to decide for yourself. If you want to marry the marquess, you needn’t give me another thought. I shall return to Greece. The annulment papers are there.” He nodded to the table. “You and Bonnington can be married by evening, if that’s what you wish.”
He pulled on an overcoat that hung by his door. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will drive to London and speak to Rounton. I do think that a solicitor so bold ought to be reprimanded, don’t you?”
He wasn’t even going to argue with her. He didn’t even care enough to argue with her. She gritted her teeth. “I would prefer to reprimand him for Finkbottle’s unaccountable delay in giving us the annulment papers.”
His eyes were black and steady. “It is, of course, a question for your own moral temperament. No one knows what occurred in the plunge-bath, Gina. You should feel free to inform Bonnington that he may use his special license immediately.”
She felt a pulse of terror and sorrow under her breastbone.
“Cam—”
But he was leaving.
She blinked and ran into the corridor. “Camden!” she said. But he was nearly at the end of the corridor, so she shouted: “Come back!”
He swung around. His eyes were blazing with rage. “Was there something you wished?” he said. “Something I could give you?”
There was no point to standing in the corridor. But Gina stood until Cam’s receding footsteps on the stairs had faded from her ears.
33
The Following Afternoon
a Solicitor’s Creativity Is Deplored
“You wrote that letter to my wife? You—my solicitor—wrote a blackmailing letter and sent it to Gina’s mother? Are you absolutely cracked?”
“I do not believe so,” Rounton replied. “But yes, I wrote the letter.”
Cam stared at Rounton in disbelief. “I find it hard to conceive that you, a respected solicitor, my father’s own solicitor, would resort to such disgraceful lengths. And all for what? So that I would have a son and continue the Girton line? What the devil do you care, anyway?”
The only sign that Rounton was at all affected by his words was the way he jiggled his pocket watch. “It seemed to me a reasonable course of action.”
“Reasonable?” Cam’s voice rose. “It was a bloody imposition, and you know it as well as I do! My father’s despicable methods appear to have rubbed off on you. It was one thing when he forced me to marry—” He broke off. His face took on such a menacing look that Rounton actually shifted backward in his seat. “Tell me that my father instructed you to ensure that I consummate my marriage—tell me that and I’ll kill you myself.”
“He did not,” Rounton replied. “After you left the country, he never mentioned your name again, to the best of my knowledge.”
“I assumed during that excuse for a marriage ceremony that you did not agree with my father’s judgment. I clearly remember when you informed my father that his decree went against the law.”
Rounton nodded. “You are correct. I felt your father was making an error by forcing you to marry.”
“Then why did you take the opportunity to behave precisely as my father had? At least my father’s demands were straightforward. He summoned me from Oxford, demanded that I marry the girl I considered my first cousin, and threatened to kill me if I didn’t. You achieved much the same result by underhanded and devious means. Writing an anonymous letter that threatened my wife with exposure! Sending Finkbottle down to compromise us! Despicable, Rounton.”
“I would disagree,” the solicitor replied coolly. “I thought my letter was an ingenious touch. Of course, I rather expected that the marquess would withdraw his suit on learning that your wife was not only illegitimate herself, but had illegitimate siblings. Bonnington’s reputation is of a man rigidly concerned with propriety. It seems the duchess did not share the letter with him. Perhaps I should have sent the letter directly to him.”
“How did you know of Wapping’s existence?”
“I did not know his name. But your father’s investigators uncovered the fact Countess Ligny had also given birth to a male child. Moreover, she had arranged to give the child to his father, a philosopher at the Sorbonne, precisely as she did with your wife. Your father could think of no practical use for the information, but I thought it interesting. I had no idea, of course, that Wapping had traveled to England after the countess died, or that he was interested in Countess Ligny’s bequest to your wife.”
Cam shook his head. “Why did you bother?”
Rounton answered at cross purposes. “Let me point out, my lord, that I could not force you to consummate your marriage. I simply made it possible for you to do so, if you wished.”
“If my father did not make such a request, why would you bother to influence my life in such a fashion?”
The solicitor’s chin set. “I doubt you will understand what I am saying, my lord. My father and my father’s father served the Girtons. Your father was a remarkably difficult man to work for, yet I did not leave his employ.” His eyes met Cam’s. “The illegality of your marriage was only one of many such illegalities.”
“If you wish me to weep over your tainted lily white conscience, look elsewhere. You continued to work for him.”
“I was brought up in the expectation that the Girtons would be the center of my livelihood. That they would be my foremost client and first point of loyalty.”
“I fail to see why you think I can’t understand your motives,” Cam said with a cynical twist of his lips. “In order
not to lose your largest client, you complied with his dishonest schemes.”
“I could have all the clients that I wish,” Rounton said. “I remained with your father because I was taught that loyalty was important. And that is what I think you will not understand.”
Cam’s blood chilled to the bone. “You think I have no loyalty?”
Rounton looked at him calmly. “Your father was bedridden in 1802. You did not return to England to manage your estate. Your father died in 1807. You did not return to England for another three years. When you left this country, you were a young man, but you are grown now. Yet you have shown little or no interest in the welfare of your wife or your estate.
“I judge the duchess to be an excellent manager of the estate, far better than you or your cousin is likely to be. I chose to do what was best for the Girton lineage and the Girton land. Make no mistake, my lord, I could make a great deal more money serving aristocrats who take the time to administer their own affairs, than serving a duke who fritters his time away on a Greek island.”
Cam forced himself to breathe quietly through the red haze of rage that clouded his vision. Rounton had not said anything that he had not thought himself since returning to England. He had neglected his land and his wife. He had lost himself in the keen pleasure of creation, and forgotten that his birth entailed unpleasant responsibilities that had nothing to do with sculpting marble.
“You have a point,” he finally said.
Rounton did not gloat. “I am sorry that I achieved my purpose through underhanded means.”
“I need a special license,” Cam said. “And someone will have to go to the isle of Nissos and close up my house.”
“I can arrange that.”
“I would prefer you to do it yourself. My statues will need to be packed with extreme care.”
Rounton blinked. He did not usually manage such matters himself, but perhaps in this situation he should be amenable.
“I shall return to Lady Troubridge’s house tomorrow,” Cam said, standing up. “after I obtain a special license. If you would join me in Kent, I will give you more detailed information about my house in Greece.”
“My lord, I apologize if I have offended you in any way,” Rounton said.
“You haven’t,” Cam said. His eyes were rueful, but the anger was gone. “I’m a careless bastard, Rounton. Always have been. I would rather work with marble than think about the Girton estate any day. But you are right to think that the duchess likes that sort of work. And there are marble quarries in England, after all.”
The solicitor bowed.
34
Lady Rawlings Awaits Her Husband
Esme had slept with more men than had many ladies in the ton. Mind you, she had slept with fewer men than were credited to her, and yet more than she should have, as a lady who married at seventeen years old. But since her wedding night, some ten years previous, she had never invited a man into her bed unless they shared a good deal of mutual desire. In fact, for the past six years, she hadn’t desired anyone enough to take the risk. Until last night, of course.
She tightened the cord around her robe. Her husband had said that he would visit tonight. She had dismissed her maid two hours ago, and still there was no sign of him.
The problem was…the problem was last night. With an effort she pushed away an image of her body, shaking so much that she literally trembled from head to foot. Dismissed from her memory the muscled chest, the kisses, the cries, the—
Babies, she thought. Think about babies. Last night was a fantasy, a dream. It will never happen again. She sat down before the fire. Babies were reality. A baby would love her, and stay with her. A baby wouldn’t escort her back to her room without a word, and avoid her throughout the day. It wasn’t that she wanted acknowledgment from Sebastian. After all, he was on the verge of marrying her best friend in the world. But a goodbye would have been nice, she thought forlornly. She clenched her teeth. She wasn’t the sort of woman to whom the Sebastians of the world said goodbye. Oh, he’d enjoyed last night. She hadn’t been the only one shaking. He’d enjoyed her, and enjoyed the night, and left without a word.
There was a scratch on the door, just in time to stop her from dissolving into tears. She loathed tears, despised them. Babies, she thought as she rose. Little round heads and sweet smells. Virtually every married woman said that after the third baby they vowed to become celibate. She would have so many babies that the memory of the previous night would fade into nothing.
She opened the door and smiled at her husband. “Do come in, Miles.”
He tiptoed in and waited until she shut the door before he spoke. “Good evening, Esme,” he whispered.
“You needn’t whisper,” she said. “We are married, after all.”
Miles cleared his throat. He had an embarrassed air that she thought was terribly nice of him. “Of course. You’re absolutely right. Of course.” He fell into silence. His eyes slid away from hers. “What a good fire!” he said.
“This isn’t very comfortable, is it?” she said, answering his demeanor.
“It isn’t you,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “I…well, you’re beautiful. And here I am.” He patted his stomach, which was indeed rather large. “With Lady Childe—” He ground to a halt. “Beg pardon, my dear, I meant never to mention her.”
“Oh, Miles, we shouldn’t pretend with each other.” Against all reason, she was feeling much better. “Why don’t we sit down and have a glass of wine, and talk like the sensible married couple that we are?”
They both gratefully succumbed to the little ceremony of pouring wine and seating themselves.
Then Esme looked at her husband. He truly was one of the nicest men she’d ever met. “So does Lady Childe admire your tummy, Miles?” She twinkled at him. “I think we should be quite frank with each other. After all, we are about to become lovers again, and we are already friends.”
He looked startled and then enormously pleased. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
She nodded. “And now that we’re going to be parents, our friendship is even more important.”
“True enough,” Miles said. “I’m afraid that my parents were not pleasant to each other, and it made my childhood rather painful.”
“Neither were mine,” Esme said, and they smiled at each other with the relief of finding something in common.
“So we both value civility in parenthood,” she continued, taking a sip of wine.
“Other than that, I don’t know anything about parenting,” Miles confessed. “My parents spent most of their time at court and left us in the country, so I never saw much of my father or my mother.”
“That’s why you wish us to live together,” she guessed.
He nodded. “It did give me a lifelong love of the country. My hope is that we can spend time there with the children, rather than living apart from them.”
“I intend to be a very motherly mother. In fact—” she looked at him challengingly—“I am going to breastfeed my own children.”
Pink rose up his throat. That was obviously more detail than he had bargained for. “Whatever you wish, my dear,” he spluttered.
The wish that her husband didn’t have a double chin darted across Esme’s mind—and then she took it back. If she started being critical, there’d be no end to it. The best thing would be to never allow herself to have negative thoughts about Miles. She swallowed the rest of her wine.
“Shall we?” She stood up and glanced at the bed, and then smiled at her husband.
He heaved himself to his feet but stood without moving. “This is damn hard,” he said. “I feel like some sort of reprobate, bedding you.”
“We’re married, Miles!”
“But we’re not—I’m a tub of lard, as the phrase goes.” He tugged at his waistcoat. “And you’re the most lovely woman in the ton, everyone knows that.”
Esme walked over to him and put her hands flat on his chest. “Will you join me in our bed, Miles
?” She leaned over and feathered a kiss across his lips. Then she stood back, untied her robe, and let it fall.
He blinked.
Esme knew precisely what she looked like: she was wearing a French creation that was designed to make any man in the vicinity ravenous with lust. In fact, when she wore it on a previous occasion, the man in her vicinity lunged in a quite gratifying way.
Miles didn’t move a finger.
She started undoing his vest. “Would you like to come to bed now?”
Color surged up into his cheeks. “Yes, of course. Beg forgiveness, my dear.” He removed her hands and undid his waistcoat by himself. Released from tight buttons, his stomach seemed to expand in every direction. Esme politely averted her eyes.
He began to wrestle with his cuff links.
“Would you like me to help?”
“No! No, thank you,” he said.
She couldn’t help but notice that his tone was rather miserable. She backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. Miles wore the kind of shirt that hung almost to his knees, so it was quite an operation hoisting it over his head. Moreover, it seemed to be a difficult business bending over to pull off his boots—obviously his valet did that for him normally—but he managed it. And finally, there he was, wearing nothing more than smalls. Esme took a deep breath. It wasn’t as bad as she thought. She could do this.
The question really was: could he? He didn’t appear riveted by lust. He sat down next to her on the bed, but all he did was pick up her hand and pat it, in the most paternal fashion.
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. But he didn’t lunge at her. Perhaps she should take off her nightdress? Unlike his clothing, the French nightdress practically flew off her body, it was so easily unfastened.
He cast a glance at her but looked away, as if she had belched in public. Esme looked down at her body. As far as she could tell, it looked just as appealing as it always had. Certainly the same as when they first married, and he had been gratifyingly complimentary at the time. At least when they weren’t quarreling.
