by Liz Carlyle
She whirled to face her nephew. “You, Camden Rutledge—” she clearly enunciated, one bony, quivering finger pointing toward the greedy flames, “—may burn in hell in just such a way, if you think to renege on your betrothal to my daughter.”
Since his aunt had seen fit to leap from her chair, Cam rose respectfully from his own. He stood immutably, hands clasped behind his back, at his wide oak desk. “I am offering,” he quietly repeated, “to sponsor Joan for a season in town—two or three, if she cannot find a husband who suits her. And I have offered a dowry which is three times that left her by your late husband. As the head of this family, I can do no less.”
“What you will do, young man,” insisted Mrs. Belmont, the finger still trembling, “is stand up to your obligations and take that girl to the marriage bed, or suffer the consequences.”
Cam bowed his head. “I am sorry to have distressed you, ma’am. But as I have already stated, I find I cannot in all fairness marry Joan when my heart is not engaged. I realize that we have discussed, on more than one occasion, the convenience of my wedding her, but I know too well that the heart is sometimes not so wise, and that convenience can often become just another word for endless misery.”
“Misery?” sneered Mrs. Belmont. “I vow, what would you know of misery?”
“Enough to know I would not wish it on anyone, and certainly not on someone who has been as dear to me as my cousin.”
“Very pretty words, my boy! But you are a besotted dreamer.” Her gaze narrowed knowingly. “You see through the eyes of a fool.”
Somberly, Cam shook his head. “No, ma’am. At long last, I see things as they are. Indeed, have you troubled yourself to ask what Joan wants? She can no longer even look me in the eyes! What was once an avuncular affection has been replaced by stark dread. In truth, I cannot but wonder if her affections are not directed elsewhere.”
With two long strides, Mrs. Belmont crossed the carpet to face her nephew. For the briefest of moments, the woman looked as if she might strike him. “Just what are you implying, Camden? My daughter is as pure as the driven snow, and I have made perfectly sure of it! She has not escaped my protection, not for one moment!”
Cam threw up his hands. “Escape?” he whispered hoarsely. “Pray consider your choice of words, madam! She is a young woman, not a prisoner!”
Mrs. Belmont’s eyes narrowed further still. “You would do well, my lord, to tend to your home fires, and leave me to mine. Would you have me permit Joan to run fast and free, like that wastrel brother of yours? Is that your notion of a proper upbringing?” His aunt swept an expansive arm through the room. “Thank God my sister is dead and cannot see what you have wrought here.”
Cam stalked away from the desk, shoving his chair beneath it with a violence. “What I have wrought here, madam, is a profitable estate—an estate dragged from the brink of ruin by the sweat of my brow. And I have seen to the upbringing of my brother and sister as best I was able. I do not deign to discuss it further with you. Now, I have given you my offer. Your pitching it into the fire in no way obviates my wish to take care of Joan.”
“You must marry her! You do not know what you are doing!”
Cam could not suppress a grim smile. “You are closer to the truth than I care to admit. But I shall sort out my life soon enough.”
Mrs. Belmont sneered knowingly. “Do not imagine, my boy, that I cannot guess what’s afoot here. You mean to set up that French tart as your mistress. But Joan is no fool. She knows that men must have their diversions.”
Cam suppressed the urge to throttle the woman. Her callousness made him want to retch. “Joan deserves something a little better than a faithless husband,” he softly concluded. “And my governess is a lady.”
Mrs. Belmont rested the tip of one gloved finger upon the corner of Cam’s desk. “What Helene Middleton is, sirrah, is the daughter of a demimondaine!”
Her use of Helene’s former name did not escape his notice. Cam stood in mute anger, gripping the back of his chair with both hands.
His aunt laughed. “Oh, Camden, my boy! Are you such a fool as all that? It took so very little effort to reveal her scandalous past! Flitting about the Continent with whomever could afford her so-called wages! Ha! One has but to look at her to see her mother’s resemblance and depravity.”
With long, angry strides, Cam stalked toward the door and yanked it open. Despite his almost blinding anger, through the passageway he could see his guests crowded around Catherine. His sister was seated at the pianoforte, leading the group in a lively song.
When Cam spoke, his voice was cold with rage. “You’ll tell Joan what I have said, madam. And you’ll tell her tonight, lest her health collapse. Or something worse happens.” Cam stared blindly into the depths of the parlor. “This conversation is at an end.”
He stared down at his knuckles, which had gone white against the brass of the doorknob. He was frightened by the depth of his anger, terrified by his desire to lash out and strike his aunt. Cam squeezed shut his eyes. The thought petrified him. He was losing control. Losing his grip. Again and again. It kept happening.
Mrs. Belmont walked toward him and laid her fine-boned hand over his, and his eyes flew open wide. “At an end?” she asked softly, staring at the guests who crowded his parlor. “No, I rather doubt it, Camden. Not unless you are willing to have your light o’love humiliated. A few choice words said in a carrying tone, and I shall be the focus of everyone’s attention.”
It felt as if the doorknob might come off in his hand. The bitch had him. Already, Will had stopped singing, and had turned to look over his shoulder.
Cam pushed the door shut. Mrs. Belmont smiled. “Yes,” she said sweetly, “it would be difficult to have all of them learn the truth about your so-called governess. How terribly sordid! The Earl of Treyhern’s only child, surrendered into the care of a high-flying courtesan!”
“Miss de Severs is nothing of the sort,” Cam returned, forcing a calm tone. Good God! He had expected his aunt to react badly, but this was beyond the pale.
“Ha!” shouted Mrs. Belmont derisively. “Do you think for one moment that I do not know perfectly well the history of what went on between you two? I had the whole story from your worthless sire.”
“My father knew nothing,” muttered Cam.
Mrs. Belmont smiled serenely. “Oh, he knew it! And he told it! And then he slapped his knee with hilarity over your escape! And now, you mean to throw yourself at the feet of a woman who could be had for a pittance? A woman whom you, and a dozen others, have already had? It merely proves what everyone has long suspected—that you are every inch the fool your father was.”
Cam ignored his aunt’s lies. And as for the truth, well—there was no point in denying his feelings for Helene. He did not believe that his aunt’s description of her past was wholly accurate. But he had almost ceased to care.
“You know nothing of Miss de Severs’s character, madam,” he said darkly. “You’d be well advised to hold your tongue.”
“She is naught but a whore’s daughter!” Mrs. Belmont stamped her foot upon the carpet. “She is not and never has been any better than she should be.”
“It is over, madam,” he said calmly, his fear swallowed up in rage. Whatever storm his aunt conjured up, he and Helene would ride it out together.
“No! I am your blood! You’ll do as I ask or suffer the consequences.”
Cam could see the woman’s grasp on reality slipping away. Had it meant that much to see her child wed to wealth and a title? It was time to be brutal.
“You are right,” he said softly. “I love Helene. Whatever that may make me—and you may hurl your insults at me as you will—Miss de Severs is a lady. And I love Joan, too, but not in the way that a man should love the woman he means to marry. I have told you what I will do for her. It must suffice.” Abruptly, he laid his hand back upon the knob and yanked open the door.
“Camden.” His aunt’s voice sounded deep and ragged, as if i
t arose from the torments of hell. “Please! I beg you! I am your only maternal aunt. Our family has been weakened—almost destroyed—by immoral excess. The salvation of it is left to us!”
Blindly, Cam turned to her. “I find I have grown weary, madam, of being cast in the savior’s role. The family must flounder on without one. But I shall do all that I can for you and for Joan. I shall take her under my wing—even into my home, should she wish it. Catherine will take her to town and bring her out. But I cannot wed her. My heart is otherwise engaged. I am sorry.”
“No!” his aunt whispered hoarsely. “You cannot—why, you would not dare to marry that woman—!”
Cam merely pulled the door open wider still.
“She is a whore!” hissed his aunt. “Camden, I made inquiries! There can be no doubt! You may have been her first, but you shan’t be her last! She imagines you to be a fool like your father! She will take what she can get, and drag you into dissolution. Why else would she return after all these years? Have you asked yourself that?”
Cam strode away from his study, leaving his aunt alone in the doorway. There was just enough truth in her accusations to trouble him. But not about Helene. About himself.
It was himself, always himself, that Cam was left to doubt. There was no question that Helene disordered his mind. All self-discipline and every good intention flew out the window the minute she entered the room. And it would never change.
Behind him, his aunt said nothing. Thank God. Through weary eyes, he watched Helene reenter the parlor, seize a book from the side table, and then hasten toward his brother, who was still sprawled upon the sofa, his perpetually sullen glower even darker than usual.
For once, Helene’s expression was telling. She looked serious, almost distraught, as she settled onto the sofa and leaned toward Bentley. So absorbed was he in studying the intense look which passed between the pair, Cam barely noticed that his guests were now wandering away from the pianoforte and beginning to make their goodbyes to his sister.
Just then, Helene shifted on the sofa, turning toward Bentley so that he could no longer see her face. Illogically, Cam felt another stab of rejection, as if he had once again been shut out of Helene’s life—what should have been their life—had fate not played them false.
His aunt’s angry words echoed in Cam’s head. Did he mean to marry Helene? Yes, he did. If she would have him.
And unless she were truly in love with the rector, a possibility his aunt would have surely belittled, then only one of two things were true. Either her love for him had endured, just as his had. Or she was as disingenuous and worldly as his aunt claimed, and had merely returned to see if he were as big a fool as the boy she had left behind.
Cam no longer believed the latter, but again, he simply did not care. His aunt had given words not only to his fears, but to his future. He would have Helene, and damn the cost.
Just then, the rector trotted across the carpet to make a low, graceful bow over Helene’s hand. Her laughter, a little brittle, seemed to carry through the room. Something, he finally realized, was exceedingly wrong.
Suddenly, Cam found his view of the sofa briefly obscured by Mrs. Fane, who was coming toward him, obviously intent upon saying goodnight. He feigned civility, taking her hand, and thanking her for the pleasure of her company. And yet, the whole of his attention was focused upon Helene.
Helene. She had laid her hand upon Bentley’s coat sleeve. It looked as if she were asking him something. Why was she so attentive toward Bentley tonight? How would she react to Cam’s proposal of marriage? Would she laugh in his face? If she refused him—perhaps out of feminine pride or some misplaced wish for independence—he would press the issue as far as he dared. Indeed, this time, he would make certain that his was an offer no sane woman could refuse.
Catherine’s laughter dragged him back into the present, and Cam looked up to see that Helene had vanished. Larkin was passing out coats and cloaks.
Thank God. It was over. He could shut himself up in his study and allow himself the rare luxury of getting blind drunk. Mindful of his guests, Cam rushed forward to help Joan with her cloak. The Belmonts could not possibly be gone from his house soon enough.
It was long after midnight when Helene realized that in her haste to leave the parlor she had left Joan’s mysterious note tucked inside the little book. But precisely which book? In her distress, Helene had failed to note so much as the title, or even the color of the leather binding. Good heavens! What had she been thinking?
Shoving her feet back into her satin evening slippers, Helene hastened through the upper hall and down the stairs. Once the book was reshelved by the parlormaid tomorrow, she might never find it again. But sooner or later, someone would. And by then, the letter’s reappearance might prove a grave embarrassment to Bentley, and ruin young Joan. And undoubtedly, it would hurt Cam. Perhaps she should want that, but deep in her heart, she simply could not.
The fire had burned to little more than a heap of ash by the time Helene cracked open the parlor door. The room was vacant, she was relieved to see. By the dim glow of the coals, she could see the slender volume perched on the table where she had left it. Darting inside, Helene reached the table, scooped up the book, and dropped it into the pocket of her dressing gown. She turned to go.
“Looking for Saint Camden, m’dear?” drawled a sullen voice from the gloom. Helene whirled about to see Bentley’s lanky figure wedged across the window seat, his face half-concealed in shadows. Nonetheless, the indolent depravity in his tone should have warned her of what the dying firelight could not reveal.
Cam’s brother sat, his back rigid against the window embrasure, one foot planted high in the center of the opposite wall. Low in his lap, the young man cradled a nearly empty goblet. His cravat and waistcoat were loose, his dark hair had fallen forward to deepen the shadows of his face, and he looked frighteningly like a younger version of his father.
“Bentley, take yourself off to bed,” Helene ordered in her sternest tone. “You are drunk.”
With a grace that defied her accusation, Bentley spun smoothly about to a sitting position, then strode across the room toward her, leaving his brandy behind. He drew to a halt, far too near for comfort. “I asked,” he repeated softly, sliding one finger beneath her chin, “have you come looking for Saint Cam? For if you have, my dear, it shan’t do you a damned bit of good.”
“For God’s sake, Bentley,” Helene hissed. “Not only are you now roaring drunk, you are offensive.” She spun about and strode toward the door. But Bentley was faster. He reached the door on her heels and thrust a long, powerful arm over her shoulder to hold it shut. Helene’s heart leapt into her throat.
Bentley leaned into her then, urging Helene’s body against the door. The wood was cold against her breasts. She could hear his breathing in her ear, smell the spirits on his breath. He laughed, low and wicked, against her temple.
“Do you think I cannot see the way he looks at you, Helene, when he fancies no one watches? Why, twice during dinner, I saw the old boy slip his hand under the table to ease himself a bit. I’m persuaded you’ve thawed him out.”
“You are excessively vulgar,” she hissed. “Let me go this minute.”
He merely chuckled again. “You drive him to distraction, m’dear. Fancy that! My sainted brother with an incurable cock-stand.” Strategically, Helene shifted her weight but his other arm came up to brace against the door, trapping her face first against the hard oak.
“Let me go, Bentley,” she insisted. “I want no part of your quarrel with Cam.”
A little frightened now, Helene knew better than to show her fear. Bentley was trying to use his overt masculinity to intimidate her, that was all. The boy was confused; angry at his brother, and unhappy with his lot in life. Bentley probably meant her no harm, but if she overreacted and created a disturbance, harm would not begin to describe what would befall her. Any governess was in jeopardy of such overtures, but Helene, particularly in this house, w
as at grave risk.
“Ahh, Helene,” he whispered against the back of her head, his voice anguished. “You are so bloody beautiful. I can see why he burns for you. But Cam will never wed you. You do know that, do you not?”
“For heaven’s sake, Bentley. You are crushing me,” she whispered, in as composed a voice as she could muster. “Step back and let me breathe.”
Bentley seemed not to have heard her. “Oh, yes. He wants you, sweet Helene. But his noble lordship will do his duty, no matter who must suffer. He’ll marry Joan, and devil take anyone who doesn’t like it.”
“It does not concern me, Bentley,” Helene lied softly. “You are hurting me. Let me go.”
“Cam is hurting you, Helene. Do you think I cannot see that? He’s hurting both of us. But perhaps we could bring one another some small measure of comfort?”
Seductively, the young man let his hand slide over her collarbone and upper arm, as if he might urge the fabric of her dressing gown off one shoulder. But it would not give, and Bentley was forced to shift his hand up and around her throat. Almost absently, the young man began to tug at the ribbons even as his other arm held her hands at bay.
Helene was growing frightened. Bentley had her pinned hard against the door and was swiftly—and rather adroitly—having his way with her nightclothes. Though he was by no means as large as his brother, he doubtless outweighed her by three stone. If he were serious, she could not possibly fight him off. With a sick feeling, Helene recalled how very much like his father he looked.
No! She simply refused to believe that Bentley was that much like his father. And for his sake, she could not let him behave dishonorably. “For God’s sake, Bentley, let me go,” she hissed, all too aware of the slight bulge Bentley was now urging firmly against her buttocks.
Bentley might be drunk and grieving over Joan, but the boy’s male urges seemed not to have noticed. Good God—was that not just like a man? To slake his lust and disappointment with whomever was at hand? A woman was not so inconstant. She, of all women, should know.
