by Liz Carlyle
She turned to see one of Nash’s younger sisters at her side. “Cards are so frightfully dull, are they not, Mademoiselle Marchand?” she said, smiling.
Camille smiled back. “They can be, oui.”
The young woman stuck out a hand. “Lady Phaedra Northampton,” she said. “You cannot possibly have got all these names the first time round.”
“Merci, I did not,” Camille confessed.
Lady Phaedra was perhaps a bit past twenty, and vivacious despite her drab gown and gold spectacles. She gestured at the wall. “You are an admirer of French classicism, mademoiselle?”
Camille turned back to the painting. “I like Poussin,” she admitted, pointing at her favorite elements in the painting. “I like his subtle use of color here. And here. It allows his extraordinary skill with line and light to emerge.”
“You are quite sure this is a Poussin?” asked Lady Phaedra lightly. “He did not ordinarily sign his work.”
Camille turned to look at her, wondering if this were some sort of challenge. “I could be mistaken, perhaps. But I think not. I have had the good fortune to see many of his works.”
Just then, Rothewell approached. “Do not let this one goad you,” he murmured, leaning toward Camille. “She imagines herself more intelligent than us mere mortals.”
Lady Phaedra drew herself up an inch. “Well, at least I know my Rosa centifolias from my Rosa rugosas, which is more than I can say for some people,” she answered, her eyes following Rothewell. Then she softened her tone, and returned her gaze to Camille. “As to the painting, Mademoiselle Marchand, I haven’t any notion. The last pair of experts my father trotted in were equally divided. And Nash simply likes the painting, so he doesn’t care who painted it.”
Lady Phaedra’s mother drifted toward them. “I have always thought that one especially pretty,” she remarked, motioning at the painting. “The hills, the trees, and those tiny little horses. Very clever indeed. But I prefer the kind Nash has upstairs. The ones with all the bowls full of fruit and such.”
“Still lifes, Mamma,” said Lady Phaedra indulgently. “They are called still lifes.”
“But they are all still,” the dowager complained. “They are paintings. They cannot very well go anywhere, can they?”
Lady Phaedra chose not to argue with this logic. “Nash’s late mother was part Russian,” she explained. “She had quite good taste in art. As Mother says, there is a collection of fine Flemish still lifes in the library upstairs, if you would care to see them.”
“A capital notion,” said Rothewell out of nowhere.
Camille spun around to see he was studying the alleged Poussin as if it held the secrets of the universe. Her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze.
“Lovely, then,” said Lady Phaedra cheerfully. “Up we go.”
The dowager whacked her daughter lightly on the arm with her fan. “Don’t be obtuse, Phaedra,” she said. “The happy couple might wish to go alone.”
“An excellent notion, ma’am,” said Rothewell. “I believe I am developing a fondness for art.”
“And roses,” interjected Lady Phaedra, grinning. “Did you know that, Mademoiselle Marchand? Lord Rothewell has a vast knowledge of rose gardening. You must ask him to expound upon it sometime.”
“Thank you, Phae.” Rothewell bowed stiffly. “But at present, I find myself equally fascinated by painting.”
The dowager had taken Camille by the hand. “The paintings are in the far end of the library. If the room is locked, you’ll find a key under the vase by the door.” Then she smiled and leaned nearer. “We will not send out a search party if you linger.”
Lord Rothewell watched Camille from the corner of one eye to see if she would hesitate. The notion of privacy was as appealing as it was disquieting. He turned, and offered his arm to her.
“The talk about roses,” she asked as they went up the stairs, “what did it mean?”
“What, Phae?” Rothewell looked down, feeling faintly embarrassed. “Nothing. She is simply teasing me.”
“Oui? About what?”
“About a foolish white lie I once told her—an excuse to escape a tea I did not wish to attend.”
“I see.” Camille seemed to hesitate. “And tell me, monsieur, are you lying now?”
Rothewell stopped on the steps. “About what?”
Her dark eyes flashed with some inscrutable emotion. “About your fondness for paintings, of course.”
He let his eyes roam over her face. “Yes,” he said honestly. “I don’t give a damn for art or roses, if you must know.”
“Ah,” she said softly. “Do you know anything at all of art?”
Rothewell hesitated. He doubtless looked the worst sort of rustic in her eyes. But he’d be damned if he’d pretend to be something he was not—even for her. “I know blue from red,” he finally answered. “And oils from…the other kind. That is the extent of it.”
“And yet you wish to see more paintings?”
“What I wish is to speak with you in private,” he finally snapped. “And I can see no other way of doing so. Forgive my presumption. Would you rather not be alone?”
“Alone should suit me very well indeed,” she said, starting up the stairs again. “For I have something to say to you, monsieur. And I am not afraid of you. I think you know that much by now.”
She should have been afraid. If she had sensed for one moment the thoughts which ran through his head as he watched her silk skirts slither over her hips as she climbed the stairs, yes, she would have been very afraid indeed.
The library was easy to find. A pair of vases on pedestals flanked the entrance. Rothewell found the key and locked the door behind them. Inside, the room was faintly musty, like any library which was little used. A pair of sconces burned just beyond the doors, but the rest of the room lay in shadow. He found a candle and lit it, then strolled a little deeper into the room. An entire wall had been given over to paintings, with sconces placed every few feet between them.
“Shall I light the others?” he asked.
“Merci, but the candle will do,” she said. “We are not here, I think, to look at paintings?”
“No, we are not.” He set the candle on one of the reading tables, and turned to face her. “We are here because I owe you an apology.”
Her finely etched eyebrows rose. Finally, he had shocked her. “Mon Dieu, does everyone mean to apologize to me this night?”
“I can speak for no one save myself,” he replied.
She smiled almost sourly and half turned away. “You refer to Mrs. Ambrose, n’est-ce pas?”
Rothewell followed her as she strolled past toward the wall of paintings. “I do,” he answered. “That scene yesterday at Pamela’s—I take full responsibility for it. It was unfair to you.”
“Oui, it was.” She looked back over her shoulder. “And unfair to Madame Ambrose, I think?”
“That, too,” he said grimly.
Camille turned around, and he thought he saw a flicker of pain in her wide, bottomless eyes. For an instant, she hesitated. “I cannot stop you, my lord, from keeping a mistress,” she said after a long, uncertain moment had passed. “But so long as we live together, I shan’t have this affaire d’amour of yours flung in my face. Do you understand me, Rothewell? I will not be humiliated as my mother was. I will not.”
Her voice was raw, but despite it, Camille stood before him, cool and exquisite, like an ornament of spun glass placed just beyond his reach. Something inside his chest seemed to twist. He suddenly wished to kiss her again. To hold her and kiss her until her beauty was in dishabille. Until her inky hair was tumbling down and tangled in his fingers. Until her mouth was softly parted and her eyes were somnolent with desire. His weakness angered him. Ruthlessly, he shoved the thoughts away.
“Our discussion of Mrs. Ambrose is finished, Camille,” he said, setting his hands on her slender shoulders. “I have apologized.”
Camille’s eyes hardened. “It is far from
finished, monsieur,” she gritted. “I demand your word as a gentleman.”
“What, jealous?”
Her eyes sparked with fire. “Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted, her voice a hot whisper. “You would like to have that power over me. To hold my heart in your hands. But I am not such a fool, Rothewell. I will not give you my heart. I can ill afford it.”
His hands tightened on her arms. “I have asked you to be my wife,” he gritted. “And I am asking you to be honorable and faithful. Not one thing more do I require of you, mademoiselle. Do not put words in my mouth.”
“Très bien,” she snapped. “Then keep your affaires private, monsieur.”
He gave her a little shake. “At least say my name, damn it,” he growled. “Stop calling me monsieur, as if you just met me.”
“Fine,” she said, “Lord Rothewell.”
“Not that name,” he growled. “Kieran. If you cannot dredge up a little indignation at the thought of my keeping a mistress, do you think you could at the very least use my Christian name?”
“So, you mean to be a faithful husband?” she challenged, her eyes wide and mocking. “Oh, do not lie to me, my lord. You are a rake and a rogue to your very core, and we both of us know it.”
Something inside him snapped. He jerked her hard against him, and set his mouth to hers in a kiss which was more brutish than tender. His mouth took hers hungrily, lust shooting through him like a hot, living thing. He wanted her angry. Wanted her, he supposed, to slap him senseless. To shut out the truth of her words. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, claiming her, forcing her head back. Forcing her to submit. It was a fierce, fleeting thing, and when they came apart, her eyes blazed, and her breath came sharp and short.
“There,” he said, his own breath coming roughly. “Now do not claim, Camille, that you are so indifferent to me. Use my Christian name. Stop this foolish pretense of yours. Stop acting as if you mean to go to the marriage bed like some lamb to the slaughter.”
A rosy flush ran up her throat. “You are very full of yourself, Kieran,” she said in her quiet, husky voice. “And trust me, I am no lamb.”
“No, you are not, are you?” His voice, too, had dropped an octave. “This is going to be a marriage, Camille. If we can do no more, we should at least try to be…I don’t know. Amiable, I suppose.”
Amiable? Rothewell wished to jerk the word back as soon as it left his lips. He was not amiable—to anyone.
But Camille was watching him, and for an instant, the hard mask fell. She was lonely, and alone, he thought, but afraid, perhaps, to be otherwise. She had his sympathy. And in another time and place, he wondered if things could have been different for them.
“Camille,” he whispered, “may we not try to get along?” Such simple words—and, so far as he could recall, the only thing he had ever asked of any woman. The thought shamed him a little.
“I…I do not know.” She clasped her hands before her, and in the slight curve of her shoulders, he could see an infinite weariness. “But I know this: I cannot afford to grow attached to you. I cannot come to depend on you. You have said as much yourself and, mon Dieu, I admired you for your honesty when you said it—”
“No, what I said was—”
Camille threw up her hand. “Let me finish, s’il vous plaît,” she said. “Do not give in to this—this bourgeois guilt you seem suddenly to be toying with. You desire me, but do not pretend you feel anything for me beyond lust. I will think the better of you for it.”
“Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s just that I wish…”
“Quoi?” She whispered, lowering her eyelids as if hiding some emotion. “What do you wish, Rothewell? That life were fair? I think you know that it is not.”
He shook his head. “I wish that we had met under different circumstances. Before I became…what I am. Before you became so cold.”
“Is that what I am?” she asked softly. “Cold?”
“Yes, and hard,” he added. “Your heart has been hardened by life, Camille. You expect…well, the worst, I suppose.”
And perhaps she was about to get it, he inwardly acknowledged. He was a poor choice of a husband, for any number of reasons. He probably wouldn’t be faithful. Perhaps not even honorable. Hell, he had cheated at cards just to get the chance to bed her. But his mind kept turning back to the scene of her pounding her fist on Valigny’s card table and challenging one of them to marry her. She had been ready for martyrdom—and he carried the sword.
Tonight she was even more beautiful, the creamy swell of her breasts just visible above the fabric of a dark green gown, which flattered her every turn. His gaze drifted over the warm olive skin of her swanlike neck. Over the emerald earbobs which swayed from the plump earlobes he wanted suddenly to suckle. He returned his hands to her shoulders, and pulled her nearer.
“Camille, you are marrying me because you have no other choice,” he said quietly. “Do you think I don’t know that? But before you stand up with me before God, you should know what I expect.”
“Bien sûr.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “What do you expect?”
“Kissing,” he said quietly. “Perhaps a great deal of it.”
“Ah, as you just kissed me a moment ago?” she asked.
“Yes, I daresay.” She meant to make this difficult, he realized. “Camille, this cannot be about having a child and nothing more,” he found himself saying. “You deserve something better than a man who will simply take his pleasure from you.”
“I see,” she said quietly. “You wish to seduce me.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do,” he admitted.
She cut her gaze away, a rare show of surrender. “I need a husband, my lord,” she answered, blinking rapidly. “And I have already shown that I am weak. Yes, I desire you. Your touch…it maddens me. Your seduction of me will not present much of a challenge, I fear.”
Rothewell shook his head. He was deeply dissatisfied, and he was not perfectly sure why. It was the same sort of frustration he had felt on the night he’d first met her, when Camille had so dispassionately offered her body to him then and there, in exchange for his promise of marriage. He had been damned tempted, too.
He remembered another such beauty who had needed rescuing, but on that occasion, it had been he who had made the offer. The many pleasures of Annemarie’s body in exchange for his undying love and financial support. He was hardly the first man to propose that to her. And she had been glad enough to seal the bargain—in a way he would never forget. After long years in the darkness, his life had suddenly seemed filled with light. Until his brother had chosen to interfere.
But Camille was not Annemarie, no matter what Xanthia believed. Oh, the resemblance was there. Dark hair and flashing eyes. Honeyed skin. That sensuous French accent. And yes, it had been the first thing about Camille that had struck him. Tempted him. But any resurrected fantasies of Annemarie would likely not survive one interlude in Camille Marchand’s bed. This woman had a passion and a backbone Annemarie had never possessed.
A woman so rare deserved to be surrounded by joy. To be made love to on a bed of rose petals. To have poetry written in her honor. And none of these things would he ever do for Camille Marchand. It wasn’t in his nature. She would have to settle, at least for a while, for a good deal less.
Though he had not spoken in some minutes, Camille had made no effort to step away. Caught in the moment, he lifted his hand and stroked the back of his knuckles along her cheek.
Her sweep of black lashes lowered, fanning across her warm skin.
“You were right about one thing,” he finally said. “I desire you. Far more than I would wish.”
She looked up at him, unblinking. “You wish to kiss me again, n’est-ce pas?”
He lifted his hands to cradle her face, then stroked his thumb round the corner of her mouth, and then across her sensuous bottom lip. He felt the plump swell of it quiver beneath the pad of his thumb. He drew it down just a fract
ion, to reveal her small white teeth, and the pink tip of her tongue. He leaned forward, and skimmed his mouth along the shell of her ear. “Yes,” he murmured. “And it is very necessary, Camille. Absolutely necessary.”
“Necessary?” Her voice was thready.
“This kissing.” He drew back and smoothed his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “You once asked me…was it necessary? And it is. Like air to my lungs. Kiss me again. Kiss me, Camille.”
She tilted her head and rose onto her toes without opening her eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Rothewell lowered his mouth to hers. He wanted to savor each second, tucking it away in the recesses of his memory. Storing it away for a time when, perhaps, he would not have this pleasure.
Their lips touched, hers trembling at first. His were certain. And with a gentleness that amazed even himself, Rothewell molded his mouth softly to hers. After a moment’s hesitation, Camille was kissing him back in earnest. Unbidden, she opened beneath him, and drew his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth. It was sweet. So achingly sweet. Something in the pit of his belly seemed to melt.
Her hands came up to hold his face, mirroring his earlier gesture. As if she might control his motions, she held him there, their tongues sinuously entwining, her breath coming more urgently with every moment. He wanted her. Good God, how he wanted her. It was not unbridled lust. It was not Annemarie. He just wanted this woman—Camille—and with an intensity that would have worried him were he not so desperately lost in her kiss.
Somehow, he turned and set her back to the wall below one of the sconces. He wished suddenly that he had lit them all; that he could see the flickering light play over the fine bones of her face, and the silken sweep of her eyelashes. Without taking his mouth from hers, his hands went up to cradle the mounds of her breasts.
Camille gasped faintly at the touch of his hands. When he hooked his thumbs in the laced edge of her bodice, she said nothing, and let her head go back against the wall. She felt enervated, as if she were entirely at his command—and in that moment, she did not care. With a deft tug, he drew the fabric down, taking her chemise with it, until the dusky pink nipples were exposed.
