Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  “What…what did she want, then?”

  Rothewell shook his head. “A husband,” he said. “Security. I just was too young and too arrogant to see it. So one day my brother asked her to marry him. And she…she said yes.”

  Though Camille had already learned much of this from Xanthia, hearing it from his own lips was entirely different. His pain was still raw, and it told in his tone. He had lost his only love to the brother whom he had adored and respected. And in a way, he had been betrayed by them both.

  “Did you know, Kieran, that your brother was in love with her?” Camille whispered.

  He shook his head, his glossy dark hair catching the lowering angle of the afternoon sun. “I should have,” he acknowledged. “I knew he admired her, and that they were well acquainted. I don’t know what Annemarie told him about us—something less than the truth, I daresay. I should have seen the whole bloody mess coming, but I was so naïve, I did not.”

  “Mon Dieu, you must have been devastated.”

  “No, outraged,” he gritted. “It drove a wedge between us that remained until Luke’s death. But he felt I had insulted Annemarie; that she deserved something more honorable than what I had offered. He accused me of toying with her affections. So he married her, and we fought over it. I bloodied his nose, and he broke two of my fingers. Then I moved out of the house.”

  “And after that?” asked Camille. “What happened?”

  Wearily, he lifted both shoulders. “Nothing—on the surface of it,” he said. “We made a surly sort of peace between us. Then Luke turned his attention to the shipping business and left me to run the plantations.”

  “You…you never returned home?”

  At last, he looked at her. His eyes held a world-weary look edged with something which troubled her. “How could I sleep beneath that roof, Camille?” he whispered. “I couldn’t keep my hands off her—and she was my brother’s wife.”

  A sense of dread ran through Camille. There was more to this story, she sensed, than Xanthia knew. “And Annemarie—how did she feel?”

  He snorted with disgust. “Annemarie was happy enough,” he said. “She had found a way to have her cake and eat it, too.”

  Camille shook her head. “This cake…I-I do not comprehend.”

  He tore his eyes from hers, and stared at the water. “We were still lovers, Camille.”

  “Mon dieu!” Camille set her fingers to her mouth.

  “She would slip away to see me with any excuse she could find.” His voice was dead. “I told myself…I told myself it was her doing, not mine. I never sought her out. Never. Never even met her eyes over dinner—on those rare occasions I could bear to go home. But God help me, when she would turn up at my door…I was weak.”

  Camille suddenly felt sick.

  “Every time I would tell myself—and her—never again,” he whispered. “It sickened me. I would beg God’s forgiveness and swear it was over. And then…there she’d be. Standing in the middle of my cottage, with that wide-brimmed hat in her hands, and a desperate look in her eyes. If I told her to get out, she would cry. She would say…she would say that she had made a mistake. That Luke…that he did not love her as I did. That her life was coming apart, and that if I would just hold her…”

  “Mais non,” said Camille sadly, “it never stopped at that, did it?”

  He swallowed hard, and shook his head. “I gave in. Every time. Because she would tell me she loved me, and for a few minutes, it would be like before. But it wasn’t. She was Lady Rothewell. And I was just the younger brother.”

  Camille set her hand over his. “She…she wanted a title?”

  “God, I don’t know.” His voice was bleak. Beaten. “She wanted to be something other than a rich man’s mistress. I look back, and I try to understand. Her honor was stripped from her when she was very young—thirteen or fourteen. I forget. He was rich and lily-white, and she was neither. She had no say in the matter, and when he was done with her, he simply cast her off—she and their child, Martinique. It…it did something to her. I cannot explain it.”

  Camille thought, strangely, of her mother. And of the deep wounds rejection and insecurity could leave behind when hope was lost and love was but a cold memory. Her mother had turned to brandy. Annemarie, it seemed, had been more clever. Or more desperate.

  “Did you brother suspect?” she asked quietly.

  Rothewell laughed bitterly. “He should have done,” he answered. “But no, we trusted one another completely, the three of us. We had to; otherwise, we would never have survived. Luke was always in Bridgetown slaving away at the office—and soon he began to take Xanthia along. I lived half a mile beyond the plantation house. No, he never suspected.”

  “How old were you when it started?”

  “Old enough to damn well know better.”

  Camille felt her lips thin. “I wish to know what age, s’il vous plaît.”

  He lifted one shoulder wearily. “Eighteen,” he said. “Nineteen, perhaps.”

  “And you feel you betrayed your brother?” she gently pressed. “Is that it?”

  He turned at last to look at her, his eyes as flat and gray as slate. “I don’t feel it,” he answered. “I did it. That’s the sort of man I am, Camille. You said it yourself. The very day we met, you called me a devil. Then you offered to pay me a hundred thousand pounds to impregnate you. You knew precisely what I was.”

  “Oui. And then I offered to have an affaire so that you might divorce me, n’est-ce pas?” she responded, her words soft. “Yet is either of us the same person as the ones who met on that night? Are we truly as callous as we sound?”

  “Don’t look for honor in me, Camille.” His voice was rough as gravel. “I lay with my brother’s wife—over and over again until I somehow found the will to stop it. But the damage was done. And I can’t even begin to tell you the pain I’ve caused Martinique, out of my own selfish bitterness. Hell, I even cheated at cards to get what I wanted. Yes, I cheated at Valigny’s that night. You didn’t know that, did you?”

  She looked at him blankly for a moment. “Non,” she whispered. “And I do not believe it.”

  He laughed darkly. “Valigny kept drawing the Queen of Spades,” he said. “I began to suspect he was palming it—his lucky card, you know. Some gamblers do that. So I found it, and I stole it. I laid it down as if it were mine. I did it and…damn it, I don’t even know why I did it.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Perhaps you did it to save me?” she whispered. “Perhaps you knew, as I knew, that you were my only hope?”

  His eyes glittered. “Don’t try to paint this a pretty color, Camille,” he said tightly. “I don’t wish the past sugarcoated just to make me—or you—feel better about what happened. I am what I am. Now for God’s sake, let that be the end of it.”

  “But what happened with your brother was a tragedy,” Camille murmured. “Wrong, oui. But I know you loved him very much.”

  Her husband’s hands balled into fists, and his jaw went rigid. “Luke—he was everything to us,” he choked. “Can you understand that? Can you? He was both brother and father. He fought to keep us together. Good God, I cannot count the times he kept Uncle from beating me to death. He’d take the lashes himself if he had to. And Xanthia—” Here, Rothewell jerked to a halt, and physically shuddered. “God only knows what Uncle would have done to Xanthia—him, or one of his drunken friends. A young girl, growing up in a house like that—around men of his ilk—it was inhuman, the way they would look at her. Until she was old enough to keep a pistol under her pillow, one of us slept on the floor in her room. Luke at first. Then me.”

  “Mon Dieu,” whispered Camille. “Your uncle was a monster.”

  She looked at Rothewell, but his eyes were still distant. He said no more.

  “What finally happened to him, this uncle?” Camille asked. “A quick and painless death?”

  “Aye.” Rothewell’s mouth twisted bitterly. “How did you guess?”

  “Is it
not always the way with the wicked?” she asked a little bitterly. “We must hope le bon Dieu makes them pay for it in the end, for they surely do not pay for it on this earth.”

  Rothewell’s bitter expression did not abate. “Yes, I have been giving that one a good deal of thought of late.”

  He was still thinking of Annemarie, she knew. Impulsively, Camille took his fist in her hand and forced it to relax, rubbing the tension from his palm, and then his fingers. What he had done—dear heaven, it really was quite unforgivable. Why, then, did she feel so deeply for him? Why did she sit here rubbing his hand and wondering if his forgiveness was not long overdue? Could a boy—one without a mother’s love or a father’s guidance—really be a man at nineteen? Or would he define love wrongly, and seek it out desperately?

  Perhaps she was just making excuses, but she was no longer sure she cared. She had long ago given up any pretense that they might someday live apart. Frighteningly, perhaps, she was committed to her marriage for the duration—and she would likely be nursing her husband all the way to the grave if he kept up his hard living and self-torment. But there was no other option now. Not for her heart.

  When his palm and fingers lay flat and relaxed upon his thigh, she spoke quietly. “How did your uncle die, Kieran?”

  “Luke,” he said, his voice flat. “Luke pushed him down the stairs.”

  Camille was not surprised. “Perhaps he deserved it.”

  Rothewell gave another snort of disgust. “Aye, he deserved it,” he answered. “He had quarreled with Xanthia—God, I can’t even remember why. He called her an insolent little slut and backhanded her. The blood…her lip. It split wide open. And this time, Luke just snapped. He pushed Uncle away and—and somehow, he fell. They were standing at the top of the staircase. Uncle was drunk, of course. He broke his neck.”

  Camille did not know what to say. A chill wind picked up, ruffling at the edge of her skirts, and tugging her hair from its pins. They were utterly alone amongst the trees, with nothing but the occasional spate of birdsong or the clatter of leafless branches to break the tension.

  “Was there trouble for Luke?” she finally asked. “The—the constables?”

  Rothewell shook his head. “Just an inquest,” he said quietly. “Our uncle’s reputation was well-known. It was accounted something of a miracle he lived to see five-and-forty.”

  Camille narrowed her eyes against the sun. “How old were you when you went to live with him?” she asked musingly. “Do you remember your parents at all?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “But as a little child remembers. Impressions. Flashes of memory. Just this…hazy sort of happiness. And smells. I remember how my mother smelled—of lavender water. I adored it.”

  His posture relaxed a little, and his face softened. Camille smiled. “What a lovely memory,” she said. “When I was a very little girl, I knew that if Maman smelled of fragrance, it meant she was either entertaining or going out. In either case, I knew I would not be seeing her. I came to hate that smell. Utterly hate it. I think it is why I do not wear any scent.”

  Rothewell looked at her strangely and leaned nearer. “But you must do,” he said. “You smell of…I cannot quite say what. Spices and rose petals? Something exotic.”

  Camille shook her head. “Non, you must be mistaken,” she murmured. “You have confused me with someone el—”

  “No, by God, I haven’t,” he interjected harshly. And then his gaze softened, even if his tone did not. He took her hand in his, and held it lightly, almost as if he meant to draw it to his lips. “I would know your scent anywhere. Even in the darkest night in the darkest room with a hundred other people.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Yes, Camille. I would know it. Always, I would know…you.”

  The sudden catch in his voice was unmistakable. Camille felt at once unsteady, as if the mood—perhaps the very earth itself—had shifted ever so slightly. Her eyes searched his, seeking to understand him, this painfully complicated man she had married. What did he ask of her? Or did she even dare to hope?

  He released her hand and looked away, as if regretting he’d spoken at all, and Camille was struck with the strangest impulse to set her lips against his cheek. To tell him that, against all odds and all wisdom, she had fallen in love with him. And that nothing he had done—or could ever do—would alter that. But perhaps she was more a fool than her mother had ever been.

  Just then, Camille heard the sound of gravel lightly crunching in the distance. Remembering the very public place in which they sat, she drew away from her husband and began to smooth the folds of her skirt. From one corner of her eye, she could see a fashionably attired gentleman making his way along the path which fringed the Serpentine, a walking stick in hand, and wearing a top hat so silky it seemed to reflect the autumn sun.

  Rothewell watched him as he neared, then gave a grunt of dismay.

  “Who is that?” she asked

  “An acquaintance,” he said. “A family friend.”

  The gentleman had already espied them. Rothewell lifted his hand in greeting, the motion somewhat less than enthusiastic, and the man turned from the path to stroll up the slight slope toward them.

  Camille surveyed his approach. “A very handsome gentleman,” she murmured. “But a bit of a dandy, n’est-ce pas?”

  Rothewell merely grunted again. But the man, Camille noticed, looked less like a dandy the closer he came. He was slender and lithe, and he moved like a cat on the hunt. His dark eyes danced with humor, and with something less easily discerned. Cynicism, perhaps?

  “Good afternoon!” said the man, lifting his hat. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the new Lady Rothewell?”

  “You have indeed.” Rothewell had stood. “Camille, this is George Kemble. Kemble, my lovely bride.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Kemble,” said Camille, offering up her hand.

  “Enchanté, madame!” he said, bowing low over it. “Of course, your grace and beauty is quite wasted on this barbarian. Nonetheless, my felicitations.”

  “A pleasure to see you, too, Kem.” Rothewell hefted Obelienne’s rucksack out of the way. “I suppose you mean to sit down?”

  Mr. Kemble frowned at the grass, clearly hesitant. “A dangerous business, sitting upon the ground.” His smile returned as swiftly as it had come. “But how can one think of one’s wardrobe when met with so lovely a lady? And so heartfelt an invitation as yours, Rothewell?”

  Camille’s husband finally laughed. “You are rather far from the Strand today, old chap,” he said, as Kemble settled gingerly onto the edge of the greatcoat. “What brings you through the park?”

  “Why, I’ve just this instant come from Whitehall.” Kemble had begun to pick bits of grass from his trouser hems. “Lord de Vendenheim wanted me—so I made him take me to dine at Rules for the roast grouse. After all, one must eat, mustn’t one? And it tastes so much better when dear old Max pays the shot.”

  “I daresay it would,” Rothewell agreed.

  Mr. Kemble shrugged. “In any case, now I must sing for my supper,” he continued. “I’m off to North Wharf to poke round a bit. There was a little contretemps at the canal basin late last night.”

  “Someone up to no good, eh?” Rothewell looked suddenly somber. “Have a care, Kemble.”

  Kemble smiled faintly. “It’s not my favorite part of town,” he confessed. “But one must occasionally do one’s part to placate the Government, mustn’t one?”

  “I generally don’t trouble myself,” said Rothewell.

  “Yes, well, you don’t have to. And speaking of bad parts of town—” Here, Kemble paused to rummage through his pocket. He extracted something wrapped in a scrap of white linen and passed it across the coat to Rothewell. “I think you lost this at Eddie’s.”

  Rothewell folded back the cloth to reveal a gold pocket watch. He flicked a dark glance up at Kemble, then dropped the watch into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain how you came by it?”

&nb
sp; Kemble wrinkled his nose. “I think not,” he said. “Let’s just say I saw you lose it.”

  “And?”

  “And so I retrieved it,” he said simply. “Before something untoward could happen.”

  A warning look passed between the two men. Camille wondered at what was not being said. “Alors là!” she said brightly. “Will you join us in some refreshment, Mr. Kemble? We have chicken, apples, and a lovely cheese. And something called a cassava pone.” She produced the latter for his inspection.

  Kemble cut another dubious glance at Rothewell. “I think I’ll take my chances strolling round the wharves,” he said, poking one finger into the spongy bread. “I’ve heard of cassava.”

  “I used to like it very well indeed,” said Rothewell. “But it is admittedly an acquired taste.”

  Camille smiled at Mr. Kemble. “I confess, monsieur, it is a taste I have not yet acquired,” she said. “The spices in this are very strong, and a little strange.”

  “I shall try an apple,” said Mr. Kemble, taking one and crunching into it with his flawless white teeth.

  Rothewell relaxed onto his elbows again and crossed his boots one over the other. Mr. Kemble’s arrival had been inconvenient, perhaps, but it had defused the tension of their earlier discussion.

  “I have been thinking of engaging your assistance, Kem,” said Rothewell pensively.

  Eyes wide, Mr. Kemble finished chewing. “Surely you jest?” he finally said. “You are asking for help from another human being? How novel! Do tell me how I may assist.”

  “I am told my house lacks charm,” said Rothewell dryly.

  “And warmth,” added Mr. Kemble knowingly. “Indeed, a more utilitarian building in London does not exist—unless one counts the Smithfield slaughterhouse.”

  “Merci, Mr. Kemble,” said Camille, laughing.