Never Romance a Rake

by Liz Carlyle

  “But what if she simply lied?” asked Camille. “Why would she do that? Why would she do that to me?”

  Lord Halburne looked faintly embarrassed. “Far be it for me to defend your mother, Lady Rothewell,” he said. “We were together but briefly. I can tell you this: she never saw my mother’s portraits. She would have had no way of knowing what my mother looked like.”

  “I have often been told I look nothing like my mother,” she confessed, “but very like Valigny. I do have olive skin and dark eyes, but you must forgive me, my lord, for having doubts. A similarity in appearance can be misleading.”

  “Your doubts speak well of you, my dear,” said Halburne gently. “When you came to call upon me, I expected…well, I expected something altogether different.”

  Camille’s gaze darkened. “Oui, you expected me to make demands.”

  He nodded, his expression morose. “I was angry, and I was confused,” he admitted. “I could not understand quite what I was seeing. What you wanted of me. And no, I was not certain—but Fothering was, for he knew my mother well. He watched you depart, you know, from an upstairs window. But I…I required more.”

  “What do you mean by more?” Rothewell demanded, taking Camille’s hand.

  Halburne’s lean form shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I sent Mr. White, my man of affairs, to France that very evening,” he said. “I wished to know more of the Comte de Valigny and his past.”

  “And what did he find?” Rothewell’s voice was bitter. “Another pack of lies?”

  Halburne lifted his grizzled eyebrows. “No, the truth,” he replied. “Valigny’s maternal family was from an obscure village in the Pyrenees, and this is where White’s inquiry took him. Valigny was married there at a young age to the daughter of a wealthy colliery owner.”

  Rothewell snorted. “Fancy that.”

  Halburne smiled faintly. “I think her family came to understand Valigny quickly,” he said. “And by the way, my dear, there was not a divorce, but an annulment.”

  Camille gasped. “An annulment?” she asked. “Ça alors! On what grounds was this given?”

  “What grounds indeed,” Rothewell muttered. In France, a divorce was one thing, but an annulment was not easily obtained.

  “The union was childless amongst other things.” Again, Halburne’s smile was faint. “At the age of seventeen, Valigny had apparently suffered with mumps—and in some men, this is thought to have a very bad result. But he failed to share this fact with his bride’s wealthy family. The Catholic Church keeps meticulous records of such proceedings.”

  “Good God, he…he was unable to father a child?” asked Rothewell incredulously.

  The earl shrugged. “It seems likely,” he answered. “The colliery owner’s daughter immediately married a cousin, and died in childbed soon after, so she was not barren. Valigny, of course, was handsomely rewarded to go away and forget he had ever known the poor girl—which likely was his hope at the outset.”

  “Why would he lie?” Camille whispered. “Why lie to Maman? Or to me?”

  Rothewell squeezed her hand, and fought down his anger. “To give the devil his due, I daresay he was fond of her in his way,” he murmured. “In the beginning, he doubtless believed your grandfather would forgive her, and they could marry. He hoped to obtain money from him, perhaps—or, barring that, he hoped you might obtain money. And in time, his patience was rewarded, though not on the scale he had hoped.”

  This time, Halburne’s smile was sour. “Men do not like to admit they cannot father children, my dear,” he said. “Not even to themselves, for it is a point of masculine pride. But in all these years, despite his many exploits, I find it odd Valigny has never fathered a child with any of his paramours.”

  “Oui, and there have been many,” said Camille. “Toward the end, he threw them in Maman’s face.”

  Despite his soothing words to Camille, Kieran was fighting that all-too-familiar urge to punch someone. Temperance, apparently, didn’t quell his temper. “That traitorous dog knew the truth at the outset, and simply did not tell you,” he finally said. “It explains too much.” Like why Valigny treated his supposed flesh and blood like an unwanted burden—or a joke to be cast up for the entertainment of others.

  “I am so sorry, my dear,” Halburne said again. “Had I known of your existence, I would have taken you, as the law allows, and seen you properly brought up.”

  Camille seemed to waver on the edge of tears, yet Rothewell sensed she was not yet convinced. “And my mother?”

  Halburne looked away. “God help me, but I could not forgive her,” he whispered. “Not after she left me there, believing I was bleeding to death. Not after she shamed us all by fleeing with that man to France. No, I could never have taken her back. But I would never have divorced the mother of my child.”

  Suddenly, a notion struck Rothewell. “So you married again?” he asked. “You have other children. Camille…Camille might have brothers and sisters?”

  Sadly, the earl shook his head. “I meant to do,” he said. “But after Dorothy, I…I just never found anyone. I have a nephew, however, who is my heir, and many other nieces and nephews. I believe that they would welcome you, Lady Rothewell as one of their own. The choice, of course, must be yours.”

  Rothewell forced his fist to unclench. “It can never make up for what Valigny has taken from her,” he said. “He has taken from her a happy, wholesome childhood. A life of ease and plenty instead of a life as a poor relation. If all you say is true, then Valigny should be made to rue the day his greed was discovered.”

  Halburne’s voice, when he spoke, was calm. “Let us forget, my dear, about Valigny’s perfidy,” he suggested. “Your husband wishes to defend you, and that is admirable. But I would submit that living well is the best revenge.”

  Rothewell disagreed, but he wasn’t sufficiently impolitic to say so.

  “What do you mean, living well?” Camille was looking, perhaps ironically, at Halburne’s empty coat sleeve—just one more thing Valigny had so callously taken.

  “When you are ready, my dear, when you are truly convinced that all I say is true, come and be a part of my family,” the earl suggested, his voice suddenly tremulous. “You and your husband and his family, too. Let me get to know you, and embrace you. I have a child. After all these years! And yet I do not know so much as your favorite color, your favorite poem. Can you imagine, even for an instant, what a hell that is to me?”

  Strangely, Rothewell could imagine. Perhaps it was because of the hope he held in his own heart—hope that he and Camille would soon have a child, and eventually, many. Or perhaps it was the fact that he had never really known a father’s love and had long ago accepted that he never would. Whatever it was, it tore at him, and on his wife’s behalf—perhaps Halburne’s, too—it enraged him.

  But Camille and the man whom Rothewell desperately hoped was her father were still talking. Halburne had slid forward on his chair and had taken Camille’s hand in his.

  “Though what we have lost can never be regained,” he said humbly, “I long to hear about you. How you grew up. How you were educated. And when the two of you have your own”—here, Halburne faltered and squeezed his eyes shut—“have your own children, if you have any forgiveness in your heart, if you can believe what I say is true, please let me be a grandfather. Will you do that? Can you? It would make the last years of my life so very much happier than these past three decades have been.”

  Camille’s eyes were tearing up again, this time with hope. Abruptly, Rothewell stood.

  Camille flicked an uncertain glance up at him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Where do you go, Kieran?”

  He smiled down at her. “Out for a walk, my love,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles affectionately over her cheek. “I believe the two of you should have some time alone. Halburne, I invite you to dinner, if you can stay. In the meantime, the two of you should—oh, I don’t know. Go for a drive, perhaps?”


  Halburne smiled. “No sight would better please me—or the town gossips—than to see my daughter in my carriage being squired round Hyde Park.”

  Camille looked up at Rothewell and laughed a little nervously. She was thinking, he knew, of how vastly different this would be than the last occasion she had seen Lord Halburne in Hyde Park. Then her face fell. “Mais non, Kieran,” she demurred. “You really are not well enough for a walk, I think.”

  Rothewell did not let his smile flag. “Remember that Hislop said I might take light exercise, my dear,” he said gently. “Besides, I was doing far worse things just a fortnight past, and in far worse shape. A leisurely walk in the autumn air is just the thing, I believe.”

  “Oui, perhaps,” she reluctantly acknowledged, still holding her father’s hand. “But you must promise it will be light exercise.”

  “Very light,” he agreed. “Indeed, my dear, I shall barely move at all.”

  “And where do you go?” she further pressed. “Until you are fully recovered, I must insist upon knowing.”

  “Yes, and when I am recovered, you will still insist upon it,” he teased. “It’s sale day at Tattersall’s. With your permission, Halburne, I think I shall stroll down to tell Lord Nash and some of the fellows of your shocking suspicions. One might as well get the gossip rolling, don’t you think?”

  Rothewell left the two of them in the conservatory, leaning near one another as Lord Halburne explained to Camille the intricacies of his ancient and very noble family tree. Upstairs, he put on his boots and a heavier coat, then took up his walking stick. His heart was filled with relief and sadness—and underlying all of it, the simmering anger at what Valigny had done.

  As he went out into the street, ignoring Trammel’s sidelong look of disapproval, Rothewell felt strangely free. He believed, even if Camille quite could not, that Halburne was correct in his conclusion, and it was as if a burden had been lifted from him. The weight of Camille’s inherent sorrow. The torment of having to tolerate a man whom he had come to despise. Valigny was nothing—almost nothing—to him now.

  As to Camille, she needed to forget Valigny altogether. Until she was able to do that, the most nightmarish part of her past would never be quite over. She needed to begin her life anew, with a father who would love her and treasure her for the extraordinary young woman she was. And she deserved to float through life and through society with her head held proud, without worrying who might cross her path and dim her joy. But most importantly, she needed to be certain.

  It was the least he could do under the circumstances, Rothewell decided as he left Mayfair to stride across Park Lane. He was not so caught up in his desire for Camille he could not see the ugly truth. Camille married him because she had no choice. And because in part—despite her outward confidence—she felt unloved and unlovable. Her mother had been emotionally selfish, her father outright malicious.

  Along the edge of Hyde Park, Rothewell stopped, staring almost blindly at the swans gliding across the Serpentine. He remembered the day he had brought her here. How he had bared his soul, and waited for her censure. For her disgust at what he had done to his brother. But there had been only understanding, and more kindness than he could ever deserve.

  Now Camille had a father; a father who would have loved her all her life had he been given the chance. And the beloved daughter of Lord Halburne—scandal or no—would never have stooped so low as to wed the likes of Rothewell.

  Even now Camille might be placing her hand in Halburne’s, and climbing up into his fine carriage. She would begin to move in that rarefied world he had once hoped to give her, but as Halburne’s daughter, that world was hers by rights. Would she now regret having married him? It scarcely mattered. It was done. Now it fell to him to ameliorate her regrets. Rothewell turned back to the pavement. His heart was heavier, yes. But his cause was still just.

  At Tattersall’s, the Jockey Club’s large subscription room was empty of all but the most hardened of gamesters. Today’s serious buyers had already drifted outside to await the auction’s afternoon commencement. As he was most every auction day, Lord Nash sat at his corner table, holding court with his fellow turfites. Today, their heads were bent together as they quarreled about some entry that had been placed in the betting books. Several gentlemen nodded at Rothewell as he made his way into the crush, a few even greeted him by name. His eyes scanning the crowd, Rothewell absently returned their nods.

  When he was halfway across the room, Nash caught sight of Rothewell and called out his name. Rothewell lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but pressed on. By the archway which gave onto the courtyard, he espied his quarry. The Comte de Valigny had propped one shoulder against the door frame, spinning some sort of tale which held in thrall a crowd of young bucks who hadn’t better sense.

  Valigny, perhaps sensing the weight of Rothewell’s gaze, glanced up and broke into his nauseating grin. “My lord Rothewell!” The comte lifted his hands in welcome. “Look, gentlemen, my beau-fils approaches.”

  “Valigny.” Rothewell’s voice was cool.

  Noting Rothewell’s approach, the young men parted like the sea, several of them choosing that moment to drift away with uneasy, sidelong looks. Perhaps the tension was palpable.

  “Alors, mon ami, you have taken leave of your lovely bride?” asked Valigny on a laugh. “I hope you have not come to return her! After all, a hard bargain is a bargain nonetheless, oui?”

  One of the youngsters snickered with laughter. A dark glance from Rothewell cut it short—very short. Then, however, as he turned back to threaten Valigny, Rothewell’s fist chose that instant to draw back and collide with Valigny’s face.

  The blow might have been unpremeditated, but it was damned satisfying. As if in slow motion, the comte’s eyes widened, his head snapped back, and he staggered backward into the cobbled courtyard, arms flailing. Rothewell stalked out after him.

  Deep in the shadows of the corridor, a dead silence fell over the subscription room and beyond. Rothewell snatched the comte by his gaudy neckcloth and yanked him up short. “How long,” he slowly gritted, “have you known Camille was Halburne’s daughter?”

  Panic lit Valigny’s face, but he recovered. “Oui, show the world what an uncouth pig you are, Rothewell.” His voice was disdainful. “I am afraid I must demand a gentleman’s satisfaction.”

  “Best get your satisfaction now, you bastard.” Rothewell gave him another hard yank. “Only a fool would trust you on the dueling field—and I’d far more enjoy killing you with my bare hands.”

  The comte looked up—far up—and fear sketched across his face. “Aidez-moi!” cried Valigny, his eyes darting round the yard. “This man is unhinged! He attacks like some felon.”

  But Valigny’s reputation preceded him. The gentlemen milling about in the yard simply turned round to their conversations. Valigny laughed nervously.

  “Answer my damned question!” Rothewell got his other hand round Valigny’s throat, lifted him onto his toes, and squeezed. “How long,” he slowly repeated, “have you known that Camille was Halburne’s daughter?”

  The comte’s mouth twisted bitterly. He jerked back, bringing his fist up to blindside Rothewell. The blow connected, but badly.

  Rothewell let him down, then set his fingertips to Valigny’s chest. “I asked you a question, you son of a bitch,” he growled. “And I will have an answer.”

  Valigny sneered. “Mon Dieu, you colonial rustic!” he said. “How stupid do you think me?”

  Something inside Rothewell snapped, and a red-hot rage shot through him. He threw another punch, an uppercut which caught the comte solidly beneath the chin, snapping his head back again. Thirty years of pent-up fury exploded, and Valigny looked like the perfect target.

  Valigny hitched up against the cupola in the center of the yard, looking desperately about the enclosure. Seeing no alternative, he came after Rothewell. Rothewell swung a glancing blow to the left ear. To his delight, Valigny threw a rounder, connecting solidly
with Rothewell’s jaw. Just what he needed. An excuse to beat the living hell out of the bastard.

  It was a free-for-all then, with Rothewell pummeling Valigny into the dirt whilst at least a score of gentlemen quietly checked off their auction lists, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. The comte landed a few punches, then caught Rothewell around the waist and kneed him ineffectually in the knackers. Once, Rothewell got him down in the filth of the yard and planted a knee in his chest, but Valigny threw him off-balance.

  They both rolled and scrabbled to their feet, Valigny gasping for breath now. Rothewell moved to throw him down again, and in a quick, desperate maneuver, Valigny caught him behind the knee with his foot. Down onto the cobbles they went, fists and knees flying, but the comte was at least three stone lighter, and obviously hadn’t scrapped his way through life. Soon, Valigny was down for good, retching onto the cobbles. It took all Rothewell’s self-control not to throttle him.

  “Hold still,” he rasped, “or I will kill you.” Rothewell set a knee to his breastbone and drew back.

  Valigny’s hands waved back and forth frantically. “Arrête! Arrête!” he cried. “Not the face again! Mon Dieu, not the face!”

  Rothewell hit him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, running down his jaw to stain his collar. Righteous satisfaction flooded Rothewell. “That,” he gritted, “was for me. The rest of it was for Camille.”

  He twisted Valigny’s face and shoved it cheek first into the vomit and blood. Then he bent low, nearly setting his lips to the comte’s ear. “Now answer my question,” he rasped. “How long have you known Camille was Halburne’s daughter?”

  Again, the nervous laugh. Valigny looked up, his eyes shying sideways like a frightened horse. “Et alors!” he finally said. “I claimed her, oui. Of what use was Halburne’s daughter to me?”

  “Lady Halburne told you the child was yours?”

  Valigny managed to shrug one shoulder. “Oui, she suggested it.” He laughed lamely. “And what had I to lose in denying it, eh? Lady Halburne’s warm bed anytime I wished it? Even a little of her father’s money, perhaps, if I bided my time?”