Private Arrangements (7 page)

Chapter Six

December 1882

M
iss Rowland did not skip rocks. She tossed them. Shelves of thin, brownish ice hugged the stream's two banks, but a narrow band of water still flowed free at its center. Into this part of the brook she flung the rocks,
plop, plop, plop.
There was no particular rhythm to it. Sometimes she threw a dozen pebbles in quick succession, sometimes a minute or more would pass between two
plops.
It was as if she underscored her own state of mind, restiveness followed by a stretch of contemplation, only to be overtaken by yet another fit of agitation.

When there were no more stones to be had, she sat down on a tree stump, her chin on her knee, her long, lugubrious blue cape flapping about her ankles in the unrelenting gust. From where Camden stood at the top of the opposite bank, he couldn't see her face beneath the rim of her hat. But he felt the loneliness that emanated from her, a loneliness that echoed somewhere deep within him.

He'd been able to think of nothing else except her.

Years ago, he'd come to accept that courting Theodora—a woman who couldn't make up her mind about him, whom he hadn't seen in a year and a half—opened him up to temptations in the here and now.

Somehow, a young man of reasonable looks and sexual restraint posed an irresistible challenge to a certain subset of women, across class strata, in every capital of Europe. If he had a franc, a mark, or a ruble for every time he had been propositioned from the age of sixteen onward, he could retire to the country and live the life of a prosperous squire.

He'd turned down every last one of those offers, with tact and dignity when possible and ingenuity otherwise. A man of honor did not profess love for one woman while welcoming a host of others into his bed.

It wasn't easy, but it was doable. Being busy helped. Having no moral or philosophical opposition to solitary releases helped. Immersing himself in his chosen field helped—thermodynamic equations and advanced calculus tended to keep one's mind off breasts and buttocks.

But nothing helped now. He was busy all day long, seeing to the beast of an estate that was Twelve Pillars, yet thoughts of Miss Rowland clamored every other minute. Whatever he did in the privacy of his bedchamber only created more fantasies of her to agitate him the next day. Thoughts of
her
breasts and buttocks—not to mention her morosely hungry eyes and her heavy, cool spill of hair—rendered him slow and bungling before simple quadratic equations and utterly impotent in the face of integrals of logarithms.

And yet if it were only a case of simple, rampant lust. That would be perfectly understandable in the case of a young man of robust appetites who stubbornly refused to surrender his virginity. But he wanted more than just to touch her. He wanted to know her.

Theodora's mother, as pushy and determined as she was, had nothing on Mrs. Rowland, the patron goddess of all ambitious mamas. At least Countess von Schweppenburg had the excuse of being poor and needing the security of a well-married daughter, whereas Mrs. Rowland was driven entirely by—he felt—her own unfulfilled ambition, something that cracked a harder whip than did any of Beelzebub's lieutenants.

And yet Miss Rowland did not fear her mother, not one little bit. If anything, Mrs. Rowland was in awe of her daughter, amazed beyond all expectations by this Hannibal of social climbing, who managed to bring her pound-sterling elephants across the figurative Alps of aristocratic disdain to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting London society.

Two days after their accidental meeting, he'd paid a formal call to the Rowlands, in the company of his parents and his siblings, Claudia and a bored Christopher. Claudia, impressed by the Greek marbles, Louis XIV furniture, and Renaissance paintings stretching as far as the eyes could see, begged to have a tour of Briarmeadow.

While his parents continued to converse with Mrs. Rowland, Miss Rowland obligingly conducted the three callers of her generation through the drawing rooms, the library, and the solarium. Christopher became more and more restless and, finally, in the gallery, before a miniature portrait of Carrington that must have been given to Miss Rowland upon their engagement, he lost his company manners and reverted to fourteen-year-old loutishness.

“Mother always said Cousin Carrington was a terrible example,” said Christopher. “I guess you'll marry any bounder who has a coronet of strawberry leaves.”

She didn't even break her stride. “My Lord Christopher, with your family's depleted resources and your vast personal charm, I predict you'll marry any heiress who would have you, teeth and literacy on her part strictly optional.”

Camden's face hurt from not laughing out loud at his brother's dismay. Christopher might be an oaf, but he was still the son of an English duke and the grandson of a Bavarian prince. Another young woman in her place, feeling the inferiority of her station, would have suffered his rudeness or, at best, laughed it off. She, however, smacked the boy hard and put him in his place with the ruthless efficiency of a born predator.

Unlike her mother, who garnished the house with subtle reminders of her erudition—Mycenaean bronze, possibly older seals from the island of Crete, glass-encased fragments of papyrus dating to the time of the pharaohs—Miss Rowland felt no need to prove to the world that she knew Antiphanes from Aristophanes. She was fine, thank you, with being the daughter of a man whose forebears, only a few generations ago, had washed laundry and carried coal for those exalted families into which she intended to marry.

He admired her surety. She knew her own worth and did not pretend otherwise for those who judged her on her parentage. But by refusing to tolerate fools and play nice, she'd condemned herself to a solitary path, both in defeat and in victory.

Camden walked his horse down the incline until he was nearly at water's edge and mounted it to cross the stream. As soon as he reached dry land, he dismounted and tethered the horse. By then she was already standing up, shaking the dust from her skirts.

“Miss Rowland.” On impulse he didn't offer to shake her hand but took her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cold, satiny cheek. He was still a foreigner to these parts, and he wasn't above taking advantage of it. “I beg your pardon. I must have thought myself still in France.”

Their gazes entangled. Her eyes were a nearly absolute black, the boundary between pupil and iris impossible to discern at any civilized distance. She glanced down momentarily, her eyelashes long and striking against the paleness of her skin. Then she looked back at him. “No need to beg pardon, my lord. It's quite acceptable to flirt with a girl you don't plan to marry. I don't mind.”

He should be embarrassed, but he wasn't. “Do you flirt with men you don't plan to marry?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “I don't even flirt with men I do plan to marry.”

His darling little tigress. All blunt grandeur during the day. All melting fire at night. “You talk to them about their ledgers instead,” he teased.

That elicited a small smile from her. “I prefer the direct approach.”

He grew hot from these mere words. Had her approach to him been any more direct that night, he'd have kept her in bed so long, they'd have been discovered by Mrs. Rowland herself.

“It's cold,” he said. “You should be inside.”

The winter here was nothing like that of the true North, where temperatures plunged to such abysmal lows that she'd need much more than a cup of hot chocolate to warm up: She'd require a bottle of vodka and a man's naked body.

She sighed. “I know. I can hardly feel my toes. But it's the only way I can have a bit of peace, away from my mother. She hasn't stopped talking of you since your stay. And she would not be convinced that I've already done my level best to make you her son-in-law. After my success with Carrington, she thinks I've but to will it and a man will stride forth to offer his hand.”

“I could dispel her illusions for you,” he said.

She shook her head. “She met Miss von Schweppenburg last season. No offense to Miss von Schweppenburg, but nothing you can say will persuade her that I'm not a better match for you.”

It was hard to argue with that. Even harder to remember his nobler intentions standing next to her, knowing that she wanted him with a cynic's hidden ardor, knowing exactly how she'd feel underneath him.

But he must not think only of himself. Theodora needed him. She was frightened of this world; he could not abandon her to the vagaries of fortune.

Miss Rowland checked the small watch that dangled from her wrist. “Crumbs. It's half past three already. I'd best head back home. Or my mother will be out looking for me high and low again.”

She offered him her hand to shake. “Good day, Lord Tremaine.”

He shook her hand. But somehow, he didn't let go when he was supposed to.

He didn't want her to leave. He wanted something—not the wild lovemaking of his fantasies, but something reasonable and halfway decent that would keep her with him for a bit longer.

Except his wit deserted him.

He could think of nothing. And he could not let go of her hand.

Gigi's mind was a chaos of hopes and fears in collision. One moment they were both on their best behavior, following the established choreography of decorum to the last dip and turn. The next thing she knew, he either owed her an apology or a kiss.

She received neither. He simply stepped back from her, tilted his head, and grinned ruefully. “That was gauche of me, wasn't it?”

And that was it. No fumbling words of explanation, no awkwardness, no opening for her to demand compensation without coming across as either bumpkinish or hysterical.

She gazed upon him with churlish admiration. This man knew far more of potentially compromising situations than she'd heretofore suspected. The smoothness with which he extricated himself was both impressive and disquieting. Perhaps he
was
only flirting with her after all, a dalliance to entertain him for the duration of his holiday in the backwoods.

“I suppose only you could judge that, my lord,” she said.

“You should take my horse,” he said.

An expression of horror crossed his face then, as if he'd openly and loudly declared before his mother and hers that he'd like to get under her petticoats and stay there but good.

He'd gone out of his way to be considerate of her fear, walking the stallion at a crawling speed and tethering it far away from her. Yet now he'd forgotten all about it. Her heart soared. Beneath his sleek serenity, he'd been as flustered as she, possibly more.

“I don't ride,” she reminded him.

He took a deep breath, the audible exhalation as close an admission of mortification as she was likely to get from him.

“Why don't you?” he asked, once again his cool, collected self. “I can't believe your mother would have omitted equestrian lessons.”

She shrugged. “She didn't. I choose not to ride.”

“Tell me why. You seem like you would enjoy riding, enjoy the control and freedom it affords you.”

Oh she'd enjoyed it, all right. She'd loved riding. Until she'd fallen off for the second time, breaking three ribs and her right arm in two places. “I'm afraid of horses. That's all.”

“And why are you afraid of horses? They are far milder and more reasonable creatures than dowager duchesses. You are not afraid of the latter, from what I hear.”

He certainly had ways to loosen her tongue, with his gentle, persistent, and—by all appearances—genuine interest in her. Not her money, because she'd already tried to give it to him.
Her.

“I fell twice. Hurt myself badly the second time.”

Still he shook his head. “You'd have gotten back up on that horse before the doctors even let you out of bed. What really happened?”

It was none of his business. None of his concern. At least, not while he considered himself promised to another. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, only to hear herself say, “A disappointed fortune hunter. He was infuriated with my mother for keeping him at arm's length and chose to take it out on me. He took what little was left in his wallet and bribed our groom.”

And when the first fall did her no damage—having just slowed down when the saddle strap snapped, she slid off and landed on something soft—he tried it one more time. “I was lucky. The doctors said I could easily have broken my spine and been bedridden for life rather than just two months.”

Mr. Henry Hyde, Gigi's would-be maimer, had been arrested two days later on unrelated charges. Apparently he was so desperate for fresh funds that he'd attempted to poison his widowed aunt for the few hundred pounds promised to him in her will. He died while imprisoned.

Lord Tremaine listened intently. She couldn't tell by his solemn eyes whether he was disgusted or saddened. She regretted her candor already. What good did it do to burden him with all this ugly history?

“Please wait here,” he said. “I'll be only a minute.”

He returned, leading his horse behind him. For such a tall man, he moved with an easy grace, his leisurely seeming gait eating up the distance swiftly. His long riding boots reached halfway up his thighs. She had to exercise considerable restraint to not follow the lines of his fawn trousers and stare where she shouldn't.

“Will you walk a little with me?” he asked, with great solicitude that told her nothing.

“Certainly.” She didn't understand what he wanted, but it mattered not. She would do almost anything with him, up to and including forfeiting her virginity, if he but asked, with or without a nuptial contract.

Since meeting him, every morning she woke up with a sweet, wrenching pain in her heart—the joy and overwhelming terror of being in love—not knowing how she would get through the day without him, not knowing how she would ever survive another encounter with him.

The land rose and flattened into a meadow, gray and yellow in winter, densely wooded to either side. They walked until they came to a weathered hitching post that hadn't been used in years. There Lord Tremaine stopped, tied the horse, and removed its saddlery, setting everything carefully down on the ground.

“What are you doing?” she asked, beginning to be suspicious. “Is anyone going to ride bareback?”

“Come closer,” he requested. “I want you to watch me.”

As if she could do anything else while he was near.

He looked into the stallion's eyes and ears, ran his hands down the horse's legs, and raised and inspected each hoof in turn. “We really should sell him,” he said. “Carrington had a good eye for horseflesh, too good for his finances.”

He picked up the saddle pad, smoothed it, and settled it on the horse's back. Then he placed the stirrup irons over the back of the saddle and folded the girth strap up so that neither would hit the horse while the saddle was being mounted. Only then did he lift the saddle high and set it down on the horse, as softly as he would place an infant in its bassinet, sitting the cantle just slightly high on the withers, so that as the rider swung into the saddle it would slide down into position while keeping the horse's coat in the correct orientation.

She was amazed. She'd never seen gentlemen do anything more physically demanding than lifting a shooting rifle. Yet here he was, performing a groom's work as if he'd done it hundreds of times before. There was a neatness to his motions, an efficiency, every task completed quickly, attentively, and well. She was beginning to understand his poise—it was more than inborn confidence, it was also knowledge and experience.

“Come feel the girth,” he commanded her.

She complied. The strap was strong and in good repair. He made her test the billet straps too and verify with her own eyes that everything had been properly fastened to the saddle. Only then did he buckle and tighten the girth, making sure that he didn't cinch the horse too tight, that he could slip his fingers between the girth and the horse's belly. She stared at his hands, so capable, skillful, dexterous—and impossibly erotic in those supple, close-fitting black leather gloves.

He stood by the stallion's head and had it raise each of its forelegs, to settle the saddle and smooth out wrinkles in the pad. When he was at last satisfied that the horse was properly saddled, he rebridled it too, so that she could see every precaution had been taken, every procedure impeccably observed.

“You know what I want you to do, don't you?” he said with a small smile. “You are not afraid of horses. You are afraid of people wishing you harm.”

She shrugged. “What's the difference?”

He held out his hand. “I like to see you fearless.”

Memories of the fall came unbidden. She felt that unending instant of terror and panic, the flailing, the scream tearing her chest; she felt the desire to never leave her bed again, to coast on and on in her laudanum daze.

It was this incident, more than anything else, that had at last convinced her to marry as high as the sky. She would not be a victim of her fortune. She would hunt, rather than be hunted. Three months later the purchase of Briarmeadow was complete. Scant weeks afterward she'd fired the first salvo in the direction of Twelve Pillars.

She placed her hand in Lord Tremaine's. He gave her a quick squeeze, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ready?”

“It's not a sidesaddle,” she said.

“Something tells me you know how to ride astride,” he replied, entirely confident in his intuition. “Come. Just fifty yards. A sedate little walk. I'll hold on to the reins.”

She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to overcome her fear, and he wanted to be the one to help her reach that laudable goal. Had it been anyone else who'd led her to this point, she'd have risen to the challenge simply because she refused to show that much weakness.

But with him it was different. She wasn't afraid that he'd see her as less than invincible. Before him it seemed permissible, somehow, to be frank, frustrated, and, at times, even apprehensive.

She would mount that horse because she wanted to please him, to make him think that he'd made a material improvement to her life. And perhaps, just perhaps, she could make it fifty yards if she held on tight, clenched her teeth, and prayed to whichever deities had a little compassion for forlorn, uppish females.

“I promise not to ogle your trim ankles,” he said lightly. “If that's what you are concerned about.”

“You shouldn't mention my ankles. And they are hardly trim.” And the balmorals she wore were hardly those lace-frilled, eyelet-spangled fancy boots designed to make a man weak in the knees should he happen to catch a glimpse of them peeking out from underneath the hem of her dress.

“I'll be the judge of that. Now, should we?”

“Fine, then, fifty yards.”

The admiration in his eyes almost made the whole mad enterprise worthwhile. He sank down to one knee and cupped his hands together. She expelled a long, ragged breath, took hold of the reins with one hand, the cantle with the other, and placed her left foot on his hands. He gave her a strong boost, she swung her right leg over the horse's rump, and she was in the saddle.

The horse snorted and shifted. She squealed and reached wildly for the bridle. He caught her arms just in time.

“Easy,” he murmured, to the horse or to her she couldn't be sure. “Easy.”

Then he lifted his eyes to her, the most reassuring eyes she'd gazed into since her father had passed away. “Don't worry. I'll keep you safe.”

“I should have asked you to be my groom instead of my husband,” she said.

He only grinned. “Hold on.”

He led the horse to a slow walk. Mercy, the ground must be fifty feet below her and receding. She'd forgotten what it was like to sit up so high on a great big stallion. She knew the horse's motion was gentle and smooth beneath her, but she
felt
herself perched atop a wild bronco, about to be heaved off any second. An incipient nausea roiled her tummy. She wanted to throw her arms about the horse's neck, clamp her legs around its belly, and hang on for all she was worth. She wanted to get off
this instant.

“You are not really Lord Tremaine, are you?” she said, desperate for distraction. “You are a pauper who looks like him, and the two of you decided to switch places, fool everyone, and have a jolly old time.”

He laughed. “Well, I am a pauper—an ‘improverished nobody' as you so aptly put—except I'm already related to every royal house in Europe. So sometimes I put on my fancy clothes and go out and drink champagne with my noble cousins. Sometimes I change into rags and work in the stable. In truth, we shouldn't even have kept horses. But my father said then we might as well stop wearing hats and shoes. It was one economy I could not persuade him to make.”

His answer was so breathtakingly frank that she momentarily forgot her fear of an imminent tumble. “And your parents permitted this . . . this folly?”

“They turned a blind eye and pretended that somehow I was able to run the house better and for less expense without ever dirtying my own hands. Or running betting games at whichever lyceum I happened to be attending.”

“Betting games?!”

“Games that tend to run true to probability. So I could promise a prize of, say, a pound, and charge my fellow lyceans—particularly those who suffer at mathematics—a shilling a try to line up six coins heads up while blindfolded. I always came out ahead.”

“Good Lord,” she breathed. “Did you ever get caught?”

“For having a few coins in my pocket?” He chuckled. “No. I was the most courteous, virtuous, promising young man any professor had ever seen.”

There was such lovely mischief in his voice. He
was
courteous, virtuous (as far as she could tell), and infinitely promising. But he was also clever, cunning, and willing to bend the rules.

Why did the Fates tempt her so? Why must he be so marvelously perfect for her and yet so abysmally unattainable?

“Is there anything you can't do?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “But there are things I can't do very well. I'm a terrible cook, for instance. I tried, but my family refused to live on my frugal meals.”

The very idea of it shocked her. Even before he became Lord Tremaine, he'd been cousin to dukes and princes. This man, whose blood was so blue it was probably indigo, had worked before a stove and—success or not—produced at least one entire meal. What next? The Prince of Wales laying down railroad tracks with his own bare hands?

An even more shocking thought occurred to her. “Did you plan to work for a living?”

“I did. But lately I've become hesitant. A title does hamper things, even if it's only a courtesy title—for now. I suppose running an estate is a noble and time-consuming task.” He shrugged, his sleeve brushing the edge of her skirts. “But it's not what I'd have chosen to do.”