Taming an Impossible Rogue (12 page)

She wrapped her fingers around his sleeve. “Well, I need to be close by to do that, don’t I?”

He chuckled. “A brilliant strategy, my dear.”

“Ah, you’ll enjoy this. We haven’t fed the hyena, so you may see how powerful his jaws are.” An underkeeper approached with what looked like the leg bone of an ox, and Bullock banged it against the metal bars of the cage before he stuck it partway in.

With a gurgling growl the beast leaped forward, snatching the bone out of the keeper’s hand. Only a second or two later the bone cracked into two pieces. “Good heavens,” Camille said. “He can’t chew through the bars, can he?”

“Oh, no, my lady. They are specially constructed iron.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m completely reassured,” Keating said in a low voice.

The whisper of her stifled laughter sank into him. In his past he’d heard the wild, intoxicated laugh of women, their cries in the throes of passion, and their snickers at some cutting jest or other he’d perpetrated on someone. But genuine, amused laughter—the rarity of it struck him squarely in the chest.

He shook himself. Yes, he could appreciate laughter. But that was not why he’d come to London. Taking a breath, he glanced over at Adam and Sophia on the opposite side of the cage. “I’m pleased you managed to escape your work at the club today,” he murmured. “Greaves has Parliament this afternoon, so this was our only opportunity.”

“Sophia and I traded with Emily and Jane, so I’ll be in the Demeter Room this evening.”

“That’s a shame. I’d hoped you might join me at the theater tonight.” It sounded good, at any rate.

She looked up at his face. “Keating, are you … pursuing me?” she asked.

Light blue eyes as deep as the sky looked straight inside him. Keating opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever he said next would be a lie. There was no way around it—unless he told her that he was in London as Fenton’s lackey and that yes, he was pursuing her. Just not for himself. And then she would kick him in the balls and he would have neither his manhood nor his ten thousand pounds.

“Do I have to have an answer for that?” he asked slowly, wondering if there was a lower pit in Hades than the one already holding a place for him, name card and all. “I like being around you. I know that much. Generally I have very little in the way of plans. And forward-thinking makes my skull ache.”

Her quick smile flashed again. “Planning has never served me very well, either.”

“Good. Then the two of us can just bumble about until we either decide where we’re headed or we fall into the Thames.”

When she nodded and then released him to go view the tigers with Sophia, he let out the breath he’d been holding. Damn Fenton for leaving all the maneuvering to him, and damn his cousin for being such a cold fish that all he could see was honor and money and pride. From what he’d been able to determine, Camille had never wanted to rebel. It had taken Fenton’s stupidity to send her running. And of course Fenton didn’t think he’d done anything wrong.

“She’s going to figure you out, you know,” Greaves’s low voice came from just past his shoulder.

“I haven’t even figured me out, so I can only wish her good luck.” He straightened. “She’s ten thousand pounds. That’s all.”

“Yes, I can see that you care nothing for her.”

“Shut up.” He wanted to hit something, and Greaves was making himself the most likely target. Frustration seemed twined into every nerve—frustration with his cousin, with the entire mess he’d gotten himself into, and with Camille. Mostly with her, though at least he knew why that was. Just being in her presence practically set him to vibrating.

He’d lusted after women before, far more often and for less reason than he should have, but he couldn’t recall that he’d ever actually
liked
any of them. Liked, appreciated, enjoyed. This realization seemed very significant, but his mind insisted that it didn’t matter. He had obligations that superseded his affection for a woman he’d barely met. In addition, if he’d learned one lesson in the past six years, it was to never step between a woman and another man.

Even if it was becoming rather clear that the other man didn’t deserve her, and particularly when that other man was his own cousin.

“Would you like to see the cubs?” Bullock asked, returning Keating from his useless musings.

“Could we?” Sophia asked, eyeing the massive lioness sleeping in the cage before her. “Are they very fierce?”

“They were only whelped a month ago. They’ve barely opened their eyes.” Gesturing at another keeper, Bullock walked them over to a heavy-looking, closed door.

A moment later two keepers appeared, each of them bearing a pair of small lion cubs in his arms. “Oh, they’re darling!” Camille exclaimed the moment the babies were set onto the brick floor. She plunked herself down beside them and pulled one onto her lap. “Keating, come over here. Her fur is so soft.”

While ordinarily he would have given several hard-earned quid to avoid sitting on the floor with a virginal chit to ruffle a very large kitten’s fur, this time he didn’t even bother with attempting to resist. He sank down beside her and immediately had his cravat pounced upon by another of the cubs.

“Clearly you have no sense of fashion,” he told the thing, noting that even the notoriously standoffish Greaves was assisting a giggling Sophia with removing tiny lion claws from the hem of her gown.

“But if anyone asks about the state of your cravat, you can tell them you were attacked by a lion.”

“Yes, I suppose it sounds more impressive than it looks.” He started to say something more, but then Camille bent her head to rub her cheek against her cub’s, and he completely lost the track of his thoughts.

Her hair was lighter in color than the lion’s tawny fur, but the thing that struck him was the expression of absolute delight on her pretty face. He wondered how long it had been since she’d felt such unfettered joy, and a moment later a keening knife of need to allow her to feel that way again plunged into his heart.

To cover his discomfiture he tussled with the cravat-eating cub until it began its miniature growling and attempted to do away with his left sleeve. “Good God, I’m being devoured,” he said mildly, while Camille choked with laughter.

“Clearly the animal recognizes you as a fellow predator,” Greaves noted, motioning for Bullock and his fellows to gather up the scattering cubs.

“I don’t know about that,” Keating returned, stifling a frown. “I felt distinctly antelopelike just there.” He stood, then reached down to help Camille to her feet. All he needed was for Adam to begin reminding the chit that he couldn’t be trusted.

Her dainty gloved hand gripped his, and he pulled. “That was remarkable,” she commented, still smiling, “though I wouldn’t want to repeat the experience with them in another year or so.”

“Oh, they’ll be lethal in six months, my lady,” Bullock put in. “Good solid-bred English lions, you know.”

Belatedly Keating realized he still held her hand. Shaking himself, he released her. “Don’t you have a large bear or some such?”

“Yes, Old Martin. He was a gift from America—the Hudson’s Bay Company. Prepare yourselves, my friends, as he’s quite large—nothing like his European brethren.” While the ladies followed directly behind the keeper to the cage of the massive, grizzled old bear who evidently had a fondness for biscuits, Keating grabbed Greaves’s shoulder. “You’re not here to make me look poorly,” he hissed.

“I thought I was helping,” the duke returned in an equally low voice. “Pointing out how ill-suited you are to be a … well, a suitor.”

Damnation, Adam made a good point. “I need her to trust me.”

“Why, so you can lie to her about the reasons for your presence?”

Keating pushed the flattened palm of his hand into the duke’s chest. “Leave be.”

Greaves looked down at his hand. “And here I thought you only brawled when you were drunk. Very well. Suit yourself. I shall cease offering my assistance.”

“Good.” As Keating removed his hand, he frowned. “Though I may need to ask you for use of your box at the theater.”

“You are not easy to have as a friend, my friend.”

“Yes, I know. All the more credit to you for tolerating me.”

As they finished their tour of the grotto with a walk past the small selection of eagles and other falcons on display, Greaves offered his arm to Sophia. That rendered it acceptable for Keating to do the same for Camille, and she wrapped her fingers around his sleeve.

“Was this worth altering your working schedule for?” he asked, following the other pair to the duke’s barouche.

“Oh, definitely.” She grinned up at him. “I held a lion cub.”

Bathed in that smile, for a heartbeat, six years of shame and pain washed away. “And you’re certain you don’t wish to join me at Drury Lane tonight, for a performance of…” He shot a glance at Greaves.

The duke sighed. “I believe it’s
A Midsummer Night’s D
—”

“For
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
?” he interrupted.

“I cannot. I’ve already upended the working schedule, and—”

“You know Emily would stand for you tonight, Cammy,” Sophia broke in. “For heaven’s sake, go to the theater. You’ve been complaining about missing all the performances for the past year, as it is.”

Camille blushed. “It’s not proper.” She lowered her head. “I know that sounds so foolish, especially coming from me, but I don’t want to make things any worse.”

“I’ll have someone chaperone us,” Keating said, working hard to keep his tone light. “Someone female, because otherwise, well, that wouldn’t…” He frowned. “It will be proper. And anyone who glares at you will have to face me. You’re one of the few people who tolerates my presence, and Greaves would inevitably be snoring by the second act. Just as friends.”

“Dukes don’t snore,” Greaves commented succinctly.

Oh, Camille wanted to go, and clearly from Keating’s ramble of words he wanted her to go, as well. She hadn’t been to the theater in ages, even before she’d refused to marry. She looked from his almost impassive face to Sophia’s clearly expectant one to the Duke of Greaves’s faintly amused expression. “I cannot,” she said, unable to keep the slight shake from her voice.

Why did it feel as if she were saying no to more than a night at the theater? She wanted to say yes for more reasons than just seeing a play. Yes, legally she supposed she was still betrothed to Lord Fenton, but her hesitation wasn’t because of any twenty-two-year-old agreement. Whenever she looked at Keating Blackwood, heated thoughts danced through her mind, her spine shivered, and her toes curled. It was so tempting—
he
was so tempting—but going to the theater in his company wasn’t nearly the same as walking through the park.

Too many people—and especially too many that she knew, and who knew her—would be present. Perhaps she was brave enough to hold a lion cub, but the animal had been a precious, wee thing and had no idea she was a societal pariah. Keating knew, of course, but he was worse than she was.

His expression didn’t alter. “Very well. Inform me if you change your mind.”

She’d already changed it seventeen times since he’d asked her. “I shall,” she said aloud.

Thankfully Sophia led the conversation for the next twenty minutes it took to return to The Tantalus Club. Camille had no idea how her friend managed to accept her own scandalous parentage and simply … not care what others thought about it. The only reason she’d sought employment at the club was because no one would hire her as a governess, and none of her relations on either the duke’s or her mother’s side would take her in.

Both men exited the barouche to walk them to the front door of The Tantalus Club. And other men saw. Camille straightened her spine a little, wondering what they must think to see two of the Tantalus Girls, as some had taken to calling them, being escorted by a duke and an impossible rogue. Of course, part of the attraction at the moment was that no one would dare speak a cross word in that particular company. On her own … well, she wouldn’t have been caught out of doors on her own.

“I had a wonderful time,” Sophia said, sketching a curtsy. “Thank you so much for asking me along.”

“You weren’t asked along,” the Duke of Greaves returned with a smile. “You were asked. And it was my pleasure.”

“Yes, thank you so much,” Camille seconded. “I shall never forget that I held a lion in my lap.”

From the quirk of Keating’s cheek he wanted to say something amusing, but instead he only nodded. “It was also my pleasure. Might I call on you tomorrow?”

For someone who wasn’t courting her, he certainly paid her a great deal of attention. And while stopping this before it could become messy and painful was likely the wisest course of action, she’d gone through life with men knowing she was already spoken for. A bit of mild flirting couldn’t hurt anything. Not when she knew it was only the rather scandalous way Keating had of speaking. And today had been very, very nice. “Certainly,” she said, relieved that he didn’t seem to be angry that she’d declined to join him at the theater. “As a friend, of course.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

Just inside the foyer, Grace caught her arm. “Those are for you,” the daytime butleress said, indicating a very large bouquet of white roses on the foyer side table.

Camille pulled out the note. “‘Happy twelfth birthday,’” she read to herself. “‘You’re becoming a lovely young woman.’”

She smiled, leaning in to smell the posies. At the sound of the duke’s barouche outside clattering down the drive, though, she straightened. Her heart stammering, she hurried outside, dodging past a trio of surprised club members as she did so. “Keating!” she called.

The barouche practically skidded to a stop. A moment later Keating was on the drive, striding back up to her. “Is something amiss?” he asked, his voice devoid of its usual cynical humor.

That stopped her. He was concerned about her. Genuinely. And it made her abrupt, stubborn impulsiveness much easier to tolerate. “The invitation to the theater tonight. I accept.”

He grinned, taking another step toward her and lifting his hand as though to caress her cheek. At the last second, just before she could lean into him, he stopped, lowering his arm again. “I’ll be by at seven o’clock.”