Taming an Impossible Rogue (13 page)

“I’ll be ready.”

“Very good. I…” He looked over his shoulder toward the waiting barouche. “I should go now.”

Camille had the strongest urge to giggle. “I’ll see you this evening.”

“Yes. Good. Good-bye.”

His genuine pleasure at her response warmed her insides in a way she’d never felt before. And it decisively answered the question that had been nagging at her for the past three days, since her first birthday bouquet had arrived. Keating might wish her to think that Fenton was finally and belatedly attempting to woo her, and she didn’t know why he might be attempting to do so. But the Marquis of Fenton didn’t have the imagination or the … warmth to make amends or to apologize or to even approach her in such a roundabout way. Whatever he might be up to, the flowers—and the very kind sentiments with them—were from Keating Blackwood.

And that pleased her very, very much.

*   *   *

Keating sat at the library worktable and rested his chin on his folded arms. Just beyond the tip of his nose, near enough that he could smell it, sat a glass full of whiskey. Lamplight turned its amber hue golden, a cool honey that would sharpen and heat as it went down his throat.

He wanted it. He wanted the softening of the edges of his frustration and anger that it would bring. He wanted the way it would make him not care quite so much that he was becoming friends with someone he was priming to give away to a man who, he was beginning to realize, didn’t deserve her.

“Mr. Blackwood, you have a caller.”

Not moving, Keating closed his eyes. The image of the full glass stayed clear in his mind, anyway. “I’m not here.”

The butler shifted in the doorway. “I’m to tell you she’s quite determined to see you.”

Keating lifted his head, something jolting in his chest even as he realized he knew far too many females to think it might be … well, the one who’d first entered his thoughts. “She, who?”

“The lady wouldn’t give me her name, but I believe her to be Lady Vandress.”

The whatever it was that had sped his heartbeat fled again. “I’ll see to her,” he said, rising.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And leave that there,” he said, indicating the full glass on the table.

Given that Greaves’s butler was practically made of stone, Keating couldn’t tell whether the fellow was annoyed or amused at all of this. With a last, reluctant look at the glass of whiskey, Keating stood and went down the hallway to the morning room. “Charity Vandress,” he drawled, stepping into the cozy room and shutting the door behind him.

The tall, willowy brunette turned from her gaze out the window. Despite the warm day she was well bundled in a long cloak, the hood pulled up to mostly conceal her face. “Shame on you, Keating,” she said in a voice that would melt butter. “You come all the way back to London and don’t bother to call on me.”

He remembered that voice. And other things. “I apologize. I had some obligations to see to.”

“Yes, I’ve heard what you’ve been up to. Kissing virgins in the park. And there’s that other thing. What was it? Oh, yes. Trailing after ruined little Lady Camille Pryce. Very scandalous of you.”

Keating snorted. “Don’t even attempt to pretend jealousy, Charity. You do it very badly.”

She pushed the hood back from her face, exposing brilliant green eyes and lip rouge that seemed a little too bright. “I’m not jealous. I’m merely pointing out that after six years you might have come to revisit your old sins rather than creating new ones.”

With that she unbuttoned her brown cloak and dropped it to her feet. Beneath it she wore … nothing. Absolutely nothing. And her stunning body was nearly as breathtaking as it had been six years earlier. Of course he was seeing her bare skin sober for the first time, which might account for his noticing the differences time and hard living had wrought.

“Put your clothes on, Charity. I’m not going down that path again.”

“But you are,” she countered, sidling up closer to him. “You’re merely doing it with someone else. You never used to limit yourself to one woman. Why begin now?”

“I’m at least as surprised as you are, my dear, but I’m not going to play with you.” And he
was
surprised. The male part of him did find her attractive and desirable, but his … heart, he supposed it was, or perhaps his battered soul, demanded that he send her packing at once. Before Camille could hear any rumors and decide that he hadn’t changed from the rampaging, inebriated madman he’d been six years ago. And not solely because her loss of trust could cost him ten thousand pounds.

“I hear your voice, but I don’t think you mean what you’re saying.” She slid her hands down her front, cupping her breasts invitingly.

“I’m attempting to be kind,” he retorted, beginning to lose patience. “I’ve never thought ill of you, and I hope we might remain cordial. But you need to leave.”

A blush began at her cheeks and spread down her neck to her chest. “You used to be fun, Keating,” she murmured, bending down to pick up her cloak. “This isn’t because of my husband, is it? That never stopped you before.”

Yes, but that was before he’d killed someone else’s husband. “Suffice it to say that I’m a leopard attempting to alter his spots.”

“Hm.” She shrugged into the heavy wrap and buttoned it closed again. “More like a fox pretending he dislikes chickens. I know the truth. We all know the truth.”

“Then I suppose I’m the last to know. Feel free to laugh at me later.”

“Oh, I shall. Believe me.”

After Charity left, Keating sank down in one of the morning room chairs. For a fleeting moment he wished Greaves had been home, because as little as he liked discussing his private matters, being prodded at by Adam occasionally helped him find his path.

Closing his eyes again, he frowned. Having a path was a damned nuisance. Particularly when the path he was beginning to find very interesting wasn’t the path he was going to take. Of course the problem could be as simple as the fact that he’d never attempted to have an actual conversation with a female before, and he was finding it more compelling than he’d expected. Camille said thoughtful things, and didn’t attempt to strip naked on every occasion. Thus far, he’d kept his own clothes on, which he had to count as something in his favor.

Confusing as all this was, the only consolation was that helping return Camille to the arms of Society would provide him with the means to see to his other obligation. After that, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

At least he’d weathered an initial storm or two. If he could manage tonight without driving Camille away, he would call it a success. If he could do it without losing her friendship, that would be a miracle. And if he could do it sober and without putting his hands on her, he could face anything.

Chapter Nine

“I should send over a note telling him I’ve changed my mind.”

Sophia frowned at Camille’s reflection in the dressing mirror and continued with pinning up her friend’s hair. “No you shouldn’t.”

“Yes she should.” Emily Portsman leaned in the doorway and eyed the two of them with her typical skepticism. “In the theater she won’t have anyone else to rely on, and nowhere to run if something should go wrong.”

“Simply because you don’t trust anyone, Emily, doesn’t mean you have the right of it.”

“Simply because you’re naïve, Sophia, doesn’t mean you should go about trusting everyone.”

Camille wanted to clap her hands over her ears. She would have, if it would have stopped her own mind from arguing so loudly with itself. “Please stop it,” she said aloud. “You aren’t helping.”

With a sniff Emily vanished from the doorway. “Don’t listen to her,” Sophia said, grimacing as she pinned a last strand of straying blond hair into a surprisingly attractive tangle. “I think Keating Blackwood is very nearly in love with you.”

“But we’ve only met on three occasions, you daft thing. I’m certain he’s far too jaded to fall in love so easily, if at all. And aside from that, he’s Fenton’s cousin. It’s not as though he would marry me or anything.”

“My dear, you’re one of the Tantalus Girls. You don’t need to marry anyone. In fact, I imagine Lady Haybury would thank you for creating a bit of scandal. The club attendance always grows when there’s wickedness in the air.”

“So you’re suggesting we become illicit lovers?” Goodness, she couldn’t remember ever saying such a thing—or even thinking such a thing—before she’d come to The Tantalus Club.

“Why not? It’s not as though you have a reputation to protect.”

Camille stared at her friend for a long moment. Of all the things she’d ever felt about ruining herself, a sense of freedom had never been one of them. But Sophia made a very good point. All it would take was some courage. She certainly already had the desire; she could barely look at him without her fingers twitching. She glanced down at her hands, still twining into the handkerchief she’d demolished with her worrying.

Sophia kissed her on the cheek. “It might not make anything easier for you, but you’d have much more fun being an outcast.”

Chuckling and trying to shove her nerves back down someplace where they wouldn’t trouble her, Camille stood and left the bedchamber. “You could follow the same advice yourself, you know.”

Taking her arm, Sophia grinned. “I’m waiting for just the perfect wealthy, handsome outcast to sweep me off my feet and into bed.”

“Ah. I see.”

Before she could sort out what she wanted from what she required and everything in between, they reached the foyer. And then she couldn’t think at all, because Keating was there already, chatting with Juliet at the butler’s station. He straightened as she approached.

“You look very nice,” she said, sweeping her eyes up and down his sleek black jacket and waistcoat and trousers and his tassled Hessian boots. The stark white of his cravat, broken by a black onyx pin, completed the striking effect. He reminded her all over again of a panther, relaxed and still deadly, just waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Sophia’s advice abruptly didn’t seem so outlandish any longer.

“I’m supposed to say that to you,” he countered. “Now I have to think up something better. Let’s see. You look like the morning.” He frowned. “No, that won’t do. It’s entirely too pedestrian.” Slowly he tilted his head, the keenness of his gaze discomfiting and warming all at the same time. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”

“Goodness,” she said with a chuckle, genuinely impressed. “Lord Byron. I’m honored.”

“I was hoping you’d be dazzled, but honored will do.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

Camille intentionally avoided the gaze of Juliet and of everyone else entering the foyer. It was easier to be bold if she didn’t notice anyone else noticing her. Out on the drive, though, faced with the Duke of Greaves’s enormous coach and four fierce black horses, she stopped. “What about a chaperone?”

“Inside the coach.”

“But how could you ride here with her and still expect—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, pulling open the door. “I rode up with Samuel. The driver. Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

She peeked inside the vehicle to see a very demure, almost mouselike older woman seated there. “Hello,” Camille said.

The woman nodded, scooting sideways to make room on the deep brown, well-cushioned seat. “Very nice,” she said in a warm, musical tone.

Before she could change her mind yet again, Camille stepped up into the coach and sat beside her chaperone. A moment later Keating joined them on the seat opposite, and the coach rolled back out to the street. “You see? All very proper.”

Camille smiled at her seatmate. Somehow, he’d accomplished it. He’d found her a chaperone, then taken steps to see that even said escort had a protected reputation. “What is your name?” she asked.

The woman smiled back at her. “Very nice,” she repeated.

Hm.
“Where are you employed?”

“Very nice. Good.”

Turning to face the amused fellow opposite her, Camille lifted an eyebrow. “She doesn’t speak any English.”

“No? That would explain a few things.”

“Keating, where did she come from? You didn’t abduct her, did you?”

A wicked glint entered his gaze. “Thank you for thinking so well of me. She’s a Gypsy. I rode by the camp, offered her five shillings, threw that dress in her direction, and opened the carriage door. She climbed in and she’s now wearing the gown, so you have a chaperone.”

“Good heavens. What if she thinks you’ve taken her away to marry her? Or that you want to … sin with her?”

“She’s old enough to be my grandmother.” He shifted, then tapped himself on the chest. “Keating,” he said, looking at their escort. He pointed at Camille. “Camille,” he said, then gestured at the old woman.

“Ah. Rosa.”

“See? This is Rosa. Stop complaining.”

Camille sat back in the comfortable coach. “So you acquired seats at the theater for us with what, five hours’ advance notice? Th—”

“A box,” he corrected. “Greaves’s box.”

“You acquired a private box on the day of the performance,” she amended, ticking the points off on her fingers, “borrowed a very fine coach, found a companion’s dress, sent me flowers, stole a chaperone, and convinced me to accompany you. If you didn’t keep denying it, I would begin to believe that you
are
pursuing me.”

She was watching for his reaction, and so she noticed the swiftly downcast eyes and the tight expression that crossed his face. “Flowers?” he said after a moment. “I sent you flowers?”

And she’d thought that by concealing it in the middle of her list she might pass it by him, leaving him to confess merely by omission. “I know they’re from you. Fenton has no imagination. And no inclination to apologize to me for anything.”

Keating tilted his head. “I’ll grant that Stephen can be a self-important fool, but are you so certain he’s irredeemable?”

For a moment she felt as if someone had pulled the carpet from beneath her feet. “What?”

For a long, hard beat of her heart he gazed at her. Then before she could move he sat forward, wrapped his fingers into the front of her cloak, and kissed her. Heat soared through her, heady and intoxicating. Camille swept her arms around his neck, sinking into his embrace. This was what she’d wanted—for him to stop teasing and prove that he did want her.