Taming an Impossible Rogue (14 page)

With the same abruptness he pushed her back into her seat again. “I wanted one more of those,” he murmured, his eyes dark and snapping, “before you decide you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Keating,” she returned unsteadily, unable to remove her gaze from his very capable mouth and noting in the periphery of her thoughts that Rosa the chaperone was gazing out the window. “Why would you say that?”

“Because Stephen asked me for a favor.”

Close your ears. Don’t listen
. “Stop jesting. It’s not at all amusing.” She swallowed. “Tell me how you became friends with the Duke of Greaves. After all, I keep telling you my secrets, and you’ve divulged almost none of yours.”

“That’s what I’m attempting to do.”

She dug her fist into her thigh. “But I don’t want to hear that. So stop it.” Didn’t he realize that he was the closest she’d come to making a friend still attached to the aristocracy? As impossible and scandalous as he was, he could still attend soirees and sit in boxes at the theater, and he liked her. And she liked him. Very much, and in ways she was certain weren’t at all proper. Oh, she couldn’t even stand the thought of discovering another friend was not who she
knew
they were.

“Just consider,” he pressed, leaning forward, hand outstretched toward her knee. “What if you could return to your parents’ home?” He curled his fingers and sat back again without touching her. “What if you could be invited to grand balls and be mistress of a lovely home and have lordling babies gathered at your feet?”

A tear ran down her cheek. “You lied to me. You said we would be honest with each other, and you lied to me. Bastard. Stop this coach and let me out.”

“No.”

“So now you’re kidnapping me, as well? You’ll have to flee back to Shropshire after this—even if Rosa and I are little nobodies. Heavens, if we were actual people, you might be transported. Lucky you.”

“Ask me why,” he snapped, cutting off her protests.

“What?”

“Ask me why I would let my cousin talk me into coming back to London where I’m not nearly as popular as you seem to think I am. Ask me why I would agree, knowing you would look at me like you are right now,” he growled, his voice rising.
“Ask me.”

Even Rosa began to appear alarmed, and the woman squeezed against the far wall, looking from one of them to the other. Camille knew he had a temper; she’d seen evidence of it the first time they’d met. But he’d never directed it at her, even verbally. Until now. “Fine,” she retorted, keeping her shoulders straight and reminding herself that she was the injured party in this little play. “Why?”

“Because I have no money,” he returned, finally looking away from her. “I have a small house and some land, and it would have been enough, except for what I did six years ago.”

“Lord Balthrow?” she asked, curious despite herself. “How is—”

“Lady Balthrow,” he corrected. “She’s been ruined, too, and widowed, left without a penny by her cousin-in-law the new viscount. And…” He took a deep breath, looking as though he would rather be standing naked in a pen of lions than speaking with her now. “And she had to go abroad.”

“What does that…” Camille paused. She’d had a friend once who’d had to go abroad. Elizabeth had been whisked away, and then had returned ten months later and married someone they previously all would have thought well beneath her. They’d never really spoken again. “A child?” she whispered. “She has a child?”

He nodded stiffly, glancing at her and then away again. “To spare us both the niggling questions, her husband was impotent. It’s mine. The boy. And she won’t let me see him, because she still blames me for all this. But I’ll be damned if I won’t pay for his upbringing and his education, and for Eleanor to be able to have a decent life somewhere. So when Stephen asked me for a favor, I agreed.”

“You mean he’s paying you to trick me into … into what?”

“Returning to the church. The altar, rather. And I’m not tricking you into anything. I just told you my entire plan.”

Camille stood up, then banged her head on the low roof and sat down hard, seeing stars. “Ouch! Damnation.”

Keating pulled her across the coach to sit beside him and placed a warm palm on her head before she could even protest that she was fine. “Stephen doesn’t know the particulars about my circumstances,” he resumed, tucking her against his shoulder, “but he does know I’m rather particular about second chances. He’s willing to offer you a chance to return to Society’s good graces. And he asked if I, with my personal experience in scandal, would deliver the message.”

He hadn’t meant to do it this way. Cursing himself silently, Keating watched her every expression, the tears slowly sliding down her smooth cheeks, the way her hands shook because she’d clenched her muscles so tightly. He was somewhat surprised she hadn’t punched him; if he had been her, he was fairly certain he would have done so.

When she’d agreed to go to the theater with him, he’d decided she needed to know the truth. If not, he would have to begin lying. And he’d given his word to her about that. He’d meant to tell her about his agreement—or part of it, anyway—once they were safely in Greaves’s private box, in the view of every other theatergoer. Then he would have been assured that she couldn’t flee, and likely wouldn’t make a scene. Perhaps that had been cowardly of him, but it was all moot now, anyway.

“What…” She wiped at her eyes, which relieved him. It hadn’t used to bother him to see or to cause women to cry, but apparently that had altered. At least where she was concerned. Camille cleared her throat. “What is your son’s name?”

“Michael. I don’t expect your sympathy, Cammy. That is not why I told you. I only want you to understand why I’m here. Because I promised to be honest with you.”

For a moment that tore at him more than he would ever let her know, she gazed at him. “So there is no … friendship?” she finally asked, the twist in her voice going straight to a heart he no longer thought he had. “Between us, I mean.”

He heard her hesitation, and did his damnedest to ignore it. If he discovered that she wanted him with the same intensity that he wanted her, he would be undone. “There is absolutely friendship. Otherwise I wouldn’t have told you anything about this.” And what he wanted from her in addition to friendship didn’t signify, anyway. Men like him didn’t win the hearts of virginal chits. He might warrant an infatuation from her, but anything else would only leave her bloody, battered, and bruised. And of course in this instance there was also the fact that technically she was still engaged to another man.

“I don’t understand how you can say we’re friends, when the entire time you’ve been scheming to—”

“The only thing I’ve been scheming about was how to tell you what I just told you without you clubbing me with a shovel.” Deciding to risk a pummeling, he reached down and took her hand. “If you want your walks in the park, your dances, your afternoon teas and the latest fashions from Paris, you have another chance at them.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I think you’ll find that being a wealthy marchioness causes other people to completely forget the past.” Belatedly he released her hand again. “I’m not saying you should marry Stephen tomorrow; at this moment I’m only suggesting that you consider your options.”

She flexed her fingers, then to his surprise she took his chin, leveling his gaze even with hers, holding him there. “Did you send me those flowers?” she asked levelly, not blinking.

Keating took a low breath. “I suggested that Fenton might be better served if he stopped being so stuffy. And I did suggest flowers.” She had such pretty eyes. Like the sky at sunrise. He wanted to devour her. “Does that answer your question?”

Camille released him. “I suppose it does. Are you taking me back to the club now?”

“I’m taking you to the theater.” He forced a smile. “I promised Rosa a special night out. I can’t go back on my word.”

“You are impossible.”

“Yes, I believe I am.”

When a brief smile quirked her luscious mouth, he began breathing again. Thank God. He hadn’t ruined it.

A moment later it occurred to him that the “it” he’d been thinking of hadn’t been his chance at ten thousand pounds. It had been his friendship, for lack of a permissible word, with Camille Pryce. By the time they arrived at Drury Lane Theater he’d managed to regain most of his sensibilities, and Cammy hadn’t decided to begin thrashing him and run for The Tantalus Club. He had to consider that a victory, minor or not. They walked into the large lobby, a bewildered Rosa clumping along behind them and chattering something in her Gypsy tongue that might have been a recipe for rice pudding or a curse on everyone’s soul. Even if both of them hadn’t been notorious they likely would have attracted attention; no one else seemed to have brought along a Gypsy grandmother as a chaperone.

Camille shifted a breath closer to him, and he put a hand over the one that rested on his left arm. “One of the good things about being a known killer,” he murmured, looking a young lady in the eye and noting the speed with which she gasped and turned around, “is that while people may stare or look askance, they rarely say anything insulting within my hearing.” He glanced sideways to see her biting her lip. “Or they may simply be terrified of Rosa. I can’t be certain.”

Her jaw relaxed a little, her cheek rounding with her quick smile. “Let’s just get up to the box, shall we?” she muttered back.

Well, he had to count that as an improvement. A week ago she would have been on her way out the door already. As for him, it felt like nearly every woman he’d ever known, and a great many he’d never seen before, were all sizing him up as they would a succulent pheasant. What the devil was the attraction? He’d ruined a wife and killed her husband, for the devil’s sake. Did they think to fare any better?

If he’d been alone he might have stopped and asked several of them that very question, but Camille was clearly uncomfortable, and he’d dealt her enough blows this evening. Keeping his mouth firmly closed, he ascended the left-hand staircase with her at his side and the Gypsy behind them. “Here we are,” he said, stopping to pull the heavy red curtain aside.

Camille stopped beside him and looked into the large box. “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t walk forward ten feet and sit in a comfortable chair?”

“I can’t sit there for three hours while everyone else whispers about me.”

To punctuate her protest, a group of theatergoers walked past them, whispering and giggling and sending them glances. That was damned well enough of that. Keating released the curtain and strode after them. “Good evening,” he said, moving in front of them.

The man in the middle of the three chits paled. “Blackwood. Wh—”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” Keating interrupted, “there are no more boxes in this direction. I know this because I’m utilizing the Duke of Greaves’s accommodations, and his box is located directly to the right of the stage. There are no closer seats.”

“Oh.” The pale man fumbled, digging for his pocket watch and opening it. “I—we—”

“Unless that watch of yours is a compass, I am going to assume that you are here so you can gawk at my friend and me.” He took another step closer. “I don’t like being gawked at.”

“I—we—very sorry, Mr. Blackwood. We apologize.”

Keating sent a glance at the chits. Little kittens all of them, thinking they had claws until it was time to use them. “Don’t apologize. Go away.”

The tallest of the young ladies sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is nothing here we would wish to see. And certainly no
one
.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps there’s something you wish to do. Receive a kiss? Or did you have something more intimate in mind?”

She backed away a step. “Albert,” she snapped, a squeak in her voice, “please remove us from this … man.”

“Of course, Edwina.”

Keating let them pass. “Good night, Edwina. Sweet, sweet Edwina. I shall dream of you naked in my arms.”

When he turned around, the entrance to Greaves’s box was empty. Something in his chest bumped. Had he frightened her away? Cursing himself, he strode down the few steps to yank the curtains back—and froze.

Camille stood two inches in front of him, a grin of pure delight on her face. As he nearly ran her down she stumbled backward, and Keating reached out to grab her shoulder and keep her from falling onto her backside. “You heard that, I presume?” he drawled, the relief that coursed through him making him feel almost light-headed.

“Oh, yes. You’re a very bad man.” She chuckled.

“Don’t you forget it, my dear.”

He should have moved past her, should have gestured for her to move to the front of the box, should have made some query about how they would manage to remove Rosa from the front seats where she’d plunked herself down to gaze at the audience below them.

Instead he continued gazing into her light blue eyes, noting both the slow fade of her smile and the way he couldn’t seem to stop himself from leaning toward her. Just a kiss. One more kiss. No one would see them from the back of the box, surely. And it didn’t mean anything. It was only that he liked kissing her, and he hadn’t been able to indulge himself nearly enough. Except that he imagined more than kissing her. He imagined sliding his hands along her bare skin, burying himself deep inside of her while she held him close against h—

“May I bring you some wine, sir?” a footman said from directly behind him, making him jump.

Keating blinked, straightening again. “Nothing for me. Camille?”

She looked slightly dazed as well. “I … think wine would be lovely. What about Rosa?”

“She looks like a woman who drinks whiskey,” Keating decided. “Wine and whiskey.”

“Very good, sir.” The footman descended the stairs again.

When he looked at Camille again she was taking a seat beside the Gypsy, which only left the seat on Rosa’s other side. The damned woman was a more efficient chaperone than he’d expected. “Do you think we should attempt to get her to move?” he asked, lingering in the dark at the back of the box until he could convince his stubborn cock that saluting now would only get them into trouble.