Taming an Impossible Rogue (16 page)

She chuckled. “So my former friends are all jealous of me.”

“They’re frightened of you. If independent thought is a disease, and they were to catch it from you, well, you can envision the results. They would have to think for themselves.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Mm-hm. And if I were to marry Fenton after all, I would be forgiven?”

“All transgressions forgotten, because they would prefer to forget all about it. Especially considering the bags of money in my cousin’s possession.”

He made it sound so simple, and so appealing. “You can’t know that they’ll forget anything.”

“Mm. Lady Taviston.”

Camille blinked. “I’d forgotten about her.”

“And that is my point. If she can run off with a damned American, live in Scotland for a year, and then return to her grateful husband and her gaggle of babies who don’t look a bit like Lord Taviston, then, well, I sincerely doubt your notoriety will last beyond the church doors.”

Goodness. Her actions did certainly pale in comparison with Lady Taviston’s—though that incident had been finished with a good dozen years ago. In a way, it helped her find a bit of perspective. Unexpectedly, though, it didn’t leave her feeling any easier about the choice with which she’d now been presented.

“I’ve asked myself several times,” she said aloud, “if I would have fled the church if I’d realized the consequences. If I’d known my parents would disown me and all my friends would … behave as they have.”

He slid an inch or so closer to her. “That’s the rub, isn’t it?” he commented, as though he could hear her thoughts. “Has Fenton become more tolerable in the intervening year? Or would you be walking back to the exact same circumstances that caused you to leave before?”

Camille liked the way Keating had never called her a fool for simply wanting to be happy. Perhaps she had been one; from the results, she would agree that she should have reweighed the value of happiness against comfort, as she’d found herself with neither. Whatever happened next, however, she would never forget the look in Fenton’s eyes. The marriage, her, had meant almost nothing to him. He’d had more affection for the pocket watch he kept flipping open than he had for her.

Taking a breath, she looked over at Keating again. “He’s sent me flowers for the past four days,” she conceded, still searching for any sign that the bouquets had actually been a gift from the unusual man beside her. “Apparently we’ve made amends up to my fourteenth birthday.”

“I would imagine he doesn’t quite know how to approach this, either,” he said slowly. “Are you pleased he’s making the effort?”

“I’m supposed to say yes to that, am I not?”

His brow lowered. “Now you’ve gone and baffled me. You don’t want him to be kind to you now?”

She stood. “I’m still attempting to decipher all of this,” she stated, before she could begin blurting out any half-formed thoughts or hopes or dreams that had been killed before she could even enjoy imagining those very naughty nights she’d decided to spend in Keating’s arms.

“Then walk with me,” he repeated, standing as well. “I swear to keep silent unless you have a question for me or wish me to commiserate with your annoyance at my cousin.”

Camille knew she couldn’t have told Sophia to please be quiet for a blasted minute without hurting her friend’s feelings. Keating, however, was much more thick-skinned. “Very well. Silence.”

Gazing at her, he lifted both eyebrows and then gestured for her to lead the way. With a snort, Camille circled the back of the house to avoid the crowded carriage drive. Keating fell into step beside her.

“I’m certain more marriages than not have begun without love,” she mused after a moment. “After all, there seems to be no surer way to secure a political or an economic alliance.”

Silence. Just his tall, warm, compelling presence strolling beside her.

“I even know there have been marriages where the husband and bride had never met, had never even set eyes on each other, before the wedding.”

A hand cupped her elbow, guiding her around a small scattering of horse manure.

“Those couples, of course, came from different villages or countries or Highland clans, where they
couldn’t
become acquainted with each other beforehand.”

He made a small sound that might have been amusement or agreement, but she couldn’t be certain which—or even if he’d merely cleared his throat.

“Yes, I know my facts are partly based on those dreadful gothic romances, but the odds say that each circumstance must have happened at least once.” Camille paused. “You may commiserate with me now.”

“Of course you’re correct,” he said promptly. “The world is a vast and strange place.”

“Oh, you’re quite good at that.”

“Thank you.”

“But my point is, circumstance kept these couples apart. War, oceans, vast uncontrollable things. Fenton lived only a day or two distant from my father’s estate for eight months out of each year. During the Season, I resided twenty minutes away from his residence. I
saw
him from time to time, for heaven’s sake. What was I supposed to conclude, then, when year after year, especially when my friends began to talk of beaux and courting and receiving flowers, I heard nothing?”

“What
did
you conclude?” he queried after a moment.

He’d broken his vow of silence, but it was a pertinent question.

“I thought he was being forced to marry me. I thought perhaps he had another love, or that he’d seen me when I saw him and he found me utterly … lacking.”

“Cam—”

“Hush.”

“Oh. I apologize. Go on.”

“And then because I was young and much more naïve, I began to make excuses for him. I decided he was shy and awkward. I thought he must have had no experience with women or courting and didn’t realize he was to send flowers and write letters. Then I had the thought that he was overwhelmed by my … splendor and simply didn’t feel as though he was worthy of my hand.”

She glanced at Keating, but if he was amused, he didn’t show it. No one had ever heard any of this before, because she’d never said it aloud. Not even to Sophia. It still surprised her that she’d been so stupid such a short time ago. Over the past year she’d heard, seen, and learned lessons she’d hadn’t even known existed.

“Finally, I thought he must have been planning something at the church. A hundred hundred roses, or a gift for me to wear during the ceremony. And so I walked through the church doors with my father beside me, and there was nothing. No flowers, the smallest number of witnesses possible, no ribbons on the coach waiting outside. And when I caught sight of him … he was looking at his pocket watch. As though he had somewhere he’d rather be.”

Keating bent his arm, offering it to her. Almost without thinking she wrapped her fingers around his sleeve.

“Do you know what it’s like, to have your every dream and imagining simply … die all at the same time? To realize that whatever romantic idea you had of the person with whom you’re meant to spend the remainder of your life was wrong? I had this odd sensation that if I took one more step into that church, I would expire. There, on the floor.”

Without warning he pushed her sideways, behind the high wall bordering Clemency House. As she stumbled, he took her arm and caught her up against the bricks. And then he kissed her.

Heat speared through her at the soft, firm touch of his mouth against hers. Closing her eyes, she tangled her fingers into his deep chocolate hair. This was what it was like to be wanted. This was what she’d craved—continued to crave, actually—from a man who’d had more cause to ingratiate himself with her than any other. Fenton had failed utterly. His cousin, however …

Straightening, Keating cupped both sides of her face. An intense, almost fierce expression on his face, he leaned in again. Hunger, yearning, need—it was as if her body had suddenly discovered a new recipe it now required in order to survive, and Keating Blackwood was the only one who knew the ingredients. And he tasted delicious.

A carriage rattled down the street just out of sight, and Camille jumped. Shattered reputation or not, her circumstances could always be worse. And so, even though she wanted to tangle herself into Keating and never let go, she pushed against his chest. His grip on her loosened a breath, and she looked intently into his eyes.

“What was that for?” she asked, panting.

He lifted an eyebrow, reaching out to straighten her sleeve—or to run his fingers along the skin of her arm. She couldn’t be certain which it was, but it made her shiver.

“Speak,” she ordered.

“I’m commiserating.”

“Ah. I see. You’re a
very
good commiserator, then.” So good that if not for that carriage she would likely be naked by now.

Keating inclined his head. “Thank you. And I apologize. You have enough apples in your cart without adding my rotten fruit.”

She didn’t want him to apologize for delivering the finest kiss in her entire life. “I have a question.”

“Ask away, my dear.”

For someone who considered herself a coward, Camille felt surprisingly calm as she held his gaze. At the same time, she doubted there was anyone else in the world with whom she could be having this conversation. With whom she would want to have this conversation. “Would
you
marry Stephen Pollard if you were me?”

He cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I thought you would ask. And I can’t give you an honest answer, because I have ten thousand pounds at stake.”

“And yet, I think you just did give me an honest answer.” And he’d given her a great many things to think about. “You are a very unusual man, Keating Blackwood.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “Considering what I would want of you if I could have my way, Cammy, that is a very nice thing to say.”

She could imagine to what he must be referring. Keating wanted her. Even with ten thousand pounds at stake. And this little play had just become a completely new degree of interesting. Sooner rather than later, she would have to decide whether she meant to remain a coward. And whether she could tolerate being a pariah for the rest of her life. And whether she wanted back into Society more than she wanted … more than she wanted Keating Blackwood.

Chapter Eleven

What the devil was he doing
? If he didn’t pull himself back every other minute, Keating couldn’t seem to stop flirting with, touching, or kissing Camille.

At first glance he’d put it to novelty and curiosity; after all, he had never been well acquainted with shy, virginal, overly cautious females. But the better he came to know her, the more he liked her contemplative manner, and her surprise and pride when she stepped beyond the protective shell she’d built around herself.

All this, even when they both knew precisely why he was there. Well, she didn’t know precisely, because he hadn’t mentioned the part about Fenton wanting her humbled and grateful. He hadn’t heretofore been attempting to tear down her remaining resolve. Nor would he do so. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should exit the shrubbery.”

“You’re the one who dragged us into it,” she commented with a half grin, taking his hand for balance as she stepped over some low irises.

At least she wasn’t sad and miserable, as she had been when he’d spied her in The Tantalus Club garden. If he said so himself, she seemed to smile much more often now than she had when he’d first set eyes on her. If any part of that was due to him, well, it was likely the best deed he’d ever done.

What he needed to keep in mind, though, was that Fenton had given him the opportunity to do another good deed. “What would you think,” he began slowly, “of my arranging for you and me and Fenton to have luncheon together somewhere?”

Her fingers in his clenched. “I won’t make an appearance so he can take another opportunity to insult and ridicule me.”

Keating stopped, his attention arrested and an abrupt anger shooting down his spine. “What do you mean, ‘another’ opportunity?”

“Nothing. I … I could hardly blame him for it. I was thinking the same thing myself.”

“No. You’ve mentioned it, so you must tell me. Those are the rules.”

“Is that so?”

“Camille.”

She sighed audibly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you make up a new rule every time you please, and that they never apply to you.” With a sideways glare she shifted her fingers from his hand to his arm. “Two days after my parents closed their door on me, I hadn’t yet run across the farmer who drove me to my aunt’s. I was hungry and had a penny, so I went into a bakery for some bread. When I emerged, Fenton was in his phaeton passing down the street. He said an unpleasant thing or two. That’s all.”

“What unpleasant thing?” Keating insisted. Fenton had never mentioned this, of course—likely because he didn’t show well. The marquis, as he frequently used to insist, was perfect.

“He called me a whore and an ingrate who deserved to remain on the streets until I died.” She took another breath. “That’s all I recall of the encounter. I began running, so if there was anything at the end, I might not have heard it.”

Clenching his jaw, Keating nodded. “You know, I think he said very nearly the same thing to me after Balthrow. He dislikes being embarrassed; I believe his sense of pride outweighs his spleen.”

“I did embarrass him. But I won’t be embarrassed
by
him ever again.”

“If I could guarantee that wouldn’t happen, would you consider luncheon?” Keating repeated, vowing to himself that he would damned well see to it that Fenton never said anything like that to her again. If his cousin wouldn’t give his word, well, the marquis would have to manage without teeth for the remainder of his life. “Just consider; I haven’t reserved a table yet or anything.”

“If you were there, I would consider it,” she said in a tight voice. “And if I could leave whenever I chose, and if it wasn’t terribly public, but public enough that everyone would have to behave themselves.”

For a theoretical meeting, that seemed fairly well thought out. Keating nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. If he won’t agree to all of those conditions, then it won’t happen.”