Taming an Impossible Rogue (17 page)

“And you’ll be out ten thousand pounds. That hardly seems fair.”

He grinned at that. “Thank you for thinking of my plight, but you’re my friend. I’ll see that he behaves himself.”

“If you continue saying nice things like that, I’ll wish to kiss you again.” Camille released his arm as they reached the safety of the large garden he’d begun to consider her private sanctuary.

“Well, you can’t. That was a mistake.” And if he kissed her again, he wouldn’t wish to stop there. There was only so much temptation someone with no self-discipline could manage.

“A several-times-repeated mistake, Mr. Blackwood.”

“I’m a slow learner.”

She snorted. “You are not. And I’m beginning to wonder something.”

“What might that be?”

Her cheeks darkened, then paled. “I need to consider it a bit more before I say anything aloud. I apologize for no longer being impulsive.”

“For the last damned time, Cammy, running from that church might have been impulsive, but your conclusion to do so was certainly justified. Even well considered. I’d have run, too.”

“But you want me to have luncheon with him.”

Actually, it hadn’t seemed a good idea to begin with, and with every moment that passed he liked it less. “If this is about a second chance for a more comfortable life, I suppose he deserves another opportunity as well.”

Sky blue eyes searched his. “I cannot figure you out.”

“It’s not so difficult. I’m a former hedonist whose recklessness caught up to him. I’m a sad sack full of regrets and too much whiskey.” He held her gaze. “And you would seem to be my last hope.”

Those lovely eyes narrowed. “And you were doing so well. I’m late; Lucille is entirely unqualified to seat gentlemen, as she tends to fall all over them.”

Damnation.
Keating caught her arm as she turned away. “I was attempting to be facetious.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Very well, I meant it. But I also meant it when I said we were friends. I won’t allow you to step into something that is not to your benefit. I swear that.”

She faced him again. “
That,
I believe. Lead on, then. It seems I trust you.” When she disappeared through the club’s kitchen door, Keating sat on her abandoned stone bench and took a deep breath. Evidently and despite repeated reminders, he’d learned nothing over the past six years. Otherwise he wouldn’t be kissing—or lusting after—the bride-to-be of his cousin. He lowered his head into his hands.

If she’d been a shrew or a self-absorbed ninny, this would have been so much easier. He’d never expected a charming, clever young woman whose largest fault was that she’d expected a romance and had decided—albeit foolishly—that she would be better served by fleeing anything less than perfection.

Keating straightened again. Perhaps his test was not whether he found her interesting and desirable and eminently bedable, but whether he acted on those sharp-edged desires. Which he wouldn’t, because he had a child who needed a roof, a decent education, and a chance at a comfortable life. That had to be more important than whatever he wanted for himself.

It seems I trust you
. The best and worst thing she could possibly have said to him, bloody chit. Shaking his head as much out of annoyance as to clear it of the rose-scented memory of kissing her, he stood and returned to collect Amble from the front drive. Now all he needed to do was convince Stephen to have luncheon with her, and the paving stones of this path would be all set out. As for him, if he could manage to keep his mouth and other, currently uncomfortable body parts to himself, he could very nearly touch success. And he refused to think of anything else. Of other opportunities he might very well be watching pass by.

*   *   *

Eleanor Howard, Lady Balthrow, sat down with her cup of tea and pulled the three-day-old London newspaper over in front of her. Reading it had been much more amusing six years ago when she’d been personally acquainted with most of the persons mentioned in the Society pages, but from time to time the exploits of some debauched lordling or other still made her giggle.

As she opened the newspaper her gaze immediately dropped to the second article on the page. “Several wagers set at White’s were lost today when Mr. Keating Blackwood proved to be alive and emerged from the wilds to step back into the London Season’s maelstrom. The infamous Bloody Blackwood is said to be lodging with the Duke of Greaves, and has already been seen several times with a particular lady sporting her own scandalous reputation.”

Finishing the paragraph, Eleanor sat back. Then she lurched to her feet and sped out of the small breakfast room. “Moleaux!” she called. “Sally! Pack my things at once!”

The butler appeared from down the hallway. “My lady?”

“Have my travel chest brought down, and hire me a coach. I need to travel to London without delay!”

“Is something amiss, my lady?” the butler asked in his heavy French accent, even as he summoned the pair of footmen.

“Very much so. I am in danger of being forgotten!”

Keating Blackwood in Shropshire was one thing. Putting him back in London with so many distractions and so many other ladies no doubt eager to share his bed—that would never do. Not for her continued income, and not for what remained of her reputation. And certainly not for her future.

He needed to keep in mind what he’d done, not go about spending his blunt on wagering and drink and women. And he couldn’t be allowed to find something as ill-fitting as peace—not when she had none. Above all, he needed to be reminded of his obligations. The sooner, the better.

*   *   *

“You wanted to meet at the Society Club so I would be forced to keep my voice down, didn’t you?” Fenton asked, walking over to the nearest bookshelf in Greaves’s library and running a finger along the tomes.

Keating didn’t know whether he was reading the titles or checking for dust. “Perhaps I wanted you to purchase me a meal. I’m completely to let, if you’ll recall.”

“I recall. And I came here instead because I don’t wish to be seen in public with you. The fewer people who know we’re related, the better.”

“That might be a bit of a problem.”

Stephen faced him. “Why is that?”

“Because I’d like you to join me for luncheon tomorrow. I’ve invited Lady Camille and one of her friends to dine with us.”

For a moment he wasn’t certain whether the marquis would hit him, or simply stomp out the door. The former would be exceedingly unwise, but the second would cause him even more trouble. Finally Fenton turned away again. “I’ll presume that’s your idea of a jest. It isn’t amusing.”

“I’m not jesting. How do you expect the chit to change her mind about marrying you if you can’t demonstrate that you’re no longer an ice-hearted ass?”

“I am not the one who needs to alter my character.”

Movement in the room’s doorway caught his eye, but when he looked directly, no one was there. Still, he would guess that Greaves was close by. If so, then anything the duke heard would be Fenton’s fault, and that suited him just fine. He’d been wanting to talk to Adam about his … circumstances for a fortnight, and the only thing stopping him had been the idea that if he broke his word to his cousin it would be the last straw and the devil would rise to claim him without any further delay.

“I repeat, if she doesn’t think anything’s changed, then she has no reason to change her mind. Be logical at least, Stephen.”

The marquis blew out his breath. “Somewhere outside of Mayfair, then. The rumor should be that she returned to me, not that I reconciled with her.”

“I can’t control the tongue-wagging, but I’ll hire a private room at an inn on the outskirts of Town. And you will be as polite and charming as you can possibly manage.”

“And I suppose you’ve suggested that she be humble and agreeable in return?”

Anger pushed at Keating, and he shifted his seat in the library’s most comfortable chair. “Are you the least bit interested in her actual character, or merely the one you’d like her to have?”

“Don’t be a hypocrite. You’re instructing me to be other than who I generally am—according to you, at least.” Fenton took a book from a shelf, paged through it, and set it back again. Not enough drawings, most likely. “This had best be worth my time.”

“If you bother to pay attention and learn how to deal with her, it will be.”

Finally the marquis faced him again. “Your task is only to get her into the church. And watch your tongue. I’ve been tolerant of your … methods to this point, but I am not one of your drunk, fist-wielding, sycophantic cronies.”

“I don’t have any cronies, boot-licking or otherwise. Now go away, and I’ll send you a note with the address of the inn. Pray don’t be tardy.”

“I won’t be.” Fenton, looking relieved that the conversation was finished, headed for the door.

“One more thing,” Keating said, inwardly wincing.

His cousin paused in the doorway. “What might that be, Keating?”

“If she mentions flowers or bouquets or birthday sentiments, simply tell her that it was your pleasure, and sorely overdue.”

“What?” The marquis strode back into the room again. “I told you that I would not send her posies or any other gift to excuse or forgive her abysmal behavior.”

“Too late. You’ve sent her several bouquets. Not overly sentimental, but thoughtful. As if you truly wish to have an amiable friendship with your would-be bride.
If
you wish her to be your bride.”

“Do not go behind my back again, Keating.” Fenton jabbed a finger in his direction. “If you do, then our deal is finished with.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bah.” The marquis stomped down the Baswich House hallway and out the front door.

“Well, that sounded pleasant.”

Keating didn’t look up. “I thought that was you skulking by the door.”

“I’m a duke. I don’t skulk; I strategically overhear.” Greaves walked past the chair and over to the liquor tantalus. “I’d offer you a whiskey, but you look too much as though you’d take me up on it.”

“I likely would.”

“So if I heard this correctly, I now have official confirmation that you’ve made an agreement with Fenton to sway Lady Camille back into a wedding on his behalf.”

“Did I? You didn’t hear it from me.”

“Mm-hm. He seems serious about it, the way he kept threatening you if you didn’t succeed.”

“I believe he’s tired of being laughed at. He never could tolerate that sort of thing. And he knows I need the blunt.” Fenton didn’t know why, of course, and he never would.

“But he doesn’t know that you have a certain fondness for the lady.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

For a moment he hoped Greaves would have the answer to that question, because he’d been asking it of himself almost since the moment he set eyes on the fair-haired conundrum. Might-have-beens and should-have-beens weren’t for men who’d dealt with life as he had, but it didn’t stop him from dreaming about them, damn it all.

“I’m glad I’m not you, my friend.”

“Now I’m jealous. I wish I wasn’t me myself. It hasn’t helped.” He stood and went to go search out a promising inn where they would have enough privacy to be seen together, and enough of an audience that everyone would have to behave him and herself.

After Keating left the house, Adam Baswich finished off the whiskey he’d poured and then called for his own horse. He had more pieces to the puzzle, but a few of the bits didn’t quite seem to fit together. And he disliked things that didn’t make sense. Especially when they concerned friends of his.

*   *   *

“Thank you so much for doing this, Sophia.”

Camille’s friend shrugged. “You couldn’t very well take Lucille with you. She’d either flirt with Fenton until he fled, or faint at being in the company of lords and rogues.” With the flash of a grin she nudged Camille in the shoulder. “I know you won’t flirt with him.”

“No, I won’t. I may faint, however.” She felt sick to her stomach as it was. Even her hands felt sweaty, and that certainly wasn’t due to the idea that she would be seeing Keating in a very few minutes. Not this time, anyway.

“You don’t have to go.”

“Yes I do. I gave my word. And I prefer knowing the facts to hearing the rumors, even from Keating. If Fenton has become more … warm, then I want to know it.”

“So you truly would consider marrying him, even after all this?”

“That, I don’t know about.” She didn’t even want to think about it. This was about having luncheon. Nothing more. It had to be that way, because if she even thought too closely about what was to come this afternoon, she would drop dead from an apoplexy.

The club’s foyer cleared a bit, and she and Sophia made their way out the front door and onto the drive. “Answer me this, then,” Sophia commented, adjusting her wrap and for the first time looking a little ill at ease. “What do you mean to do with Keating?”

“Do with him?” Camille repeated, scowling. “Nothing. What do you mean by that?”

“I mean I’ve seen you look at him. You like him.”

“Of course I like him. He’s proven to be much more tolerable than I first expected.”

“Fine. Keep your own counsel. May I flirt with him, though, if you’re to marry the man who called you a whore?”

Thankfully Keating and his borrowed barouche arrived before she could answer that. Because she didn’t want Sophia to flirt with Keating. She didn’t even like when any other female
looked
at him—and that happened at every other moment when she ventured off the club’s grounds with him. At least she wasn’t the only one who knew of his reputation and still found him attractive, though she didn’t know how many other women might be kissing him on a nearly daily basis.

An uncomfortable peach pit lurched around in her stomach at the thought. Oh, for heaven’s sake. If there was a worse man to feel jealous over than Keating Blackwood, she’d never heard of him. And if she felt like this because he was simply the one man—aside from the very married Lord Haybury—who’d been kind to her in the past year, then she was a fool.

“Good afternoon, my dears,” he said, standing to hand them into the open vehicle. “Did you notice that you’ve made me the envy of everyone at The Tantalus Club?”