Taming an Impossible Rogue (19 page)

Stephen looked directly at her. “I don’t dance. And as I will be the head of household, you
will
be second.” The marquis sent Keating a glance. “Which is still an improvement over being an employee at a gentlemen’s club.”

“And
I
would like to point out that
I
never signed any agreement to marry anyone, and to this point your efforts to convince me to wed you have been, well, nonexistent. Perhaps legally I am property, but I doubt you’ll find any chairs that object to being pushed about and sat upon. And I am not a chair.”

Keating pushed to his feet. “Camille, I had a question for you,” he said over the rumbling beginning to emanate from his cousin’s direction. “Excuse us for a moment.” He pulled her to her feet by the arm and half lifted her over the bench.

Once he had her in the small cloakroom dividing the private room from the rest of the inn, he let her go. “Where the devil did that come from?”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t know. But I rather liked it.”

So did Keating. In her presence now, he practically vibrated like a mandolin string. “He would prefer you cowed, you know,” he pushed, attempting to stay on the road, “and while thoughtful sangfroid would do fine for me, I don’t think insults and defiance will serve anything.”

Her face folded into a scowl. “Yes, you’re correct. Of course. But he’s making me angry. Could he possibly be more stodgy and arrogant?”

“Not even if he tried,” Keating conceded. “Think about what he offers your life, rather than how dull he is.”

Camille looked toward the closed door. “I will attempt that,” she said after a moment. “But first I think you should kiss me.”

“Wh … what?”

Taking a step closer to him in the small room, she slid both hands up his shoulders. “Sophia reminded me of something. I am a ruined woman. Short of running naked through Mayfair, my reputation couldn’t be much worse than it is. And yet here I stand, in your odd version of negotiations for a proper marriage. What do I have to lose?”

He could think of several things, but the twitch of his cock rendered them insensible. “I’m no good for you,” he said, his mouth dry.

“I don’t want you to be good for me. I would like to kiss you.” Her long eyelashes lowered briefly. “If you would like to kiss me, that is.”

If
. Keating swept his arms around her waist, lifting her against him. At the same moment he captured her mouth with his. The softness of her lips, the eagerness of her embrace, intoxicated him the way no amount of whiskey had ever managed. She wrapped an ankle around the back of his calf, and he just barely managed to stifle his groan.

Good God. This was the man he used to be. The one who seduced other men’s women in closets. Taking an unsteady breath, he set her back on her feet. “Stop it,” he rasped, retreating as far as he could in the tiny room. “My cousin is fifteen feet away. I won’t do this again.”

“Again? What … Oh.” Her flushed cheeks paled. “You mean because of Lord Balthrow.” She closed on him again.

Keating put a hand out, holding her at arm’s length. It wasn’t nearly enough, but he couldn’t exactly flee the premises. “Give me a damned minute, will you?”

Thankfully she halted, and in fact took a step back to lean against the far wall. Despite the solemn expression on her face, he could swear that her eyes were smiling. “You like me,” she finally said.

“Of course I like you. Not at this moment, but yes. If I didn’t, I would have bullied or frightened you into being here today.”

“But I would still be here.” Her eyes weren’t smiling any longer.

“Yes, you would.”

“Because you need ten thousand pounds.”

“Because I need ten thousand pounds, and because you would be happier being able to go for walks without people looking askance at you, and because you like to waltz. With Fenton, annoying as he is, you would have that again.
That
is what this should be about for you. You’ll find happiness in being comfortable.”

“But not love.”

He shrugged; the blood seemed to be slowly returning to his brain. “Love is more dramatic, I’m certain, but being comfortable will last you longer.”

“I don’t know about that.” Camille tilted her head. “Have you recovered your … comfort?”

Now
that
was a complicated question. “At times.” He felt comfortable in his own skin more often since he’d returned to London, and he thought he knew why, but he didn’t intend to dwell on that fact. Not at the moment, and not in this company. “Now, give me your word that you’ll be polite.”

“For you, I’ll be polite. Not for him.”

That shook him even more than the kiss, but he nodded. “I’ll accept that. And when I ask what your favorite treat might be, say sugared orange peels. Then at least you’ll have something in common.”

Her nose wrinkled attractively. “At least I’ve discovered one thing about Lord Fenton.”

“And what might that be?”

“He’s not as intimidating as I thought he was. I don’t seem to be afraid of him.”

Before she could pull open the door, he caught her shoulder. “You were afraid of him?” That would change the situation considerably; ten thousand pounds or not, Fenton was not permitted to harm her in any way.

“I’m afraid of everything. But I think I was afraid of the idea of him. After all, this is the first semicordial conversation with him I’ve ever had. Actually, it’s the first conversation at all.”

The matter-of-fact way she announced her uneasiness made him gaze at her as they returned to the stiff silence of the private room. Yes, she could be timid, but for God’s sake, she kissed with a passion that stunned him. She saw herself, though, as a coward. Considering that the second day they’d met she’d clubbed him with a book, this fear didn’t seem to extend to him. And he was glad about that—even though her fear or antipathy or even caution where he was concerned would both have been much safer for her, and would have made things much easier for him.

Once they sat again, he poured himself another glass of wine. As accustomed as his body was to liquor he might as well have been drinking water, but he was quite aware that he was breaking his promise to himself. At the same time, without dulling his edges a bit he wasn’t certain he would survive through the end of luncheon without pounding his fist against Stephen Pollard’s face or stripping Camille naked and laying her on the long table.

Considering that Fenton was actually being more cooperative than he’d expected, he wasn’t entirely certain where the rising anger in his chest came from. The longer the luncheon proceeded, however, the deeper it flowed through him. “Well,” he said aloud, forcing his voice to remain cool and level, “we’ve established that you both enjoy the out-of-doors, Shakespeare, and reading. Not a bad beginning, I think. Perhaps we should conclude with a discussion of desserts or sweets. Stephen?”

“I enjoy sugared orange peels,” the marquis said, finishing off his own glass of wine—his first, if Keating’s count was correct.

“I recall. Camille?”

“Lemon syllabubs,” she answered, swirling her own glass before she sent a furtive glance in Keating’s direction. “Though sugared orange peels are quite good.”

Difficult chit.

At the last moment he noticed Fenton stirring, reaching down to his waistcoat pocket.
Damnation
. Swiftly he pulled his own battered pocket watch free and clicked it open. “Well, my friends, I believe Lord Fenton has an afternoon session in Parliament. Perhaps we should set him free for today.”

“Yes.” Standing, Fenton actually inclined his head in Camille’s general direction. “Perhaps, given your enjoyment of the out-of-doors, we might arrange for a stroll. The four of us, of course.”

Camille nodded. “I’ll leave it to your discretion. Somewhere off the main path would be more welcome, I think.”

“Indeed.”

With that Keating offered Sophia his arm and ushered the two young ladies out through the main part of the inn and into their waiting barouche. “Lemon syllabub?” he said, once they were moving. “You did that on purpose.”

“I agreed with his awful orange peels. I was merely indicating that I have other interests, as well.”

As did he. “Fair enough. What did you think of him, then?”

“I think he’s an overstuffed peacock, but don’t mind me.” Sophia laid her chin on her arm to look out over the lip of the carriage.

“I will concede that it must have been difficult for a man as proud as he is to agree to a meeting,” Camille said quietly. “I’m somewhat surprised he hasn’t simply publicly denounced me and found someone else to marry.”

“He did denounce you publicly,” Sophia countered. “You told me so.”

“No, he called me names in public. In the heat of the moment, I presumed. That’s hardly the same as making repeated accusations or going to court and having our parents’ agreement dissolved.” She frowned. “He must have been embarrassed when I left the church. I never actually thought of that before now. So I have to say that it speaks well of him that he’s willing to make another attempt at all.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling more diplomatic,” Keating commented, pleased that he’d asked Greaves for the loan of the open vehicle and much less happy at the pronouncement than he would have expected. A coach would have been too clandestine. And he felt grateful for the breeze cooling his heated skin.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering becoming proper again, Cammy.” Sophia kept her gaze on the passing scenery. “We won’t be able to be friends any longer.”

“First of all, you will always be my friend, Sophia,” Camille said forcefully. “And second of all, I’m not certain what I’m considering. I’m merely thinking aloud.” She slid a glance at Keating. “You shouldn’t have lied to me about the flowers.”

“You shouldn’t have been clever enough to quiz him about them,” he retorted. “And I didn’t lie about them. All I said was that I suggested he should send you bouquets. Which I did. You received them, and half the members of The Tantalus Club saw you receive them. If they all happen to believe the sender was the Marquis of Fenton, then it can only help your standing.”

“That’s a very thin truth, then. And I still would have liked to know they came from you, Keating. Even if you sent them on someone else’s behalf.” She folded her hands together on her lap. “Shall I guess why he refused to send them himself? He thought it would look too much like he was apologizing to me rather than the other way around. And you went ahead and sent them, anyway, without informing your cousin.”

Evidently he had lost the ability to deceive anyone about anything. “You should have had flowers,” he commented, and crossed his arms over his chest before he sent his own gaze outside the barouche. Let her say something slighting about that.

“Thank you for them. They were lovely.”

Her voice was so quiet that for a moment he almost thought he might have imagined it. Clenching his jaw, he inclined his head. “My pleasure.”

“Sophia has expressed an interest in driving through Hampstead Heath. I wonder if you might escort us.”

“Hampstead Heath? You know there are highwaymen there.”

“It’s supposed to be lovely. I was never allowed to drive through there before.”

This didn’t bode well. The idea behind convincing her to wed Fenton after all was that she longed to return to the arms of proper Society. Apparently, however, she abruptly seemed interested in stretching her wings and exploring the … scandalous side of life in Mayfair. Was that Sophia’s influence? Or worse, was it his?

“I’ll see if I can arrange something,” he said aloud. Damnation, but he was becoming pitiful. Any excuse to spend more time with her—even if it meant fending off outlaws and cutthroats.

“I believe we can arrange to be free on Thursday.”

Nodding, he sank back onto the plush leather seat again. He hadn’t survived being a blackguard for as long as he had by being obtuse, and every sense he possessed bellowed that something was afoot. What it might be, though, he didn’t know. Not yet, anyway. “I’ll ask Fenton about his schedule, as well. I wouldn’t recommend the Heath for a stroll, but perhaps one of the smaller parks. Or Primose Hill in Regent’s Park.”

“I’ll leave it to you,” Camille said.

He wanted to ask her what had happened, why she abruptly seemed so calm and confident when she’d been ready earlier to cast up her accounts at the mere idea of meeting face-to-face with the Marquis of Fenton. This … agreeable side of her should have been welcome, and he supposed it was, but it was also very odd. And suspicious. If they’d been alone he would have pursued his questions. They weren’t alone, however, and given the way he’d mauled her at the inn, that was more than likely for the best.

In fact, he should make certain he wasn’t ever alone with her again. Fenton had become a visible part of the play now, and he wouldn’t risk placing himself between two people who were all but married. Not even if he found Camille bloody attractive. Not even if he couldn’t seem to sleep without dreaming of her light-colored hair and fair skin sprawled across his bedsheets. Especially not because of the unbearable, taunting … itch she’d begun beneath his skin.

“I’ll send you a note when I have an answer,” he said, standing as the barouche stopped directly in front of The Tantalus Club’s front doors. Stepping down, he turned to offer his hand to the two ladies.

“Blackwood!”

Instinct made him drop his hand toward the knife in his boot even as he faced the low, booming voice. “Rendale.”

The large, bear-shaped, bear-colored earl charged down the club’s shallow steps in his direction. “You should not have come back!” the ursine snarled, cocking his fist.

“Get back in the barouche,” Keating said over his shoulder and ducked the swing. At the same moment he twisted forward and lifted, hurling the behemoth over his shoulder and headfirst into the cobblestones.

A glance told him that both Camille and Sophia had complied, and they were standing with the sides of the carriage keeping them safe from any flinging fists. When Rendale rolled onto his knees and clambered to his feet again, Keating backed away a bit, putting a touch more distance between the fight and the women.