Taming an Impossible Rogue (3 page)

“Nearly gone, now.” He brushed a negligent finger against his left cheek. “You don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Keating Blackwood. My memory extends past one minute, I assure you.”

A quick smile curved his mouth. It was a very attractive mouth, she noted peripherally. But it wasn’t the first attractive mouth to decide that as a fallen woman she must be in need of a lover or a benefactor, or worse, that she made a habit of engaging in self-destructive behavior.

“Stephen Pollard is my cousin.”

The ground beneath Camille’s feet seemed to turn to pudding, because she swayed alarmingly. Gripping the podium hard, she forced a breath through her lungs. Lady Haybury had thus far done a masterful job of keeping Lord Fenton out of The Tantalus Club. As long as she stayed inside its walls, insults and the occasional pinch had been the worst she’d experienced. But now trouble had breached the walls of her haven in a very alarming manner. “I—”

“I’m only telling you so that you aren’t taken by surprise later if someone should mention it,” he continued. “I’m making an attempt at honesty.”

Camille swallowed the lump of coal in her throat. “I … appreciate your candor,” she ventured, using every bit of her self-control to keep from backing away. “However, as you are a guest of a club member and I am merely the breakfast-time hostess, I hardly require your résumé.”

“Is this your way of saying that I need not have bothered with introducing myself as we won’t be meeting again?” he countered.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

That faint smile touched his mouth again. “My cousin is a stiff-backed buffoon, my lady. That said, I don’t believe he’s ever been the sort to pluck the wings off flies or … hurt anyone intentionally. This makes me curious. Did he harm you? Or insult you? Is that why you didn’t wish to marry him?”

The question took her completely by surprise. Attempting not to gape at him, she glanced away to send a distracted smile at Lord Trask as the viscount entered the room with his two sons. When Lucille approached, Camille had her seat the Trasks … somewhere; it might have been in the kitchen for all the attention she paid.

“If you aren’t going to answer the question, I wish you’d say so,” Blackwood prompted. “I have a fine plate of ham and cheeses and an annoyed duke waiting at the table for me.”

“Then you should return to them.” She picked up her seating chart and went to greet the next arrival.

“Do you ever go walking?” Blackwood’s voice came from directly behind her.

Oh, dear, now he was trailing her about the room. “No.”

“You should. At what time do you finish your hostess duties?”

“I—at—I don’t believe that’s any of your concern, Mr. Blackwood. Now please cease accosting me, or I shall be forced to have you removed.”

“I mean you no harm, my lady,” he returned in a low voice. “I’ve been away from London for six years, and as I said, you’ve made me curious. Few people stand against Fenton. I’d merely like to know your reasons.”

Her parents hadn’t even asked her that question. Camille took a stiff breath. “I will be free after one o’clock,” she said in a rush, before she could change her mind. “But I almost never leave the club’s premises. You may find me in the rose garden.”

He sketched a shallow bow. “I shall do so.”

She pretended to return her attention to the late-arriving breakfast guests, and after a moment the warmth shielding her back was gone. Of all the things she’d expected ever to occur, the cousin of the man she’d jilted a year earlier appearing and being nice to her wasn’t one of them. And she’d never anticipated anyone asking what Lord Fenton might have done to cause her to flee rather than questioning why she’d lost
her
senses. Because she hadn’t lost them. Not then, and not now.

If some relation of Fenton’s wanted an explanation for her actions, she was certainly willing to give one. As long as he realized it changed nothing. And as long as he didn’t think she might be amenable to Stephen Pollard’s cousin after she’d turned her back on the man himself.

Camille gave a tight smile in response to some lordling’s greeting. Yes, she was quite aware that she’d ruined her life. What no one else—men, in particular—seemed to realize was that she had no intention of making things any worse. Ever.

Chapter Three

The crunch of an apple roused Keating from his gaze out the front window of Baswich House. “I expected things to have altered at least a little in six years,” he commented, watching a grand carriage emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Duke of Monmouth clatter down the street.

“You visited the one difference this morning. Where you nearly began a brawl, by the way.” The Duke of Greaves leaned against the doorjamb and took another bite of apple. “I’m curious,” he stated.

“Why am I not staying at Pollard House with Fenton?” Keating suggested.

“It’s no fun if you guess everything I’m going to say.” Greaves waved his fingers. “So answer the question you posed of yourself.”

“Stephen continues to pretend that he and I are not related, which actually suits me quite well. If you want me to leave, I’ll find lodgings elsewhere.”

“I never said that.” Greaves shifted to the other side of the doorway so he could see out the front window as well. “There are people who make a point of surrounding themselves with fellows of good character, to reflect well on their own. I, on the other hand, prefer rogues and scoundrels. Not only are they more interesting to converse with, but I look better in comparison.”

Keating snorted. “I should forewarn you, then, that I mean to attempt to behave while I’m here. A new start.” It sounded promising, anyway; though he could likely trust Greaves’s discretion, he’d given his word to keep his true reason for returning to London to himself.

Doubt, disbelief—or something of the sort—crossed the duke’s face and then was gone again. It didn’t matter; Keating had his own doubts about his ability to reform his reputation and his character. A good thing, then, that he intended to make this a brief visit. And perhaps if he could manage to stay away from trouble, he could attempt it a second time.

But that was putting the cart so far in front of the horse that they were in different shires. He pulled out his old, scratched pocket watch and clicked it open. “At least you didn’t say anything disparaging aloud, Adam,” he commented, standing. “I have some doubts myself. But at the moment, I have an appointment.”

“As do I,” Greaves returned. “And Keating, if you had no qualms about your character, you wouldn’t have hidden away like a hermit for the past six years. Merely keep in mind that your past poor behavior is likely still of much more interest than any propriety you exhibit now.”

“Thank you for the speech. I’ve heard the poem they made up about me.” He sighed, moving past Greaves and into the foyer. “I’ll see if I can refrain from living up to it.”

“In your defense,” the duke returned, shifting to keep him in sight, “the poem isn’t very good. And it’s six years old now. I know for a fact there have been a myriad of other poems since then. Some of them at least as poorly written as the tribute to you.”

Keating gave a noncommittal grunt. If the duke was suggesting that he and his exploits had been forgotten, well, that would be a relief. He had the distinct feeling, however, that there was a large difference between being set on the shelf while new game passed by, and being forgotten. And no, it wasn’t a very good poem.

He had his dark gray gelding, King William Lord of Horses (as an optimistic breeder had named him), or Amble (as Keating had more realistically dubbed him), waiting on the Baswich House front drive. He swung into the saddle, and as they trotted onto Grosvenor Street for the second time that day, Keating squared his shoulders. Even with the fisticuffs, this morning at The Tantalus Club had proceeded better than he’d expected, both in regard to meeting Lady Camille Pryce and to the reaction of his fellow aristocrats on seeing him once again in London.

He wasn’t certain whether it was because the club had a particular relationship with scandal that made his own past exploits less … noteworthy there, or if it was because he’d managed to take London by surprise. Whatever the reason for the quietude, he had the distinct feeling that the Town wouldn’t be as welcoming once the residents had time to make note of his presence.

Or what if he
had
simply been forgotten? Gossiped over, raged about, and then put in the ash pan once the next scandal burst? Keating blew out his breath. That would have been perfectly acceptable to him. It was merely that he didn’t much rely on good fortune these days.

He’d thought The Tantalus Club crowded during breakfast, especially on a day when Parliament wasn’t in session. The amount of carriage traffic rolling onto the elongated front drive now, however, was at least double what he’d seen earlier. Keeping his jaw locked, he sent Amble off with one of the stableboys and, rather than joining the trek up the front steps, headed around the opposite side of the house. Damned hypocrites. They all spouted the merits of living noble lives, and went to luncheon at an establishment where they were encouraged to ogle the female staff.

He wondered how many of them justified their actions by repeating the mantra he’d heard at least half a dozen times since he’d first learned of the existence of The Tantalus Club: No touching, at least not without the lady’s permission. That, apparently, made the entire … existence of the place scandalous, but acceptable.

Camille Pryce sat on a small stone bench beneath the shade of an oak tree set in the center of a well-manicured circle of rosebushes. For a moment Keating stopped at the edge of the cobblestone path, noting that whether intentional or not, the tree blocked the bench and its occupant from the myriad windows of the club. She’d changed her attire from the sleek bronze silk of the morning; the simple blue and green sprigged muslin seemed almost absurdly modest given her place of employment.

This was the chit Stephen was supposed to have married a year ago. A demure, proper young lady, aged two-and-twenty now, sitting in a well-groomed garden and reading a book. Civilized and bloodless, the very portrait of the girl to whom the Marquis of Fenton had been engaged since his seventh birthday. Keating remembered when his cousin had learned about the agreement; the moaning and exaggerated faux vomiting had been highly amusing—to the point that he’d joined in. At six years of age, he’d agreed that females were highly overrated.

In the dappled sunlight her fair hair took on more color, though yellow seemed too strong a word to describe it. Buttermilk or whey seemed more appropriate. The color—or lack thereof—was actually quite striking, particularly in combination with her blue eyes as pale as the morning sky.

Yes, he’d been tasked with seeing her safely back into Society’s—and his cousin’s—arms, and yes, he’d spent several long minutes in front of his dressing mirror at Havard’s Glen swearing that he would behave, earn his pieces of silver, and return home without incident. Beneath that, however, he was male. And she was stunning.

Keating shook himself. He had certainly never waxed poetical even when he’d been young enough to be considered naïve. And he was nothing close to either, any longer. Yes, she was pretty. She was also the intended of the Marquis of Fenton,
and
she was the means by which he would obtain ten thousand pounds. With that money he could finally begin to make some things right. Things he’d made wrong six years ago.
That
was the reason—the only reason—he’d returned to London.

He cleared his throat. Scaring the chit to death would cost him a great deal of blunt. “You look as though you’re posing for a portrait,” he commented, stepping forward.

She looked up at him. From her calm expression, she’d known he was standing there. “How should I sit while reading, then? One arm above my head and my toes turned in?”

Evidently she wasn’t quite as fragile as she looked. “I meant that to be a compliment. Shall I turn around and begin again?”

Her sunrise blue eyes assessed him. “You don’t look much like your cousin. I daresay if you hadn’t told me of your relationship, I never would have known.”

“In all honesty,” he returned, moving close enough to lift the book from her lap and examine the title, “I heard that you didn’t get much of a look at my cousin.” Hm.
Pride and Prejudice.
So she had a romantic bent. That was good to know, though he wasn’t certain how it would help him in swaying her back toward Fenton, the cold fish.

Her cheeks darkened. “I agreed to speak with you here because you asked me a question that no one had ever posed to me before. If you mean to insult or bully me, Mr. Blackwood, know that you’re not the first. Nor are you anyone whose opinion matters to me in the least. Clearly I was mistaken in thinking you might be someone with whom I could … commiserate.” Snatching her book out of his hands, she stood and marched back toward the large manor.

Damnation.
Seeing his ten thousand quid stomping away, Keating went after her. Clearly he needed a different approach—and quickly. He put a hand on her shoulder. “My lady, I didn’t m—”

She whipped around and slammed the book into the side of his head. “Leave me alone!” she snapped, and trudged away.

If Keating had never been hit before, the thwack might have stopped him. Considering that he still bore the remains of a black eye from a gargantuan bruiser nicknamed Bully Tom, he simply strode forward to block her escape. “Nicely done,” he said, tasting blood from a cut lip. “What question did I ask you?”

“I—you—get out of my way.”

“Answer my question. About the question.”

Camille Pryce took a deep breath. If he hadn’t been behaving, he would have noted the fine form of her bosom, but he kept his gaze firmly on her face. He also kept his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge if she swung the book again.

“You asked me what Fenton had done to drive me away.” She narrowed her eyes, her jaw clenched. “You didn’t ask what was wrong with me to leave a wealthy, titled gentleman standing in the church. I thought that was … refreshing. But now you’ve ruined it, and I’m finished speaking with you. Do not come back to The Tantalus Club.”