Taming an Impossible Rogue (31 page)

“Did you tell her I’d been here all day?”

“She didn’t ask, sir. I couldn’t think of a way to mention it without arousing suspicion. I can go tell her if you wish.”

“Don’t be an ass, Hooper. And don’t pretend to be scandalized. I know in whose household you serve.”

“My apologies, Mr. Blackwood. I’ve put her in the morning room.”

“Good. I’ll be down directly. Offer her some tea.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keating lifted his chin as Pidgeon knotted his cravat. More than anything he wanted to charge down the stairs and discover what he’d missed in his observation of that little jaunt earlier, but he didn’t want her knowing that he’d been spying on her.

“Are you finished yet?”

“If you would stop moving about, sir,” Pidgeon said with a grimace.

“Just hurry it up.”

Finally the valet stepped back. “I suppose that’ll d—”

“Make yourself scarce,” Keating ordered, pulling open the door and charging down the stairs.

The morning room door stood open, and he was halfway inside when he realized that Camille was seated very calmly beneath the front window and sipping a steaming cup of tea. Slowing his charge, he made for the chair opposite the side table from hers and sank down into it.

“Is this a good or a bad visit?” he asked, attempting to disguise the fact that he was breathing hard.

Without answering or even looking at him, Camille set down her tea, stood up, and walked over to shut and lock the morning room door. His insides clenched in response. Instead of returning to her chair, she put a hand on his shoulder and sat across his thighs. Then, to his surprise, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

If Fenton had hurt her, he would die. Old friends, cousins—it didn’t matter. Slowly, reluctant to give her reason to move, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. The quiet … joy at just sitting quietly with Camille in his arms stunned him down to his very cynical soul.

“You were right about Lord Fenton,” she finally said, twining her fingers around the top button of his waistcoat.

“In what way? I said a great many things about him, as I recall.”

“He isn’t a monster.”

Keating closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” he forced himself to say.

“I suppose so. Marie chaperoned us on our stroll, and she was quite impressed that I’d spoken my mind. Evidently I never used to do such a scandalous thing.” She opened the button and slipped her hand inside his waistcoat, her palm warm over his heart.

Desire rumbled through him. “Tell me what you said. I’m all aflutter.”

She chuckled. “I merely said that I wasn’t impressed with his warmth then or now, and that with the exception of producing an heir I expected to be left to pursue my own interests and run my own household, and that he and I would have as little to do with each other as possible.”

Every word she spoke was like a punch to his gut. But she couldn’t be allowed to know that. This was for her benefit, and he would keep repeating that to himself until he believed it. “And he didn’t suffer an apoplexy and drop dead?” he asked lightly.

“He wasn’t amused, but he agreed.” Lifting her head a little, she softly kissed his jaw. “I left it to him and my parents to set a date for the wedding; I simply didn’t have the stomach for that.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Another button opened. “Have you been able to find any further sign of Lady Balthrow?” she continued, her lips on his throat nearly making his eyes roll back in his head.

Keating could practically hear her thoughts. If he couldn’t find Eleanor, if there remained no hope of his ever seeing Michael, would he still need the ten thousand pounds? Would he consider completely ruining her life as he’d already ruined his own? And to his shame, it was tempting. So damned tempting.

“She was waiting for me when I returned here this morning,” he said, the words sticking in his throat.

Her head shot up, her blue eyes widening. “What? You met with her?”

He nodded.

“What did she say? Is Michael with her? Were you able to see your son? D—”

Keating put a hand over her mouth. “I can’t answer if you won’t shut up,” he said, replacing his palm with his lips and touched that she would be so concerned over his son and his troubles when she had so many of her own.

She pulled away from him and stood, smoothing her skirts. “Tell me.”

“Eleanor seemed concerned that I was in London to … return to my old ways—which I seem to be doing.”

“No you aren’t. This is different.” She gestured between him and herself. “We are different.”

“Because I l … Because I’m more fond of you than I ever was of her? Otherwise I see a very strong resemblance, my dear.”

Christ, he’d almost said it. Almost admitted that he loved her. As if that would do anything but make an untenable situation even worse for both of them. He drew in a shuddering breath. Calm. He only needed to be calm.

“Anyway,” he continued after a moment, “she said Michael wasn’t with her, but she intimated that she might allow me to see him if I could prove that I would continue to support the two of them.”

“I hope you told her about the money you’ll be receiving.”

“I did. That’s when she said I might see my son.”

A tear ran down her cheek, and at the sight of it Keating felt like someone had ripped a hole in his heart. If this was love, he wished he’d never discovered it. The damned thing hurt like the devil, and he couldn’t see any merit in it at all.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said, wiping at her eyes.

“Really.”

“Yes! Of course I am. You deserve to see Michael.”

“I don’t know about that, but thank you for saying so.”

Camille gazed at him for several hard beats of his damaged heart. Then she visibly shook herself. “I should go. I just wanted you to know that Fenton and I have reached an agreement.”

Keating reached out for her hand and drew her down onto his lap again. However much self-control he’d been attempting, there were moments when it simply wasn’t worth the effort. She consumed him, and if he didn’t have her, he was quite certain he would expire well before her wedding to another man.

He placed her hand back on the buttons of his half-open waistcoat. “Are you finished with being wicked, then?” he murmured, lowering his head to nibble at her exposed throat.

She gave a shuddering sigh. “Not quite yet, I don’t think.” Her slender fingers opened a third button, then the fourth. “But I’m to work at luncheon, so don’t ruin my hair.”

Keating chuckled. “I shall endeavor.” With an openmouthed, tongue-tangling kiss, he shifted so that she straddled his lap, then pulled her skirts free. They settled around them, disguising the fact that the only thing keeping him from her was the stretching material of his trousers.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said with a shiver, wriggling her hips experimentally.

She would be the death of him, he was certain. “Lift up a bit,” he ordered, reaching between them first to unfasten his trousers and shove them down, and then to slip a finger inside her damp heat. “You look so demure above your skirts,” Keating commented, taking her hips and drawing her down around his hard, straining cock.

Camille shut her eyes as he impaled her. “Mm,” she murmured, her hands on his shoulders. Slowly she lifted up and then sank down again. “I don’t feel at all demure,” she said raggedly, opening her eyes again.

“Neither do I. Hold on.”

With that he surged up into her, lifting and lowering her hips over him until she took up the hard, fast rhythm herself. Panting, she smiled wantonly at him as she bounced enthusiastically up and down on his cock while he lifted his hips to meet her. “I like this.”

Keating cupped the back of her head, keeping in mind that he wasn’t to destroy her hair, and drew her face forward to kiss her again. Tense need speared through him, his already ragged control splintering. As she came around him, he let go and found his own release deep inside her.

Leaning forward, Camille rested her cheek against his shoulder. For a long moment they stayed that way, breathing hard, his cock still inside her. He could hear the faint pop of the fire in the hearth, the carriage wheels rattling by outside the window, the distant sound of voices chatting, hawking wares, and someone loudly proclaiming that he knew a Thoroughbred when he saw one. If time could be stopped, a moment savored, he would have chosen this one.

Finally Camille straightened again, looking down at him. “This is a very handy way to do this,” she said, grinning.

“It is, though I prefer to see you naked. And to have a bit more time with you.”

A shadow crossed her vision. He knew precisely what had caused it; more time was something they simply didn’t have. Every moment was one less he could look forward to sharing with her.

“When is Fenton to pay you?” she asked abruptly, lifting up and then recovering her legs to stand up again and smooth down her skirts.

“The day after your wedding.” He stood, as well, fastening his trousers and buttoning up his waistcoat again.

She frowned. “You should have it now, while Lady Balthrow is in London. She might have Michael with her, after all.”

The thought had occurred to him as well, but he had no wish to end this … whatever it was between them before he had to. “After the wedding is what I agreed to. I imagine that will be soon enough.”

He took her hands in his and leaned down to kiss her. Her soft, warm lips molded with his, stealing his breath and his thoughts and his soul. She was what he might have had, if he’d lived a better life. He hadn’t, and the best he could do now was have a taste and then watch her walk away.

Finally he let her go, and she started for the door. With her hand on the latch, though, she faced him again. “Is this it?”

If he had any sense at all, it would be. If he’d learned anything six years ago, he would nod his head and tell her good-bye and stay inside this house until the day after her wedding. “That depends,” he said, anyway, forcing a slight smile. “I thought I might attempt a picnic luncheon on Tuesday. Would you and Sophia care to join Greaves and me?”

Camille actually looked relieved, as if she hadn’t realized that he was making things worse. “I think that would be splendid.”

She was wrong about that, but if he would be spending the remainder of his life without her, he wanted more—just a little more—to remember her by.

Chapter Nineteen

For two days nothing untoward happened, though Camille had to admit that the lessening of insults and sideways glances might have simply been because she no longer cared enough even to notice them. But she knew something was amiss the moment she caught sight of Juliet Langtree slipping through the crowd of men and into the Demeter Room.

Juliet was the face of The Tantalus Club every evening. Someone had even written a song about the angel-faced butleress guarding the door to happiness, or some such thing. She did not leave her station at the front door. Not unless something extraordinary was afoot. And at the moment the butleress’s gaze was on … her.

Camille disliked working evenings as it was. The club members had had time to drink, which made them all seem less … refined. Lately it bothered her much less, and considering the long memories in Mayfair, she assumed she would be tolerating those looks for the remainder of her life. Even as a marchioness, even as they dined at her home and complimented her for her fine jewelry.

But at the moment she watched Juliet. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a low voice, the moment the butleress stopped in front of her.

“Lord Montshire and Lord Fenton are here,” Juliet murmured.

All the blood left her face, and she grabbed onto the podium to keep from swaying. “But … they aren’t members.” And Fenton, at least, had been banned from the premises.

“They procured an invitation from Lord Cleaves. Lady Haybury said I’m to ask you before I admit them.”

Oh, dear
. A few weeks ago she would have fainted already. Or more likely, she would have gathered up her skirts and fled up to her room, locked the door, and hid under the bed. “Let them in.”

“You’re certain?” Juliet whispered, lifting an eyebrow. “I have several well-rehearsed excuses to hand.”

“Evidently they are prepared to be stared at and gossiped about,” Camille returned. “And I’m accustomed to it. Let them in to share some of my discomfort.”

With a somewhat incredulous nod, Juliet turned on her heel and headed back to the foyer. Camille caught Sophia’s quizzical, concerned glance from halfway across the room and sent back a half smile.

This was her chance, she supposed, to show both her father and her almost-betrothed that she had learned to stand on her own two feet. That she held her head high, and was returning to the proper side of Mayfair because she chose to do so. Not because she had no other choice.

And they’d best thank Lady Balthrow as well, because if not for her and Keating’s need to support her, Camille would have been much less inclined these days to find propriety once more. That was the thing about courage, she was discovering. It opened so much more of the world to her than she’d expected.

A few moments later the two men, her father and her almost-husband, strolled into the Demeter Room. Fenton, at least, looked like he wanted to tuck his head inside his coat like a turtle. At the same time, his gaze roved everywhere, taking in the opulence of The Tantalus Club for the first time.

“Good evening,” she said, pleased that her voice was steady. “May I show you to a table?”

Her father’s jaw clenched. He’d always been more tolerant of her high spirits than her mother had been, but he’d had as much of a hand in tossing her out of the house as anyone. “Yes, thank you,” he finally said.

“Ordinarily I’m afraid we would have had you wait in one of the gaming rooms,” she said, turning to lead them through the room and attempting to ignore the dozens of speculative male eyes gazing in their direction, “as we’re always quite busy on Monday nights. But we keep a table reserved for special guests.”

Stopping beside the neatly set table beneath the garden window, she gestured for them to be seated. “Your menus are here, or if there is something for which you have a particular fondness, our chefs are phenomenal. One of our waitresses will be by in a few moments. Have a grand evening.”