Taming an Impossible Rogue (33 page)

“If I’d realized she was so willing to leave us be, I’d have attempted rendering you naked and having at you weeks ago. Subtlety be damned.”

As if in response to that statement a quartet of young ladies strolled by on the path, all of them gawking. Camille just refrained from sticking out her tongue at them. They’d likely faint, and in addition she might well be entertaining them or their families at dinner in the next month.

He tapped the back of her forefinger with his. “I have a proposal for you.”

Her face must have looked as startled as she felt, because he sat up straight and scowled. For that second, before she’d realized that he meant something else entirely, she’d felt … joy. “A proposal,” she repeated dubiously.

“Don’t faint, Cammy.”

“Oh, very amusing. I’m not the one bandying about words like ‘proposal,’ sir.”

A faint, warm smile cracked his face. “I apologize. All I wanted to do was suggest that for the next five minutes we say whatever we wish, whatever comes to mind. And then, after the five minutes is done with, we never mention them again.”

Light brown eyes met hers, daring her to agree. “You know nothing good will come of it.”

“I know. But this is our last chance.”

Oh, it was the worst idea ever in the history of ideas. And at the same time the desire to tell him precisely how she felt about him pulled at her, much like the man himself. She’d been saying it to herself for days and days. To say it to him, to hear him perhaps return the sentiment, to know that in the world someone—he—loved her …

She closed her eyes for a moment. “No.”

When she opened them again he was still gazing at her, his expression unreadable. “Why not?” he asked in a low, flat voice.

“Because it will hurt. And because you’ll use those five minutes to torture yourself, just as I will. And because I have noticed that you’ve nearly stopped drinking, and I won’t be responsible for you taking it up again and hitting people who look askance at you. Because I’m happy—very happy—to have met you, and I don’t want to regret it.”

After a long moment his mouth curved up at the corners. “And you didn’t even need five minutes for all that.”

Camille snorted. “I hate you.”

His smile softened. “I hate you, too.” Clearing his throat, he handed her a glass of Madeira. “I do want to say one thing to you. If Fenton makes you unhappy, if he gives you a moment’s pause or concern, promise that you’ll write me.”

“And what would you do? Keating, he’s your cousin, and I … you have a history. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“I wouldn’t shoot him, if that’s what you’re worried over,” he said, his voice tightening. “But I could damned well make my concerns very, very clear.”

She stroked her finger down his wrist, unable to resist touching him. “You are a very peculiar sort of knight in shining armor, you know.”

And on a different day, in a different life, he might have been
her
knight in shining armor. If she’d required any more proof that wishes were for little girls and simply didn’t come true, all she needed to do was look into the eyes of the man she loved—four days before she walked down the aisle to marry someone else.

Chapter Twenty

Once Keating saw Camille and Sophia safely back to The Tantalus Club, he sent the barouche away. While in the past he’d preferred smoky midnight clubs and darkened boudoirs, fresh air and a walk seemed much more conducive to clear thinking.

For some reason his mind refused to let go of the idea that he’d missed something, that he could do … something to send his personal nightmare onto a better path. He wanted Camille for himself.

He also wanted to have been a better man than he was, he wanted never to have spent time in beds that legally belonged to other men, and he wanted never to have met Eleanor Howard. If he’d known—but that didn’t suffice, either, because Camille had been promised to Fenton practically since her birth.

His own troubles merely made the impossible
more
impossible. And yelling at the heavens and shouting that it wasn’t fair—well, coming from him, all the angels must already be laughing at him.

When he looked up he found himself on Bolton Street, and in fact directly in front of Pollard House. Hm. That was interesting. He’d meant what he’d said to Camille, that if she found herself less than happy in Stephen’s company the marquis should expect a visit from his cousin.

Best make that clear in advance, as well. Squaring his shoulders, Keating walked up the front drive and swung the brass knocker against the door. The stout, ancient man who opened the door had been at his position for as long as Keating could remember, and he nodded. “Anders. Is my cousin at home?”

The butler stepped back from the doorway. “Master Blackwood. If you’ll wait in the morning room, I shall inquire.”

He took in the view of the morning room much as he had several weeks ago. The tall windows with slightly faded brown and gold curtains that matched the gold-threaded fabric of the furniture, the tasteful selection of Staffordshire pottery dogs and cats on the mantel and shelves, the cast-iron swan on the hearth. For a moment he felt twelve years old again, and he scowled at his hesitation before sitting on a chair.

Perhaps Pollard House wasn’t as opulent as the home in which Camille had grown up, but she would have a maid and new gowns and a place where men wouldn’t pinch her arse simply because they thought they could get away with it. And he had no doubt she would make the place feel comfortable, alive. Of course he would never set foot in the foyer again, but he supposed that wasn’t the point. He wouldn’t let it be the point.

The door opened. “What is it, Keating?” Fenton asked, still pulling on a light blue jacket. “I’m rather occupied at the moment.”

“Yes, you’ve a wedding in four days. I just thought we might chat for a moment.”

Stephen looked at him, then leaned back into the hallway. “Anders, a pot of tea, if you please.”

“My lord.”

Keating kept his seat, watching as his cousin closed the morning room door and walked over to gaze out the window. What did Camille see when she looked at the Marquis of Fenton? Stephen was fairly tall, and he rode almost daily, which kept him fit. A trio of lines bisected his forehead, a result of too much frowning, and Keating doubted such a thing as laugh lines would ever trouble the marquis’s face.

“I’m waiting,” Fenton said into the silence. “If this is about your money, I told you when you’d receive it.”

“I know. The day after your wedding.” Keating attempted not to growl over the word. “I’m attempting to decipher the quality of luck.”

His cousin turned around. “What? You interrupted my day to discuss luck? You’re the gambler. Decipher it yourself.”

“That’s the thing. I can’t. I mean, here you are, a cold-hearted, stiff-spined bastard who never cared about anything but your own comfort, and you—”

“Excuse me, but you’re calling
me
self-involved? After the way you tore through London six years ago? You embarrassed me, you embarrassed your family name, and you embarrassed everyone who called themselves nobility. Not to mention the fact that you killed a man.”

Keating stood up. “Yes, let’s not mention that. I don’t deserve luck; I’m perfectly aware of that. My question is about you. How is it that you deserve someone like Camille Pryce?”

“‘Deserve’? That’s an interesting word. I suppose you mean that she’s some sort of reward of which I’m unworthy. I see it differently myself.”

“How so?”

“Suffice it to say that I’ve only met one other person with a worse reputation and a greater tendency toward self-destruction. So, no, I don’t deserve her. I deserve a wife who has a grasp of duty and propriety and who hasn’t attempted to drag my name through the mud for the past year.”

“Then why marry her now?”

“Because she ran. And because when she walks back into that church and marries me, I win. And she loses. And because everyone who said my wife would rather work in a bawdy house than be the Marchioness of Fenton loses. A deal was agreed to. And I insist”—and Fenton slammed his hand against the top of the side table—“that it be honored.”

Hm. This was the most passion Keating had seen from his cousin. Ever. But once again it wasn’t about Camille. Rather, it was about himself. His victory, the agreement he wanted honored.

“You know,” he said, attempting to keep his voice level, “if you would consider just for one damned minute
why
she didn’t want to marry you, you might understand why you shouldn’t be marrying her now.”

“I
am
marrying her now, and I’m certainly not going to take advice from you.” Fenton took a step closer. “And if you’ve developed some sort of infatuation with my fiancée, stop it.”

“‘Stop it’?” Keating repeated, using every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from launching himself at his cousin.

“You heard me. She belongs to me, and I won’t have you shooting me because you think she’d be happier elsewhere.”

It was a damned shame he’d already promised Cammy that he wouldn’t do violence to Fenton. “I suggest you consider that the happier Camille is, the more pleasant your own life will be. Treat her well, cousin, or I
will
come looking for you.” He turned on his heel, sidestepping the footman carrying a tea tray.

“Don’t tell me you imagine yourself in love with her,” Fenton said incredulously. “You? She’s hardly your usual sort, Keating. Unless the rumors of her activities at that club are true.”

Keating faced the marquis. “Camille Pryce is a magnificent young lady who deserves far better than you. And far, far better than me. Do right by her, Stephen.”

“And you stay away from both of us.”

He’d expected that. And considering that he couldn’t stand the thought of her marrying someone else, hanging about the newly married couple would be worse than a stay in Purgatory. “I’m leaving on Saturday morning.”

“Good. Good-bye, Keating.”

With a stiff nod, Keating turned away again and left the house. For the last time ever. And then he went to get drunk.

*   *   *

“Camille, a moment, if you please.”

Sophia patted her arm as they both turned to see the club’s owner and proprietess approaching. “See you in a bit.”

Lady Haybury looked stunning as she always did in her daring black attire. The rest of the ladies heading for their stations at the beginning of the morning shift moved around them, but Camille waited.

“Diane. I wanted to thank you for allowing me to stay for another few days.”

The marchioness waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “You’re an asset to the club; don’t thank me for helping myself.” She stopped in front of Camille. “I wanted you to know that you will always be welcome here.”

“Even as a runaway marchioness?” Camille asked, forcing a smile.

“Oh, definitely then. The scandal alone would see us full to the rafters.” Deep green eyes regarded her for a moment. “I’m not your sister, and heaven knows I’m not old enough to be your mama. But I am nearby, and generally people are afraid to cross me. And my husband is exceptionally devious.” She sighed. “What I suppose I’m attempting to say is, if you need anything, you have only to ask.”

“I don’t suppose you could conjure a different husband for me, then?”

“Beg pardon?”

Camille shook herself. “I’m just rambling. It’s only that an arranged marriage is nothing like a love match. I wish I’d realized that years ago.” Then she wouldn’t have run, and by the time she’d ever met Keating, she would have long ago given up such childish dreams.

“I told you that my first marriage was arranged,” Diane said unexpectedly. “My husband wasn’t a cruel man, but he certainly cared more for his own comforts than he cared for mine. It’s the most miserable feeling in the world, the morning you awaken and realize that … this is all you’ll have.”

Camille swallowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t wish to be late.”

“Certainly.”

Oh, she hadn’t wanted to hear that. It was difficult enough to convince herself to go through with the wedding. If not for Keating … She shook herself. There were no more
if only
or
perhaps
moments left to her. Only two days of enjoying the company of friends and attempting to forget that Saturday loomed closer and closer over her head.

As she walked into the Demeter Room, even more gazes than usual were turned in her direction. The announcement of the wedding had appeared in the newspaper two days ago, so the interest didn’t surprise her. She’d spent twenty minutes reading and rereading the short, concise notice. Even in stark black print it hadn’t felt real. Not yet. She doubted it would until the moment she said “I do.”

When she looked forward again, she slowed. Sophia stood at the podium in her place, but it was the tall, lean figure speaking with Miss White that caught her attention. The Duke of Greaves wore his usual cool, unflappable expression, but there was something in his light gray eyes that made her heart shiver.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, stopping beside her friend and unable to prevent herself from looking past the duke just to see if a particular friend of his might be present.

“Camille,” he returned, inclining his head. “I’ve misplaced Keating, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find him, would you?”

The chill in her deepened to ice. “No, I don’t. When … when did you last see him?”

“Tuesday afternoon. Shortly before your picnic.”

“When Keating said you abandoned us.”

A brief frown crossed his face. “I did not abandon you. I had something to see to. Something quite important, as it turns out. But I need to find him before I can…” He trailed off. “Did he say anything to you?”

“He returned us here and then left,” she answered. “He said he would be returning to Shropshire on Saturday.” Scowling, Camille glanced sideways at Sophia’s concerned expression before returning her attention to the imposing duke. “You truly haven’t seen him for two days? Might he have simply gone home to Havard’s Glen already?”

“Not likely. His valet’s still at my home, for one thing. For another … No, he wouldn’t have left yet.” The duke swore under his breath.