Taming an Impossible Rogue (8 page)

“Keating. Are you alone tonight?”

“For the moment. You’re not allowed to dine with me, are you?”

Color touched her fair cheeks. “Heavens, no.” She cocked her head at him. “You do go looking for trouble, don’t you?”

“Whenever possible. Your shy friend isn’t about, is she?”

“Cammy’s dealing vingt-et-un tonight.”

She was actually sitting at a table with men who might look askance at her? That was interesting. “I thought she only worked in the Demeter Room.”

“We’ve all trained in every position. Sally is ill, and Cammy said she supposed she could count well enough to sit in for one evening.”

The part of him that had felt … coiled up, steeling himself for a night of being glared at and avoided, loosened just a little. Mentally he counted the blunt in his pockets. Nine pounds give or take, about half of which he could afford to lose. Considering that he hadn’t played cards in six years it was a risk, but then again he could lose five pounds in exchange for ten thousand more.

“I believe I’ll go play some cards,” he said, nodding at Sophia.

“We do have a lovely roasted pheasant on the menu this evening,” she returned, gesturing at the crowded room.

He grinned. “I’ll pass on dinner, but thank you.” Looking toward the three doors that exited the dining room, he frowned. “Where do I go?”

“The Persephone Room. Don’t tell her that I mentioned she was working.”

“My lips are sealed.”

The Persephone Room seemed to be the largest of the gaming rooms, and if he’d needed more proof that The Tantalus Club was thriving, it lay all around him. Crowded tables, the scent of expensive American cigars, the murmur of cards and conversation, and pretty young women everywhere carrying drinks and dealing cards and supervising the tables. Some of the most powerful men in London, paying for the privilege of having ruined chits tell them when they were wagering too deeply and needed to leave for the evening.

It took him a moment to find Camille. Her ash-blond hair had been pulled up into a curling knot, whitish tendrils escaping to frame her angled cheekbones. The demure muslin of the afternoon was gone, replaced by a shimmering blue gown that clung to her appealing curves. Good God. No wonder that even with the scandal attached to her, four men sat at her table while half a dozen more stood about, supposedly watching the game.

And no wonder Fenton was so determined to get her back in hand. Camille and the marquis’s name were inexorably linked, and the men surrounding her spent their days at the House of Lords with Fenton, at other clubs with Fenton, at soirees with Fenton. He would never be able to move past the fact that he was technically still engaged to a woman who’d fled their wedding to work at a gentlemen’s club.

That had taken courage. The young lady with whom he’d walked this afternoon had been cautious and hurt, but the one he looked at now was confident and even … sultry. Earlier today he’d thought swaying her back into Fenton’s—and by extension, Society’s—arms would be a simple matter. Camille Pryce, however, had more facets than he’d expected. He needed to discover what motivated her, what it was she truly wanted, and what it would take to send her back to her betrothed. And he needed to be someone she trusted if he meant to accomplish any of that. Which meant that he needed to stop staring at her like a cat sizing up a mouse. However much he might wish to pounce.

She glanced up, and the corners of her mouth turned up as their eyes met. He smiled back at her, nodding, shoving back at his predatory instincts until they subsided and returned to the cave. Apparently she’d decided that his kissing spree of earlier wasn’t so awful, after all. Considering that he had at least two additional families cursing him now, he was glad it had been worth it.

“I think I’d like to play,” he said.

“Only four players at this table, Blackwood,” the Viscount of Swanslee commented, glancing up from his cards. “Go find another table.”

“I’d like to play
here
.”

Next to the viscount, Jonas Atherling stood. “Take my seat,” he offered, gathering his coins. “I’d prefer to be in a different room from you, anyway.”

“Likewise.” The stodgy fellow was practically swimming in cheap French cologne, and it followed him like a cloud as he departed. Wondering how Camille had managed to breathe, Keating took the abandoned chair. “And how do your fare this evening, my lady?” he asked, putting his own blunt on the table.

“Very well, Mr. Blackwood.” Camille gazed at the players. “Ready, gentlemen?”

“Deal the damned cards,” the stocky gentleman on Keating’s left grumbled. “Here’s hoping Blackwood’s ill luck alters my own.”

“I don’t have ill luck,” Keating protested. “I make ill choices. There’s a very large difference.”

“Isn’t that rather like debating degrees of death?” the fourth fellow, seated just to his right, commented in a low voice.

Swiftly Keating reassessed his general opinion of the club’s membership. At least one of them seemed to have both intelligence and some spleen. “And who might you be?”

“That’s right, you’ve been away for a time, haven’t you?” The man gestured for a third card. With his left profile partly obscured by too-long dark brown hair, the best impression Keating could get was that he was in his mid-twenties and lean.

“What are you, my replacement in debauchery? You should be at a less reputable club.” He glanced at the glass sitting at the fellow’s elbow. “And you shouldn’t be drinking brandy. You’ll want something that sinks into your gullet quickly. Whiskey. Or Russian vodka.”

Finally the man faced him. The thin white scar that ran from halfway down his right cheek and glanced off his chin was only made more striking by his milky white right eye, an unsettling balance to the dark blue left one. “I don’t think I require your advice, but you make a valid point.” He pushed to his feet, sliding a quid to Camille. “Good evening.”

No one else took the one-eyed gentleman’s seat, so Camille dealt two face-up cards to the trio of men before her. To herself she dealt the seven of clubs and the king of spades, both face up. “Gentlemen?”

“Who was that?” Keating asked, disliking that his curiosity made him ask.

“He didn’t give his name, Mr. Blackwood.” She glanced up. “Do you wish a card?”

So now she pretended they weren’t acquainted. He glanced down at the nine and queen in front of him. “I’m staying.”

Only a flicker in her eyes betrayed that she might be reading more into that statement than he’d actually said. At least he hoped that was the case; considering he’d just realized that while his reputation might help her, it wasn’t doing
him
any favors, he was a bit distracted. If she pretended not to know him, he couldn’t expect her to trust him. Evidently he was going to have to attempt to behave. Good damned thing, then, that he’d stopped drinking.

Chapter Six

Camille dealt cards for an hour, then signaled to the room captain that she wanted to go stretch her legs. And she wasn’t the least bit surprised when Keating Blackwood left the table immediately after she did.

“Please don’t do that,” she muttered, feeling him walking behind her as she headed for the doorway leading into the back of the club and some privacy.

“Don’t do what?” his quiet voice returned.

“Follow me about. People will think you’re pursuing me.”

“I’m not.”

The odd responding … thump in her chest didn’t feel at all pleasant. “Good. But it looks as though you are, and that will only have more people talking. I don’t want that.”

From the envious looks some of the other ladies were sending her as she left the room, she was being an idiot. Keating was devilishly handsome, witty, and fearless. And he played a fine game of cards. If not for his reputation, she wasn’t certain she would be able to conjure any objection to his presence.

Then it struck her. She was doing the same thing to him that others did to her. Camille nearly stumbled in the doorway to the back rooms, and a strong hand gripped her right arm. “Steady, there.”

“Thank you.” For heaven’s sake, if not for
her
reputation, she imagined she would have quite a few friends. Perhaps even parents and her own home again. “I apologize.”

He’d stopped in the doorway, and stood looking at her. “For what?”

“For being put off by your reputation. It’s hypocritical of me.”

A grin tugged at his sensuous mouth. “No it isn’t. It’s very wise of you. We don’t compare.”

Glancing past him at the busy, curious room, she gestured for him to come through the door. “You might as well come in here.”

With a slight hesitation she almost didn’t notice, he walked into the narrow corridor and shut the door behind him. “This is nice. You can travel up and down the length of the club without men drooling on you.”

“It was Lady Haybury’s idea,” she returned, “but men don’t drool on me.”

“I don’t know why not. You’re lovely.”

Her cheeks warmed. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been complimented when the speaker didn’t attempt to pinch her or to lure her into his bed. “They speak to me in the club,” she said aloud, “but at the same time they seem to think either that I’ve been irretrievably soiled and can be purchased for a penny, or that my being near them will give them the plague.”

“If I may,” he drawled, reaching out to pluck at her sleeve, “taken as a whole, men are idiots and fools. They want what they cannot have, and fear that what they do have has been gotten too cheaply to be valuable.”

She was beginning to realize that Keating Blackwood was a very unusual man. And that intrigued her, far more than she should have allowed. “And where do you fall in this categorization?”

“I’m the man who’s learned his lesson and very clearly sees the follies of others.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” He tilted his head a little, his eyes lowering to her mouth. “You have a very nice smile. You should employ it more often. Smiles can be deadlier than pistols, if used correctly.”

Camille hadn’t even realized she was smiling. Her first instinct was to wipe it away, duck her head, and flee. But they were alone in the hallway; only Keating had seen her acting as though she could actually enjoy a moment of happiness. It didn’t escape her that that was the second time she’d smiled in his presence today.

And here she was, ruined, a coward, and for the moment with no one to look at her askance. With a very handsome man standing in front of her. One who seemed, for some unexplainable reason, to have taken her side in all this nonsense.

Her heart stammering, Camille put a hand on his chest, leaned up, and kissed him. Their lips touching, she felt his surprise, and then the breathless moment as he shifted forward and molded his mouth against hers. His hands curled onto her hips, tugging her closer. Pure white heat swept down her spine, and she closed her eyes at the sensation.

Those fingers close against her skin flexed, and then lifted her away from him. Camille opened her eyes again, to find herself gazing into twin orbs the color of polished bronze. Keating cleared his throat. “That…”

“I apologize for putting you at risk from the fires of damnation,” she managed, trying to gather her fleeing thoughts and her breath all at the same time. “Though I don’t know how pure anyone would consider me at the moment.”

“Oh, it definitely singed me a bit.” He continued to gaze at her, though she hadn’t a clue what he might be thinking. At least he wasn’t laughing at her.

“So. Do you still wish to take me driving tomorrow, or should I return to my reading?”

“Be on the front drive at half one.”

Camille let out the breath she’d been holding. Whatever had just happened, at least she hadn’t ruined the most interesting friendship she’d ever managed. With the one man who viewed her scandalous actions as a barely noticeable tweak to Society’s collective nose. With the one man she’d ever kissed—whether he would have kissed her or not.

“Very well. I—thank you.”

“What the devil are you thanking me for?” he asked, one brow lowering.

She sighed. “For not laughing, I suppose. For not just standing there looking affronted. For n—”

Keating swept forward and kissed her again. Her back bumped against the opposite wall as he pressed his mouth to hers, plying and nipping until both her mind and her body seemed to melt into a heated puddle. This time she couldn’t say that he’d been surprised into kissing her back, and that he otherwise wouldn’t have been the least bit interested.

“Don’t thank me for being idiotic and doing something that will only make matters worse for you, Camille,” he murmured against her mouth. “And don’t kiss me again. You’re too damned tempting. I’m endeavoring to behave, and I’m not very good at it.”

With that he vanished back into the club, shutting her alone in the hallway. For a long moment she stood there, touching her forefinger to her lips. So that was a kiss. She’d never experienced one before. Now she knew what the other girls meant when they talked of wanting to swoon because of a mere touch of mouth against mouth. Because her knees still felt wobbly.

As she put her hand on the door to reenter the Persephone Room, it occurred to her that every man in there likely thought she and Keating had been doing exactly what they’d been doing. Cold trailed down to her fingertips, and she shut her eyes.

Of course they all thought she’d been doing the same thing for the past year, and they still sat at her table and smiled when she seated them at breakfast and offered her trinkets to stray with them. Camille opened her eyes again. The chasm of mortification that had opened at her feet slowly knitted itself together again. As far as Mayfair was concerned, she’d been kissing men—and worse—hither and thither for months and months.

She touched her lips again. What did it matter, then, if she actually did kiss a man? There weren’t any additional people that could look askance at her, surely. Perhaps Keating wasn’t the wisest choice for folly, but she’d already been seen with him at least twice, and nothing had changed that she could detect. He might be attempting to behave, but she’d suddenly realized—thanks mainly to him—that she no longer had to do so.