Taming an Impossible Rogue (9 page)

“Goodness,” she whispered, then had to chuckle. Goodness had nothing to do with it.

*   *   *

Halfway back to Baswich House it began to rain. Keating slowed Amble to a walk and turned his face up, catching the cold drops on his skin. It didn’t much help.

The chit had kissed him. The damned chit had put her dainty hands on his chest, closed her eyes, and attacked him with her mouth. And it had shivered through him down to his toes.

It was his own fault; he’d intentionally stood as her friend when no one else outside of The Tantalus Club would do so. And he’d done his best to be charming. In the past when he’d been charming he’d almost always ended up naked in some lady or other’s bed. Lately he hadn’t been as discerning, other than making certain the chit was unmarried. The pickings in Shropshire had been slimmer, particularly once all the women knew what a poor idea being linked with him could be, but he wasn’t a damned monk.

He blew out his breath. Camille Pryce had been spoken for since her birth, and by his own cousin. He’d learned his lesson; he did not step between married couples. And while Camille and Stephen weren’t married, that was precisely the mission with which he’d been tasked.

Why was he even having this conversation with himself? For Christ’s sake, she was a virginal female doing her damnedest to pretend she hadn’t been ruined, and he was present for the sole reason of swaying her back into Society’s arms. Not
his
arms. He wasn’t even interested. Whatever she was, it was definitely not his usual flavor.

This was precisely why he avoided purity. To a woman with no experience, every kiss meant something special, every murmured word was a promise of some sort. Even before the chaos with Eleanor and her husband, he’d disdained the white-wearing chits of Almack’s in favor of more experienced ladies. Of course that hadn’t precisely ended well for him. But he knew better than to think eschewing the jaded in favor of the virginal would make things any better.

Whatever the devil had happened, he was already making mental note of where Adam kept his bottles of liquor back at Baswich House. Evidently he couldn’t remain sober for even one day. Yes, he had something of a reason for drinking at the moment, but being three sheets to the wind wouldn’t alter anything. Nor would it make anything easier.

Nudging Amble in the ribs, he sent them at a canter toward Hyde Park and Rotten Row. He refused to drink tonight, but he could certainly ride. Even though the hour was fairly early, especially by Mayfair standards, the park was generally deserted at night. With the rain pelting the grass and the packed earth of the Rotten Row riding trail, he could believe himself the only man in London.

That would have suited him quite well, in fact. For an hour or so he galloped through the water and mud, until both he and Amble were breathing hard and sweating. By the time he returned to Baswich House and handed the gray gelding over to a disapproving groom, he was soaked past his skin.

“Hm,” Adam’s deep voice came from the balcony overlooking the foyer. “Not what I expected.”

Keating shook out his hair and started up the stairs. “It’s raining. Or did you think any God-fearing raindrops would avoid landing on me?”

“You have mud up past your knees and halfway up the greatcoat I loaned you. And you’re tracking it on my rug.”

“I’m tired, Adam. I’ll joust with you tomorrow, if you’d like.”

The Duke of Greaves continued to eye him, though Keating didn’t know what he might be looking for. “Do you wish me to pretend I don’t know that Fenton called on you earlier?” he finally asked.

Keating slowed at the top of the stairs. “He doesn’t like me making a stir that might tarnish his good name,” he returned with a shrug. “You can’t be surprised by that.”

“Did he have anything to say about the fact that you’re going for strolls with his former fiancée?”

“Are you going to keep prying until you’ve worn me down to dust?” Keating walked past his friend and continued toward his borrowed quarters.

“Very likely.”

“It’s not my secret I’m keeping.”

The duke followed him. “Just tell me, for God’s sake. I detest not knowing things.”

That made Keating grin. “No. I’m being honorable. And go have your apoplexy elsewhere.”

Once he’d shed his clothes and dried himself thoroughly, he dropped into bed and shut his eyes. When he considered it, his path was actually very clear. Guide Camille back to Fenton’s side. And no more kissing. And no more absurd imaginings that the touch of her lips to his had meant something. That he’d felt something. Because he hadn’t. He couldn’t afford to.

*   *   *

When Keating turned the Duke of Greaves’s high-perch phaeton up the curved drive of The Tantalus Club, he half expected that Camille would be nowhere in sight. Instead, however, she stood to one side of the front portico chatting with the lady butler.

He attempted not to notice that she wore a pretty green and yellow muslin or that she carried a delicate-looking white parasol in one hand. And he pretended he wasn’t gazing at her face to see whether she would smile when she caught sight of him. If she did smile, it only meant that he’d gained her trust and that he could begin the second part of his task. He took a low breath, the predator in him stirring again.

She looked up, and that shy, fleeting smile touched her mouth. Bloody hell—she was smiling for him.
Him.
Belatedly Keating fixed a jaunty grin on his own face as he pulled the black pair of horses to a halt. “You look very fetching,” he said, leaning over to offer his hand to help her onto the high seat.

“Thank you.” Warm, slender fingers gripped his. Swallowing, he pulled her up beside him.

“Where would you like to go?” Considering her reaction to seeing her former friends in Green Park yesterday, he imagined they would spend the next hour simply driving the streets around The Tantalus Club. It didn’t matter, as long as he had a few moments to chat with her. In fact, no privacy would be better. Much, much better.

“I doubt Amelia Danning will venture back into Green Park today,” she returned. “I would like to drive through there.”

Keating lifted an eyebrow. “You’re certain of that?”

“No, but I think we should do so, anyway.”

With a cluck to the team, Keating set off in the direction of the park. Evidently the chit had found some courage over the last day. At the moment he wasn’t certain whether that boded ill or well for him, but clearly he couldn’t afford to delay any longer—literally or figuratively.

“I’ve a question for you,” he said after a moment of silence.

“And I have one for you,” she returned, “but I suppose you should go first.”

He resisted the urge to close his eyes. In a sense, this … uneasiness was so odd, especially considering that in the past, he’d enjoyed creating mayhem. “Fenton,” he said aloud.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she returned, facing the row of shops and then changing her mind when some of the shoppers looked back at her.

Not quite so brave out among her peers—former peers—then. “You never told me what he so stupidly did to drive you away.”

“Does it matter? I ran away, and there were—are—consequences.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does matter,” he conceded, reflecting that if she’d been more malleable she would be married to Fenton and he would still be in Shropshire. “But tell me anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because … because you’ve likely never told anyone else, and if you can’t trust a charming, liquor-scented rogue, who can you trust?”

She chuckled. It was a very pleasant sound, like water skipping over pebbles. “You don’t smell of liquor today.”

“Good. I haven’t been drinking any.”

“Good. Was that because I insulted you?”

“Partly. It was also because I’m beginning to believe that the next time I overimbibe, my skull may shatter. Now don’t alter the subject. You. Fenton. Flight from the church. Explain.”

Light blue eyes met his and then turned away again. Finally she sighed. “He didn’t do anything.”

Keating guided the phaeton into Green Park and slowed to a walk to avoid crashing into the dozen other carriages on the path in front of them. Despite Camille’s stated belief that any chits were likely to have fled the area, they seemed to be everywhere. After a passing thought that he could likely roll a lawn bowl across the clearing and knock over a dozen of them, he put that aside. The young lady seated beside him would have been the most interesting female in the park even if he hadn’t been assigned to speak with her. “I don’t believe you. If he’d done nothing, you’d be married to him.”

Camille tilted her parasol between her and the trio of horseback riders passing by them. Whether she’d decided not to care what anyone else might think of her, she didn’t need to encourage their scrutiny. She didn’t actually want Keating’s scrutiny, either, but she’d been silent for a year. And he made a good point, in jest or not. If there was anyone who could commiserate with her situation, it was him.

Good heavens, there were young ladies everywhere in the park today. With a frown she settled herself to face Keating, putting her back to half of them at least. Green Park was never this occupied. Hm. She wondered if that had anything to do with a certain extremely handsome kissing bandit with a dark and deadly reputation.

“Camille, you’re not talking.”

No, she actually seemed to be gazing at his rather fine profile. She shook herself. “Fine. I mean I refused to marry him because he didn’t do anything,” she clarified.

From Keating’s expression, he was wishing that he hadn’t avoiding drinking, after all. “Would you … elaborate?”

“Stephen Pollard and I became engaged when I was three days old, and he was seven years of age. When I was younger, I thought it romantic. I imagined he would be so very handsome, and he would bring me roses and write me poetry and letters. I received nothing.” She took a breath, remembering how naïvely eager she’d been, pestering her father about the mail for the week before and after her birthday, the anniversary of the signing of their marriage agreement—any occasion for Fenton to acknowledge the connection between them.

“Did he contact you at all?”

“No. Never. I saw him once or twice at soirees after my debut, but it seemed as though the moment he heard a whisper that I might be present, he would flee. Or at the least, make every attempt to avoid me.”

“Halfwit,” he muttered, and she saw his fingers tighten on the reins. “If I said that was typical of him, would it make a difference?”

It was far too late for it to make any sort of difference, but she couldn’t help being curious, anyway. After all, she’d had questions about her betrothed since she’d been old enough to know she had one. “Typical how?”

“He’s … not charming. At all.” Keating’s sensuous mouth turned down into a scowl. “I mean he’s annoyingly bland and has no idea how to chat with people.” He looked down for a moment, another expression, one she couldn’t read, crossing his face for a heartbeat. “As much as I hate to say it, though, he isn’t evil.”

“Evil?” She forced a laugh. “I never thought he was evil. I just decided at that moment, when I was standing there looking up the church aisle at him, that I didn’t want to spend the remainder of my life married to a man who couldn’t be bothered in twenty-one years to introduce himself to his bride.”

In the ensuing silence she could almost hear what he must be thinking. That she was a childish fool, that she’d taken the most extreme action when she might have simply sat down with her husband after the wedding and informed him of her displeasure, that many marriages began without love or even acquaintance and none of the other brides had fled.

“You should have punched him square on the nose before you left,” he said with a grim smile. “That would have been something to see.”

Camille opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. She had no idea what to say. Every part of her had expected that she would be hurt and humiliated again, not … applauded. A tear ran down her cheek, and she impatiently wiped it away. “I told my mother several times,” she continued, wishing her voice would stop quavering, “a hundred times, that I thought we needed to wait a bit longer. I wanted to give him time to prove that he was who I wanted him to be, I suppose. Or to do
something.
She said that I was being stupid to suggest that keeping a marquis waiting could be a good idea. Especially when he’d already been waiting for better than twenty years.”

“He didn’t want to marry you when he was seven, believe me,” Keating returned with a snort. “I joined him in the game of pretend vomiting.”

“Oh, that’s very nice.” She grinned despite herself.

“Perhaps I’m inclined to take your side over his,” he continued, grinning back at her, “but I agree that he should have made an effort to become acquainted with you. And I also agree that you aren’t foolish for wanting an assurance of happiness before devoting the remainder of your life to a man who deliberately remained an aloof stranger.”

Another tear joined the first. “Thank you.”

“Don’t cry, Cammy. It upsets my masculine feelings and I don’t know what to do.”

She put a hand over her mouth to cover her damp laugh. “It’s not funny,” she protested, sobering again. “When I arrived back at home that evening, my parents were waiting by the front door. My father said I was an ungrateful wretch and turned his back on me. My mother told me I was selfish and had ruined my sisters’ chances of making good marriages, and then she slapped me. They closed the door in my face.”

He muttered something that sounded like a curse. “Did you go directly to The Tantalus Club?”

“It didn’t exist yet. When I stopped crying enough to see, I walked to Amelia Danning’s house. They wouldn’t even open the front door.”

“That’s the chit I kissed yesterday, yes?”

“Yes.”

His smile this time looked a great deal less friendly. “Good.” His fingers tugged at her skirt as they moved sedately along the main driving path in Green Park. “Where did you go, then?”

Just remembering that night made her shudder; she’d walked for what felt like hours, still wearing her wedding gown and with three shillings and twopence in her silly little lace reticule. Everyone had stared at her, and the only offer of help had come from a dirty-looking man who’d offered her a roof in exchange for what he’d termed “kissing his pig.” She shivered again.