To Tame a Rogue (17 page)

Camille felt like she was dreaming. She didn’t have time to answer him.

“My, you two are certainly cozy.”

They brought their heads up at the same time, without separating.

“Lavinia,” Camille said. “I trust you’re enjoying the party?”

Lavinia was dressed in a drop-dead gorgeous rustle of crimson silk, her black hair a marked contrast to her white skin. Her eyes were grey and heavily lashed; her lips red and full and perfectly molded into a seductive smile.

“Not as much as you, my dear.” Her eyes boldly assessed Nicholas’ tall form.

 
Camille felt the flush rise to her cheeks.

 
“It’s no wonder he's being so nice to you now, dear. I’d be happy too if I’d married for that kind of money. Imagine.”

 
Lavinia turned, her silk skirts rustling, and Nicholas swore beneath his breath. The newspaper gossip column. He’d forgotten about it. Another article had appeared and he'd meant to show it to Camille, to ask her about it.

 
Camille withdrew quietly from his embrace. “What is she talking about?”

 
He gripped her arm firmly. “I think we should discuss this in
private
,” he said, raking the other hand through the midnight terrain of his hair.

 
She nodded and he led her through the crowds to his study. While she seated herself, he poured two more glasses of champagne. Silence mounted. He handed her a newspaper that was lying on his desk and sat down.

 
Her heart lurched; he was staring at her oddly. “I don’t put much stock in rumors, Camille. You shouldn’t either.”

 
Her eyes scanned the article and her heart beat a little faster. For a moment, everything was forgotten except the words on the page:

 
Josephine Huxley, a wealthy widow, is asking for the public's help in finding the girl in this photo. She would be 18 now. It turns out that the girl is her granddaughter and heir to the Huxley fortunes….

The newspaper was three days old. That would mean.…

“What is this?"

"I don't know," Nicholas said. "I thought maybe you could tell me."

"When were you going to tell me about this?”

“It’s just gossip, Camille.” The glacial coolness had returned. “I’d forgotten about it.”

"The girl in that photo
is
me. It…the photo, it was taken shortly before my parents died. I remember because it was the photo they ran in the newspaper after the accident…."

She took a sip of champagne. Then another. "But…I don't have a living grandmother that I know of…."

"Is it possible you were adopted?"

Camille wasn't listening.
Three days ago
, she thought. That’s when he’d made a peace offering, given her the horse. Was it because he thought there might be some truth to the rumor? That she was worth…what had the paper reported…
hundreds of thousands of dollars?

What a fool she’d been. Was Nicholas in financial
straits
? It didn’t seem so, with all the lavish parties. But still….

Too hurt to speak, she looked at her lap. There was an air of danger about her husband that alarmed her. “If it should turn out to be true,” she breathed, “would it change your opinion of me?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

“Have you…been with Lavinia since…since we called a truce?”

His fingers tensed around the crystal glass. “What does it matter?”

That was all the answer Camille needed. Oddly, to hear no denial that Lavinia had been in his bed burned her insides, made her ache in a strange, foreign way.

“It doesn't matter,” she said quietly. “I understand the ways of men and their promises, Mr. Branton. Their smooth tongues, their golden words, their lies.” She struggled to hold back the tears in her eyes. “If that is to be the way of our marriage, then I assume you shan’t object if I should decide to have a gentleman caller,” she said, thinking of Christopher.

He came around the desk so fast she thought he would knock his champagne glass over.

He hauled her out of the chair, his arms grasping her firmly. “We
are
wed,” he seethed.

 
“Yes, I know, I am the wife you didn’t want, the wife you had to take to honor your father’s wishes.

 
“But I need to remind you that we are
both
wed, Mr. Branton, and I will not be held to a different standard merely because I
am a woman
. Therefore, you will mind your manners and your tongue!”

 
“I’ll not have you making a spectacle of yourself, running wildly about town with any man you choose.”

 
“If it were up to you, you’d keep me locked up in this house!”

 
Camille stared into his eyes. “Are you
jealous
?”

 
He smiled wickedly, coldly. “No, my lady. But if I decide to have you, I’ll be the only man for you.”

 
“I will remind you of our bargain.”

 
“I need no reminding,” he said, his voice raspy.

 
Camille had mocked him and she was appalled at her boldness. Why had she taunted him so? She wanted to be rid of him—and he of her. Yet, Sweet God, she wanted to feel his strong arms around her, wanted him to kiss her again, wanted him to touch her….”

 
She fought to clear her head, to think rationally, not to think of the searing brand of his lips on hers.

 
“If you won't banish Lavinia from this house, from your
bed
,” she breathed, “if you continue to humiliate me, I shall do as I please. I shall stay out until all
h
ours of the night; I shall visit the tavern; I shall have gentlemen callers.”

 
His eyes narrowed dangerously.

 
“I won’t allow it.”

 
“You shall forbid me?”

 
“You will not stay out until dawn, nor will you visit the tavern, or any tavern, or have any gentlemen callers in
this
house.”

 
“You can't stop me.”

 
“Oh, madame, I can and I will.”

 
“What will you do, lock me in my room?”

 
“If that’s what it takes.”

 
“Oh, just let me go!” She jerked from his embrace and he stepped back, his face expressionless.

 
He turned his back to her to retrieve the entire bottle of champagne. “Trust me, dear wife, you don’t want to do battle with me.”

 
When he turned to face her, his chin had hardened. His eyes were narrow gold slits.

 
“Tell me Mr. Branton,” Camille said sweetly. “The deep red stones that Lavinia wears about her neck, were they a gift for spreading her legs?”

 
Camille was getting into dangerous territory; she knew it by the grim set of his mouth, the tensing of his jaw. Yet, she continued, recklessly. The lies spilled from her mouth before she could stop them. “Lavinia and I are so much alike. We are both whores. Yet for some reason, you shower her with gifts and fancy clothing while you despise me.” She moved closer to him, close enough that their lips were nearly touching.

 
“What happened with Marlena? Was she too proper?”

 
He looked as if he would strike her. Camille didn't care. She was too angry.

 
His mouth descended in a fury, his lips slashing across hers, his arms crushing her brutally against him. She struggled but he wouldn't relent; it was a kiss that went far beyond her meager experience; savage, brutal, untamed. She could feel the emotions he’d been holding in check; the angry, hot brand of his mouth on hers. He brought his head up for a mere moment. “If you wished to be treated as a whore, you should’ve said so.”

His lips returned with force, hot, searing, branding her with ruthless possession. There was nothing tender about it; it was raw and powerful and bruising.

She tore her mouth free, gasping for breath. Triumph and challenge glittered in his eyes. Though her throat was burning with the threat of tears, she held her spine rigid then turned and slipped quietly from the room, unaware of how those gold eyes followed the slim sway of her hips, the tender curve of her waist, the sway of blonde curls at her nape.

36

Camille quickly learned that the excuse of a headache was a lady’s best friend. She did not dance the first dance with her husband that night, nor did she enjoy seeing the colorful fireworks bursting in the sky, the charades, the games. She retired early to her new chambers, and closed the door.

She lit a candle, for the large room which was now hers was often dim, even in late afternoon. She placed the candle on the bureau and looked at herself in the mirror. She undressed, pulling the combs from her hair, letting the glittering mass fall free about her shoulders. She put her hands on her waist, turning her slender body, silently measuring herself against Lavinia.

She slipped a nightdress over her head, wiggled her hands through the voluminous sleeves. Beneath it she dropped her stays and chemise and stepped out of them. Undoing the pins from her hair, she wrapp
ed the gleaming rope of it
around one arm, fastening it in a roll on her neck. “Too thin,” she said to her image.

She practically threw herself on the bed and fell asleep for awhile. When she awoke, it was the middle of the night, entirely dark but for the small candle. She thought of the woman claiming to be her grandmother. Should she contact Josephine Huxley? Was it possible her
whole life had been a lie?

She heard the thud of horses’ hooves and crossed to the window. She saw Nicholas below, thundering out of the yard. Was he headed for the coffeehouses? Did he have a townhouse where he kept his mistress? If anyone should understand how it felt to be imprisoned, how a soul longed to be free, it was Nicholas. He was, after all, a man of the sea.

Camille shivered. There was an odd smell in the air. Not just horses and thick grasses, but the smell of tide flats and river. She knew Nicholas wore a pistol and a knife in his belt, wore it with alarming ease.

37

Two days later, a letter arrived by horseback for Camille. She took it to her room so she could read it in private. Was it from Christopher? Her heart soared with hope. Carefully, she slid a finger under the red seal of wax, breaking it, and began to read.

My dearest Camille,

Where should I start? By now you’ve seen the gossip columns.

I wanted to come to you in person, but I thought perhaps a letter first would be best. There is truth to the gossip columns.
 
Never in a million years would I wish you to find out the truth about your birth in that way. But I was desperate to find you.

My name is Josephine Huxley. My daughter, your mother, died years ago. She ran away to marry a man I did not approve of. I never even knew she was pregnant. I recently hired someone to look into matters, so I could be sure…it’s a long story that I’d rather talk to you about in person. I am beside myself with joy to know I have a granddaughter.

When my daughter and her husband were killed in a carriage accident, you were placed in an orphanage. There was a fire. The records were lost. Still, the detective would not be deterred. I now have proof that you are my granddaughter, Victoria Josephine Huxley. That is your name.

Camille stopped reading for a moment. Her real name was
Victoria
?
She looked at the elegant script again.

I hope you will come at once after you have read this letter, my dear. I want to be part of your life. I want to know everything about you. If you do not want to come, I shall try to understand. Of course this must all be a shock to you. I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely,

Josephine Huxley

Camille changed quickly into a cloak of blue velvet and a matching bonnet, tied the wide satin bow beneath her chin, and called for the carriage. The jacket fit her straight shoulders smoothly and hugged her small waist, neatly outlining the full, high curve of her small bosom. Well, if I am not a beauty, at least I am passably attractive, she thought.

She wanted to be presentable when she called on Josephine Huxley. If the woman was truly her grandmother, Camille thought, it would mean she had choices. Maybe even a home other than this one.