To Tame a Rogue (14 page)

He walked over to the bed, sat down, and began to remove his boots.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting changed for dinner, Mrs. Branton.” His eyes—a heated gold—traveled over her attire very slowly, from head to toe. He had called her ‘Mrs. Branton’ with sarcasm dripping from his tongue. Her skin felt heated and warm where his eyes had touched her. “I hope you will do the same. I don’t like you in that.”

He began removing his shirt. Her lower lip trembled. Why should she care if he disapproved of her attire…or her looks? Just because he was incredibly handsome, impossibly so in the waning light of the afternoon shadows seeping through the shuttered windows….

“If that rude, irascible, bristly, cantankerous woman is staying for dinner, than no. I won’t be joining you.”

He laughed, his eyes a tawny glow. “You have quite a vocabulary for a….” He stopped mid-sentence.

“I know,” she said sadly, not averting her eyes from his. “For a tavern maid. A thief. A whore. Isn’t that what you were going to say?” She turned on her heel and quietly closed the door between their rooms, not wishing another word with him.

He was a neglectful father. A cold-hearted womanizer. A dreadfully handsome man who had stopped feeling things long ago.

As she flopped down on the bed and stared at the gold-flocked ceiling, she realized she didn’t know who she was anymore. She didn’t know how to be Camille Branton.

28

Genevieve was fond of parties. Camille barely had time to catch her breath from the last party when she found herself elegantly attired in a taffeta gown the color of ice and fanning herself from the exertion of dancing.

Nicholas had danced the first dance with her, as was required, but had not sought her company afterward. At dinner, Camille had been seated between Martha and a handsome young man named Billy Stone with blonde hair and friendly grey eyes. Across from her was an engaging woman named Ruth Carver, a short, sturdy figure in a black serge skirt and stiff white waist.

Her thick white hair was rebellious, her wit sharp. Dinner had been entertaining; Martha, Billy, and Ruth knew how to have fun, and Camille was sure she’d seen Billy’s gaze directed longingly at Genevieve a few times during the course of the meal.

Now Camille was probably standing too close to the potted palms—she was practically standing
in
them, hoping to disappear—because she just wanted a moment to herself.

“Be my partner for the quadrille? That’s next on the dance ticket.” Apparently she hadn’t hid herself well enough.

Camille turned to the gentleman who had approached her. She didn’t recognize him. He seemed to have materialized from the shadows. She inclined her head and offered him her white-gloved hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced, Mr….?”

“You’ll find out soon enough who I am, Mrs. Branton.” He didn’t wait for the current dance to end but whisked her onto the floor. Taking her hand, they walked down the center of the floor as one of the pairs for the quadrille. The man who firmly held her arm had rakish blue eyes and chestnut brown hair with threads of gold, and he was tall—almost as tall as Nicholas.

“What do you think of your newly acquired husband, Mrs. Branton?” As they danced and turned around the large room decorated with mirrored walls, garlands of evergreens, and fresh flowers, Camille caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors and gasped. She almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her, the woman dancing in the midst of such lavish decorations and handsomely attired gentlemen. There were whispers and murmurs all around them. A few women stared at them and covered their mouths with their gloved hands.

Flowering shrubs concealed the fireplaces and the musicians played from a balcony; a buffet of nectar jelly, Russian cheese, French bonbons, nougats, and cakes baked in fan
cy shapes now adorned the white
cloth
-
covered tables. Truly, Nicholas had spared no expense.

“That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it Mr….you haven't properly introduced yourself.” She’d noticed his easy British accent.

He laughed, leading the dance, commanding her steps easily. Camille noticed that a few young women watched them with envy. “No, I haven’t, have I? But I’m not a proper sort of man, Camille. Much like your husband. Now, tell me about what you think of him.”

Flustered, she concentrated on the music, on her steps. “I haven’t given you permission to call me by my first name. My husband is….well….I’m sure there are more interesting subjects.”

He laughed, flashing a dazzling smile. “Do you love him?”

“You are forward, aren’t you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“It would not be appropriate to discuss such matters with a total stranger.”

“Good. I’ll take that as a no. Because if he doesn’t want you, I do.”

Camille stopped in the middle of the dance, not caring that she’d disrupted the other pairs, and abruptly walked off. When she turned and caught her breath, she saw the man's tall form retreating no doubt to the parlor for a drink with the other men who had declined participating in the quadrille. Perhaps that was where Nicholas was ensconced, for she hadn’t seen him since the first dance. The rogue she’d just danced with was handsome indeed, and he’d stated he’d wanted her. It was a new feeling for Camille—a gentleman wanting her.

He wasn’t as darkly handsome as Nicholas, but….she shook herself free from her delirium. The man was probably just toying with her. The thought saddened and infuriated her. Would people never get past the fact that she had worked in a tavern? Would they always think the worst of her, that she was an easy tumble in the hay?

Then she noticed Genevieve watching him too—and the look in her eyes was puzzling. Was it desire? Perhaps Genevieve knew who the rakish gentleman was.

29

“She passed the test, old chap,” Kipp said.

Nicholas regarded him darkly. “What test?” He stood up, a bit wobbly on his feet.

“Pissant! You’re drunk!”

“No, my dear friend, I’m not drunk, just delightfully oblivious,” Nicholas replied. “What test?”

“She rebuffed me like a seasoned aristocrat. But I meant what I said to her. If you don’t want her, I do.”

Nick grabbed Kipp by the shirt collar and threw him up against the wall.

“Easy, Nick. I was just joking around.” Nick let go of Kipp and poured himself another brandy. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“She’s gotten to you, eh?” Kipp said, pouring himself a brandy.

A hard look sprung to Nick’s eyes and Kipp took a sip of the peach moby. “Hit a nerve, did I? Don’t tell me you haven’t bedded her yet.”

He and Kipp were alone in the drawing room.

“If you'll recall, our agreement was to keep the marriage in name only,” Nick scowled.

“Oh, I do recall, old chap. Quite a
conundrum
you’re in.”

“This is not funny.”

“Who said it was? I feel interminably sorry for you. Having her so near, yet not able to reach out and touch her. God, she’s beautiful.”

“I think you’ve made your point.” Nick shook his head. “But you’re forgetting she’s a whore and practiced at seduction.”

“God, if she were my wife, it wouldn’t matter who or what she’d been before. It would be fun to take her in hand, to roam my hands over that lithe, ripe little body….”

Nick looked dangerously close to assaulting him, but Kipp continued, enjoying it.

“You know, she was very gracious. And she just couldn’t hide the joy in her face when she was dancing. Like every dance was the first. She’s a joy, Nicky old boy.”

Nick put his head down on the desk and motioned with his hand. “Go away. Just go away.”

 
30

Camille walked the darkened hallway to her bedchamber. Having to pass through Nicholas’ room every time she sought her own was ridiculous. She would have to talk to him about that. They weren’t going to consummate the marriage, so what was the point of sharing a suite? Why couldn’t she sleep in a different room, in a different wing? She felt caged, imprisoned.

She gently nudged his door open. It was dark. She sighed with relief and walked through it to her own room. Many of the guests had retired to their rooms. Nick was probably still in the study. Maybe he would sleep there, for God’s sake.

That was another thing she wanted to talk to him about. His daughters and how he treated them. No, it was more a question of how he
didn’t
treat them. Arabelle was sunny by nature, but both girls needed their father. Damaris, especially. She was deeply concerned about the state of Damaris’ emotions.

Right now, Camille couldn’t imagine the rest of her life. It was a blank, empty space, devoid of love, affection, and passion. That wasn’t how she wanted to live. She wanted to have choices. She wanted to wake up in the arms of a man who loved her. A man who could teach her things, accept her for who she was. Nicholas couldn’t see beyond his own erroneous assumptions about her and perhaps he never would.
 
 

She watched the soft flames dance in the hearth. Then she sat down and wrote a short letter to Christopher. She’d kept his address in a small crimson, cloth-covered box, her one extravagance, and she retrieved it now. She sealed the letter and put everything back in the box. Tomorrow she would take it into the city and she would visit Meagan.

A shaft of waxy gold moonlight poured through the open doors of the balcony, bathing the standing mirror in shimmering, opalescent light. Camille undressed and stood before it. Scandalous behavior, but no one was about.

She thought of Lavinia, her lustrous black hair, her full curves, as she traced her fingers over her own breasts, the curve of her waist. Her breasts were small but firm; her hips slim. She wondered how she would compare to Lavinia, what Nicholas would think if he saw her this way.

You’re nothing but a skinny, stupid wench.
Her uncle’s words echoed in her head; he’d told her often enough.

It was true she’d filled out in the past year and a half, but he wouldn’t ha
ve noticed because she hid it we
ll beneath her baggy clothes. Still, she felt less of a woman as she thought of the practiced curve of Lavinia’s full lips, the way her full nipples had strained against the exotic lavender lingerie she’d worn, the way her ample hips seemed inviting. The thought that Nicholas may have purchased the beautiful lingerie for her caused an unexpected ache. Then there was the full tilt of Lavinia's lashes, the unbound glory of her long black hair.

Camille unbound her hair. It was the complete opposite of Lavinia’s. Somewhere between the color of honey and the color of wheat, and it hung to her waist. Her eyes were blue-green, and always seemed to be changing. Sometimes they were the color of the sky and sometimes the color of the sea.

She was slimmer than Lavinia, her movements awkward and innocent as she touched herself. Her nipples were pink and hardened as she put her hand between her legs, wondering what it would feel like to have a man touch her, to have Nicholas touch her….

There was a strange ache in her lower body, a strange sense of unbearable heated need.

Startled by the turn of her thoughts, she quickly threw a chemise over her head and turned from the mirror.

We are completely unsuited, madame.
Now it was Nicholas’ words that rang in her head. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, wondering what had gotten into her. The man was a devil. A hard-hearted seducer and womanizer who didn’t believe in any of the things she believed in. Love. Marriage. Standing against the world
together
. It was a long time before she closed her eyes.

31

Despite the large quantity of brandy he’d imbibed, Nick slugged back another glass. It had been a mistake of utter proportions to retire to his bedchamber. He’d thought for sure his wife would be asleep. He slid the gold wedding band off his finger and laid it on the desk, as if the act could somehow distance himself from the woman he’d married, from what he’d seen in the dark, moonlit shadows of her room.

He was swollen and painfully hard beneath his trousers; his mind was befuddled. Seductive, erotic images that could only be a trick of the mind danced in his head. Shadows weaved unsteadily in his study and he sat down, the leather chair creaking loudly. Rain tapped on the roof.
Drummed
the roof. Damn lot of rain lately, he thought. The bottle of brandy was two thirds empty.

He thought again of how Camille’s door had been slightly ajar; he’d watched as she’d plucked at her skirts, unbound her hair, then stood naked in front of the mirror. In the moonlight, he had no trouble seeing what she was seeing. Against his will, as he watched her touch herself, he imagined what it would be like to hold her through the night, to feel her sweet curves pressed against him, to wake her sleep-washed form and make love to her, over and over.