Cheryl Holt (22 page)

Camilla Warren loitered in the shade, moving farther and farther away from the horde in the pool. They were frolicking with their usual abandon, so they didn’t notice as she disappeared toward the house.

With the recent sighting she’d made, having determined that Stephen was on the property, Mrs. Smythe’s Bathing Emporium was packed elbow to elbow, as the more risqué ladies of the
ton
flocked to the country to catch a glimpse of the popular hero. Or more likely, they were hoping
he
would catch a glimpse of them. In case he peeked out his window, they were naked—as she was herself—and taking turns lounging on the grassy banks.

The loose hussies! They were a bunch of sexual vultures. Who were they to come sniffing around Stephen? He was hers and always had been.

Earlier, Mrs. Smythe had walked down the lane toward a neighbor’s, a basket in tow as if delivering tonics. The hulking assistant, Miss Kate, was in the barn, absorbed with chores, so there was no one about with authority to stop Camilla, and a few minutes were all she needed to accomplish her task.

She slipped inside, pausing as she adjusted to the dimmer light. By her calculations, Stephen’s bedchamber was close by. She could steal in, chat, and depart without anyone being the wiser.

Her estimate proved correct, as she found Stephen’s room to be the first on the left. It was small, designed for use by a cook or scullery maid, and she stepped in and shut the door. He was sleeping, unclothed, a sheet draped over his loins, and she studied him, imprinting every detail so that later, she would be able to recount what she’d witnessed.

Eager for a scrupulous inspection, she tiptoed over. Stories abounded as to his injuries and condition, and there’d been extensive discussion as to whether he’d gone mad, but that prior afternoon, he’d seemed lucid enough.

She approached. As she’d noted previously, his limbs were attached, his face unmarked, but without a shirt to conceal his torso, she could detect severe scarring on his arm, a portion of which was bandaged.

The more shocking tales claimed that they’d hacked off his phallus. Wouldn’t she be the talk of the town if she could say she’d verified as much for herself!

Curious as to what secrets she’d discover, she lifted the sheet. Contrary to rampant speculation, his manly extremities were affixed, and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed.

Let’s see if they still work!
she mused, and she crawled next to him and stretched out.

She couldn’t wait to view his expression when he recognized it was she. He’d once told her that he’d never had a lover who could satisfy him as she did. She knew what he liked, how he liked it, when he liked it, and she suffered a thrill, conjecturing as to whether he’d been celibate since their last rendezvous.

Perhaps he was like a virgin, anxious for his passion to be rekindled. If so, she was just the woman for the job!

She snuggled, and though he didn’t wake, he smiled as if he’d been expecting her. Reaching down, she stroked him, and instantly, he swelled, the appendage robust and vigorous.

Slowly, leisurely, he flexed, the sensitive crown pressed to her belly.

No, there was nothing wrong with his virile functioning!

Stirring, he purred and murmured drowsily, “Ooh, do that again.”

She dipped to his nipple, bit and played as she toyed with him down below.

“You like that, don’t you?” Her tone was husky with desire. It was like old times, when he’d been crazy for her.

“You drive me wild, you lusty wench.” She giggled and nipped at his shoulder, licking the salty skin at his nape, elated with how matters were progressing, when he sighed and said, “Oh, Anne, you make me so happy.”

Anne!
Who the hell was Anne? Wasn’t that the given name of Mrs. Smythe? A wave of wrath shot through her. So . . . he was cohabiting with the proprietress, was he?

How bloody convenient! Apparently, Mrs. Smythe had many more skills than Camilla realized. A nurse. A dietetic. An apothecary. And a strumpet.

Wasn’t Stephen fortunate! The wretch!

Tamping down her resentment, she refused to let him surmise how irked she was by the news.

“It’s not Anne, silly.” She swatted him on his bare bottom, pretending his gaffe was a funny mistake.

Stephen froze, his eyes flew open. He blinked and blinked as if he didn’t know who she was.

“Camilla?”

“Yes, darling, it’s me.” She affected a credible pout.

He peered around. “How did you get in?”

“I sneaked in, when that Amazon, Miss Kate, was looking the other way.”

“You’re so naughty.”

They were on their sides, only an inch separating them, and she kissed him.

“It’s been so long. I’ve missed you.”

Rolling onto her back, she thrust her bosom up and out. He’d always relished her breasts, and he hadn’t lost his predilection. He pinched her nipple, and she squirmed with pleasure as he drifted down, to her tummy, her mons. She’d had her maid shave her, and he smirked as he swiped his fingers across her smooth puss.

“That’s my Cammie.”

“I did it just for you.” Grinning, she cuddled even nearer. “Have you missed me, too? At least a little?”

He chuckled but didn’t answer. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“Nonsense. How could I stay away?”

“There’s a reason no one is aware that I’m here. I’m having a private recuperation.”

“But surely, you won’t deny me visits. Not after all we’ve meant to each other.” Again, he didn’t comment, failing to reinforce her understanding that they were a couple.

“I’m afraid you have to leave.”

“No!” His erection was in excellent shape and pulsing at her leg. He was very interested in a dalliance. How could he send her packing?

“Mrs. Smythe will be upset if she finds you.”

“Why would her opinion signify? You’re Stephen Chamberlin. She’s naught but a glorified washerwoman. It’s none of her affair how you conduct yourself.”

At the slur to Mrs. Smythe, he tensed but didn’t rise to her defense, which made Camilla feel slightly better.

“I’m a guest in her home, and it’s been a rough week. Ever since my identity was revealed, she’s been overrun by trespassers, who’ve been prowling the grounds and attempting to enter the house.”

She boiled with fury! Which harlots had engaged in such
perfidy? Every female member of High Society knew Stephen was hers, and she couldn’t bear to be apprised that she’d humiliated herself by slinking in after many others had already tried the same.

“You’re glad I came.” She arched a brow. “I can tell.”

She fondled his cock, pleased with how heavy and vibrant it seemed, but he removed her hand and rested it on her stomach. Then, giving an explicit signal that couldn’t be misconstrued, he lifted the sheet. “Why don’t you go? Before we cause trouble for Mrs. Smythe.”

“I couldn’t care less if we cause her
trouble
.”

“Camilla, I don’t want—”

She was positive he’d planned to utter something horrid about their being through, and she was saved by the door swinging open.

Camilla glanced over her shoulder, ecstatic to observe Mrs. Smythe on the threshold, clutching a tray laden with food. Her knuckles were white, and she was so pale, she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

Camilla stretched and laughed. “Do you mind, Mrs. Smythe? We’re terribly busy. Put the tray on the dresser, and you may be excused.”

“Anne,” Stephen interrupted, “it’s not what you think.”

“Get out of my house!”

Her voice was low, dangerous. She was seething, goaded to mayhem, and Camilla hesitated, wondering if it had been wise to cross her.

“I say!” Camilla blustered. “Must you barge in on us? We’re otherwise engaged!”

Mrs. Smythe raised the tray and hurled it at them. Plates and silverware flew by, some pieces hitting them, others sailing past and crashing into the wall with a loud bang. Camilla shrieked as sticky jam and oozing eggs landed on her. A pot of hot tea shattered, the spray scalding them.

“Get out!” Mrs. Smythe shouted. “Get out! Both of you!”

“Anne!” Stephen barked, endeavoring to calm her, but to no avail.

She marched over and grabbed Camilla by the arm and hair, clawing so tightly that Camilla winced and cried out. Then the deranged shrew half-dragged, half-carried her into the corridor and to the yard, where she was flung—naked!—out onto the lawn.

“You bitch in heat,” Mrs. Smythe railed. “If you show your sorry hide around here ever again, I swear I’ll take a switch to you!”

Camilla was sputtering, and she yearned to exude bravado, but it was impossible to exhibit any aplomb when she was bruised, buffeted, and lying on the grass without her clothes. To her horror, everyone was watching the altercation. Agog, they were lined up along the edge of the pond, their mouths flapping in amazement.

“You petty commoner. How dare you threaten me! How dare you touch me! I’ll have you jailed for battery.”

“You’re lucky I’m satisfied with a simple assault!” Smythe gestured toward the assemblage and screamed, “All of you! Vacate the premises! The spa is closed. Indefinitely!”

She spun on her heel and stormed inside.

A stunned silence followed, then one of them tittered, and another joined in, until they were all chortling and pointing. Camilla stood, her rage palpable, and she stared them down, one by one, until the merriment ceased.

She’d been violated and abused, but she wouldn’t let any of her associates detect how frightened she’d been. Knees knocking, bones weak, she started toward the pool, when Miss Kate appeared from the barn.

“Where are you going, Lady Camilla?” she had the gall to inquire.

“After that . . . that lunatic attacked me, I need to wash.”

“I believe Mrs. Smythe demanded your departure.”

“Well, I don’t intend to oblige her.”

“I’m politely requesting that you comply. If I have to ask twice, I won’t be so courteous.” Her scorn evident, she glared at the mob. “You have ten minutes to clear out. I’ll have your carriages brought round.”

Camilla scowled, declining to be intimidated, but the others were hanging their heads like a gaggle of chastised children. To shake them out of their doldrums, she clapped her hands.

“Continue with your swim, ladies. We’ve paid good money for it,” and she walked toward the water, but the crowd kept its wary attention focused on Kate.

“Let’s go, Cammie,” one of them said, and like puppets, the rest nodded. “It’s not worth the fuss.”

The group scrambled out, and there was a frantic race to the changing room, where they searched for stockings and rummaged for gowns. Mrs. Smythe’s maids were locating hats and dispensing parasols. Camilla ignored them and went into the pool, alone, while Kate scrutinized her every move.

She didn’t exit until the building was empty, then, dawdling forever, she donned her clothes. As she strolled to her coach, Kate tagged after her to ensure that she left.

In the drive, her conveyance was the last remaining. The ingrates had fled without her, not wanting to linger after the discord, but also, she suspected, desirous of hurrying to Bath so as to spread stories about the fracas they’d witnessed.

A flush of mortification commenced at her toes and crept upward, heating her cheeks, burning through her stomach. With how she’d been roughed up, her joints ached, her muscles throbbed, and she rubbed the small of her back to ease the tension.

The brawl had been the most embarrassing moment of her life, and she would never hear the end of it. Not if she
lived to be a hundred, and she was so furious she could have bit nails in half.

Mrs. Smythe had disgraced her in front of Stephen. In front of her friends and enemies. In front of the entire world.

Camilla never forgot a slight, never forgave a lapse, so Smythe would suffer for her audacity. Camilla vowed to extract revenge, and she was relieved to be by herself on the journey to town so that she’d have plenty of quiet opportunity to reflect on the most appropriate retaliation.

Stephen lounged, observing the bizarre activity outside. Who would have guessed that a ladies’ bathing facility could be a breeding ground for such vitriol and commotion?

Considering what had transpired, he wasn’t nearly as coherent as he should have been, though he’d certainly perked up after those victuals had been pitched at him.

Anne had been in fine form, and poor Camilla hadn’t known what hit her. He’d never seen anything quite so spectacular.

The past few days had been a nightmare, as Anne had been besieged. Every female coquette of the
ton,
every heiress, every rich merchant’s daughter, had rushed to the country in order to frolic in Anne’s grotto. Ridiculous as it sounded, they were all anxious to flaunt themselves for him in various states of dishabille, and the erotic waters only exacerbated their vamping.

He’d always been a magnet for women, had attracted them like flies, but during his stint in the army, their esteem had exploded. When he’d attended fancy soirees in his uniform, he’d been accosted in alcoves, lured into closets.

Now, with a bravado bolstered by Anne’s pool, the interest was extreme. Their antics were eccentric, outlandish, humorous. On his end, anyway. But not on Anne’s.

She’d been perplexed over how to handle the burgeoning
numbers. She was too shrewd to reject anyone who flashed a pouch of coins, but the growing swarm had swiftly destroyed her even disposition and willingness to please.

How the hell had Camilla gotten into his bed?

He’d roused from a nap, and there she was, her nipples poking him in the chest, her fingers wrapped around his John Thomas. How could he explain the encounter to Anne? She was already convinced that he had paramours slithering out from every nook and cranny, and it was difficult to deny the perception, what with intruders breaking in, and Camilla acting like a whore.

Sighing, he flopped onto the pillows, listening as she charged inside, as she stomped up the stairs and retired to the sanctuary of her room. She was so fiery, so temperamental, that she might sequester herself for an eternity, and he didn’t suppose he’d have many more chances to wheedle out of an eviction.