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Authors: To Tempt a Bride

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BOOK: Edith Layton
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B
elle found Camille in her room two mornings later, sitting in the window seat with a book in her lap but obviously not paying attention to it. She was gazing out the window into the distance, looking forlorn.

Belle grimaced. “It is not the end of the world,” she told Camille. “It is, in fact, a lovely morning.”

Camille nodded.

Belle sighed. “I
had
to refuse Eric’s offer of a carriage ride, Cammie. It was kindly intentioned, but it just wouldn’t do. Nell’s a guest but not ready to be introduced to Society—if indeed she ever will be. It’s one thing to include the girl in our daily walks,” she added in exasperation, “quite another to have her carried about in a gentleman’s carriage
as an equal. We aren’t sure of what she is. But we nonetheless are being both civil and kind. The chit’s being fed and housed, not beaten or starved. In fact, she’s being fitted into one of my gowns at this very minute. That’s going beyond charity. And you know how I feel about my gowns.”

“Yes,” Camille said, looking up, her expression brightening. “I suppose you’re right.” She frowned again. The thought of an insult to Nell had been lifted from her conscience, but she remembered the reason for her sorrow. She had so wanted to see Eric again.

“Come,” Belle said suddenly. “Get up. We may not go riding with Eric, but the park is still there and it’s a glorious day. We’ll walk. My maid is almost done pinning Nell’s gown, so we can include her if you like. Well, are you coming? You’re the one who said there’s nothing like exercise to get a mare in shape for foaling.”

Camille laughed out loud. “You’d slay me for saying that to you.”

“So I would,” Belle agreed calmly. “Now, get your bonnet. The new one.”

 

Camille breathed deep. London usually smelled of smoke, coal, and horses. But the air in the park was fresh, crisp and cold as a winter apple. Though the sun was bright, it had no heat, so they walked quickly: Camille, with her arm in Belle’s, Nell and a maid behind them. It was too cold for much conversation, but Camille’s eyes sparkled. There was
so much to see. The park was alive with strollers, horsemen, and carriages. It might be frigid, but it was clear, and that was a rarity at this sullen time of year.

“Ho! I spy treachery,” a deep voice called.

They stopped and turned around in time to see Eric pull his high-perch phaeton to a halt at their side. “You couldn’t come riding in a nice warm coach with me,” he said, “but here you are braving the elements on foot. Do I never speak to you again or merely go home and weep? Or,” he asked in mock shock, “do I go look for a new mouthwash?”

“You know very well why we couldn’t come with you,” Belle said. “As I said in my note to you, Miss Baynes only finished with her dress fitting a half-hour ago. In fact, we came out late and are returning early. But I see you’re hardly languishing. Nice equipage,” she added, eyeing his phaeton. “I wish I could try it. Miles would murder me, or you, if I dared, of course. Nor would I be so foolhardy. Such dashing vehicles are not for me these days.”

Eric’s high-perch phaeton was the last word in style, Camille thought, looking at it with awed admiration. Gold with yellow trim, its wheels were huge and skeletal, so thin as to look fragile. The driver’s seat was so far from the ground that it seemed precariously perched above the body of the coach. In fact, the whole equipage looked as delicate as some fantastic mechanical daddy long-legs. But Camille knew it was as well balanced as a fine watch and equally well sprung. It was built for
comfort and speed and would be safe enough in a good driver’s hands. She could guess that Eric was that.

His highly bred white horse snorted and pawed the ground in his eagerness to be off again.

“Cammie looks as though she’d venture a whirl round the park in it, though,” Eric said. “Would you permit? I promise not to break my neck with her beside me. And there can be no scandal. It would take a more creative man than I to get up to any nonsense while tooling around in this kind of rig. I promise to keep moving until I set her down. May she?”

Camille held her breath.

“You didn’t ask if she’d care to,” Belle said.

Eric laughed. “You’re right. I presume. Miss Croft, would you care to ride with me?”

“Would I?”
Camille breathed. “I mean…Why, yes, thank you, I should.”

“Very well,” Belle said.

Eric sketched a bow. “I do not forget you, Nell,” he added. “But there’s only room for two. After I take Camille for a spin, I’d be delighted to show off my skill to you. If you care to wait.”

Nell flushed with pleasure but shook her head. “Thank you, but it looks too—I’m not used to horses or such carriages,” she murmured.

“And it’s far too cold to wait here for you to finish tooling around the park,” Belle said. “We’ll be going back home. Please deposit Cammie on our doorstep, intact, when you’re done.”

Eric put one hand on his heart. “She shall be returned without so much as an eyelash missing,” he promised. Then he held his hand out to Camille. “Come on, Cammie. See how we can fly.”

Camille might moan that she wasn’t ladylike and despair of her manners in the parlor. But she ascended to the seat beside Eric with consummate poise. She put a foot on a rung of Eric’s rig, took his hand, and sprang to the seat beside him with the ease and grace of the athlete she was.

“Now, this,” she said, turning a glowing face to him, “will be something. Let’s see what this rig can do.”

Eric grinned, shook his reins, and the phaeton rolled off down the lane into the park.

Camille held on to the seat with one hand and her bonnet with the other, even though her bonnet was tied under her chin. The wind was trying to tug it off.

“We must be going at fifteen miles an hour!” she cried in delight.

It was both terrifying and exhilarating. The phaeton rode smoothly, but she’d never sat so far from the ground or gone so fast in such a fragile vehicle. The height was dizzying, the speed amazing. She felt as though she sat atop a juggernaut and felt a frisson of terror in the pit of her stomach. It made the ride even more exciting. Because though she was frightened, she didn’t for a moment think Eric would bring her to harm.

All too soon Eric slowed his horse, and they be
gan driving at a more sedate pace. “Enough showing off,” he said. “The road winds here, and we’ll take it more easily.”

But it was still thrilling for Camille. Because she was riding beside Eric, and they were alone together.

“So what do you think of it?” he asked her.

“Wonderful,” she breathed, and then sat back and listened as he proudly explained the finer points of his new rig.

Now that they were riding more decorously, Camille could see others in the park eyeing them, and she sat up straighter. She wished that the cold were as kind to her as it was to Nell and Annabelle. The icy breeze was a cosmetic for them, teasing color into their cheeks and making them look like freshly blooming roses. The chill wind wasn’t as kind to Camille. She knew she must have grown a cherry nose and tomato red cheeks, and her eyes didn’t sparkle so much as water. But nothing could ruin the fact that she was here with Eric.

“So don’t think I spring my horses all the time,” he was saying. “I was just having some fun. Believe it or not, safety is as important to me as speed.” His smile slipped as he added, “Being confined to bed by causes I can’t help is one thing, and I refuse to arrive there through my own folly.”

“Are you feeling better?” she asked softly. That gave her another excuse to look right at him.

He was vivid as an autumn sunset on this bleak December day. His thick hair under his high beaver
hat gleamed molten honey in the sunlight. He wore his greatcoat open, showing his dark-gold jacket and buff breeches. In spite of the cold, or maybe because of it, he looked so vital, so vividly alive, Camille had the feeling he’d have unbuttoned his jacket and tossed aside his high neckcloth too if he could. Color had returned to his face, his hazel eyes shone like topaz, he looked magnificent again. She hoped it was a true reflection of his health.

He smiled. “I feel perfectly better, little fusspot, I assure you.”

She ducked her head to hide her foolish pleasure. Who else could call her little and not seem ridiculous or condescending?

Eric looked at her downcast face and saw the edges of her smile. He didn’t have to ask if she was enjoying herself, for Camille’s emotions ran clear in her eyes. And so he was surprised to see her pleasure suddenly fade.

“Bother,” she said, frowning. “This isn’t at all the thing, is it?”

“Why not?” he asked, puzzled. “You heard Belle. It’s perfectly respectable. We’re alone, but we can’t so much as sneeze without the polite world seeing it.”

“That, yes,” she said gruffly. “But I’m grinning from ear to ear, and a young lady is supposed to be calm and cool at all times. Moderate, as Belle keeps telling me. I look about as moderate as a child at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Remember how they jumped and squealed when they saw the horses go through their paces?”

He laughed. “Believe me, it’s a delight to take someone for a ride who doesn’t squeal or shriek. Besides, it frightens the horses.”

“That’s just it,” she eagerly agreed. “Behaving naturally makes more sense, but it isn’t what’s done. I just can’t seem to do what’s done,” she complained. “Not because I’m stupid but because it seems foolish to me. Why, did you know a young lady of fashion is supposed to rap a gentleman on the knuckles with her fan if he says something warm? Did you ever hear such nonsense? I wouldn’t like being smacked for something I said when I tried to be clever. I don’t care if men are the stronger sex, a rap across the knuckles hurts.”

“I assure you it’s uncomfortable,” he agreed, with a straight face.

“Why, yes. Do they think men have no feelings?” she said indignantly. “And since you’re laughing, think about that. You don’t have to, right?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“If something’s amusing,” she explained, “you just laugh. As do I, although in my case, admittedly, sometimes too loud. But a young woman of quality is supposed to study laughing and practice it. Can you believe that? She’s supposed to trill up and down the scales when she laughs. How can you enjoy anything when you have to concentrate on how to do it? Does that sort of thing matter to you? Do gentlemen of fashion really care how a girl laughs?”

Her eyes were wide and sincere, they glowed
clear gold in the sunlight. Clear and pure, like Cammie herself, Eric thought. There was no artifice in her, no deceit. Most young women of good breeding acted just as she said when in the company of a man, reacting to him with pouts, squeals, giggles, or trills of practiced laughter. But not Cammie. It was what drew him to her; it was what kept him back from her. Her pleasure in his company was flattering, the more so because he knew none of it was artificial. She was utterly unaffected. And inexperienced, he reminded himself sharply again.

“Look there,” he said, looking out over the park in order to divert her and himself. “Lady Philmont and her pugs. Good God, she has five of them now. A herd. By the way, where are your pups?”

“Belle stayed in this morning, so I took them out earlier,” Camille said. She turned a radiant smile on Eric. “Wasn’t that lucky? They couldn’t have gone riding with us, and Belle couldn’t have managed them on her own. No one really can but me.”

He smiled, thinking of Belle trying to handle the wayward setters. “They listen to me,” he said, and then his eyes narrowed as he gazed at a group of horsemen clustered down the lane. “Speaking of hounds, there’s Dearborne. What the devil is he doing here? I thought he was gone to the Continent for good.”

“He was never anything good,” Camille said, turning her head from the dark horseman Eric mentioned.

But the dark man fixed his stare on their phaeton and didn’t look away until he saw Eric’s expression. Then he turned his horse so his back was to them. Camille knew of Lord Dearborne, though they’d never met. From all the stories she’d heard, she didn’t want to meet him either.

Her brother and some of his dearest friends had each once had dealings with him, all harrowing. Lord Dearborne was said to be a cheat. That would have been enough to repel her, since her stepfather had been one. But the dissolute nobleman was also vindictive and cowardly. Her heart always went out to the underdog, but there was a world of difference between a misunderstood rogue and an out and out villain.

They said Dearborne had been devilishly handsome once. It seemed to Camille that his terrible career was now written boldly on that devastated face. That was especially clear to see here in the brilliant winter sunlight. He looked dashing from a distance, but closer, she could see how haggard he was. The patrician nose had been broken, and the power of the dark eyes was eclipsed by the lines around them and the dark circles beneath.

“We saw him earlier,” Camille said as they drove past Dearborne and his party. “Nell was fascinated by him, and he kept looking at her. She said he was handsome. Maybe from afar, but from near?” She shuddered. “All I can say is ugh! How could they say he’s attractive?”

“Once he was,” Eric said. “He began as a wild, spoiled young gentleman much like many another. His crimes were the usual for youths of great privilege and few morals. But he went from mischief to cruelty and violence in short order.” Eric fell still. He wouldn’t tell Camille how the man was famous for his treatment of women. Dearborne started as a jilt and seducer of well-born young ladies and gone on to be “difficult” with prostitutes. Eventually even his friends fell away as his occasional drunkenness became perennial and his wit turned to spite. He’d gone to the Continent a few years ago for his health. Rafe, among others, had threatened to kill him if he did not. Dearborne had obviously only lately returned. Everyone knew Rafe’s temper cooled down as fast as it boiled up.

“We told Nell not to look at him,” Camille said on a sigh. “Might as well tell water to run uphill.”

“She’s young and new to Town,” Eric said gently.

Camille felt her face grow hot. “I don’t blame her. I know it’s not her fault,” she said defensively. “We also told her not to speak to him ever.” She didn’t want Eric thinking she was careless or cruel to her guest and struggled for the right thing to say. Nell had disappointed her. She’d hoped for a friend to share experiences with. But the girl didn’t like anything she cared for, except, of course, for Eric. “I try to give her good advice, but she’s unaccustomed to Society. Lord,” Camille said weakly, “but there are a lot of rules here in London.”

BOOK: Edith Layton
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