Never Romance a Rake (14 page)

The world seemed suddenly more distant, as if the here and now existed only in this place—this small circle of dying roses and dead leaves—with only the two of them in it. And Lord Rothewell was…different somehow.
Dangerous
. Oh, this man was dangerous. To her sanity. Even, perhaps, to her heart.

When he lifted his hand to gently cup her cheek, Camille felt suddenly as if the earth had tilted. “It will be no disappointment, Camille, to have you in my bed,” he murmured, threading his fingers through the hair at her temple. “Have you any experience? Or am I to be your first?”

But Camille was now trembling inside with an emotion she did not comprehend. She did not like this disconcerting reaction to his touch.
“Ça alors!”
she snapped. “What sort of question is that?”

“A logical one, I should think,” he murmured, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. The scent of his cologne—the scent of
him
—was enveloping her. Cowardice got the best of Camille, and she shut her eyes.

“Do not mistake me,
monsieur
, for the fool that my mother was,” she managed. “I saw enough of her world to last me a lifetime. I know the value of
virginité
far too well to sell it cheap.”

“That sounded like a
yes
,” he murmured. “But I would find you desirable, Camille, regardless.”

Camille felt herself shiver, and yet an unseasonable warmth seemed to swirl about them. “You do not have to flirt with me,
monsieur,
” she murmured. “I know what my duty is to my husband, and I will do it.”

“I do not flirt.” His voice had gone husky. “Kiss me, Camille.”

“
Mais pourquoi?
” she whispered.

“Because,” he said quietly, “for the second time in my life, I should like to taste innocence.”

His grip on her arm seemed to tighten. She said neither yes, nor no. And despite the fact that her eyes were still shut, she was acutely aware of his mouth hovering over hers. Of his strong arm banding round her, and their bodies coming inexorably together as her thoughts spun out of control again.

It was inevitable. And strangely, in that moment of heat and scent and soft words, Camille did not care. She wanted him. Her arms slid round his waist unbidden. His mouth skimmed along her jaw, brushing at her ear. “Teach me, Camille,” he murmured. “Teach me to be gentle.”

Her body went willingly, fully against his. Unlike the first time, Rothewell settled his lips over hers in a kiss which was slow in its seduction. His mouth slanted back and forth, molding softly and perfectly to hers, drawing her into him. Coaxing her. His hands were big, his body sheltering, and the kiss exquisitely tender, ratcheting up her pulse. Melting her to him. Yes,
seduction
was the word for this.

Fleetingly, she wondered if she'd lost her mind. But this was her fate, and she had agreed to it. Why resist? Her body was already answering his, and he knew it. Rothewell drew his tongue enticingly across her lips, tempting her to surrender. In response, Camille tipped back her head. He made a sound—something between a sigh and a groan—and crushed her against him as he plunged his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. And then she was truly lost, caught up in the heady spiral of passion.

Her hands slid beneath his coat and went skating up the warmth of his back, making him shiver. It was empowering. Compelling. He drew back and brushed his lips across the apple of her cheek. “Camille,” he whispered.

He returned his mouth to hers, surging inside with a kiss more urgent than delicate. Her stomach bottomed out again. A little desperately, she drew his tongue into her mouth, and something hot and urgent went spiraling through her, all the way down, drawing at her very center, making her gasp. He sensed it, and deepened the kiss, one big hand cradling the back of her head.

Dimly, Camille realized her breath had sped up, and that Rothewell had one warm, heavy hand on her hip, circling through the fabric. His other hand came up to caress her breast beneath the veil of her shawl, gently at first. His mouth skimmed down her throat, then his heated lips brushed the plump swell of her breast as his hand weighed it, almost lifting it from her bodice. Camille ached for his mouth—to feel it
there
. The jutting weight of his erection was unmistakable against her belly now. Her breath was coming too fast. Blood seemed to be rushing to her head, and desire pooled in her belly.

Camille was not naive. She knew how men and women made love. When his thumb slipped beneath the ruching of her bodice, and tugged it down, she did not protest. Her right breast sprang free. On a soft, hungry sound, Rothewell captured the nipple with his lips and drew it into the melting warmth of his mouth.
Yes.
As he suckled her, Camille began to feel boneless, without the will to refuse him anything. She wanted this. Ached for
him
.

The wind chose that moment to act up, gusting through the rose garden, sending a swirl of dry leaves rattling across the paths and about their feet. Somehow, it jerked her back into the present. To the reality of where they were. In the garden. In broad daylight.

Abruptly, he set her away. The breeze on her bare nipple was an exquisite pain. She opened her eyes and stepped back, frightened by the intensity of her response to him. She could not get her breath. Panic began to flood through her limbs.

At once, Rothewell caught her elbow, and drew her back to him, restoring her dress to order. “Forgive me.” His voice was hoarse, his breathing rough as he pulled her fully against him, and spread a broad, solid hand across her back. “Forgive me, Camille,” he murmured into her hair. “I am too forward.”

Camille's cheek was against his chest, the soft wool of his lapel tickling her face. He felt wonderfully warm and solid. And yet the panic was shifting to a cold fear which was snaking through her, even as his hand began to make a slow, sweet circle between her shoulder blades. His soft words and gentle touch made him no less dangerous. Was this not precisely how a man lured a weak-willed woman onto the shores of emotional ruin?

Dear heaven, he was a rake just like her father—and yet in an instant, he'd had her all but pleading for more.

Oh, this was not wise. Did she want the sort of life her mother had lived? She drew a deep, shuddering breath. The marriage bed was one thing—and it was unavoidable. But this—oh, God, this sense of tumbling into something heady and wild…it simply would not do.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and pushed abruptly away. “A most interesting exchange,” she managed. “But strictly speaking,
monsieur,
this is not necessary, is it? For the having of children?”

“What do you mean?” he rasped.

She glanced up at him. “This…this dalliance? All the kissing?”

He was silent for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “No, strictly speaking, it is not necessary. I think you know that.”

“
Oui,
” she admitted. She did know. And she knew, too, she had to preserve her heart. Her sanity. She had to keep herself safe from this man.

The intermittent gusts of wind were becoming a strong and steady breeze. The coldness inside her was moving into her limbs now. The fear was wrapping round her heart.

Camille dipped her head, pulled her shawl back around her. “
J'ai froid,
” she murmured.

Lord Rothewell offered his arm. “Then we must get you inside.”

She looked up at him. “You speak French?”

His face was an emotionless mask. “Well enough,” he answered. “Come, Mademoiselle Marchand. Allow me to see you safely inside.”

She took his arm, still unsettled. She was again
Mademoiselle Marchand
. She had not meant to insult him. But under no circumstance could she allow herself to become besotted by this man. What had she been thinking, to ache for his mouth so hungrily? Was she as much a fool as her mother had been? She glanced away and felt suddenly ashamed. Not of her desire—but of her utter lack of caution.

They reached the back door, and Rothewell picked up the riding crop which he had hung upon the gatepost. She watched him warily for a moment. “May we be married at once,
monsieur
?” she asked. “I do not wish to wait any longer.”

For a long moment, he simply stood there, rhythmically slapping the crop against his boot. “Another week, perhaps, for propriety's sake,” he finally said. “I shall tell Pamela.”

“
Très bien,
” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “I thank you,
monsieur
. Will you come inside?”

He shook his head. “No. I think not.”

Camille gave a perfunctory curtsy. “Then I shall say
bonjour, monsieur,
” she answered. “And thank you again.”

“For what?” he asked tersely.

“For the money you have paid to Valigny, of course,” she answered, holding the door.

“Ah. The money. Yes, let us never forget about
that
.”

His jaw even harder than usual, Lord Rothewell made a tight bow, then went back down the steps, and out by the garden gate.

Lady Sharpe had lingered with her son no more than five minutes when Thornton returned, bringing with her the baby's bathwater. The child's routine was important, the countess consoled herself before surrendering her precious bundle to his nurse.

“I shall be in Sharpe's study, should you need me,” she said after kissing the child's forehead.

Downstairs, a small stack of correspondence and invitations awaited her, as they always did this time of day. Lady Sharpe prided herself on being a creature of habit. She went dutifully through all the letters regarding matters at home in Lincolnshire, dictating replies to those she could, and instructing Mr. Bigham, her husband's secretary, to give the remainder to Sharpe himself.

She was just turning her attention to the invitations when a familiar voice in the hall beyond caught her ear. Lady Sharpe nearly leapt from her skin. “Bloody hell!” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon, ma'am?” Bigham turned, gaping, from the papers he had been sorting.

Lady Sharpe's face heated. “Nothing, Bigham,” she said. “We've a guest. That's all.”
Yes, and a most unwanted guest, too.
The countess was frantically wondering what was best done about it when the footman appeared.

“Mrs. Ambrose, ma'am,” he gravely announced.

Too late. Lady Sharpe's sister-in-law swept round him, her color high, a bright green hat set at a jaunty angle atop her pale blond locks. “Pam, my dear!” she exclaimed, circling the desk to kiss the countess's cheek. “I've just got back from a week in Brighton, and it was—oh, dear—are you doing Sharpe's work for him again? I shouldn't, if I were you.”

“One does what one can,” she murmured, motioning Christine to a chair opposite the desk. “It is very hard for him to be away from the estate at this time of year.”

Christine shrugged one thin, angular shoulder. “Well, you could hardly travel, bloated, fat, and miserable as you have been,” she said, dropping languidly into the chair. “Honestly, Pamela, you will likely
never
get your figure back. It really is too horrid to contemplate at such an age.”

Lady Sharpe gave a muted smile. There was no point in explaining to Sharpe's widowed and cheerfully childless sister how little her lost figure mattered—not when one had the recompense of a son and heir. Moreover, she needed to get Christine out of the house.

“I am afraid, Christine, that I was just on my way out,” she lied. “Why do you not accompany me down to the Strand? I need a new…andiron. Or two. Yes, a new set of andirons.”

Christine stuck out her lip. “How frightfully dull,” she said. “Now, if you could be persuaded to go down to Burlington Arcade, perhaps? I need a reticule to match this hat. Oh, wait—! Where is Sharpe? I must borrow a hundred pounds first.”

Anything to get Christine out of the house. “I shall get the cash box,” said the countess, starting to rise. Just then, Mr. Bigham laid another piece of paper on the stack. “What is that?” she asked, distracted.

“An invitation which was hand-delivered from Lady Nash, ma'am,” he said solemnly. “A dinner party tomorrow in honor of her brother's eng—”

“Yes, yes, Bigham, that will do!” said the countess sharply.

“A dinner party in honor of Rothewell?” crowed Christine, reaching for the ivory card. “How shocking! He will not approve, I daresay. I shall go, of course—merely to tease him about it.”

Lady Sharpe snatched the card and fell back into her chair. Rothewell had done it to her again, blast him!

Christine was staring at the invitation suspiciously. “Why may I not see it, Pam?”

Lady Sharpe sighed. “You may, I suppose,” she said. “But I am afraid, Christine, that you won't be invited to this one.”