Never Romance a Rake (15 page)

Christine's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon? Has Xanthia become so high in the instep she no longer knows me? That haughty husband of hers is but an earl, for God's sake—and barely even English.”

Lady Sharpe pursed her lips. “Xanthia likes you very well, Christine.” A second lie on the heels of her first! “But I am afraid there has been some shocking news. You shan't like it—and it is not really my job to tell it.”

Christine had gone perfectly still. “Oh, Lord, I knew I shouldn't have gone to Brighton!” she said. “He is ill, is he not?”

Lady Sharpe felt her eyes widen. “Ill?”

Christine leapt up, and began to roam the room. “Rothewell—he's been behaving very oddly,” she said, sounding more aggrieved than grief-stricken. “At times, he refuses to see me. He won't eat. He seems so distant. He cancels plans. Once he looked to be in pain. Oh, dear, what a bother this will be!”

“A bother?”

Christine whipped around, her lips in a pout. “We have been invited to a house party in Hampshire,” she said. “He'll use this, I daresay, as another excuse not to go.”

“No, he will not be going to any house party,” Lady Sharpe agreed. “Christine, my dear. I am very much afraid to say—well—that Rothewell is getting married.”

Camille watched the garden gate slam behind Lord Rothewell. His shoulders were stiff, his pace determined as he circled around in the direction of Hanover Street. Her hand still holding the door, Camille realized she had been unkind, and she was ashamed.

She had been angry with herself, not him. But that kiss—it had been too much. By the time it had ended, she had been boneless and disoriented. As if her weak knees had allowed her to melt into a warm puddle of desire, something Lord Rothewell could easily tread through on his way to the next woman he might bed.

She closed the door without fully appreciating just how prescient the notion was—until she heard the bloodcurdling scream from Lord Sharpe's study.

“
Madame?
” Camille cried. Her shawl slithering halfway off as she ran, she made a mad dash down the passageway.

She almost collided with the thin blonde who burst from the study and into the corridor, with Lady Sharpe on her heels.

Camille brought herself up short, sending her shawl falling to the floor. But the blond woman had espied her and jerked to a halt, quivering with what looked like indignation. One finger thrust at Camille, the lady looked back over her shoulder.

“Is
this
what he has thrown me over for?” she cried. “This—this insipid little brown mouse running madly about?”

The countess had her fingertips to her temple. “Christine, for God's sake,” she said. “Preserve just a scrap of your dignity!”

“What has happened?” Camille demanded, looking past the woman to Lady Sharpe. “
Madame,
you are unhurt?”

Eyes flashing with irritation, Lady Sharpe dropped her hand and nodded. “I am fine, my dear.”

And then the woman's words struck her.
Is this what he has thrown me over for?

Camille stiffened her spine and stood with all the elegance she could muster. “
Pardon, madame,
” she said, turning to the lady. “I think we have not met?”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “And she's
French
!” she exploded. “The little baggage is French! How dare he?”

“Christine, for God's sake, calm yourself!” hissed Lady Sharpe. She cut a sympathetic glance at Camille, but she also looked deeply vexed and more than a little embarrassed.

Regrettably, there was but one way to handle such a misfortune. Camille stepped deeper into the fray and smiled at the woman. “
Alors,
you are the mistress?” she asked, forcing her chin up. “And you have just learnt of me?
Quel dommage!
It is most unfair, is it not?”

“Why—What—
Who
are you?” the woman demanded.

Camille managed a bemused look. “Why, just the—the—what did you call it? The brown mouse,
oui
? I am afraid I do not know the word
baggage
.”

A horrific shade of red was crawling up the woman's face now. She was trembling with outrage.

“Oh, I should not worry, were I you,
madame.
” Camille was angry, yes, but a malicious little part of her was enjoying herself. “It is a very big world,
n'est-ce pas
? You are his mistress, and perhaps that will not change—but rest assured, I am not leaving.”

“Why how
dare
you!”

Camille shrugged, and picked up her shawl. “But I do dare,
madame,
” she said quietly. “And I think you must come to grips with it. In another week, you may still be Rothewell's mistress—but this mouse shall be his
wife
.”

Lady Sharpe looked as if she couldn't decide whether to laugh or to cry. Suddenly, she glanced over her shoulder and brightened. “Oh, look!” she said, waving a hand toward the window. “There is Rothewell now. He must be awaiting his horse. If you have a bone to pick, Christine, you should pick it with—”

The woman was halfway down the steps before Lady Sharpe could finish.

Camille caught the flying door before it swung round to smack Lady Sharpe in the face. “
Au revoir, madame!
” she sang before closing it.
“Et bonne chance!”

Rothewell turned, the color draining from his face. Camille waved at him and slammed the door. Lady Sharpe gave a snort of laughter, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Camille twisted her mouth wryly. “Well,
madame,
this mouse could use a glass of sherry if you would be so kind?” she said, resolved to hide her hurt. “Perhaps something even stronger. And then, if you please,
madame,
you must tell me just who that lady was.”

Lady Sharpe looked at her and laughed again. “You really must do something, my dear, about that frightful Franglish of yours,” she said. “It really does tend to come and go, does it not?”

“
Oui, madame.
” Camille lifted her skirt and curtsied. “As it is needed—or as the nerves dictate.”

“Come along, then.” The countess went back into the study. “I think I shall join you in that sherry, Camille, whilst I savor thoughts of the punishment Rothewell is reaping right about now.”

“It was badly done,
assurément,
” said Camille. “A man should hide his mistress away before making a proposal of marriage, do you not think,
madame
?”

Lady Sharpe took two glasses from a door in the sideboard and set them on a tray. “Yes,” she cheerfully agreed. “If he means to keep one at all.”

“
Oui,
but what man does not?” asked Camille rhetorically.

The countess's face fell as she poured. “Dear child!” she murmured. “Many men do not—and you must see to it that Rothewell does not.”

Camille blinked her eyes for a moment. “
Mon Dieu, madame,
but how can such a thing be done?”

“Oh, you will think of something, clever girl.”

“Shall I,
madame
?” asked Camille doubtfully.

Lady Sharpe handed her the sherry, then eyed her across the second glass. “Oh, yes,” she said musingly. “I am quite persuaded, you see.”

“Persuaded of what,
madame
?”

“Persuaded,” she said, lifting her glass high, “that Lord Rothewell has met his match.”

Camille wished she was equally confident. Over the next two days, she thought often of Rothewell's mistress. Indeed, she was almost grateful to the poor woman. Their awkward meeting had driven a stake neatly through the heart of whatever nascent passion Camille might have been tempted to nurture for her future husband.

The lady's name, the countess later explained, was Mrs. Ambrose, and she was Lord Sharpe's half sister. Camille's heart had sunk at that pronouncement. It would have been far easier to think of her husband's mistress as a member of the demimonde. Instead, her blood was far bluer—and more English—than Camille's, a fact which begged but one question—why wasn't Lord Rothewell marrying his beautiful blond mistress? There could be but one answer.
Money
.

M
arriage, someone once said, is a desperate business,” quoted Lord Rothewell, lifting his chin so that Trammel might better knot his cravat. “And by God, I am beginning to agree with him.”

“Marriage is a desperate
thing
,” the butler corrected, standing back to admire his handiwork. “And it was Selden, the great English jurist, I believe, who said it.”

“Indeed?” Rothewell surveyed his reflection in the gilt cheval glass. “It is very lowering, Trammel, for a chap to know his butler is better educated than he could ever hope to be.”

Trammel's eyes had lit on a loose string at the baron's right cuff. “I should hope that it is more lowering to be dressed by one's butler,” he said, going to the baron's dressing case for a pair of scissors. “You might give some thought to hiring a proper valet, sir, now that you are marrying.”

“No need,” said Rothewell gruffly. “Just get me through this dinner party tonight, Trammel, and the wedding. Then you may go back to thrashing the staff at your leisure.”

Trammel neatly snipped off the string, then reached for Rothewell's brocade waistcoat. As he slid it up the baron's arms, he gave a
tsk
of disapproval.

“What now?” Rothewell grumbled. “My petticoat showing?”

The butler stepped round, then flicked a glance up at Rothewell's face. “You have lost more weight, my lord,” he said. “You need to eat more regularly.”

“Just give me my coat, damn it,” said Rothewell. “Miss Obelienne's been complaining again, I collect.”

Trammel shrugged, and fetched the coat. “When the plates go back but half-eaten, my lord, a cook takes it personally.”

“Get a damned dog to sit under the bloody table, then,” Rothewell complained, “if it will stop her nagging.”

The butler started toward the dressing room, shooting him a reproving glance as he went. “You are soon to be a married man, my lord,” he said. “You must learn to endure a female's nagging with a little more grace.”

Rothewell closed his eyes and pinched hard at the bridge of his nose. There was no point in snapping at Trammel—not when he likely spoke the truth. What had he been thinking, to enter into this mad scheme? And if he meant to do such a foolhardy thing, why had he not done it at once, as Mademoiselle Marchand had wished? By now he could have wed her, bedded her, and got this bloody damned itch out of his system.

It was as if Trammel read his thoughts. “There was a message from Lady Sharpe this morning,” he called from the dressing room. “Did Slocum give it to you?”

“Oh, yes.” Rothewell suppressed a groan. He was in Pam's black books, and deservedly so.

The butler brought out a freshly folded handkerchief.

“That will be all, Trammel,” said Rothewell, tucking it away. “Take the evening off—no, even better—take all the lads down to the King's Arms for a pint. Someone may as well enjoy this evening. God knows I won't.”

“Yes, sir.” Trammel bowed, and left.

Rothewell went to the sideboard, and yanked the crystal stopper from a decanter of cognac. Then, on second thought, he shoved it back in again. In his present mood, he would likely not stop drinking once he started, and the notion of being less than completely sober in Mademoiselle Marchand's presence was a daunting one.

He needed his wits about him when dealing with her. She had already persuaded him to marry her. To impregnate her. To kiss and fondle her in broad daylight like some bought-and-paid-for tart. Even now, if he closed his eyes, his head swam with her exotic, spicy scent. God only knew what might come next. Well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps they would not even be on speaking terms. It was likely, given their last exchange.

God damn it, he hated this. Hated having to care what another human being thought of him—even if he had asked for it. Even if it was
her
. And he probably wouldn't care in the end. Mademoiselle Marchand would understand soon enough just what she had married and be glad to leave him to himself.

In any case, the brandy was best left alone for now. Rothewell paced across the room and looked at the mantel clock. He was not due at Nash's for another half hour, and it was less than a ten-minute stroll to Park Lane.

He went to the window and stared out almost blindly. A lone carriage was circling the empty square—a shabby hackney coach with a tired brown horse. It went round twice, and then a third time, as if the driver were lost amongst the opulent lanes of Mayfair. Rothewell felt a sudden stab of pity for the poor devil. He knew the feeling—that sense of being disoriented. Of being an insignificant thing in a greater and grander place.

Was that what he was?
Lost?

He did not know. Rothewell left the window and looked about the vast, empty room in his vast, empty house with a strange sense of dread, a feeling so old and so familiar, he could no longer shake it off with ease. After almost a year, this place still was not his home. Nor had Barbados ever been home. He had been sent there—shipped off like a load of coal slag—after the death of his parents, along with Luke and Zee, then but a babe. And on that hellish plantation, they had lived through horrors unimaginable to anyone—anyone, that is, who was not a slave.

They had worked, he and Luke, until their fingers bled. They had borne drunken beatings and emotional torment so horrific and so often he could no longer remember it, so deep had he shoved it in the recesses of his mind.

Food and clothing had been luxuries, shoes nonexistent—not because their uncle couldn't afford them but because he took pleasure in his wards' deprivation. There had been no education save that which could be had by lamplight after Uncle passed out drunk, using what books they could take from the dusty library shelves. No joy. No hope. The three of them had clung together unflinchingly and loved one another fiercely—and in this way, they had somehow survived.

Even now, Rothewell wasn't sure how it had all happened. His parents had loved them; that much he
did
remember.

The Nevilles had been poor, in a shabby-genteel sort of way; their father a simple country squire, their mother the sixth daughter of an obscure baronet. They had died as simply as they had lived, of a bilious fever, which tore through the village, striking down high and low alike.

In the tragic aftermath, none of their relations in England had been willing to take their children, not even Pamela's mother, Lady Bledsoe, their aunt Olivia, a singularly coldhearted woman. So they had been sent out to the West Indies, where their father's elder brother, a devil and a drunk and a violent son of a bitch, had been exiled.

As a young man, the sixth Baron Rothewell had throttled a footman in a drunken rage—his sister's lover, to be precise—a fool who'd had the grave misjudgment to blackmail Aunt Olivia just weeks before her wedding. The future Lady Bledsoe, who was as sharp as her brother was stupid, had not taken it well. Knowing her brother's propensity for drink and violence, she had suggested that the footman, rather than his own ineptitude at the card tables, was the root of his nagging insolvency.

The footman, of course, had stolen nothing save Olivia's virtue, and probably not even that. After he lay dead, Olivia cried and swore the footman had tried to attack her. Her father swept it all under a rug as best he could, and bought his dolt of an heir a one-way passage to Barbados.

Uncle figured much of it out, of course, once he'd sobered up—somewhere off the coast of Portugal. The realization had served only to make him more vicious. Once or twice he'd got drunk enough—and angry enough—to complain of his sister's duplicity, and in this way, the tale had fallen on Luke's ears. Rothewell kept Aunt Olivia's secret, which was more than she'd ever done for him.

So, after living through that sort of childhood with those sorts of relatives, here he was. Thirty years later, he still had no home. No place where he felt—well, whatever it was one was supposed to feel. Was he fool enough to hope that some last-ditch effort at marriage would fill these rooms and take away that awful blackness?

At that, he laughed aloud, and briefly reconsidered the cognac bottle. Surely it had not come to this? If his life was empty, it was because he had made it so—willingly, and with his eyes wide open. And the ache he sometimes felt in the pit of his stomach was just that; his ruthless innards repaying him for a lifetime of abuse.

And so it would be. His mouth curled in a bitter, inward smile. He was not a man much given to repentance. God knew the truth of what a man was, and no last-minute conversion or contrition could cover it up. His bargain with Valigny had been no act of Christian charity; no long shot at redemption. He had felt sorry for the girl, yes. But beyond that, it had been an act of raw lust, plain and simple, and he could not let himself think otherwise.

Restless and on edge, Rothewell threw himself into a chair and snatched up Pamela's letter again. The words
dashed awkward position
and
utter lack of thought
fairly leapt off the page to smack him in the face again. Then there was
grievous insult
topped by
unimaginable humiliation
—the former in regard to Christine Ambrose, the latter to Mademoiselle Marchand. But Pamela's obloquies were interchangeable, were they not? He had managed to antagonize everyone equally.

Rothewell threw the letter down, and scrubbed a hand round his freshly shaved chin. He did not tolerate criticism especially well—not even when it was deserved. But this was
Pamela
. And Christine was her sister-in-law. He should have thought of that before hauling Mademoiselle Marchand across town and dumping her on Pamela's doorstep.

And yet the notion had never occurred to him. He and Christine were not a couple. They both regularly took other lovers, but even that limited arrangement had gone stale of late, and their relationship had assumed the qualities of an old shoe, comfortable, but a little worn.

Regrettably, it now appeared Christine had ascribed an entirely different meaning to that lull. She had marched down Sharpe's front steps, her eyes blazing, her whisper laced with icy certitude. “
Oh, you are going to pay for this, Rothewell,
” she had said. “
On
that
you may depend.
”

Christine had had the great good fortune to catch him with his defenses down, his mind obsessed by what had just transpired in Sharpe's garden. With the taste of Mademoiselle Marchand's lush, exquisite mouth still in his, and the sting of her cold barb still burning in his flesh.
She did not want to be kissed. Or embraced. Or dallied with.
Fine, then. He would just fuck her. That was all he wanted to do anyway.

Again, Rothewell pinched his nose. Dear God, what was wrong with him? Yes, he very much feared he was going to pay—but not in the way Christine had envisioned. Camille Marchand—if he were placing money on a fight—would make a far more chilling opponent. With her, there was no explosion of temper, no idle posturing. She was hard. Hard in an unflinching, almost ruthless way. Funny how a man could recognize his own traits in others.

In any case, he was not risking money, he was risking his peace of mind, or what little of it was left to him. And now he might well have to live out his last with a haughty shrew. A haughty shrew who did not wish to be kissed, but merely impregnated. Good God, what had he done?

Tonight they were to be toasted and congratulated by his extended family—or whatever of it Pamela and Lord Nash had managed to dredge up. They would be expected to smile at one another, perhaps even to dance with one another. To look happy and proud. But he was none of those things, and he seriously doubted Mademoiselle Marchand was either. Instead, she would be looking daggers at him the whole evening, and expecting him to curry her favor and forgiveness. Well, to hell with that. The sooner she knew what she was marrying, the easier her life would be. Perhaps she would cry off and put a bullet through the head of this ill-considered farce.

Perhaps he needed that drink after all? Rothewell looked up. The mantel clock was about to strike the hour. He was now late. Damn. Late for his betrothal dinner.

No one, of course, would be surprised.

In Park Lane that night, the row of fine carriages stretched from Lord Nash's door all the way to Upper Brook Street. Camille sat opposite Lord and Lady Sharpe in their elegantly appointed barouche, though the drive to Park Lane had been short.

“We shall have our hems to worry about,” Lady Sharpe had fussed over breakfast. “There will be rain before the evening is out, mark me.”

Camille craned her neck to look up at what little of the sky she could see. Lady Sharpe, she feared, had been right. So she had taken the precaution of wearing one of her darker gowns, a forest green satin which had been her mother's. With no money for a new wardrobe, Camille had kept those things of her mother's which were still fashionable and at least marginally modest. The gowns she had taken up an inch, and that was that. The green was daring, Lady Sharpe had agreed, but still this side of propriety, given Camille's age.