Never Romance a Rake (32 page)

“Rothewell, that is not fair—”

“No, it is a fact,” he interjected. Rothewell had turned to face her, his eyes glittering with emotion. “Even now, Camille, you cannot even call me by my name.”

“I—I have.”

“Aye, once? Twice?” He sneered again. “You said you didn't care where I went, what I did, or who I did it with.”

Something inside Camille snapped. “How dare you?” she whispered. “
Mon Dieu,
how
dare
you? You have already made it plain—more than plain—that those things are none of my concern.
Alors,
has that changed? Is this to be a real marriage? You wish to be accountable to me now?”

He turned his head, and glared into the distance.

“Non,”
she said quietly. “
Non,
I did not think so.”

Rothewell cursed beneath his breath, then jerked to his feet and strode away.

“Zut!”
Camille's hands balled into fists. “You are an ass, Kieran!” she cried after him. “An obstinate ass.
Et voilà!
—I have used your name!”

He went down the slight slope to the water's edge, one hand set at his waist. The other hand dragged through his hair, then fell. His shoulders slumped as if with fatigue. But when she thought that he would turn around, or at least stop, he strode off down the path which edged along the pond.

Should she follow him and plead with him? Apologize? But for what? And why should she? He was wrong—and stubborn in the bargain.

And sick,
she reminded herself as he disappeared behind the trees. Guilt began to needle at her. He must have loved Annemarie very deeply. Though it hurt her to think of it, how could she judge him for it? All her girlish infatuations aside, Camille had never loved anyone save her mother and her nurse—well, not until now. And now it was her fate to love a man whose heart was not whole.

Behind her, Rothewell's horse whinnied a little pitifully.

Camille glanced over her shoulder. “He will come back,
Monsieur Cheval
,” she said a little sadly. “
Oui,
he must, mustn't he?”

With that, she fell back onto the driving cloak, shut her eyes, and sighed. Rothewell was right—at least in part. In the beginning of this pathetically misbegotten marriage, she had not known what she wanted. She had demanded one thing of him, and secretly begun to long for another—a thing which frightened her, and shook her to her very core. She wanted his love. She wanted a true marriage. And now she had raised the worst possible topic—his lost love. A picnic, indeed!

She was not certain how long she lay there mentally thrashing herself and trying to determine the precise moment when she had fallen in love with her husband. But eventually, she felt a shadow move over her, and opened her eyes.

Rothewell stood above her, but not looking at her, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his mouth grim. “What the devil do you want of me, Camille?” he rasped. “What? Can you tell me that?”

She sat up, and looked at him unflinchingly. “
Oui,
I want you to be happy,” she said. “To be whole and happy, instead of sick and angry—angry with the whole world around you. I want you to have a purpose in your life. To feel joy instead of despair. You may believe it or not as you please.”

He looked away, his expression strained. “You are going to be disappointed, Camille,” he said quietly. “I cannot be the kind of man you need. It isn't in me.”

“Wait!” She held up one hand. “Did I ask you to
be
anything? Are my ears and my tongue deceiving me?”

“I know what you want,” he said darkly. “But I've disappointed every woman in my life save, perhaps, for my sister.”

“Stop,
s'il vous plaît
.” Camille still held her hand up, palm out. “You will not play this trick of words on me,
monsieur
. I meant just what I said. You are a vile-tempered, unhappy man, and you worry all who care for you—your sister, Lady Sharpe,
oui,
even your servants.” Then, fortuitously, she recalled Xanthia's words. “Your love and your grief for this dead woman is like a boil on your heart, Rothewell. And you will not lance it. You make your whole family suffer the pain.”

Some powerful emotion flickered in his eyes, and for an instant, she feared his face might crumple. But Rothewell was made of sterner stuff than that. He set his jaw grimly and looked out across the water.

“I do not hurt for a dead woman, Camille,” he said, pushing back his coat as he set one hand on his hip. “In that, you are wrong. Xanthia is wrong.”

“
Alors,
what is it, then?” Camille challenged, not certain what folly drove her. “Do you think, Rothewell, that I do not hear you pacing the floors all hours of the night?—when, that is, you choose to come home. You do not eat or sleep, but keep only to your brandy and your solitude.
Mon Dieu,
I have already nursed to the grave one miserable human being bent on drinking herself to death because love was lost to her. I do not relish a second.”

“By God, what do you want to know, then?” he snapped. “All of it? Every filthy truth—and the lies that go with it? And be damned sure of your answer, Camille. Be
damned
sure—for once it is said, it cannot be unsaid, and you will have to think of it every time you look at me.”

“
Non,
I shan't—”

“Yes,”
he interjected with icy certainty. “You will. Every time I come to your bed, you will remember this day.”

“Will I?” Camille offered up her hand. “Then I shall risk it. Sit down,
s'il vous plaît
?”

Rothewell still did not look at her, but he sat back down on the cloak and braced his elbows on his knees. After many moments had passed, he exhaled, a sound of surrender and of grief. “Her name was Annemarie,” he finally said. “Did Xanthia tell you that, too?”

“
Oui,
she told me that,” Camille murmured.

“Annemarie was older than I—and a good deal more polished.” His gaze was still fixed in the distance. “She was…a fallen woman, I suppose. And I fancied myself in love with her.”

Camille resisted the urge to touch him, but the raw emotion in his eyes tugged at her heart.

He dropped his head, and stared at his boots. “Although I was young, I was…well, not without experience,” he said. “Luke and I—we had lived unsheltered lives, to say the least. But nothing had prepared me for Annemarie.”

“Oui?
In what way?” asked Camille softly.

He shook his head. “She was…she was ephemeral and worldly all at once,” he said. “She was dark and very French, and her eyes—Christ, they simply smoldered. Men fought one another for the mere favor of helping her across the street. And she was my lover before she married Luke.”

“Xanthia suggested as much,” Camille quietly acknowledged.

But Rothewell's eyes had gone black and fierce, his fists squeezed tight as if he might pummel someone. The suppressed anger inside him was palpable now.

Suddenly, Camille was anxious. She had said she would risk it, yes—but what if he were right? What if this changed everything? Was not a skilled lover and sometimes-friend better than the nothing she had been living with for so long?

She licked her lips uncertainly.
“Je ne sais pas,”
she whispered to herself. “Perhaps, Kieran, you were right—”

“No.” He held up one hand, palm out. “You started this, Camille,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You started it. You and Xanthia. So now you can sit there and listen to this…this
thing
. This awful thing I wanted to take to the grave. I will tell you—and then I don't want to hear of it ever again. Do you hear me?”

“
Mais oui,
if you wish it.” She curled her fingers into the fabric of her skirt, for to her horror, her hands had begun to shake. “For what it is worth, I have known many women like your Annemarie.”

He swallowed hard, and dropped the hand. “She was not…she was
not
my Annemarie,” he rasped. “Not ever. I asked her to be my mistress—many times. I gave her money, yes, and a bit of jewelry here and there. But each time I pressed her for an answer, she would hesitate. She wanted me—in her bed, at least. She would even cry, and swear she loved me. But apparently, I was not quite what she was looking for.”

“What…what did she want, then?”

Rothewell shook his head. “A husband,” he said. “Security. I just was too young and too arrogant to see it. So one day my brother asked her to marry him. And she…she said
yes
.”

Though Camille had already learned much of this from Xanthia, hearing it from his own lips was entirely different. His pain was still raw, and it told in his tone. He had lost his only love to the brother whom he had adored and respected. And in a way, he had been betrayed by them both.

“Did you know, Kieran, that your brother was in love with her?” Camille whispered.

He shook his head, his glossy dark hair catching the lowering angle of the afternoon sun. “I should have,” he acknowledged. “I knew he admired her, and that they were well acquainted. I don't know what Annemarie told him about us—something less than the truth, I daresay. I should have seen the whole bloody mess coming, but I was so naïve, I did not.”

“
Mon Dieu,
you must have been devastated.”

“No, outraged,” he gritted. “It drove a wedge between us that remained until Luke's death. But he felt I had insulted Annemarie; that she deserved something more honorable than what I had offered. He accused me of toying with her affections. So he married her, and we fought over it. I bloodied his nose, and he broke two of my fingers. Then I moved out of the house.”

“And after that?” asked Camille. “What happened?”

Wearily, he lifted both shoulders. “Nothing—on the surface of it,” he said. “We made a surly sort of peace between us. Then Luke turned his attention to the shipping business and left me to run the plantations.”

“You…you never returned home?”

At last, he looked at her. His eyes held a world-weary look edged with something which troubled her. “How could I sleep beneath that roof, Camille?” he whispered. “I couldn't keep my hands off her—and she was my brother's
wife
.”

A sense of dread ran through Camille. There was more to this story, she sensed, than Xanthia knew. “And Annemarie—how did she feel?”

He snorted with disgust. “Annemarie was happy enough,” he said. “She had found a way to have her cake and eat it, too.”

Camille shook her head. “This cake…I-I do not comprehend.”

He tore his eyes from hers, and stared at the water. “We were still lovers, Camille.”

“Mon dieu!”
Camille set her fingers to her mouth.

“She would slip away to see me with any excuse she could find.” His voice was dead. “I told myself…I told myself it was her doing, not mine. I never sought her out.
Never
. Never even met her eyes over dinner—on those rare occasions I could bear to go home. But God help me, when she would turn up at my door…I was weak.”

Camille suddenly felt sick.

“Every time I would tell myself—and her—
never
again,” he whispered. “It sickened me. I would beg God's forgiveness and swear it was over. And then…there she'd be. Standing in the middle of my cottage, with that wide-brimmed hat in her hands, and a desperate look in her eyes. If I told her to get out, she would cry. She would say…she would say that she had made a mistake. That Luke…that he did not love her as I did. That her life was coming apart, and that if I would just hold her…”

“Mais non,”
said Camille sadly, “it never stopped at that, did it?”

He swallowed hard, and shook his head. “I gave in. Every time. Because she would tell me she loved me, and for a few minutes, it would be like before. But it wasn't. She was Lady Rothewell. And I was just the younger brother.”

Camille set her hand over his. “She…she wanted a title?”

“God, I don't know.” His voice was bleak. Beaten. “She wanted to be something other than a rich man's mistress. I look back, and I try to understand. Her honor was stripped from her when she was very young—thirteen or fourteen. I forget. He was rich and lily-white, and she was neither. She had no say in the matter, and when he was done with her, he simply cast her off—she and their child, Martinique. It…it did something to her. I cannot explain it.”