Never Romance a Rake (45 page)

One of the youngsters snickered with laughter. A dark glance from Rothewell cut it short—very short. Then, however, as he turned back to threaten Valigny, Rothewell's fist chose that instant to draw back and collide with Valigny's face.

The blow might have been unpremeditated, but it was damned satisfying. As if in slow motion, the comte's eyes widened, his head snapped back, and he staggered backward into the cobbled courtyard, arms flailing. Rothewell stalked out after him.

Deep in the shadows of the corridor, a dead silence fell over the subscription room and beyond. Rothewell snatched the comte by his gaudy neckcloth and yanked him up short. “How long,” he slowly gritted, “have you known Camille was Halburne's daughter?”

Panic lit Valigny's face, but he recovered. “
Oui,
show the world what an uncouth pig you are, Rothewell.” His voice was disdainful. “I am afraid I must demand a gentleman's satisfaction.”

“Best get your satisfaction now, you bastard.” Rothewell gave him another hard yank. “Only a fool would trust you on the dueling field—and I'd far more enjoy killing you with my bare hands.”

The comte looked up—far up—and fear sketched across his face. “
Aidez-moi!
” cried Valigny, his eyes darting round the yard. “This man is unhinged! He attacks like some felon.”

But Valigny's reputation preceded him. The gentlemen milling about in the yard simply turned round to their conversations. Valigny laughed nervously.

“Answer my damned question!” Rothewell got his other hand round Valigny's throat, lifted him onto his toes, and squeezed. “How long,” he slowly repeated, “have you known that Camille was Halburne's daughter?”

The comte's mouth twisted bitterly. He jerked back, bringing his fist up to blindside Rothewell. The blow connected, but badly.

Rothewell let him down, then set his fingertips to Valigny's chest. “I asked you a question, you son of a bitch,” he growled. “And I will have an answer.”

Valigny sneered. “
Mon Dieu,
you colonial rustic!” he said. “How stupid do you think me?”

Something inside Rothewell snapped, and a red-hot rage shot through him. He threw another punch, an uppercut which caught the comte solidly beneath the chin, snapping his head back again. Thirty years of pent-up fury exploded, and Valigny looked like the perfect target.

Valigny hitched up against the cupola in the center of the yard, looking desperately about the enclosure. Seeing no alternative, he came after Rothewell. Rothewell swung a glancing blow to the left ear. To his delight, Valigny threw a rounder, connecting solidly with Rothewell's jaw. Just what he needed. An excuse to beat the living hell out of the bastard.

It was a free-for-all then, with Rothewell pummeling Valigny into the dirt whilst at least a score of gentlemen quietly checked off their auction lists, as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. The comte landed a few punches, then caught Rothewell around the waist and kneed him ineffectually in the knackers. Once, Rothewell got him down in the filth of the yard and planted a knee in his chest, but Valigny threw him off-balance.

They both rolled and scrabbled to their feet, Valigny gasping for breath now. Rothewell moved to throw him down again, and in a quick, desperate maneuver, Valigny caught him behind the knee with his foot. Down onto the cobbles they went, fists and knees flying, but the comte was at least three stone lighter, and obviously hadn't scrapped his way through life. Soon, Valigny was down for good, retching onto the cobbles. It took all Rothewell's self-control not to throttle him.

“Hold still,” he rasped, “or I will kill you.” Rothewell set a knee to his breastbone and drew back.

Valigny's hands waved back and forth frantically. “
Arrête! Arrête!
” he cried. “Not the face again!
Mon Dieu,
not the face!”

Rothewell hit him in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, running down his jaw to stain his collar. Righteous satisfaction flooded Rothewell. “That,” he gritted, “was for me. The rest of it was for Camille.”

He twisted Valigny's face and shoved it cheek first into the vomit and blood. Then he bent low, nearly setting his lips to the comte's ear. “Now answer my question,” he rasped. “How long have you known Camille was Halburne's daughter?”

Again, the nervous laugh. Valigny looked up, his eyes shying sideways like a frightened horse. “
Et alors!
” he finally said. “I claimed her,
oui
. Of what use was Halburne's daughter to me?”

“Lady Halburne told you the child was yours?”

Valigny managed to shrug one shoulder. “
Oui,
she suggested it.” He laughed lamely. “And what had I to lose in denying it, eh? Lady Halburne's warm bed anytime I wished it? Even a little of her father's money, perhaps, if I bided my time?”

“So, on the off chance you might get your forty pieces of silver, you ruined that girl's life and denied her a father who would have loved her and wanted her?” Rothewell sneered into his face. “You are not worthy, Valigny, to lick the dirt from Camille's shoes—and the truth is, you couldn't father a child if someone paid you.”

The comte managed to look insulted. “
Mais bien sûr!
” he declared. “Why not? But I have never been fool enough.
Non
, my lord Rothewell, the little shrew is not mine—and thank
le bon Dieu
for that mercy.”

Rothewell hauled Valigny onto his feet, and dragged him back through the archway. Nash stood in the shadows with a pair of his cronies, one shoulder propped against the wall, his thumbs hooked in the bearer of his trousers as they passed.

“Rough justice, old chap,” said one of the gentlemen, glancing down at Valigny. “But long past due.”

Rothewell grunted, hauled Valigny through to the other side, and tossed him into the lane beyond. The comte staggered, attempting to keep his feet. “You have until noon tomorrow, Valigny, to quit England,” said Rothewell coldly. “If ever I lay eyes upon you again, the beating you got this afternoon will pale by comparison to what you'll get then.”

“You cannot order me away,” Valigny hissed. “Those gentlemen have seen what you did to me. You are younger, Rothewell, and hulking in the bargain. They know you for what you are—a big, brutish thug.”

Rothewell eyed him nastily. “What those gentlemen
know
is that you once unfairly shot Halburne in a duel, damn near killing him,” he returned. “And soon they will know you have kept him from his only child. But they don't know anything about the beating you got today. If you do not believe me, Valigny, fetch a magistrate down here and see if you can find a witness.”

For an instant, Valigny managed to draw himself up like a bantam rooster. Then, suddenly, his shoulders fell. With one last dark glance at Rothewell, he spit at his feet, then turned and went slinking up the narrow lane toward Hyde Park Corner.

Rothewell turned around to see that Nash had followed him out. His brother-in-law stood quietly surveying Valigny's departure, his arms crossed languidly over his chest. Humor, and a certain amount of sympathy, lurked in his eyes.

“And let that be a lesson to us all,” he said.
“Sic transit gloria mundi.”

Rothewell cocked one eyebrow. “And for the less literate amongst us?”

Nash smiled. “Thus passes the glory of the world,” he said, just as Valigny turned the corner and vanished. “He will be forgotten soon enough.”

Rothewell began to laugh.

Nash came away from the door frame. “That was not a bad piece of work for an invalid,” he said calmly. “But what the hell are you doing down here, Rothewell?”

“Taking light exercise,” said Rothewell, dragging a coat sleeve over his forehead.

“Indeed.” Nash's gaze swept over him.

“That's my story,” he said darkly. “And it's the story you're going to tell my wife, old chap.”

Nash just smiled, turned, and clapped a fraternal arm about Rothewell's shoulders. “Valigny is right, you know,” he said as they went back inside together. “You
are
a bit of a thug.”

W
hat happened?” Camille whispered in bed that night. She was looking, of course, at the faint bruise which was beginning to appear at the corner of his left eye.

Rothewell drew her nearer and laid his head beside hers on the pillow. “A lamppost,” he said, holding her gaze. “The ones in St. James's are quite vicious, my dear.”

Camille lifted her head enquiringly. “
Mon Dieu,
how did this happen?” she asked, instantly anxious. “And what were you doing in St. James's? I thought you said you strolled along Hyde Park?”

He looked at her, and stroked the backs of his fingers across her elegant cheekbone. “First I went to Hyde Park,” he said. “And then to St. James's. I had an errand I wished to take care of.”

“And you think that is light exercise?” she asked, mildly perturbed. “It is a good thing, I daresay, that I was still driving in the park with…with Lord Halburne when you returned.”

Rothewell cupped her face in his hand. “I hope, my dear, that you will someday be able to call him
Papa,
” he said quietly. “I confess I feel for Halburne in that regard. I can only imagine how he longs to hear the words.”

Camille wriggled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She sighed deeply, her bare breasts rising and falling with the effort. “This is all so very hard to accept,” she whispered. “And we shall never know for sure,
n'es-ce pas
? I feel…I feel a fraud, Kieran. I have never believed I belonged here, in this world. And now…can it be that I
do
?”

Kieran rolled onto one shoulder. By the light of the dying fire, he searched her face, then kissed her lightly on the lips. “I saw him, Camille,” he said quietly. “Valigny, I mean.”

She lifted her head. “
Où
?” she murmured. “At Tattersall's?”

Rothewell nodded. “We had a frank exchange of views,” he explained. “And Valigny realized the game was over. So he admitted it—oh, not that he was infertile, and one couldn't expect that. But yes, he said…he said he knew all along that you were not his child. He confirmed it, Camille. What Halburne told us today is entirely true.”

Camille's head fell back into the softness of the pillow. “
Mon Dieu!
” she whispered. “He…He
admits
this?”

Rothewell tucked a curl of hair behind her ear. “With a little convincing, yes,” he said softly. “So it is over, Camille. Whatever you had with Valigny—whatever hell he has put you through—it
is
over. Whatever you make with Halburne is to be your choice. Not his, and not mine. But your life with Valigny, that much is done.”

Her soft gaze holding his, Camille exhaled again, a long sigh of relief. “
Grâce à Dieu!
” she whispered. “Oh, Kieran! I just don't want his blood in my veins. I am just like my grandfather,
n'est-ce pas
? And I do not care. I am just so relieved. I do not know if I wish to thank Valigny or throttle him.”

Rothewell did not have the nerve to tell her the throttling had already been done. “You shall have the opportunity to do neither, my dear,” he said. “Valigny returns to France tomorrow.”

“Bah!” She might have been a quarter Spanish, but her language was still laced with French disdain. “Valigny can never remain long in one place. He is always on the run from his creditors. He will be back.”

“No, not this time.”

Camille turned to look at him, her fine black eyebrows drawing together.

“Not this time, Camille.” Kieran tried to look innocent, but it was a stretch. “I have persuaded him that the air on the Continent will be far better for his health.”

Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “
Mon Dieu,
Kieran, you are not yet well!” she scolded. “What did you do?”

He lifted one bare shoulder. “Nothing remarkable,” he answered. “Ask Nash. He was there.”

“
Oui,
I shall,” she declared. Then she closed her eyes as if savoring the moment. “But you
are
sure, are you not? And
oui,
it is a great burden lifted. As to what you have done, I shall discover the truth in time, I am sure—and report you to Dr. Hislop, most likely—but for now, I will just float here on this strange feeling of relief and…and of hope.”

Unable to resist, Rothewell threaded his fingers through the fine hair at her temple and kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. They had made languorous love but half an hour past, and already he wanted her again.

“It is my life's ambition,” he said when her lips looked thoroughly ravished, “to make you happy, Camille. I have my life back because of you—and because of you, it is a life worth living. I love you, Camille. Do you know that? Can you see it in my heart?”

She snared her bottom lip between her teeth and shook her head. “I…I did not know,” she whispered. “But you are a good man, Kieran. I know you will always be a good husband—”

“A
true
and
faithful
husband,” he interjected.

She nodded, her black curls scrubbing on the pillow, her eyes dampening. “I know that,” she answered. “I thought I married one sort of man, Kieran, but it was not long before I realized you were a complete and utter
imposteur
.”

Her arms came round his neck. Her body to his body. Their lips became one, as they were one. It was absolute and eternal, and the reassurance the knowledge brought would comfort him, Rothewell was certain, into the waning years of his life.

But his life was not waning. It was just beginning. He was increasingly certain of it. Gently, he pulled away, planting lighter, smaller kisses across her mouth, her cheek, and even her nose. “I have something for you,” he rasped. “Wait.”

Rothewell rolled over to fumble at his night table. When he rolled back to her, he pressed a carved rosewood box into her hand.

She looked up, blinking. “
Ça alors!
What is it?”

He smiled down at her. “My errand in St. James's,” he said. “Happy Birthday, my love. A day early, yes. But then I have never been known for my patience, have I?”

Camille laughed, a remarkably happy sound. “
Mon Dieu,
I have not had a birthday gift in years and years!”

Rothewell tipped up her chin with his finger. “And that, my dear, is a tragedy,” he said quietly. “I love you, Camille. You have changed my life—no,
given me back
my life. And for as long as we are together, we will celebrate your birthday—and with a gift, too. Every year.”

“Why?” she asked softly. “It sounds like a lovely gesture,
oui,
but not necessary.”

Rothewell hesitated, searching for the right words. “I will celebrate it because it was your birthday which brought us together,” he finally said. “
This
birthday, Camille. Otherwise—admit it—you would never have spared me so much as a disdainful glance—and trust me, your glances can be supremely disdainful.”

Fleetingly, she looked ashamed. “I was wrong about you,” she began.

“No, you weren't,” he interjected.

Camille set her fingertips to his lips, gently pressing them shut. “I was wrong about you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And what is worse,
you
were wrong about you. You have been wrong about yourself,
mon amour,
for so very, very long. And I love you, Kieran.”

“Do you?” he asked quietly.

Her eye were soft, almost dreamy now. “I have loved you, I think, from the moment I saw you standing in Lady Sharpe's back parlor,” she confessed. “You…you were tapping that crop against your boot, so very impatient, and looking—
ooh la la!
So very large and wicked.”

“Oh, come now, Camille!” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“
Non,
it is true,” she insisted. “You…you made my breath catch, Kieran. For a moment, I could not breathe.
Oui,
even then I knew. I knew that there would be trouble for me. With you. And I feared that I was destined to…to fall in love with you. You see, my heart knew, from the very first moment I saw you, what my mind did not—that you were a good and honorable man. That I could trust you.”

“Camille.” He lifted both hands to cradle her lovely face. “Camille, my love.”

He started to kiss her again—this time with more serious intentions—and then he remembered the box. “I thought women were supposed to be inquisitive creatures,” he teased, pulling back. “Do you mean to open that box tonight? Or must it wait until tomorrow is officially here?”

“No,” she said, grinning. “No,
mon cœur,
it cannot wait.”

She looked down and opened her hand to reveal the little box. Gingerly, she lifted the lid, then gasped. A short strand of diamonds lay upon white velvet, a ruby teardrop pendant dangling from the center. “
Mon Dieu,
such gems!” she whispered.

“To match your wedding ring,” he whispered. “Because I love you madly. Because I am so proud that you are my wife—even if I do not deserve you. And because I think, my love, that like your grandmother, dark red is destined to be your color.”

He lifted the necklace from the box. “Here, goose, turn round.”

Camille did so, her long, slender neck lovely in the firelight. The diamonds twinkled as he lifted it, making her gasp again. Carefully, Rothewell set it around her throat and snapped shut the clasp.

It was a perfect fit.