To Tame a Rogue (11 page)

His long fingers slipped over her breast and she gasped, trying to pull away from him and the foreign sensations he was creating in her body. But his lips were firm, persuasive. She didn’t even know that she didn’t want him to stop. But he chose that moment to do so.

He laughed, releasing her, and started to walk away. “That’s how it’s done, madame.” Then he was gone.

Camille’s lips were slightly swollen from the pressure of his kisses. Why had
he done that? She felt shaky. Maybe he just wanted to teach her another lesson. He was toying with her again. Proving to her that he was in control, he was stronger and more experienced than she was. He was making the point that he would always win any little game she played with him.

He had walked away as if nothing had happened. Yet here she stood, utterly confused, her heart still beating uncontrollably in her chest. It made her even more determined not to show any emotion come the night of the party. She would graciously laugh, dance, and talk with other men, but she would not
let Nicholas kiss her again. Nor would she be an adoring wife. What had Meagan called that rich woman who had come into the tavern in a snit, looking for her drunken, wenching husband? An
ice princess.
It was rumored the man came to the tavern seeking what his frigid wife would not give him. That’s what she would be from now on. A frigid ice princess. She would remain limp and unmoved in his arms if he ever tried to kiss her again.
 

Camille gathered her courage and stomped off, choosing a separate path. The man himself could use a good dunking in the river. So could she, for that matter. She was warm all over. From the dancing, of course.
 

22

The ball had been an unimagined success for Camille but her nerves were taut and she was exhausted. It had all gone by so quickly. She was saying goodnight to a few guests when Camille saw Genevieve approaching and then the room started to sway. The next thing she remembered was coming to on the ballroom floor and hearing laughter. She stood up on shaky legs.

“Why are they laughing?” she asked, leaning on Genevieve and looking at the women who were laughing at her. “Fainting is usually a sign that you are carrying a child,” she replied.

It took a moment for Genevieve’s words to sink in. Then Camille felt a wine-colored flush sneak into her cheeks. “Oh,” was all she could manage. She took a deep breath. “But it’s not possible….”

“You’re right, it’s not. Not this soon anyway,” Genevieve said. “It’s my fault. I’ve pushed you into this too soon. Romey worked you hard and then tonight you’ve exerted yourself and you’re tired. You did it all so well you exhausted yourself.”
And if my brother didn’t notice how you dazzled everyone, how beautiful and right you looked in his arms tonight, he’s an absolute idiot,
she thought. “I keep forgetting this is all new for you.” She winked, her dark eyes conspiratorial. “If it’s any consolation, you were magnificent.”

“I think I'd like to lie down. Is it proper etiquette to leave my guests now?”

“Forget about etiquette. You don’t feel well. Besides, many of the guests will retire to their rooms after this dance. It’s the last dance. You aren’t expected to dance it with your husband.”

Camille scanned the room, not seeing Nicholas. She frowned. If he was with
her
, that ostentatious, loud, gaudy, free-wheeling woman from the river boat, the one he'd danced three dances with, Camille would have words with him later. If she was going to play the part of adoring wife, he was going to act the part of adoring husband.

“You’ve fainted. No one would expect you to graciously say your goodnights…in your condition.” Genevieve laughed softly. “It’s the perfect excuse to slip quietly upstairs to your bedchamber. Let them think what they want. Go on….” Genevieve gave her a gentle push.

“Thank you,” Camille said softly, making her way out of the ballroom and up the stairs. It had taken every ounce of courage and strength she had to pull off the charade. It was hard work being a lady. Truth be known, however, she had enjoyed every minute of it. Even the first cordial dance with Nicholas hadn’t been too bad. He hadn’t danced at all like he had when they'd been alone in the gardens. He had been proper, polite, aloof. Disinterested
.
Whereas, her very skin had felt like it was dancing, hot and alive, at his merest touch. The fear again. She thought she hid it well.

She had danced with several very attentive men; she had not danced with her hips or stepped on their feet or stained her gloves or uttered anything foolish. She had held her head high, lowered her lashes coyly, and laughed appropriately at their comments—amusing or not. She’d learned a lot about the people attending the ball from Romey beforehand. It was all she could do not to laugh when Meredith Troutwine, a woman of formidable size trussed up in yards of aquamarine taffeta, lifted her nose in the air and walked off as Camille was introduced.

The woman tripped on the hem of her dress and fell over, rolling to the ground like a stuffed sausage. Camille had graciously offered her hand to help her up, despite the slight, and Meredith begrudgingly accepted, looking quite mortified. Romey had told her that one of Meredith’s plump daughters had been quite taken with Nicholas since she was thirteen, so perhaps that explained the woman’s animosity. The woman’s daughter was still unmarried at twenty and two, despite the family’s considerable wealth, Camille had been told. Genevieve had spent a good hour filling her in on all the guests and their quirks before the ball had started.

Camille had not had time to worry much about Nicholas and whether he had noticed—and approved—of her actions. She’d noticed he danced with that woman three times, and rather closely at that. The woman was curvaceous, with glossy hair the color of midnight and gray eyes to match. Her dress was deep red and deeply cut, nearly exposing her ample bosom. Once, as Camille watched them dancing, she leaned very close to Nicholas and whispered in his ear. Nicholas had laughed at whatever she’d said. Camille had quickly turned her attention back to her dance partner.

As she tread softly up the elegant stairs, she wondered if he was with that woman now, enjoying the sorts of pleasures to which Camille was naïve. He had probably sauntered off to the city with her dances ago.

Absently, she trailed her hand along the banister as she wondered if he kissed that woman the way he had kissed
her
in the carriage. Did it always feel so…alarmingly warm?

As she expected, the door to Nicholas’ bedchamber was open and the room was dark. She crossed through it to her room and softly shut the door, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. It was a beautiful warm night. She dug the pins out of her hair, letting it fall in waves past her shoulders, and opened the doors to the veranda. She stepped outside and inhaled the fresh air.

The moon hung in the blue-eyed night like shiny, wet silver. She could hear the soft rush of the river beyond. She felt irritated by the elegant gown she wore and carefully undressed, stepping inside to hang it in her wardrobe, removing her shoes and stockings, and then returned to the veranda in only her shift. No one was about; besides, her room was at the rear of the house.

It was very late. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair as she looked out over the gardens, trying to ignore the ache in her chest.

She found herself wondering about Nicholas, what he was like as a child, what he was like as a husband to his first wife. Had he played in these very gardens as a child? Had he known any moments of joy before he had become the hard, calloused man he was today?

She wondered about Meagan, about her uncle. She shivered as she thought of Meletios and wrapped her arms about herself. The thought of sinking into the soft covers on her bed and losing herself to sleep was very appealing. She stepped into the room and became still. The shadows were different. Or had they been that way when she’d come in?

Very slowly her eyes focused on long, lean legs crossed casually. Nicholas! He sat in the chair by the hearth, which was unlit at the moment. His voice slid out of the darkness, but she couldn’t see his face.

“I only have one question, wife.” He stood slowly and approached her, his eyes roving her small form and the thin fabric of her shift. He stood very close to her and lifted a thin strap from her shoulder, eyeing it with interest.

Camille trembled as his warm fingers found their way to her bare shoulder. “How long have you been in my room? I wasn’t….”
Dear God, had he watched her undress?

He laughed wickedly.
Camille stepped back, trying to put some distance between them. “Did you purposely try to seduce our male guests tonight? You put on quite a performance.”

“You were not pleased with my efforts? I was as gracious as I could be. I danced adequately.” She looked at her hands. “I didn’t stain my gloves and I wasn’t rude to anyone, even when they were rude to me.”

She walked away from him, cornering herself on the veranda. She presented her back to him, utterly hurt that he had not appreciated her efforts. “I tried to be what you wanted me to be, Nicholas. If it wasn’t enough, I don’t know what else you expect from me.” Her shoulders sagged slightly.

He strode to the balcony, pinning her against the iron railing, one hand on each side of her. “Right now I don’t care about gloves and decorum and dancing. I don’t care how you learned it all so quickly, from whom, or why.” He leaned close, his lips touching her earlobe. She trembled at the heated touch, which sent a dagger of warmth racing all throughout her body, stabbing her in parts she was unaccustomed to.

She prattled on, filling the tense silence with whatever came into her head. “I can’t give you what you want. I’m not like that…woman you danced with three times, or the cultured young socialites who’ve attended these parties all of their lives.”

“You’re not listening, and I’ve tired of talk.” His lips moved down her throat with practiced expertise, flooding Camille with new sensations. Why did his lips feel so good on her skin? Why was he kissing her tenderly?

The scent of sweet, aged brandy clung to him. He turned her in his arms, swept her up and carried her to the bed, laying her down gently.

He left her side for a brief moment and then stood at the side of the bed. He wore only his trousers, his magnificent bare chest corded with muscle. Camille clenched her hands at her sides. She felt such tension, such mixed emotions. Such...fright.

He leaned over her as if he would kiss her again then went still. In the wan light of the fire, he could see clearly the tears escaping from her big green eyes, fanning out over her golden lashes.

He turned from her and sat next to her on the edge of the bed. “Damn it, Camille.
Damn it
.”

She whispered so softly he almost didn’t hear her. “You promised you wouldn’t, Nicholas. You
promised.”

He walked over to the hearth, keeping his back to her. He raised his arms and leaned against the thick marble, his head bent toward the flames.

Camille admired the broadness of his back, the strength of his arms, the leanness of his waist, the darkness of his hair that came just to the nape of his neck. Why did she itch to run her fingers through his hair, along his muscled flesh? It made no sense. She closed her eyes.

“You’re right. I did
promise. I don’t know what came over me.”

He kept his back to her. “Sleep well, madame. I will trouble you no more. Rest assured I will not
be sleeping in the next room tonight. You’ve seen to that.”

Then he was gone. She heard him angrily grab something from his wardrobe before the door slammed shut. She was alone, in a beautiful house with an army of servants. She had everything she could need, everything she had ever dreamed of—but it had come at a great price—the sacrificing of her dreams. She had an unlimited supply of clothes, an allowance; she didn’t have to wonder where her next meal was going to come from. Yet she would trade it all for someone who loved her. And what had he meant, ‘you’ve seen to that’? It was a long time before she drifted off to sleep.

23

Philip sprawled across the silk eiderdown, lazily smoking a cigar and watching Marlena, who stood half dressed at the window, her auburn hair unbound and wild about her shoulders, her bottom looking very spankable indeed. “Hoping for a glance of him, my dear?” he asked.

She turned to look at him, her small hand entwined in the long, silken draperies. The coldness in her eyes would’ve been a warning to any other man but not to Philip Branton.

It was humid, and the hair about her temples curled riotously. “Just enjoying the sights,” she replied, turning back to the open window to watch the evening crowds below. “It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten what it was like here.”

Philip laughed. “You’re no good at lying, my dear. Never have been. You can’t wait to see the look on his face. You’re imagining how it will feel, aren’t you? Admit it. You only need to be patient a little while longer.”

He set the cigar aside and stretched, locking his hands behind his head. Lord but his brother’s former wife was so transparent. Even now he knew she was impatient for tomorrow evening, when they would waltz back into his life. It was not because she had ever loved Nicholas, no. It was simply that she liked to shock people. There was nothing Lilliputian about her efforts.
 
She hadn’t ever cared a whit for Nicholas, or anyone else for that matter.