Defiant Impostor (17 page)

Susanna gasped sharply as he grabbed her arm, not
roughly but firmly, and drew her back to him.

"You're in such a hurry, Camille," he
whispered in her ear, his warm breath fanning her neck as he enfolded her in
his embrace. "I've taught you so many things today, I thought you might
want to learn how a man courting a woman says good night."

"V-very well, Adam," she replied, desperately
wanting to scream out "No!" yet knowing that if she refused she would
negate all the progress she had made in misleading him tonight. Her mind raced
as he gently nibbled her earlobe, her thoughts somersaulting.

She could manage this, she assured herself, feeling
shivers of sensation radiate from the ticklish point just beneath her ear where
his mouth was wandering. She was the one teasing him. She was in control here,
not him. She was in control . . . oh, dear God, why was he nibbling her ear
again? She clutched his coat, unable to deny how wonderful it felt.

"When a man bids his beloved good night, he kisses
her on the lips," Adam murmured, his breath a feather-light whisper on her
flushed cheek. "Like this . . . very gently at first, so he doesn't
startle her."

Susanna tensed when his mouth moved over hers, warm and
fragrant with wine, yet with such a light pressure she unwittingly ached for
more. She relaxed in his arms, liking very much what he was doing to her mouth
yet knowing she should stop him. Why, then, couldn't she find the words with
which to speak?

"If he thinks she's pleased with his kiss,"
Adam whispered against her slightly parted lips, "then maybe he'll make it
a little rougher . . . a little deeper . . ."

A low moan broke from her throat when his mouth became
heavier upon hers, growing more insistent, more demanding, and she wound her
arms around his neck as she leaned into his hard body. She felt a frightening
wildness brewing inside her, like the time that boy had kissed her in the coach
house, but now it was so much stronger that she was shaken all the way to her
toes by its gathering intensity. She sensed there was more he could give her
and she wanted it . . . oh, she wanted it terribly.

With a wantonness she didn't know she possessed, she
opened her mouth to him as his tongue slowly wet her lips then plunged inside
to seek her softness, his arms tightening around her like bands of iron. She
tasted his mouth as boldly as he ravaged hers, his husky groan exciting her all
the more. Then, just as suddenly, she was standing dazed and disoriented
against the wall with only his hands supporting her waist.

"And if a man knows what's best for the woman
concerned," she heard Adam say, his fingers tracing her swollen lips in
the dark, "though he would like nothing more than to stay . . . Oh, God,
Camille . . ."

He didn't finish but guided her quickly into her room
and shut the door firmly between them. Trembling and breathless, she leaned her
forehead upon the wood, her hand to her throat, her pulse racing beneath her
fingertips.

"Draw the bolt, Camille," came his voice through
the door, ragged yet resolute. "I want to know that you're . . .
safe."

As she did what he commanded, her fumbling fingers at
last managing to hold onto the lock, the jarring sound of the bolt sliding into
place shattered the spell that gripped her.

Tears stung her eyes, her emotions in chaos. She waited
until his footsteps receded down the hall, then she silently cursed him for how
he was making her feel . . . wishing futilely, incredibly, that she was still
just a lady's maid and that he wanted
her
,
Susanna Jane Guthrie, not Camille.

Chapter 9

Adam leaned his shoulder against a tree and watched
with barely concealed irritation as the absurd scene was played out not far
from him on the mansion's side lawn.

Camille was seated in the shade of a giant spreading
oak, looking lovelier than any woman ought to in a sky-blue frock and matching
straw hat, while sitting on the bench next to her, standing behind her, and
kneeling on the ground at her feet were well over a dozen young men, planters'
sons every one. The only redeeming factor in the picture that so frustrated
Adam was that several women were there, too, clutching tightly to their
sweethearts' arms and appearing none too happy about the sudden appearance of
this new rival in the Tidewater.

Too bad he couldn't tell those nervous belles that
their fears were misplaced, Adam thought, and tell Camille's fawning entourage
that their hopes were for naught. He certainly had been tempted to do just that
many times already, and there was still the long evening ahead of him.

She had been surrounded like this since the carriages
had first begun arriving at Briarwood shortly before noon, starting first in the
main hall where she had greeted her guests, then in the drawing room and
adjoining dining room where light refreshments had been served while a
sumptuous picnic dinner was being set up outside. Adam hadn't been able to
speak with her yet due to an inspection of the fields which had occupied him
much of the morning, and now with this admiring audience, he didn't know when
he would find a chance to be alone with her. Everywhere she went she was being
hounded by these persistent pups, some of them barely out of their teens, their
faces still spotted.

It made him sick to watch the ridiculous spectacle they
were making of themselves, posturing and preening in their attempts to
outmaneuver each other in hopes of gaining her notice, yet thankfully Camille
appeared to be holding up well. So far she hadn't burst into tears or hidden
herself in her room; actually, she seemed to be making a very brave attempt to
enjoy herself and become acquainted with her guests. He could tell from her shy
responses to their eager queries, however, that she must be overwhelmed by all
the attention.

"Could I bring you something more to eat, Miss
Cary? Another piece of barbequed chicken or a slice of veal pie?"

"No, thank you."

'Tow about more lemon punch?" another piped up.

"I still have some in my glass, thank you."

"Would you like dessert, Miss Cary? I saw a
tempting peach cobbler on the table—"

"No, not yet, but maybe in a little while."

"I could bring a cushion for your feet. Would you
like that, Miss Cary?"

"Thank you, Matthew, but I'm fine. Really."

The bastard, Adam thought, his narrowed gaze settling
upon Robert Grymes's eldest son.

Already as portly as his father, with soft, rounded
shoulders that had never seen a day's hard work, Matthew Grymes had been
pestering Camille since he had clumsily dismounted from his horse and offered
her an enthusiastic bow so low to the ground he had practically lost his
powdered wig. Somehow he had weasled the seat next to her on the bench, his
fat, pug-nosed face sickeningly adoring as he stared at her as if she was the
answer to his prayers. By God, what Adam would give to collar that rascal, all
of them for that matter, and toss them into the river to cool their ardor.

"Lovely day for a welcome ball, wouldn't you say,
Adam? Shade on the warm side, but that's to be expected for early August, I
suppose."

Adam glanced at Robert Grymes, who was sopping up the
sweat on his forehead with an already stained handkerchief. Adam offered the
planter only a curt nod before veering his gaze back to Camille.

"The heat doesn't appear to be affecting Miss
Cary, I'm happy to see," Robert added. "She looks as pretty as a
flower and quite fully recovered from her journey. I would even venture to say
that she seems to be having a good time for someone who supposedly doesn't like
parties, which is just what I expected. When she sees how much fun we
Virginians have at our gatherings, she'll forget all this nonsense about being
shy and join right in. That's what my Celeste did."

Adam wanted to reply that Grymes didn't know what the
hell he was talking about, that Camille was simply enduring her neighbors'
attentions for her father's sake, but he refrained when the sound of laughter
carried to him. Camille was smiling at someone's comment, which annoyed him,
but he had missed whatever had been said due to the planter's asinine babbling.

Wondering with a twinge of jealousy what had so amused
her, Adam recalled the countless smiles she had bestowed upon him last night.
There were so many incredible things for him to remember about their evening
together, the kinds of memories that had made sleep almost impossible: the
throaty warmth of her laughter, the way her eyes glowed in the candlelight, her
delightfully flirtatious manner, the delicate lavender scent of her perfume, her
kiss, the astonishing depth of her passion . . . Dammit, he didn't want her
smiling at anyone but him!

"They're starting up some card games in the
house," Robert continued, undaunted by Adam's reticence. "Have any
inclination to play? With this crowd of planters, I'll wager the stakes will be
high. I know how free my boys are with their money—"

"I don't gamble," Adam said, cutting him off.

"Oh, that's right. I'd heard that . . . Guess I
simply forgot. Forgive me for asking, my boy."

Silence settled between them, and Adam was just about
to excuse himself and move closer to where Camille was sitting when Robert
suddenly blurted, "Ah, there's Celeste now, just come from the house with
her mother. It's been a while since you've seen my darling girl, hasn't it,
Adam? Why, I believe the last time was at the Carters' ball in May. If I
remember correctly, you and she even danced a time or two. What a fine pair you
made!"

Adam groaned inwardly, surmising exactly what Grymes
was up to as he waved over his wife and daughter.

The planter had foisted the pretty redhead upon him on
several occasions since James Cary had died, and although Grymes hadn't come
right out and said it, he seemed eager for Adam to spend time with her. No
doubt he wanted him to ask for permission to court Celeste, much as a half
dozen other planters wanted him to make the same request for their daughters.
They all seemed to believe that a crop master marrying into the family was the
same thing as gold jangling in their pockets.

True enough, Adam thought, watching as Celeste
smilingly approached with a cheerful-faced Mrs. Grymes, but he didn't want any
of their daughters. Nor did it matter to him that most of these young women
were beauties in their own right, with sizable dowries to match.

The only dowry he wanted was Briarwood. The only woman,
Camille. Especially now.

All he had to do was recall the raging heat in his
loins last night to know that his need to possess her was reaching new and
altogether unexpected proportions. It was coming to the point where he wasn't
sure anymore if revenge was driving him or desire. He was only certain that he
wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman, and that soon she would
become his wife. That knowledge was the one thing that made it possible to tolerate
this insufferable gathering.

Adam glanced again toward the gigantic oak and cursed
under his breath when he saw that she was now walking toward the garden with
her burgeoning entourage in tow. Damn, he would follow her if only

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Thornton,"
said Charity Grymes, her pleasant voice only irritating him further.
Reluctantly he forced his attention back to their little group.

"Mrs. Grymes. Miss Grymes."

"It's indeed a pleasure," Celeste added
saucily, fluttering her fan, "although I do wish you'd call me by my first
name, as I asked you to the last time we met, Mr. Thornton. 'Miss Grymes'
sounds so stiff. And would you mind if I called you Adam? It seems only right,
considering we're such close neighbors. And we have danced together before . .
."

"As you wish," Adam replied, dryly amused by
her boldness. He couldn't imagine this young woman ever having been shy, no
matter what her father had said about her. Though her freckled cheeks were
flushed pink under his scrutiny, he could tell by the lively sparkle in her
china-blue eyes that she was enjoying the attention. Clearly she welcomed her
father's plans for her.

"My, it is warm out here, don't you agree?"
Robert asked his wife, mopping the back of his neck. "Why don't you and I
retire to that refreshing punch bowl while Adam escorts our Celeste through the
garden." He smiled at his daughter like a true co-conspirator. "You'd
like that, wouldn't you, my dear?"

Appearing not at all embarrassed by her father's
obvious ruse to get them alone, Celeste replied, "I'd adore a walk in the
garden."

"By all means, then," Adam said, knowing from
their surprised expressions that they were somewhat taken aback by his ready
agreement. He was aware that he had a reputation throughout the Tidewater for
being aloof and brusque, a facade he had assumed to protect himself from just
this sort of situation. But Grymes's opportune suggestion was the perfect way
to keep an eye on Camille. "I would hate to disappoint so pretty a young
lady."

"Harrumph . . . uh, yes," Robert said, his
expression still tinged with disbelief as he looped his arm through his wife's.
"Well, enjoy yourselves."

Adam put his hand lightly beneath Celeste's elbow, then
wished he hadn't when she smiled flirtatiously up at him through her long
russet lashes. As they strolled toward the garden, he knew they were turning
some heads, which also annoyed him. Datum if two people couldn't be seen
innocently together without starting up the rumor mill!

"The Carys have always had the loveliest
garden," Celeste commented, pausing to smell a scarlet rose.

Adam scanned the grounds as she bent her head. His
heart raced as he spied Camille, seated by the river at the same point where he
had first revealed his intention to marry her.