Edith Layton (12 page)

He’d told himself he wanted to see her because he enjoyed her company, felt rested and at home in her presence. Nonsense. He enjoyed many women’s company.

He reacted to her the way he did because it had been a long time since he’d had a woman? Idiot that he was. He’d never known a woman like her.

He always preferred dark beauties? That was his biggest self-deception. What she had went beyond any other woman’s beauty.

When he’d seen her tonight in that gown from another century, it had all come clear to him at last.

There she’d stood silent, smiling, reveling in her new finery. He’d taken her hand and instantly felt the shock of her touch. The rightness of it equaled the excitement of it. And when she stepped into the dance with him, she’d seemed to him to be the eternal woman, exotic and unknowable but familiar as his next breath. It was as if she’d come to him from
another time and place, but she felt just right in his arms.

No more deception, he told himself. He had to have her. It was as simple as that. His flesh knew it, even if his high-flown principles had not. He shook his head. The sleet collecting on his high beaver hat flew off in a tinkling shower. He didn’t notice. He was too busy thinking of the reason for his awakening.

He’d danced with her once too often. Her gown had been so low that when he’d looked down, he’d fallen—at least all his fine resolves had. He’d wanted to breathe the scent of that valley of shadowed skin between those high, arching breasts. He’d needed to taste that silken flesh so badly it was all he could do to remember that they were only dancing, that he couldn’t drag her closer and devour her.

She felt slight in his arms, but any woman would, compared to him. But she wasn’t so fragile that she made him feel like a clumsy, oversized lout, as many women did. She was fully grown, deliciously curved, and woman enough for him. Her eyes, her scent, the way she moved—he ached for her. He’d mocked the men in codpieces tonight, but he’d have been better off with one if he’d worn Renaissance finery. Good thing he hadn’t. Skintight hose wouldn’t have let him keep his secret unless he had worn such antique foppery. And he’d thought himself a master of control!

It wasn’t just the sexual attraction. He was not such a fool. It was everything she was and what she meant to him. He’d reined himself in and knew that from now on he’d have to keep doing so, if he kept seeing her. And he had to keep seeing her, if only for just a little longer.

He bargained with himself.

A few more months, only a few more. If he could get through this winter without another attack, he would ask her to be his wife in spite of the difference in their age and experience. If he got sick again, he’d leave as soon as he could, go abroad, and stay there until she found a younger, healthier man. She would. She was so enticing she hadn’t missed a dance all night, except for that little while when she was missing from the ballroom. He’d gone in search of her, beside himself with fear.
He
, who had faced enemies at rifle’s end and saber’s edge and never quaked. Because she was, for all her cleverness, only a young woman.

He’d planned to go home, he’d promised his parents he’d be there at Christmas. He’d write to tell them not to expect him soon. He wanted to bring her to them as his fiancée, whatever time of year that might be, if it could be at all. She’d have him, he knew it. He also knew it wouldn’t be fair to ask her now.

It wasn’t just the need for her body, though that need was overwhelming. It was the spirit that lived in that lovely body that had overmastered him at last. The charm of her, the uniqueness of her, had fi
nally undone him. He smiled just thinking of her bravery, honesty, her constant excitement with the world around her, her belief and reliance on the goodness of mankind. And best of all and most remarkable of all, her candid and obvious interest in one lucky man: himself

Eric smiled at last. Such a little heroine she was, such a joy, such a love. His love. His wonderful, beautiful Camille.

“A
nother engagement!” Miles groaned.

Belle looked up at her husband from her dressing table, her powder puff poised in her hand.

“I know,” she said sympathetically. “We’ve been trotting hard. I used to love going out, but I’d like to stay home of a night with you and toast our toes before the fire. But we can’t,” she said with more energy. “We have to get Camille settled. Her foot is healed, she can dance, and she must. We can’t sit back and hope her future husband’s coach breaks down in front of our house. We have to get her out there so she can find him.”

He bent and kissed the top of her head. “My little general. I know. But anytime you want to sit
home with me, tell me, and we will. I have a feeling she’ll do well enough on her own.”

“We may one day,” she said absently, staring at herself in the glass. “But for now we have to try. We have to attend this ball. Cammie’s so looking forward to it. Eric will be expecting us there as well. Go on down. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Miles went down the stair, suppressing a yawn. He wished he could sit with his wife before a fire now or lie down with her before one or…

“Oh!” a soft voice exclaimed in pain.

He looked up. His houseguest, Nell Baynes, was standing at the foot of the stair holding on to the newel post. She had her leg raised high enough for him to see her shapely calf and was twisting around, trying to look at the bottom of her foot. She saw him and guiltily lowered her leg. “I stepped on something,” she said haltingly, her color rising. “It must be catching. First poor Camille, now me. It’s a tack, a nail, I don’t know, but it hurts.” She bent her leg and raised it again, unsuccessfully trying to keep her skirts down, unable to because she was crooking her leg to the side, trying to see her sole.

Miles saw more than her calf this time.

“Here,” he said, and went to her, about to take that little slippered foot in his hand to see what was hurting her. He wouldn’t kneel at her feet, so he put his arm around her slender waist to support her before he lifted her foot high enough to see. He lowered his head and smelled the wild hot gardenia
scent of her and felt her supple body grow breathlessly still…..

And then he got a glimpse of a fleeting look in her eyes. It was a flash of triumph. He dropped his hand and stepped back as though her slipper were a hot iron.

“Here,” he said smoothly, recovering his poise, “hang on to the banister. I’ll get a footman to carry you up to your rooms, and we’ll send for the housekeeper to tend to it.”

She gave him a strange look, gone too soon for him to measure. Then she bent and plucked off her slipper in one smooth motion. She shook it and exclaimed, “Oh, that was all it was! A pebble. It’s out! I’m fine. I’m sorry, my lord, it’s just that my skin is so sensitive.”

She’d have been sorrier if Belle had come down before he stepped away, Miles thought. Because she’d have been turned out into the streets again, no matter what Cammie said. And he’d have applauded. He heard no pebble rattle on the floor when Nell shook out her slipper. The only thing that would have bothered him about tossing the chit out on her rump was the thought that Belle might have been hurt, even for a minute. He resolved to tell her about this incident the first chance he got—and get Nell Baynes out of his house the very next one.

But for now, he had a party to go to. And he devoutly hoped his sister wouldn’t be the only unwed girl to find a future husband there.

“Where have you been?” Eric said when he finally saw Camille, as she entered the ballroom. “Not out looking for broken glass. I thought you’d given that up.”

She made a face at him.

He grinned, unapologetic. “This is our dance, isn’t it?”

“She’s gone again,” Camille said gloomily. “I’ve been looking. I haven’t seen Nell in a long time, have you?”

He frowned. “No. I’ll go look then,” he said, turning from her.

“No,” she said quickly, grabbing his sleeve. She dropped her hand, blushing, as he turned back to look at her in puzzlement. “I didn’t mean that you should go now. I mean, I’m worried. But”—she hesitated, lifted her chin, and said—“It
is
our dance, isn’t it? I came back just for it. Nell may be gone, but I don’t think she’s in dire straits. Maybe she’s just feeling shy again. She’ll come round, she did last time, didn’t she? Even if she doesn’t, we can find her after, can’t we? What I mean is—how many more waltzes will they play tonight?”

She fell still, feeling flushed and bothered, staring down at her slippers, wondering if she’d sounded as petty, jealous, and selfish as she felt.

“You’re right,” he said, offering her his hand. “She’s safe enough in this house, wherever she is. Since you can dance again, we’ll do that now. Seize the day—or the night, as the case may be.”

She nodded, and gladly moved into his arms.

The musicians were playing a popular tune. Camille hoped she wouldn’t tread on Eric’s feet, because she couldn’t pay attention to music, not when she was in his arms. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the hard strength of his arm around her, the motion of his long, strong body with all its fascinating alien contours. Her breasts tingled when they lightly grazed his chest, and she moved closer. She wanted to feel more, to curl into him, to…

He moved slightly away.

He stepped only a fraction back, making the space between them no more than an inch apart, but she felt as though he’d left the room. She opened her eyes and stared up into his.

He looked…embarrassed?

Camille almost stumbled, forgetting the music and the rhythm of the waltz.

“I’m glad I finally have a chance to make good on my promise,” he said quickly, “but I wish I were a better dancer. Have I trodden on your foot?”

“No,” she said, and couldn’t think of what else to say.

The waltz was held to be a scandalous thing when it debuted in England. But there wasn’t a puritanical soul at that ball who could say that the way Eric Ford danced the waltz with Miss Camille Croft wasn’t as unexceptional and proper as a minuet.

And all the while he silently agonized—because
it was torture to be so close to her warm and yielding body and keep himself so far away. Because even an inch of width between them was almost too much to bear. But he could not, would not tempt himself or her. Not now, not yet. The fever in his blood was caused by her merest touch. But he couldn’t be sure that his malarial fever wouldn’t return an hour from now. And until he was sure, he’d remain her friend and no more than that, whatever the cost to him because of his balked desire.

“I’ll go look for her now,” he said the second the music stopped.

“I will too,” Camille said.

They went off in opposite directions, neither thinking about the truant Nell.

“I’m worried about you,” Camille said.

Nell stopped stroking the brush through her hair and looked at her with a wide surprised stare. It was obviously not what she’d expected her hostess to say. It wasn’t what Camille had planned to say either. But once she had, she knew it was right.

They sat in Camille’s bedchamber and talked in whispers. The rest of the household was asleep, but Camille was too keyed up after her night out and Nell had said she was too. After her maid left, Camille had crept down to the pantry to get a late night feast of whatever she could forage from the kitchens. She returned with leftovers, fruit, cheese, and bread. Now she and Nell settled in for a chat.

“Look,” Camille went on, sounding harassed,
“it isn’t my business—Dash it all, it is!” She put down the apple she’d taken a bite from and looked hard at Nell, who sat watching her with a carefully blank expression.

“You seem to me to be playing with fire, my girl,” Camille said brusquely. “Don’t tell me you’re not, because I won’t believe it. I don’t know what you did this evening, but I’ll wager my back teeth it wasn’t hiding behind a potted palm, as Dana said you did at the Venetian Ball. You’ve done it too often since. And besides, you don’t have a shy bone in your body,” she scoffed. “No one who looks at men the way you do could.”

When Nell didn’t answer, Camille nodded. “Look, I know how you feel about your old friend from home, the Covent Garden nun who struck gold. Are you thinking of setting up something like that for yourself here? I mean, be plain with me. Are you looking for a protector or only to snare a chap in parson’s mousetrap? Well, the first’s a thing I won’t hold with. And the second won’t work. The gents you’re toying with have all the money and power on their side. I promise you, you won’t get one of them to the altar, whatever rig you run. Unless he falls madly in love with you, which odds are, he won’t. Or if one does,” she added conscientiously, “his family will have something to say to that!”

She put up a hand. “I know,” she said, though Nell hadn’t said a word. “The Gunning girls didn’t have money, family, or reputation either, and they
married into the gentry. But that was generations ago, and it was a scandal even then. Rich old doddering barons who marry tavern wenches these days may make the newssheets, but that’s because they’re rare as hen’s teeth. Even if a wellborn fellow isn’t looking for a titled wife, money marries money.

“Now, the truth, if you please,” she went on impatiently. “Because you owe it to me. And because what you do reflects on my family as well as me. I won’t cry rope on you, but keep it up and I won’t have to. You’ll hang yourself. If that’s what you want, fine. But I won’t have Belle and Miles dragged into it. So. What’s happening here?”

Nell cocked her head to the side. She looked so innocent and puzzled that Camille felt stricken.

And then Nell laughed. “Well, why not?” she said, starting to brush her hair again. “I’m tired of all the nonsense. And you’ve been good to me, Cammie, I’ll say that for you. All right then, the truth. I won’t embarrass you or your family. But I was meeting with a gent. I’m looking for the best I can do for myself, which means I’ll be getting myself a rich fellow to pay my bills soon as may be. Then I’ll be out of here before you know it. I’m discreet, so no one will know anything until I turn up dressed to the nines in a gold carriage pulled by white horses. By then I’ll have taken another name. So don’t worry, no one will make the connection to you.”

She laid down the brush and put her head to the
side again. “But maybe a black carriage with black horses, to go with my hair? I have to make a name for myself, and a rig like that ought to draw attention, don’t you think?”

“But you have a chance to make a good life for yourself now!” Camille gasped. “You have a kind cousin and a chance to meet nice men—”

“Oh, Dana is kind,” Nell said quickly, “and handsome and smart, and he has money and a fine position too. He’s got manners and breeding as good as any man, and better than most. He’d be a catch for any girl, duchess or doxy,” she went on, sliding a glance at Camille. “But not me, because he’s my own cousin. And not me, because to tell the truth, as you said I should, even if he was a prince, I don’t want to marry at all.”

“You want to be a…kept woman instead of a married one?” Camille asked in disbelief, “even if you have a choice?”

Nell picked up an apple and took a bite with a snap of her white teeth. “Yes,” she said as she crunched it, “because what’s a married woman but a kept one who can’t change partners when she gets bored?” She chuckled at Camille’s expression. “Close your mouth, Cammie, or you’ll draw flies. It’s simple. I’d rather keep having my pick and choice instead of just one chance to get it right. That way, if a fellow disappoints me or starts nagging or pinching at me—the way men do when things go wrong for them even if it doesn’t have a thing to do with their women—why, then, I can
just cut loose, go on my way, and find someone better. And I tell you,” she said, shaking her apple at Camille, “I’ll be picking up a grand sum of money along that way too.”

“But what about love?” Camille started to say.

“Oh, be sure I’ll have that too!” Nell laughed. “As much as I like, and good love too. Because you know, even that can get boring with the same fellow all the time.”

Camille closed her mouth. She was shaken. Nell had said a great many shocking things that almost made sense. But that last did not. Camille wasn’t very religious or a Puritan. If anything, she’d discovered, her mind could stretch too much. But she believed in love.

“I’m talking about love,” Camille said, “not sex.”

“So am I,” Nell said simply, taking another bite of apple. “One’s the same as the other. I wouldn’t love a fellow I couldn’t swive.” She giggled. “Swive: do a push, make ends meet, have a bit of buttock. You’re a country girl, you know what I mean: mate.”

Camille found herself beyond shock in a new place filled with confusion and curiosity. “But you’ve never been in love,” she argued rather desperately.

“Of course I have.”

“But you’ve never mate…made love, have you?”

“Of course I have.” Nell said, finishing up her apple and nibbling on the core.

Camille swallowed hard. “But maybe he just wasn’t the right man for you,” she said, knowing she was out of her depth but fascinated in spite of herself.

“He?” Nell smiled. “I wouldn’t be planning what I am if it were just he. I’ve done the deed often enough. I know what I’m about.”

Camille sat quietly. Belle was right, she thought sadly. She never should have offered her home to a stranger. This girl wasn’t just a stranger, she was almost an alien. And now that she had obviously decided to be completely honest with Camille, Nell’s personality had changed too. She was at once slyer and more open in her speech, vulgar and yet friendlier. Camille was disturbed and alarmed at this new familiarity. But at the same time she was acutely aware that Nell knew things most girls Camille was acquainted with did not and spoke of things no women Camille knew would ever discuss.

And there were some things, Camille suddenly discovered, that she just had to know. “You’ve done it—often?” Camille whispered.

Nell nodded as she chewed the apple core.

“It’s that good?” Camille asked, wide-eyed.

“Glory! No!” Nell laughed so hard, Camille shushed her and looked nervously toward the bedroom door.