The Duchess Takes a Husband, page 15
It was only in that moment that Jacob understood how Butcher’s betrayal along with that of his female friend had wounded him far deeper than a mere fight ever could. He wanted to refuse him. That forehead would swell and no doubt his eye would soon be discolored. He couldn’t walk through the club like that. However, Jacob understood from Christian how isolating it could be when left alone to deal with trauma. Their father had not been good to his half brother, and from what Jacob had gathered, Christian’s childhood of loneliness had only contributed to his pain. Camille came to mind, and he wondered if he should call on her unprompted. Perhaps she was simply afraid to reach out to him.
“All right, you can deal cards in the Gold Room. I’ll send Murphy to the main floor.” The Gold Room was a private room where only their most daring and wealthy members played cards and shot dice. Like the women Cavell attracted, they, too, sought danger. Seeing him like this would likely only whet their appetites for his next fight.
Cavell nodded and hurried up the stairs to his room. Jacob was already tired, but it looked like he would have to spend a couple of hours on the floor tonight. Without Cavell there to oversee things as scheduled and Christian already gone home, it was left to him. He took the stairs much slower than he’d descended them, becoming aware of the pain in his hand. He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the stiffness already developing and the cut on his knuckles. He’d been reacting too fast and had been sloppy with the way he’d punched the whoreson. At least he hadn’t ripped his coat sleeve.
Straightening his lapels and thinking he needed to go get ice for his hand, he opened the door into the corridor just off the main entrance when a familiar female voice found him. “Mr. Thorne, how good to see you, lovey.”
Chapter 13
The longer Camille sat at the card table, the more she became convinced that she had made a mistake coming to Montague Club tonight. She didn’t even know why she had come, except that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Jacob. She was very embarrassed by her behavior in the carriage the night he had seen her home. She had shamelessly thrown herself at him and ended up kissing on his lap only to be gently rebuffed. Was he disgusted by her? Did he pity her? It was finally the not knowing how he felt that brought her here, only now she was having second thoughts.
“Apologies, Your Grace.” The young man who dealt the cards had turned over a jack of hearts, which meant she had lost. This was not a surprise since she could hardly concentrate. She kept looking for Jacob, who was not to be found.
“No need to apologize. I’m not very good at this game.”
He smiled. “Another game?”
“No, I’m finished for the night.” She downed her scotch—another rebellion against convention; everyone knew proper ladies did not drink scotch—and stood. “Good evening.”
A commotion from the other side of the room had her glancing up from straightening her skirts. Mr. Cavell had just arrived. She had encountered him a few times when he dealt cards or managed the gaming floor. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but there was a character to his face that made her like him despite his sometimes intimidating demeanor. Tonight he was dressed in evening black with his dark hair brushed back to a shine with pomade. He walked with purpose, as if he had every intention of sticking to the perimeter of the room and passing through, but the crowd of patrons welcomed him with calls and greetings. He paused awkwardly to nod or say a word or two, but he kept a hand near his left eye in a strange gesture that had her angling her head to get a better look. Someone asked if there had been a fight tonight and she realized he must have a black eye. Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later as he walked toward her table and the better angle allowed her to see the swelling on that side of his face.
Jacob must have been downstairs overseeing the fight. A flutter of excitement had her glancing toward the archway hoping to see him following, but it was empty. What were the odds? The one night she had managed to corral her nerves enough to come here and he wasn’t working. Perhaps it was for the best. She still didn’t know if she could go through another attempt at sex with him. She walked around a group of men who were yelling at the cards at a baccarat table and turned toward the lounge to have a glass of wine before going home.
As she approached the lounge, two figures came into view. The room was separated into various seating areas for conversation, with each of them being dimly lit to foster a feel of intimacy. In the far corner a man and woman stood together much too closely for what was proper. She paused within the arched opening, unsure if she should intrude or find another lounge for her drink. The choice was taken from her, however, when she recognized the set of Jacob’s broad shoulders. She gasped before she could stop herself and then pressed closer against the wall and hoped she stayed hidden. She couldn’t move otherwise, not even knowing that she should turn and leave them to their privacy.
His back was to her, nearly hiding the woman, but the dress gave her away. It was a green so dark that it was nearly black. The woman was Eugenia Godwin, a widow whom Camille had met not an hour ago. In her late thirties or early forties, she was one of those attractive women who exuded sexuality and style. She was all curves and confidence, and it very much appeared that she was well acquainted with Jacob. She leaned upward—indecently close—and set her palm upon his chest. He put a hand to her waist and Camille felt a pang of jealousy. It was clear they were intimately acquainted with each other.
They were going to kiss. Camille’s heart shuddered to a stop, and everything fell away but the couple in front of her. She had waited too long and he was with someone else. Or maybe he had never stopped sleeping with other women. He was beautiful. Of course other women would want him. She had seen as much at the ball and then again at the cabaret. The women in the audience had smiled fondly at him. That knowledge didn’t stop the gasp of outrage when Mrs. Godwin’s hand wandered up to toy in the thick, dark hair that curled over his collar. Her own fingers clenched in a pale approximation of the touch, bereft at the hollow feel of the satin of her skirts. Why hadn’t she caressed him like that when she’d had the chance? She could have him if only she would go to him. In that moment she determined that she wanted him more than she was afraid of the consequences.
His jaw clenched, and he looked away from the woman as if he was impatient and not entirely enjoying her attentions. That propelled her into motion. Despite the tiny voice in her head that told her she had no right to be jealous, she found herself walking toward them. The movement caught his eye and he looked back, meeting her gaze. A slow smile of greeting curved his lips.
“Camille.” His voice was low and so welcome that she had to take a breath as it seeped inside her, warming places she didn’t have names for.
Mrs. Godwin had stepped away, putting a respectable distance between her and the man she had been trying to seduce.
“You’re late for our meeting, Mr. Thorne, but I trust you have a good reason,” she said and hoped he would take the bait.
His smile widened. He was happy to see her. “My sincerest apologies. There was an issue belowstairs that needed my attention. Perhaps we could talk now?” To Mrs. Godwin he extended his regrets that he couldn’t continue their conversation.
She accepted the excuse with ease and bade them both good night before she left.
“You’re here.” He said it as if it were a relief to him, as if he had been waiting for her all this time.
Her heart took flight, sending her pulse skipping. She wanted to forget what had happened in front of her, but she was smarting from a jealousy she didn’t understand and had never felt before. He was not hers in any way. Their one failed attempt at sex had ended abruptly and unhappily for both of them. He had never promised her anything more than his bed. One of the very important reasons she sought him out was because of his reputation gained from his experience with partners like Mrs. Godwin. It would be hypocritical of her to judge him or the woman or to harbor any sort of ill feelings. She knew that. Knew it with every logical bone in her body, but she could not make herself feel that. No, her feelings were very much in the primal part of her brain, which urged her to claim him for herself.
She forced her expression into something she hoped was neutral, calling on her early training. “I saw your . . . chat.”
A corner of his mouth quirked upward in that way he had that never failed to make her admire his lips. A barely-there quiver thrummed in her stomach. “Ginny is a dear friend who recently returned from a tour of Italy.”
Ginny? “Yes, we spoke earlier.” She flinched inwardly at her tone, because it wasn’t fair. Wasn’t Camille here because she herself was eager to explore their friendship?
“She mentioned that,” he said, his eyes hooded with knowledge of her jealousy.
“I came to tell you that I . . . I accept your offer,” she blurted out before she could lose her nerve.
His eyes rounded in faint surprise. “My offer?”
Lowering her voice, she said, “T-to try again. Tonight.”
“Camille . . .”
He glanced back as if assuring himself that no one had come into the lounge. Muffled cries of excitement from the gaming room confirmed that they were alone and everyone else was occupied. “Are you certain?” he whispered. His magnetic gaze came back to her, revealing a stark need on his face that took her breath away.
She nodded. The thought of him with someone else while she was too afraid to reach out for him was more than she could bear.
“Wait in my suite.” He took a key from his pocket and pressed it into her palm, closing her fingers around it and holding her hand longer than necessary. “I have to finish up down here, but I’ll join you soon.”
She had barely nodded before he moved past her, leaving her alone. It was for the best because she couldn’t find her voice. She had agreed to another night with him, and there were no words to describe the anticipation and fear that warred inside her.
* * *
* * *
The gaming tables operated at their usual brisk pace, but there was no crush tonight. It was midweek and Parliament hadn’t long been in session, which meant the usual House of Commons crowd was preoccupied with meetings in the private dining rooms. The atmosphere was subdued, leaving Jacob too much time to think as he moved throughout the room. He was entirely too tense and distracted to deal cards tonight. His body was strung as tight as a bow as he thought of Camille upstairs waiting for him. He had counted in his head the steps it would have taken her to reach his suite. Had estimated the precise moment she sat down on the sofa they had recently occupied. Had imagined her restless roaming around his inner sanctum.
The truth was, he could have retired to his rooms earlier. Cavell was there, if out of sight, should there be a problem. The club saw to itself on nights like this. The problem was that Jacob was battling a strange case of fear. Had Ginny awaited him, he would have gone to her in a rush, the way she liked it. They would have fucked in that decadent all-or-nothing way of hers and she would have been long gone by now. It was the same for any of the women he usually took to his bed. He knew what they wanted, but more importantly, he knew what they required of him.
Camille was dangerous. She demanded too much, though she had no idea she was asking it of him. Sex with her by its very nature was intimate. He had to be open with her so that she would trust him enough to let herself go with him, to watch her and know what she needed because she couldn’t or didn’t know how to ask for it. This put him in danger of her creeping beneath the walls he had built to keep women at a safe distance. Knowing the danger existed, however, didn’t stop him from wanting her. It sweetened the temptation of her. Thank Christ he would be leaving for Paris as soon as Turner signed the bloody contract. The distance would effectively repair any of the cracks she made.
Still, he waited until half the patrons had left and the clock had long since ticked past midnight to make his way upstairs. Just knowing that she was waiting for him in his rooms had him half-rigid in anticipation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had anticipated sex so enthusiastically. He opened the door, expecting to see her on the sofa, possibly asleep since he’d kept her waiting, but she wasn’t there. A quick glance assured him that the room was empty. Perhaps she had gone.
Frowning, he made his way through the attached salon and then the small library near his bedroom. Though a lamp was lit and a book lay discarded on the table indicating that she had been there, she was not present. He couldn’t resist walking over and picking up the brown leather-bound book. It was his newly acquired copy of The American by Henry James. Did she think of herself as the morally upright Newman, the American in the title; self-sacrificing Claire, the young widow who had been forced to marry her abusive husband; or perhaps the social-climbing Noémie, the only one who attained what she wanted in the end? Placing it back on the table, he walked to his bedroom.
The metal latch was cool beneath his hand as he pushed his door open. Satisfaction thrummed within him when he saw her on the bed. She had fallen asleep on her side, one hand curled beneath her cheek, while the other rested where he would lie beside her. She looked beautiful lying there atop the crimson counterpane, her bronze evening gown a perfect complement to the color. Swallowing against a wave of longing mixed with desire, he hurried through to his dressing room where he quickly disrobed and donned a dressing gown that closed in the front. His half interest had gone to full interest by the time he returned to his bedroom. That part of his anatomy would have to wait a little longer. He needed to make certain she agreed to what he had in mind first. Adding more coal to the fire, he turned out all the lamps in the room except for the one near the bed, which he turned down to a low flicker. In the soft glow, he climbed onto the bed to join her.
That odd cloak of intimacy that had graced them on the sofa returned to settle over the bed as he lay beside her. The club below, Turner and Blanchet, everything fell into the shadows around their cocoon where they both simply existed. She breathed in low, even breaths, her eyelids flickering with her dreams. He might have felt slighted had she been anyone else, but the fact that she felt secure enough to fall asleep in his bed made him feel full in a way he didn’t want to think about, so he allowed himself a moment to take in her beauty. She was younger than the women he was usually with, preferring older and more experienced bed partners. Asleep, she appeared even younger. How truly young she must have been when she had become Hereford’s bride. An intense ache swelled in his throat trailed by the familiar helpless rage that he couldn’t have protected her from that. From him.
Her hair was silk beneath his fingers, lightly roughened by the dry texture of the styling tonic she used. It smelled like jasmine. He laid the wavy length to rest on her shoulder, exchanging it for her hand, which he brought to his lips. Her wrist smelled of vanilla. He wanted to lick the decadent taste from her skin and find the salty musk of her. It didn’t help that he vividly recalled her unique and intimate scent on his fingers. Just once he wanted to taste her before this was over. He consoled himself by pressing his lips to her palm, allowing the tip of his tongue to taste the damp salt there.
She stirred, but instead of pulling away, her hand instinctively curved around his face. When she made a soft sound in the back of her throat, he couldn’t help but smile. No, she wasn’t one of those people who could do without sex. She was sensual and enjoyed touch. She’d simply been abused by the one man who was supposed to care for her. A black cloud of rage hovered in the back of his mind threatening to unleash its fury. She was so small and fragile, sweet and good, that he wanted to wrap his body around her, to protect her with his very being. Even though his body throbbed with need for her, somewhere lurking in the dark spaces he never thought to check was the knowledge that he could happily pass the rest of the night with her lying asleep in his arms. But he really hoped she wanted to do more than sleep.
Chapter 14
Camille opened her eyes to see Jacob lying beside her. His eyes were heavy and dark as he kissed her palm, sending excitement swirling through her.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice quiet in the near darkness.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She had been lying in his bed, luxuriating in his scent and the comforting feeling of having gained access to this private part of him, when she had drifted off. She went to sit up, but he kept hold of her hand and seemed in no hurry to let her go as he absently stroked her knuckles over his jaw. The beginnings of an evening shadow along the lower half of his face rasped pleasantly against her skin.
“I took longer than anticipated. It is perfectly fine.”
She allowed herself to sink back into the fluffy pillows, her body relaxing. “How long have you been here watching me?”
That one corner of his mouth ticked upward again, and she couldn’t stop her thumb from touching the soft fullness of his bottom lip. “A few minutes. You don’t mind that I decided to wake you instead of letting you sleep?”
“No, not at all. I would never presume to sleep here.”
He slowly moved forward, and this effectively put him over her, except his weight was supported by an elbow and he wasn’t touching her body. They were in bed and this proximity should have caused her a modicum of distress, but it didn’t. A flicker of hope sparked to life in her chest.
“You can sleep here,” he whispered.
Her heart took that far more seriously than he probably meant it. He was charming and undoubtedly talked to all the women in his bed in this kind and loving manner. It’s why she had chosen him. “Your bed is comfortable,” she offered, rather lamely.
He toyed with her fingers, the slightly rough pad of his thumb sending tingles skittering across her skin as it ran a lazy circle around her palm. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you the next time we were together, but it appears I can’t stop.”
