Taming an Impossible Rogue by Suzanne Enoch Page A

would indeed have been intolerable. Keating was somewhat surprised the marquis hadn’t fled London. And yet he remained, and persisted in the idea that he would make this right. For himself, of course.
    “I could choose some other female and marry, but I am still willing to honor the agreement,” Fenton continued. “That is the best way to improve Society’s view of me, and of her. Tell her that. I am not going to send her flowers after what she’s done.”
    “Stephen, this isn’t a business arrangement. It’s a man and a wo—”
    “I am willing to give her a second chance. See that she understands that she won’t receive another. If she still expects posies and poetry after what she did, she is sadly mistaken.” He bent his arms, moving his face closer to Keating’s. “And I’m paying you a very handsome sum to see to this unpleasantness. Don’t expect me to do your work unless you wish to forfeit your reward.”
    The old Keating would have flung the contents of the inkwell directly into his cousin’s face, closely followed by a fist. The reformed Keating, however, merely took the piece of paper and tore it in half. “Very well,” he said, rising. “I hope, however, that you are keeping in mind that once you’re wed it would be easier on both of you if you weren’t enemies.”
    “You are the very last person I would ever ask for advice on the sanctity of marriage.”
    Keating’s right fist coiled. At the same moment that Fenton saw the motion and backed away, Keating reminded himself about the very large stack of blunt that would vanish if he struck the blow. Using every ounce of his willpower, he straightened his fingers again. “Interesting, then,” he said instead, “that you are doing precisely that. If I may remind you, you are relying on me to put your little ceremony back together.”
    Before Fenton said something that truly would get him flattened, Keating left Pollard House for luncheon with the Duke of Greaves. Clearly his cousin didn’t understand the workings of the female mind. Camille might blame herself for overreacting, but she blamed Fenton for causing the dilemma in the first place. And considering how well he knew his cousin, he couldn’t blame Camille for hesitating.
    If Fenton refused to make any overtures, the equation wouldn’t change. After all, while she might have acted rashly and underestimated the ramifications of her flight from the altar, Camille had decided she valued love—or at least friendship—over marriage to a previously well-respected marquis. Asking her to make a different decision while changing none of the circumstances wasn’t precisely reasonable.
    Of course she found herself in different circumstances now. He couldn’t even imagine the difference between being the pampered eldest daughter of a wealthy viscount and being an employee in a gentlemen’s club. Perhaps if given the chance again she would decide that security was more important than something intangible like affection. The truth of the matter, however, was that he didn’t want her to have to do so.
    Greaves waited for him on the steps of the Society Club. “You weren’t banished from here, were you?” the duke asked, straightening from leaning his hip against the railing. “I forgot to ask you, so I thought I’d best remain outside. Just in case.”
    “I don’t remember,” Keating supplied. “Shall I attempt it?”
    The footman at the front door only blinked at him once or twice, so Keating surmised that he hadn’t been banned from entry. Thanks to Greaves’s presence they were seated at a table in the front window—though it might also have been the maître d’s attempt to bring more attention to the club. How many of them could boast a murderer enjoying a roast pheasant in their establishment, after all?
    “Lady Ogilvy asked after you last evening,” Adam commented twenty minutes later, over a baked game hen.
    “Did she? She’s the one with the very ample bosom,