The Glass Orchid by Emma Barron Page B

rustle and snap of the trees and the jangle of a horse’s bit told Del that Jane had arrived. She began to call out a greeting but the words died on her lips.
    The horse that emerged from the trees carried not Jane, but Camden.
    He wore no hat, coat, or cravat, and his linen shirt was open at the throat, exposing a triangle of hard chest. Like the other time she had seen him astride a horse, his mien was comfortable, carefree, almost cheerful. It transformed him, this happiness, into something Del barely recognized. He didn’t look like the staid and serious young man of her acquaintance. This Camden looked wild, his blond hair blowing in ungoverned waves around his tanned face, flushed from exercising in the fresh air. His hands were ungloved, his fingers rough and strong around the reins. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and Del watched the muscles in his arms flex and contract as he guided his horse through the brush. She had seen such a thing described in every gothic romance novel she had read — how the hero was all untamed raw power and animalistic grace. The trite phrases always made her groan when read in print, but seeing the actual physical embodiment of them sent a shiver of excitement through her.
    She was so enthralled with watching Camden that she almost forgot to wonder what he was doing at the pond. It was too remote and removed from London for it to be mere happenstance that they would both appear here at the same time. How did he know she would be there? Why had he decided to confront her? She was about to call out to him, demand answers, but the startled and confused look on his face stopped her. He was as surprised as she to find himself in the present company.
    “De — Miss Beaumont,” Camden said as he dismounted.
    “Mr. Camden,” Del replied, trying to sound nonchalant. It jolted her that the man she had been working so hard to erase from her memory should now be standing before her.
    Camden looked around, as if he expected someone else to be hiding in the trees.
    “You look confused,” Del said.
    Camden cleared his throat. “I am a bit. I hadn’t expected to find anyone besides Wittingham here.”
    “Wittingham is a friend of yours, I suppose?”
    “Yes.”
    “You were to meet him here for a picnic?” Del asked, gesturing to the blanket rolled up behind his saddle and the leather satchel overflowing with food he carried in his hand.
    “Yes.”
    Del’s cheeks grew warm as she unraveled the conspiracy. “Let me guess, this Wittingham noticed you’ve been out of sorts lately and suggested a ride into the countryside would do wonders to improve your foul mood. He then gave you directions to an unnecessarily far-flung and secluded location and told you he would meet you there today at noon.”
    “How did you know?” Camden asked.
    “Because Jane did the same to me.”
    “So we’ve been set up.”
    “It appears so.”
    Camden laughed, but the burst of merriment didn’t completely supplant the dark expression on his face. “I can only imagine how this came about.”
    Del shrugged. “Perhaps Wittingham and Jane encountered each other somewhere and, after discovering how we are all mutually acquainted, hatched this outrageous scheme. It’s of little consequence how it actually happened, for the result is the same regardless.”
    “Damn you, Wittingham,” he muttered, as if his absent, scheming friend could hear him in London. “You can never leave well enough alone.” He turned from Del to his horse and then back again, as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay or go.
    Del could empathize.
    “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Miss Beaumont. I assure you I had no idea what Wittingham was up to.”
    Camden gathered the reins, and Del knew he was about to remount his stallion. She should let him go, let him ride back to London and out of her life and then finally she would be free of him and the turmoil he caused. But once again, she found herself unable to do