entered to find Jasper sound asleep with Maisie dozing beside him. The girl roused as soon as Camilla neared the bed.
“Oh! You’re back, are you?” Maisie rubbed sleep from her eyes and rose to help Camilla undress. If she noticed anything un-toward, she didn’t mention it.
But Camilla couldn’t relax until the girl had left for the maids’ rooms, upstairs. Even then it took her a while to get to sleep. She kept remembering his lordship’s husky voice: Even I know better. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to. Or you from wanting me to.
That was the worst of it—she really had wanted him to kiss her. To keep kissing her. And to do even more.
She’d never been kissed with such passion. How alarming to discover that she would very much like it to happen again. Like delicious desserts, kisses provoked cravings for more at odd hours. And she’d never been good at resisting dessert . . .
Oh, she’d have to watch herself around him until she and the countess settled back into their normal life.
But that wasn’t what Camilla wanted, either. Clearly, her ladyship and Pierce were both miserable in their present state. If she could just figure out what had torn them apart, then perhaps she could . . . could . . .
What? Knit them back together? She sighed. She hadn’t even been able to turn her marriage of convenience into something solid. Why on earth did she think she could mend this very broken relationship?
Especially when she had only one more night in which to do it.
9
T o Camilla’s shock, it turned out to be more than one night, and for the most unlikely of reasons. His lordship’s whim.
The night she’d gone to play piquet with him, he had indeed trounced her. Then he’d stated offhandedly that he had more work to do concerning the estate, so he was staying another day. He might as well have dinner with her and his mother again. If Camilla would agree—again—to come to his bedchamber to “entertain” him afterward.
So she had. And he’d stayed another day.
Then another. And another. Then three more. Each time, he’d claimed that some matter of estate business kept him at Montcliff.
She would have believed him, except that it wasn’t estate business that had him staying at the dower house instead of themanor. Or dining with her and the countess every evening. Or demanding that she come to his room afterward. She didn’t know what to make of it.
She didn’t know what to make of him . As far as she could tell, nothing had changed between him and his mother. Their dinners were still awkward. The earl was largely quiet during dinner, unless Camilla drew him into a conversation that interested him. She found herself making a game of figuring out what would engage him enough to keep him from bolting his dinner and running off to have his cigar.
Meanwhile, the countess seemed grateful for every halfway polite word he bestowed on her. It made Camilla want to slap him. And given how congenial he could be when her ladyship wasn’t around, his behavior was perplexing, too.
Especially since his mother refused to talk about him, no matter how much Camilla hinted and cajoled and finally asked outright for answers. It sometimes astonished her that neither saw how much alike they were—both of them maddeningly obstinate.
Most disturbing was how he changed when Camilla was alone with him in the evenings. He turned into the clever, entertaining, and utterly false creature whom she’d begun to call Devil May Care Devonmont. Oh, she didn’t think he lied to her, but that was only because he didn’t discuss anything worth lying about. He hid his true opinions, his real self, beneath layers of wit.
They played chess and cards, they read books, and last night she’d told him amusing stories about her years as a lady’s companion. But it was all very superficial. And he hadn’t once tried to kissher. Of course, that was a relief—or so she told herself every time she saw Jasper.
But
“Oh! You’re back, are you?” Maisie rubbed sleep from her eyes and rose to help Camilla undress. If she noticed anything un-toward, she didn’t mention it.
But Camilla couldn’t relax until the girl had left for the maids’ rooms, upstairs. Even then it took her a while to get to sleep. She kept remembering his lordship’s husky voice: Even I know better. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to. Or you from wanting me to.
That was the worst of it—she really had wanted him to kiss her. To keep kissing her. And to do even more.
She’d never been kissed with such passion. How alarming to discover that she would very much like it to happen again. Like delicious desserts, kisses provoked cravings for more at odd hours. And she’d never been good at resisting dessert . . .
Oh, she’d have to watch herself around him until she and the countess settled back into their normal life.
But that wasn’t what Camilla wanted, either. Clearly, her ladyship and Pierce were both miserable in their present state. If she could just figure out what had torn them apart, then perhaps she could . . . could . . .
What? Knit them back together? She sighed. She hadn’t even been able to turn her marriage of convenience into something solid. Why on earth did she think she could mend this very broken relationship?
Especially when she had only one more night in which to do it.
9
T o Camilla’s shock, it turned out to be more than one night, and for the most unlikely of reasons. His lordship’s whim.
The night she’d gone to play piquet with him, he had indeed trounced her. Then he’d stated offhandedly that he had more work to do concerning the estate, so he was staying another day. He might as well have dinner with her and his mother again. If Camilla would agree—again—to come to his bedchamber to “entertain” him afterward.
So she had. And he’d stayed another day.
Then another. And another. Then three more. Each time, he’d claimed that some matter of estate business kept him at Montcliff.
She would have believed him, except that it wasn’t estate business that had him staying at the dower house instead of themanor. Or dining with her and the countess every evening. Or demanding that she come to his room afterward. She didn’t know what to make of it.
She didn’t know what to make of him . As far as she could tell, nothing had changed between him and his mother. Their dinners were still awkward. The earl was largely quiet during dinner, unless Camilla drew him into a conversation that interested him. She found herself making a game of figuring out what would engage him enough to keep him from bolting his dinner and running off to have his cigar.
Meanwhile, the countess seemed grateful for every halfway polite word he bestowed on her. It made Camilla want to slap him. And given how congenial he could be when her ladyship wasn’t around, his behavior was perplexing, too.
Especially since his mother refused to talk about him, no matter how much Camilla hinted and cajoled and finally asked outright for answers. It sometimes astonished her that neither saw how much alike they were—both of them maddeningly obstinate.
Most disturbing was how he changed when Camilla was alone with him in the evenings. He turned into the clever, entertaining, and utterly false creature whom she’d begun to call Devil May Care Devonmont. Oh, she didn’t think he lied to her, but that was only because he didn’t discuss anything worth lying about. He hid his true opinions, his real self, beneath layers of wit.
They played chess and cards, they read books, and last night she’d told him amusing stories about her years as a lady’s companion. But it was all very superficial. And he hadn’t once tried to kissher. Of course, that was a relief—or so she told herself every time she saw Jasper.
But
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