Page 14 of Wit, Wiles and Courtship

At a second smack of balls striking, Camilla took another step toward the door.

“Have you decided to propose, then?”

Oh my heavens. A rush of excitement shot through her so quickly she felt faint. I shouldn’t be here. They are discussing matrimony! How embarrassing to be found listening. She turned to hurry away.

“To Miss Eubank? I am almost decided to do so.”

Camilla froze in place when she heard Pembroke’s reply. A roaring sound filled her ears, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

Another clink of the cue hitting the ball. “I urge you to it. She seems amiable enough, and you have always said that was the quality you wished for most in a wife. No arguing, no high drama.”

“True. I suppose I shall do the thing once I can bring myself to it. Over Christmas, perhaps.” To Camilla’s ears, Pembroke sounded resigned, bored… He also sounded determined. She could scarcely breathe, and the pain in her hand was nothing to the dull pain that now filled her chest.

“Christmas. Why not? You know your mother will keep putting forth prospects until you choose one. As well you put a stop to it by settling on a bride yourself.”

“You are very right—even if my mother was the one to suggest it.” He gave a humorless laugh. “At least she can put forth no objections.”

Camilla did not stay to hear more. She retraced her steps as quietly as she could, and when she turned the corner, came flush up against a footman.

“Excuse me,” she said in a voice barely audible. “I had intended to announce to Mr. Shaw and Lord Pembroke that tea was being served in the drawing room but have forgotten something in my bedchamber. Can you inform them of it?”

“Yes, milady.”

She began to move past him but turned back to the footman. “Do not tell them you saw me.”

“No, milady.”

Now she hurried away as quickly as she was able and could only breathe again when she was out of sight. She crept up to her room and closed the door quietly. There were only a few minutes to spare before she would need to make an appearance in the drawing room. She used them by sitting on the bed and covering her face with her hands, the bump of the cotton pad pressing against her cheek. She tried in vain to keep the tears from leaking out. No one must notice her distress.

The disappointment was acute. Ever since she had been old enough to love, she had refused to allow herself to think anyone might love her back. Why would they? But she had let down her guard with Pembroke and allowed herself to believe. The enormity of her error doused her in shame. Had she revealed her hopes in his presence? Had he been able to read them?

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she whispered. Pembroke is not interested in you—he never was. He is holding out for an amiable wife. A Miss Eubank, it appeared. It was time to stop thinking of him as a friend who might one day see something more in her. Time to stop viewing him in anything of an intimate nature. He must be Lord Pembroke to her and nothing more.

The thought plunged her into despair again, and she knew she would have to ring for a maid and send her excuses that night. There was no point in remaining in the drawing room for tea now that she knew she had been grossly mistaken about his intentions. Her knife wound served in this, at least, for no one would think it odd of her to claim fatigue after such a trying day.

She removed her hands from her face and clenched the uninjured one into a fist. Never again would she be so foolish as to convince herself of a true attachment based on such meager signs. She had mistaken his comfortable posture around her, his small actions of protection or kindness as a sign of something deeper on his part, but she had been wrong. Fortunately, she had learned of it before he knew her heart. She had her pride, after all, and would be hero-worshiping him no longer.

It was finished.

Chapter 6

Grosvenor Square, London

April, 1807

Camilla and her sisters had arrived in their London house, along with Lady Poole and their old governess, Miss Cross, whose main duty was to Matilda now. Without Dorothea there to urge them to enter the fray, they spent a week quietly at home, settling into their routines and leaving cards for those families they wished to see. In return, invitations had begun to arrive, and that evening they would be attending their first ball of the season at Lord and Lady Wrexham’s.

Their mother returned from her morning visit to Lady Barkley’s to inform Camilla—the only one of the unmarried sisters to attend—that they would see Mr. Neville and his wife Anne, née Kensington, Dorothea’s friend. Also in attendance would be Lord Pembroke, Lady Milton and her daughters, and some other names which held little interest for Camilla. Lord Pembroke’s name held no interest for her either, other than to warn her to find some pressing occupation should he chance to speak to her.

The Harwoods, in London since Parliament opened, had also received an invitation, and Sophia promised to come to the party if for no other reason than to support Camilla. After all, she could well remember what it was like to be forced to attend all the events the season had to offer and how terrifying it could sometimes be.

Camilla felt nothing close to terror, but she had to admit to some nervousness. Nerves, and a stubborn determination to abandon the foolish fancies of her past and win over one or two suitors for the sake of her pride. Lord Pembroke should not see her sitting against the wall even once!

The bedroom formerly occupied by Dorothea was now hers, and she sat in front of the mirror, dressed in a new ball gown, which she thought flattered her figure. She slipped on a veil of confidence and practiced the smile she would wear for those who sought an introduction.

A knock on the door preceded Tilly poking her head in before entering. Not for the first time, Camilla noticed how much her youngest sister had grown in the last couple of months. She was now fourteen but suffered none of the awkwardness Camilla had at her age. She was slender, and although it did not appear she would be tall, her movements were graceful.

“I wanted to see your gown.” Tilly came to her, cocking her head to one side. “I knew this shade of orange would suit you. But the arrangement of your hair…” She reached for a strand of it next to Camilla’s face and wrapped it around her finger. “It needs more of a curl here.”