Page 33 of Wit, Wiles and Courtship

Rowe finally spotted Camilla standing with Laverock. They were in between sets and he must have succeeded in amusing her, for she was laughing. She was treating Laverock the same way she had once treated him when they had been on more comfortable terms. He hoped she knew what sort of a man he was and was not considering his suit seriously. He might be accepted everywhere, but there was a shadow of disrepute that followed him if only because it was unclear where his fortune had come from.

Then again, what did Rowe know? He was only basing it on a few observations others had made, plus his own that had not been particularly favorable. The sight of Camilla in his company bothered him, and likely weighed in his having gone from disregarding Laverock to disliking him.

At the end of the set, Rowe and his friends each went their own way, Pollard to find Miss Milton, and Weatherby to do his duty to some other young lady. Camilla stood with Laverock still, although the set had ended. He strode over to her and felt no compunction about interrupting the tête-à-tête. After all, Laverock had had his dance, and if he wished for another, he would have to wait for a second one at some later point.

Rowe bowed before her. “Lady Camilla, will you partner me for this next dance? Mr. Laverock will understand, I am sure.” On the contrary, Laverock looked ready to be affronted, but of course could not keep her attention after having occupied her for an entire set.

Camilla hesitated before accepting him, and Laverock bowed over her hand, lifting his eyes to stare into hers in a most impudent manner. “My lady, I will come for you tomorrow as promised for our walk in Hyde Park.” Rowe wanted to step between them to break the force of Laverock’s gaze. It was unseemly.

“I will look forward to it,” she replied with a broad smile.

Too broad and happy for Rowe’s satisfaction. Now he did step between them. “Shall we?”

She put her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to their places. Both dances in the set were reels, and he wished it were otherwise. It would not permit them to talk while dancing. He must simply take advantage of the few moments they had while waiting.

“You must be satisfied.” He had not intended to show his spleen so openly.

She looked at him with innocent eyes. “Satisfied, Lord Pembroke?”

“You seem to have made a conquest of Laverock.”

She inhaled and looked up at the ceiling—in exasperation?—and he noticed what a charming neck she presented. “I suppose I am satisfied, for he amuses me. And that is my objective for the season. Amusement.”

“Not matrimony?” he asked, studying her expression.

She looked at him strangely. “What do you mean?”

“You told me at Astley’s that you wished to make a match this season. You were bent on finding a husband, you had said, and asked me not to hover about you or some such thing so you might achieve your ambition.”

She laughed, her cheeks pinking slightly, but then stopped short as she sent him a droll look. “You are not heeding my instructions well.”

Blast. She was right. “I only wished to ensure that any sister of Lady Dorothea’s—wife to a cousin who is important to me—is not importuned. As you have no male relations to watch over you in Society, I find myself duty bound to fulfill the role.”

The music signaled the start to their dance, and her look was inscrutable as they took their places across from each other, the distance cutting off any response she might have returned. They performed the steps, he with impatience because it delayed the answer she was bound to give him. He wanted to know what she was thinking. Each time their hands met or they circled around each other, he attempted to catch her eye, wishing he could take her to the side to continue their conversation. There was something about their sparring that kept drawing him to her side and making him want to stay.

The reel finally ended and, somewhat breathless, he led her to the side of the floor. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” She stared in the distance as though contemplating something, then turned to face him. “It is most obliging of you to wish to protect me. But as you are not a male relation, or even close to it, I should dislike for you to feel in any way duty bound. You must allow me to fend for myself. I do so admirably, I assure you.”

He could see by her closed lips and glittering stare that did not meet his gaze that she was irritated. Was it because he had called his interest duty bound? Why should that bother her when that was what it was? But he did not like it when she was annoyed with him. It was one thing to spar with her and pretend to an antagonism he did not feel, but for her to truly take offense displeased him. Oh, very well, he admitted to himself. He did not watch over her as one duty-bound. He did it because he wished to.

“If I may not watch over you as a male relation, might I not do so as a friend?” His own words astonished him. They had been amazingly vulnerable.

“I am not sure that men and women can be friends—not true friends.” Camilla still had that distant look in her eyes that he could not read. Was she trying to picture the idea of men and women as friends and failing? Or was she thinking of something more precise…that she could not be friends with him?

“Husbands and wives cannot be friends,” he corrected her. “But men and women can be friends, surely. We have always enjoyed each other’s society, have we not?”

She turned to him with an assessing gaze that did not bode well. “We have. But I am not sure I like your manner of friendship. You offer all sorts of intimacies, but are only happy when the conversation stays in the realm of the superficial. Friendship with you is not meant to develop further.”

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly, but there was the call to take their places again. The break between sets had been too short.

He went through the steps of the second dance by rote without remarking the other partners. His mind revolved around what Camilla had said. What sorts of intimacies had he shared with her? Surely nothing more than what he would have done with Miles or one of his friends. An image of her sitting beside him in the drawing room while he held his goddaughter sprang to mind. It had been comfortable, as had been their time in the library, sitting together while a storm raged outdoors. Perhaps he had even said he was ready to be married because he had thought he was at the time. Had she hoped that he meant her? Did she have feelings for him?

She didn’t look him in the eye but performed the steps as one who was delighted with the dance and fully given over to the pleasures of the evening. As for him, the memory and question attached to it had shaken him. She might have had feelings for you, he told himself again. It was the oddest thing to contemplate, and he asked himself, Do you have feelings for her?

The answer came in a rush. He did have feelings for her. It was not the feelings one harbored toward a family member, or even a flirt. It was deeper than that. The delight he experienced every time she opened her mouth to say something, the inexplicable desire he had to wrap her in his arms. With sudden clarity, he saw that she was going to be his downfall—the end to his bachelor days. He was likely going to make an offer to Lady Camilla unless he could talk himself out of it. Because she did deserve better. He wasn’t even sure if he was capable of producing feelings that would last a lifetime.

The second dance came to a close, and he performed the courtesies then led her off the floor, his mind fully occupied with this startling revelation. He was not ready to speak of the discovery he had just made, nor was he ready to address what she had said. But he would say one thing.