Page 53 of Wit, Wiles and Courtship

Wordlessly, he shook his head and dropped his arm, but his gaze held her prisoner still.

“Why do you seek out my company at all?”

His eyes bore into hers. “I miss your smiles. The smiles you used to give me so freely. I am determined to win them back again.”

She took in a shaky breath. “I don’t trust you, my lord.” His honorific she spoke with an edge in her voice to remind him that they were not on intimate terms.

He clearly did not understand the message because he took a step closer until her vision blurred, and brought his hand back up to the wall, this time deliberately facing her squarely and leaning in until she could feel the stone behind her.

“Do you not, Camilla?”

She clutched her hands behind her back, the feather of the dart in her fingers, for fear that if she kept them at her sides she would reach up and grab on to his coat as a woman drowning and pull his lips the remaining distance to hers. As it turned out, she did not trust herself either. The air grew thick in the narrow space between them, and still he did not move.

“Do not call me ‘my lord.’ It is Pembroke when in public, if you will. Rowe when we are alone,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest.

“We have no reason to be alone—or to use such intimate names between us.” Her voice was thready and feeble. She knew she sounded weak, and it was infuriating. He would think he could do anything he pleased.

“Why should we not? Considering our history.” The memory of his conversations with her in Miles’s library during the storm—and then the drawing room with Augusta in his arms—rushed back as fresh as if it were yesterday. They had been sitting and talking as intimately as if they were already married. But they weren’t! He had never even expressed a clear desire to court her, much less proposed marriage. A protest rose up in her.

“What history? You come to our house because your cousin is married to my sister. That is the extent of our history.”

He stood upright, and she sucked the air into her lungs that had come between them, but he did not remove the arm that hemmed her in. Her liberty was short. With his free hand, he reached behind her back and pulled her arm from where she had tucked it. The dart fell from her nerveless fingers as he placed her hand flat against his chest. Her eyes were pinned to her hand, pale against his navy coat.

“Is that all, Camilla? Does my heartbeat not tell a different story?”

His expression was more serious than she had ever seen it. She made the mistake of looking up at him, then letting her gaze drop to his lips. He took that as permission, and in one fluid movement, threw his arms around her and pulled her close, crushing her against him and kissing her as though his life depended on it. His lips demanded hers, and Camilla responded just as eagerly. She was all fire, consumed by his lips exploring hers, and her insides were like melted treacle.

I won’t be able to move from this spot. I will have to be carried from here.

Like a hunger that had been sated, his kisses eventually lightened and became more tender. She followed his lead as her senses returned. At last, he pulled away with a curious look in his eyes and something on his lips that might have been a smile. He leaned down and picked up the dart, handing it to her. “We must not forget this.”

She was unable to respond, for she was attempting to discern what to make of his expression. His look was still grave and there was both a flash of consternation and something else she could not identify.

“I suppose I should not have done that, but a man only has so much strength.”

She looked up at him, questioning. Did he regret their kiss? Had she tempted him against his will? She had no experience with such things and could not know if she had done wrong. Except that ladies did not kiss gentlemen if they were not engaged to them. And probably not even then. That she did know. The treacle inside of her solidified.

The wind ruffled his curls, and shouts resounded in the distance of someone claiming their second-to-last token.

“I suppose it was not your smiles that I was missing,” he said, “but your lips.”

Her doubts increased at the intensity of his gaze, for he did not appear to be happy at the revelation.

“I suppose I will have to marry you now.”

Camilla’s heart sank like a stone. In a flash, in a half second, a series of understanding ran through her. He had given into some momentary insanity—an impulse—that made him want to kiss her, a woman he would not ordinarily think of in such a way. Heaven knew she could not have avoided the kiss herself—she had not the stamina. But to hear from his own lips that his unwisdom now led him to being forced to marry her was more humiliation than she could bear.

She turned and ran.

Chapter 21

For a long moment, Rowe stared unmoving at the space where Camilla had been minutes before and wondered if he were suffering from a state of shock. Why didn’t he go after her? If he was indeed in a state of shock, it could only be from the force of what he just experienced. It had not been mere attraction, notwithstanding her lovely face looking up at him with desire in her eyes that mirrored his own. It was not the kiss that felt like a cavalry had charged straight through his chest, a feeling which had so thoroughly overset him that he remained immobile. It was love. Love that blew his aversion to marital commitment to pieces, sending them flying into the wind. It was that revelation that kept him rooted in place. He loved her.

And she had run away, but why? Was it possible that the kiss had done the opposite for her and she did not want to marry him? Surely whatever had caused her to flee could be explained, could be rectified. The alternative—that she regretted his kiss, that she would turn him down, saying she did not love him in return—was too dire to contemplate.

He heard more people dashing toward the house and knew he needed to go too. He turned slowly, and the wind blowing against his face brought him out of his frozen state. You love her? Go and get her, the gale ordered. He began to run then, his feet sliding and ramming against the toes of his wet boots in the most uncomfortable way. The boots would likely be ruined, but he hastened on as a new thought reached him. Camilla must be shielded from gossip and he could only do that if he were at the house. The other guests would find it odd that she had returned alone and might ask questions.

When he arrived at Beechcroft, the drawing room was nearly full. The only person he did not see was Gerry and whoever had been with him. His eyes sought out Camilla, and with relief, found her firmly entrenched in the circle of her family. He tried to catch her gaze, hoping to communicate something reassuring to her, but she wouldn’t meet it.