Page 47 of Yielding to Love

“No. The trick is that I only do the things I can do well. It’s actually quite limiting.”

“La! That is untrue. Name one thing you would like to do that you can’t do well.”

“Write poetry.”

She stopped in her tracks. Then laughter bubbled out of her. “You win, Major. Arguing is one of the many things you excel at.”

He grimaced. “Tall and argumentative. Thank you.”

They continued on to Mrs. Clay, who was shivering with cold, but who nevertheless smiled at them in a knowing way. They went back inside. When they reached Neville’s table, Mr. Diakos said, “You are finished? We should go back to our rooms. I believe Colonel Harrington has been overtaxed.”

*

Camellia put on her nightdress and slipped beneath the coverlet on her bed. Major Taverston had rented the entire floor of a large townhome, with rooms fit for an earl’s brother. The linens were crisp. The mattress was soft and devoid of lumps. There were coal-burning braziers in all of the bedchambers.

He lived like this. Certainly, he’d endured privation on the peninsula, but at home, he slipped right back into the pampered life of a wealthy aristocrat. It must be nice.

She rolled to her side, curled up, and closed her eyes.

What had she once thought she wanted from life? What experiences had she been missing? Attending the theater. Meeting a poet. Dancing at a ball.

But there was one more. One more.

Two facts about Major Taverston. He was wedded to the army. And he was a rake.

He would suit perfectly. But she wasn’t brave enough. She was afraid she would fall.

*

Crispin splashed his face with cold water, shed his clothes, and dropped into bed. He stared up at the ceiling, furious with himself. He’d been aroused. When he slept, he was likely to dream of Camellia. Camellia. Given the way his thoughts were running, he would not be thinking of her as “Miss Harrington” in his dreams.

He’d meant what he said. She was fiercely beautiful. But that didn’t mean he should have said it. They’d been in a setting where they were supposed to flirt lightly, but he had never been able to flirt. Instead, he blurted out truths like a clumsy mooncalf.

He’d held her, breathed in lilacs, waltzed with her. She danced with such a light step, it was hard to believe she’d never waltzed before. And he’d become increasingly aware of how much he wanted her. This was not the usual demand his body made at random intervals when it was healthy. The physical need that sent him out seeking lightskirts. He wanted her.

Bloody hell.

She had been so lithe and warm in his arms…but what was he afraid he might do? Seduce her? He wouldn’t know how. Sex had always been a matter of a few coins, not compliments and coaxing.

Besides, he wasn’t some unprincipled rake, seducing innocents. He’d have to marry her if he wanted to get into her bed. And marriage was out of the question. It had always been out of the question. He didn’t want to leave a young widow behind or fatherless children.

And, of all people, Miss Harrington? He’d already established that she deserved a husband, not another sick man to nurse.

Chapter Sixteen

There was a time, not so long ago—and Crispin knew this—that he’d had the ability to evaluate a situation, make a decision, and act. He was known for, and prided himself on, being able to take quick and total control, no matter how chaotic the circumstance. That was how he’d risen so rapidly in rank. How he’d caught Wellington’s attention and that of the War Office. How he’d “browbeaten” his brothers into marrying their ideal mates.

He’d always despised men who hemmed and hawed. Now he was one. Despite his resolution to leave the Harringtons after Tunbridge Wells, he was back at the farm, turning over the soil in Miss Harrington’s flower garden, when he should be in London purchasing furniture for his cottage.

He sniffed. Purchasing furniture. Good God. When had the stakes in his game of life become so low?

And tonight, Sir Bodwell would come prattling about farming, with his “Nevilles” and “Camellias.” Crispin had meant to be gone before suffering through that again.

What he should do tonight was make a trip to Wheatfield. Visit the tavern and hire a girl. He hadn’t had a girl since Lizzie. Since Lizzie! He didn’t dare count the months.

No, what he should do was go to Paris and see if Wellington still had use for him.

He dragged the shovel through clods of dirt and tangled roots to break them up. What he would likely do would be to ask Miss Harrington’s advice about what to put in his garden in Binnings.