Page 52 of Yielding to Love

Chapter Seventeen

How was one supposed to behave the morning afterward? Camellia had not thought of that—what to say to him when they saw each other again. What could she possibly say?

She dressed in a modest blue gown, nothing red, and went downstairs. Neville was at the table by himself, a light blanket draped across his shoulders. His face was more haggard than ever. Camellia took the seat beside him.

“Are you feeling better?”

He grunted. “Stop fussing.” He pushed aside his plate and picked up his cup of coffee.

“And where is the major this morning?” Good Lord. Her voice was pitched as high as a nervous schoolgirl’s.

“Gone into Tonbridge. He said that horse of his lost a shoe.”

“Oh.” Was that true? Or an excuse to avoid her? Across the table from Neville lay a plate and an empty teacup. If Mrs. Clay had not cleared them away yet, the major must have just left. And was that—“Did he have toast?” Crumbs and a bite of crust remained on the plate. But he didn’t eat bread. He’d said he didn’t.

Neville shrugged impatiently. “He’d already finished when Diakos brought me out. Then he bolted.”

“The major bolted?”

“In a hurry to get the horse seen to. Bring me another cup of coffee, will you? My throat is dry as sand.”

*

Crispin pointed Mercury in the general direction of London and let him run. It was not until the horse was panting and lathered that he cursed himself and turned around. He had to go back. Rogue he might be, but he would nevertheless go back. His fate was sealed.

At first, he’d tried telling himself that it made no sense. That he couldn’t believe Camellia had come to him and he had taken her. But that was denial, not disbelief. He’d fallen into an age-old woman’s trap. God! He’d heeded Vanessa’s warning not to swoop young ladies alone out onto dark balconies. Did he really need her to tell him it was a bad idea to take his ex-commander’s sister to bed?

How long had Camellia been dangling after him?

It was not that he considered himself such a prize. But the Taverston name meant something. He had property and a comfortable degree of wealth. And he was in line for an earldom, though it was impossible to see himself outliving Jasper. In catching him, she had done well for herself.

Until he fell sick again. Then she would see the devil’s bargain she’d made.

Damn it! He’d liked her. That was what made him so furious. He’d liked her. He’d trusted her. Even confided in her. And then, she turned around and did this!

It was not even cleverly done. He could have appreciated a well-plotted ensnarement. But she’d merely jumped into his bed. He should have demanded that she leave. Why didn’t he? Why the blazes didn’t he? Why the bloody hell didn’t he?

The same thoughts whirled again and again through his brain as he retraced the path of his flight. He approached a village he’d passed by a short time earlier. He had to stop. Mercury needed a rest. And he was in no hurry to reach the farm. No rush to approach the colonel like some honorable mooncalf and ask for the trollop’s hand.

Who had taught her how to pleasure a man? He hoped not Manfred. Certainly not Castor. The idea sickened him. No. Some young fellow in town. Or in London. Surely that night at the Temple of the Muses, she had been waiting to rendezvous with an inamorato. The poem she’d written—something about being in her lover’s arms at night. Who?

He dismounted in the village and led Mercury along a dirt street, oblivious to his surroundings.

His chest ached. Or his heart hurt. He didn’t want to believe she’d had other lovers, but neither did he want to have been the one to ruin her. He should have checked the bed linens. He’d been too stupefied to even examine the linens for blood. But she wasn’t an innocent. She couldn’t be. Not with that wanton’s touch. She’d licked him.

He came across a tavern. A small, suitably filthy place. He entered and tossed a coin to the man who stepped forward. “Water my horse.”

“Yes, Milord. Of course. And for you?”

Damn it all. Let her see what she was getting. “A mug of ale.”

*

Camellia’s state of mind veered from nervous, to calm, to panicky as the day wore on and Major Taverston did not return. At one point, she even went upstairs to sneak a look into his room. A faint hint of his cologne hung in the air, but the chamber was immaculate. Except for his valise in the corner, he might never have been there. But surely the valise indicated he meant to come back.

Standing there in the emptiness, she felt a shiver as it occurred to her how little she knew him. Why had he joined the army? When was he going back to it? Had he ever been in love? Did he have a sweetheart? She wasn’t about to go sifting through his valise for clues, but she recalled that she had old letters from Neville that referred to “Lieutenant Cheatdeath.”

She spun about and went to her own chamber, where the accumulated clutter of twenty-six years welcomed her, chasing away the oppressive nothingness that she’d felt in the guestroom. She opened the right-hand drawer of her writing desk. The drawer was full of letters, tied with ribbons in neat little stacks.