Page 82 of Yielding to Love

He moved to his parlor and examined the walls, which were covered with a large expanse of green-and-yellow floral paper. A few paintings would be nice to break that up. He sat down in his most comfortable chair to take a mental inventory. There were heavy brass trimmings on the mahogany side tables. Very staid. If he removed two of the four tables, could he fit a pianoforte? But he’d already bought one for Binnings.

Binnings. Autumn was a good time to be at the lake. He could stable Mercury there. Perhaps add another horse or two. Maybe a broodmare—that was something to consider, wasn’t it? A few broodmares. Ah! He was waking up to the possibilities of civilian life. And his family could come visit him.

As Crispin rested back in his chair, letting his mind wander far afield, he grew aware of someone knocking on his door. Who would come calling? He should have brought Gerald. An earl’s brother shouldn’t be serving as his own porter. He couldn’t very well announce to an unwanted visitor that he wasn’t at home.

He roused himself, went to the entry hall, and pulled open the door.

Unbelievably, there, on his doorstep, bathed in sunshine, stood Camellia. His pulse quickened. She was draped in black, like a medieval nun, just as she’d been the first time he’d seen her, with that uncanny tuft of white hair slipping out from under her bonnet. Still beguiling.

And still mad. She must be mad. To come here alone? Why in God’s name…was she going to attempt to seduce him again? He felt a surge of desire. An unwanted response to the unlikely possibility.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice rasped as though he’d stuffed his mouth with gravel.

She stared at him, but said nothing. That was how she had played it the first time, slipping soundlessly into his bedchamber.

“How did you know I was here?” he demanded. Was she following him about? Spying?

“I-I took a chance. You were not at home yesterday, so I thought perhaps you would be today.”

She didn’t know he had been staying at his brother’s. How unfortunate she had come to Albany at a time when he happened to be there.

“Well, don’t stand on my doorstep. I don’t want it spread about I have widows calling on me. They will line up around the block.”

After she stepped inside, he closed the door, turned his back on her, and walked to the parlor, chased by a faint scent of lilacs. He heard hesitant footsteps, as though she were peering about to ascertain if they were alone. For a minute, he considered leading her to his bedchamber. Just to make her uncomfortable. What was wrong with him? She was not the enemy; there was no reason to be cruel.

Except that she had caught him off-guard. An unpardonable offense. She always caught him off-guard. He had intended to call upon her. That was the acceptable way of doing things. Why must she always choose the unacceptable?

In the parlor, he gestured to the couch, a comfortable couch with deep cushions and rolled arms. It looked designed for trysting. At least, it did now. He’d never thought that before. “Have a seat, Camellia.”

She scowled at him. “Thank you, Crispin.” She said it sourly. Not as though they were friends, but rather acknowledging that they were purposefully disrespecting one another. She stepped to the couch and sat. Black crepe billowed around her. She looked very small. Small and sad. Small and sad and determined.

“I should offer my condolences,” he said, forcing the words from his mouth. “You’ve suffered loss, and I am sorry for you. You know how much I admired the colonel.”

She nodded and murmured, “Thank you.”

After that perfunctory exchange, they were silent. She appeared horribly uncomfortable. Still, he waited for her to speak. There was no reason to make this easier for her—whatever this was.

When the silence had gone on too long for his comfort, he said, “The condolences are also for your husband and your baby. Imagine my surprise when I heard.”

“I—I must…but did you…” Rather than complete her thought, she shook her head. Her eyes looked shiny, and her chin quivered. He hoped she would not resort to tears.

“I meant to call on you,” he said, deciding to stop towering over her. He sat across from her on a too-short, gray-and-white-striped chair. “It didn’t occur to me that you might hunt me down.” He laughed meanly. “I don’t know why it didn’t. Propriety has never guided you before.”

“Please don’t.”

He felt a pang. Of guilt? Of anger? “Don’t what?” Now he was being snide and disingenuous. The woman brought out the worst in him. The very worst. She couldn’t have come to extract his condolences. So what the devil did she want?

She gave him a narrow look, but didn’t answer. Ah, she wielded silence as a weapon. It took great effort not to drum his fingers against his knees. He refused to be nervous. To act nervous. Hadn’t he always said uncomfortable conversations were his strength? He attacked them head-on.

“So,” he drew out the word. “I can only assume that you’ve realized you made a mistake, my lady. You should not have chosen Sir Bodwell.”

She blinked rapidly and twisted her hands in her skirt. “It was not a choice. I had no choice.”

He snorted. “Oh, come now. No one forced you into my bed. That was your choice.” He leaned forward, elbows on thighs. “And you told me you chose not to marry. Not to marry at all.” He cocked his head to one side. “Or was that supposed to be a gentle rejection of my suit?” A gentle rejection after harshly informing him he was a terrible lover.

“No. No, I meant it.”

She was trembling. Damn it. He steeled himself against pity. There were facts he needed to know. His voice flattened as he slid too effortlessly into his interrogator’s role.