Page 32 of The Companion’s Secret

In answer, the curve of his lips shifted into something that threatened to melt her insides. “Am I always to be the subject of such careful study, Camellia? Well, the next time I kiss you, you’ll close those eyes.”

It wasn’t a threat, or even a command. It was a promise. A promise that one day, he would offer safety enough to conquer her fears, knowledge to quench the thirst of her curiosity. A promise that part of her longed for him to keep right that moment. Her breath came faster, despite her best efforts. “Next time? But we can’t—”

“Don’t be tiresome, my dear. Obviously we can. We did.” He crossed his arms over his chest and arced one brow. “The only question now is whether we will do it again.”

What about Felicity? her conscience prompted. She tried to shake off the question. Felicity did not want his kisses. But one day soon, she’d have them, whether she wanted them or not. Something very like jealousy flickered through Cami at the thought. Oh, how could she be attracted to the man who was supposed to be her perfect villain? What had she done?

She squared her shoulders and tipped her chin upward. “We must not.”

The familiar sardonic mask slipped over his face as he bowed and stepped aside, freeing her to walk away. “You see, I was right. You are a wise woman.”

Not truly wise, no—but wise enough to take the avenue of escape he offered this time, her steps measured at first, then quicker as she drew closer to the door. What had she been thinking when she had left the safety of the salon to meet him?

On the one hand, she had extracted an unexpected promise that Felicity would come to no harm. Truth be told, Felicity might be better off as Lady Ashborough than she was now, the pawn of a family driven to desperation. And strange though it might seem, Cami trusted him to keep his word. He had always been honest with her, even about his villainy. And she had never been certain that all of the things that looked like villainy really were.

On the other hand, he had behaved as badly as she had hoped he might, touching her, kissing her…. But what did it change? As he himself had pointed out, no one had ever denied his reputation for petticoat chasing, or anything else. Her aunt and uncle had known of it from the first and were still resigned to his suit; Felicity grew more so every day.

On the…well, she was out of hands, but there was still a third point to be raised in this internal, infernal debate: She had wanted his kiss. Still did. Fought with each footstep not to whirl around and race back to his arms and betray her weaknesses, rather than expose his.

In the end, she had mustered proof not of his wicked nature, but of her own.

As she exchanged the dimness of the gallery for the brightness of the salon, she paused to polish her spectacles, stopping near two gentlemen in earnest conversation at the back of the room. Who could be blamed for seeking some distraction from the shrill yet flat notes of a duet that was hopefully winding to a close? She would have gone by without a thought if she had not caught a few whispered words—whispered not just because the speaker feared to be overheard or to interrupt the performance, but because he could not seem to fill his lungs to put sufficient breath behind them.

“I trust I can count on your vote, Penhurst.”

The words themselves were almost as familiar as the rough voice. Another deal, no doubt accompanied by another threat. Another young nobleman at someone’s mercy. The man seemed confident he would get his way.

She kept walking, did not turn to look at the speaker until she was back at her aunt’s side. Under cover of tepid applause, she leaned toward Lady Merrick and asked, “Who is that gentleman conversing with Lord Penhurst?”

Making no effort to disguise her intentions, Lady Merrick twisted in her chair. “Where? I don’t—oh, at the back. Hmm…one doesn’t often seem him out and about, especially at functions like this. Come, come,” she said, nudging Felicity to her feet. “We ought to make our curtsies.”

With her thoughts still on Gabriel, Cami followed in their wake, not having been instructed to stay put.

“Ah, Lord Sebastian. I hope your attendance here this evening is a sign you are in good health.”

“Lady Merrick,” he gasped out, the words followed by the slightest dip of his head. He did not seem inclined to waste his precious breath on a response to her remark, and indeed, it was perfectly unnecessary. He obviously was not a healthy man. He was thin, too thin, and his skin had both the color and texture of chalk.

“May I introduce my daughter, Lady Felicity Trenton? And Merrick’s niece, Miss Burke.”

One shallow bow sufficed for both of them, and his surprisingly sharp-eyed gaze was reserved entirely for Felicity. “Sebastian Finch.”

“Uncle to Lord Ash,” Aunt Merrick explained, low, to her daughter.

Whatever his other ailments, Lord Sebastian’s hearing seemed to be perfectly acute, and the shortened form of his family title did not sit well with the man. Though he did not scold with words, the scowl he shot in her aunt’s direction was sufficient to send a chill through Cami too.

Gabriel’s uncle was the man she had twice overheard plotting to ruin some unknown gentleman. And he did not strike her as the kind of man who would scruple to make even his own nephew miserable.

Or worse.

“Then you and I may soon be—” Felicity began, speaking more to herself than to him. Now that cold, ruthless look turned to her, and her words squeaked to a halt. Rather than acknowledge the rumors of his nephew’s pending engagement to the young woman standing before him, Lord Sebastian cut her instead. With a sharp jerk of his chin he gave silent orders to a goggling Lord Penhurst to show him to a chair.

Felicity paled, then flushed red. Tears glittered along her eyelashes. Instead of returning to their seats, Aunt Merrick huffed and marched them toward the door. The footman was just returning to his post.

“The Trenton carriage. Immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Though the footman moved with alacrity, the carriage’s arrival was not immediate. They had to wait several long, awkward minutes for their coach to be sorted from the others and brought around to the front of the house. Ample time for Felicity’s embarrassment to advance from crimson-cheeked embarrassment to pale, trembling mortification. Meanwhile, Lady Merrick’s indignity seethed and boiled and began to spill from her lips like a foaming pot the cook had forgotten to remove from the fire.