Page 33 of The Companion’s Secret

“I don’t—how dare—who would think—wait until Merrick hears of this!”

When they arrived at Trenton House, Wafford bowed them in, and Lady Merrick marched past, still muttering a half-voiced tirade against the bad behavior of both Lord Sebastian Finch and his nephew. “Tell King to make up one of her special tisanes for my headache,” she barked, then pressed the fingertips of her free hand to her temple with a moan.

Both Tom and Wafford were only too willing to believe that the order had been directed at them, if it provided an excuse to escape her ladyship’s black mood. With quick steps, they tried to hurry past one another to deliver the message. Linking elbows with her daughter, she began slowly to ascend the stairs, leaning heavily on Felicity’s arm, though Felicity’s wan face and stumbling steps suggested she might really be the one in need of assistance.

Cami waited until the creak on the stairs rose high enough that she did not think she would be called upon to follow, then strode to the back of the house to take the servants’ stairs to her attic room. When she opened the door, warm air, heavy with the scent of camellias, greeted her. Without even pausing to light a candle, she crossed the room, thrust open the small, high window, and tossed the bouquet out, chipped tumbler and all. The satisfying crash of glass against cobblestones never reached her ears, however. The street was too far below.

And the flowers’ distinctive aroma lingered in her small, stuffy chamber.

Pacing back to her desk, she caught a shadowy glimpse of herself in the looking glass above the washstand. The ribbon. That damned ribbon. Scratching at her throat, spearing her fingers into her hair, she struggled to free herself from it. But it only wound itself tighter, tangling, snarling. Oh, what had she done? To Felicity? To herself?

After dragging a deep breath into her lungs, she lit a candle, then began again, methodically unwinding and unthreading until the silk coiled on her palm like a living thing. Her eyes darted to the open window, but this time her fingers gripped convulsively and would not obey her rash command to be rid of it. With a sigh, she let the ribbon spill into a drawer. It would be a reminder of his touch, of his tempting kiss. A reminder of her foolishness.

Desperate for something to distract her, she opened her writing desk and looked at her book. She had heeded Mr. Dawkins’s directive to make the villain more realistic, more believable. He was real all right. Real enough that she swore she could still feel the heat of his palm where it circled her hip, smell the sinful lure of his cologne, taste his lips on hers. But readers were supposed to despise Granville, not desire him. Had she saved her book, or ruined it? With unaccustomed hesitation, she withdrew the final pages of the manuscript, the scene in which Róisín saved herself and secured her freedom through Lord Granville’s death.

Did Cami have the strength to face the story’s inevitably tragic end?

She picked up her pen, but before she could dip it into the ink, there was a soft rap at the door. Hurriedly, she stuffed the few loose sheets of paper into the drawer atop the ribbon and closed the lid to her writing desk. Who could be knocking at this hour?

“Yes?”

“May I come in, Cousin?” Though muffled by the thick oak panel, Felicity’s voice betrayed her exhaustion.

Cami rose and opened the door. Even by the light of the single candle, Cami could see that Felicity’s eyes were still rimmed with red. “Are you all right?”

“I shall be, if a certain gentleman will find the courage to defy his uncle and come to the point.”

Cami did not think it was courage Lord Ashborough lacked. “The, uh, the uncle who served as his guardian?”

“No. That was his mother’s brother. The gentleman we met this evening is his father’s. Mama says he disapproves most strenuously of the reputation his nephew has acquired and has been quite public with his protestations.”

“That is unfortunate,” Cami said. Though perhaps understandable. “Still, has he any particular claim to authority over…?”

Felicity bristled. “Lord Ash may do as he pleases, of course, with or without Lord Sebastian Finch’s consent. So it cannot be for that reason he refuses to propose.”

“Refuses?” Cami cursed the spark of something very like hope that flickered to life inside her. No. No. He was not free. And she ought not to want him, even if he were. “I thought all had been arranged?”

“There has been no offer, no announcement of our betrothal. But our names are already linked. You heard them tonight. The gossip is on everyone’s tongue.” Lowering her gaze, she began to twist her fingers in her skirt. “I begin to fear he has set out to punish our family further by humiliating me.”

Cami recalled Lady Penhurst’s smirk. If Lord Ashborough did not propose marriage soon, Felicity would be an object of derision among the ton, perhaps even unmarriageable, depending on the quantity of venom in those wagging tongues.

“But I thought you did not wish to marry Lord Ashborough?”

“Well, I—I don’t,” Felicity admitted, flustered. “It would be misery.”

“Misery? Surely not.” Cami spoke, as she so often did, before she thought how it would sound. Rather, she had been thinking of his kiss. Felicity’s eyes flared with surprise at her denial. “Unless there is another to whom your heart belongs,” Cami added hastily. Although they were alone, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “I have thought, perhaps, that you and Mr. Fox…”

Now, Felicity fixed her with eyes that burned. “Do not speak of it. Only Lord Ash can save my family. I would be an utter fool to think of anyone else.”

Cami reached out and took her cousin’s icy hands in hers. “Oh, Felicity, I am sorry. But I do believe he is an honorable man….” A soft scoffing noise scraped the back of Felicity’s throat. It was a rather ridiculous claim to make; Lord Ash was a rogue, a rake, a murderer. And if her guess was right, his uncle intended to accuse of him of yet another terrible crime. A man of honor? What a laughable notion. Except that she felt the truth of those words in her very core.

Unless the hard, hot ache behind her breastbone was merely her deep desire that those words were true?

“He will keep his promise to your father, and to you,” she said. His promise to me.

Although marrying Felicity was not quite what she had asked of him.

Through sheer dint of will, Cami had kept her voice even, her expression calm, her posture relaxed as she spoke. If the riot inside her stomach, her brain, her heart was revealed anywhere, it could only be in her eyes. Thank God, her spectacles had always provided some shield when others sought to pry.