“But you yourself seem to have some reservation about the reputation he has acquired since—”
“He needs a wife.” Aunt Merrick spoke across her, as if settling the matter once and for all. “And an heir. The responsibilities of life will settle him down.”
But if they do not? Cami longed to ask. How terrible to imagine her young cousin trapped forever in a marriage to a faithless, cruel—perhaps murderous—man. Why, he might prove a veritable Bluebeard!
Well, perhaps that was a bit extreme. She could not truly believe he kept a locked room filled with the bloody corpses of his conquests. But he surely would not scruple to keep a mistress, perhaps several. Oh, he had not anticipated that she—a woman, and a spinster at that—would understand his bold reference to keeping “pets.” She knew very well how men’s minds worked, however. Her brother Paris fancied himself quite the young buck about town—even if the town was Dublin.
“You have something suitable to wear to the Montlake ball tonight, I trust, Camellia?”
Cami started. “Why?”
“Someone must chaperone Felicity,” her aunt explained with an impatient frown at her lack of comprehension. “Lord Ash expects to see her there.”
“Surely, you will attend Lady Montlake’s ball with Felicity. There can be no question of my needing a dress.” Cami tried to modulate the note of panic in her voice. “With a few more hours’ rest, you will feel yourself again.”
“No, Camellia.” Her aunt shook her head. “By the time I’m fit to go out again, Lord Ash is likely to have proposed.” A grimly triumphant smile curved her lips. After all, however undesirable Lord Ash’s attention might otherwise be, it promised to help her fulfill her primary duty as Felicity’s mother: to see her daughter not just wed, but wed to a man of rank and wealth.
But a glance toward the window turned the corners of her mouth downward, into a scowl. “That damp wind still has the teeth of winter in it, despite what the calendar claims.” She drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and touched her handkerchief to her reddened nose. “I appreciate your reluctance to leave me, in my condition, but you needn’t feel guilty. King will attend to me in your place tonight. The matter is settled,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “You will go with your cousin.”
As if to underscore the command, rain spattered the window of the parlor where Cami sat with her aunt each morning, reading the bad novels and writing the inane letters against which her father had warned her. Cami shivered.
“Surely you must have something to wear,” her aunt insisted hoarsely. “Ring the bell. King will assist you.” Cami could not help but imagine how the lady’s maid would sneer at her meager wardrobe. “It needn’t be a ball gown. It’s unlikely anyone will ask you to dance, after all.”
Though they should not, the words stung. It was not as if Cami had never attracted the notice of a gentleman.
She shook her head in agreement with her aunt’s words, but her hesitation had not gone unnoticed. Lady Merrick tipped her chin to the side, studying Cami’s face, her ringed fingers hovering in midair above her dog. “Do you wish to dance, Camellia?”
With a growl of impatience, Chien stretched to nudge his mistress’ hand. Cami jumped. “No, ma’am.”
At seventeen, she had been foolish enough to long for a man’s attention, his approval. Now, however, ten years later, she knew better. Gentlemen’s notice led to courtship, courtship to marriage, and marriage to children and the loss of privacy and…well, a host of other things detrimental to the production of art.
Aunt Merrick looked unconvinced. “You may dance, certainly—when Felicity is suitably partnered. Perhaps Mr. Fox will attend with Lord Ash. He would be an excellent match for you, my dear. Although,” she added with something like sincerity as her hand resumed stroking the dog, “I should of course be devastated to lose your companionship.”
Cami bowed her head to acknowledge the reluctant compliment. Mr. Fox was a kind and decent gentleman whose friendship she would be glad to cultivate. But further than that, she would not go. And she would not serve as her aunt’s companion forever, regardless.
“I envy you the chance to watch Felicity partner with Lord Ash,” her aunt observed as Cami walked to the bell. “One rarely sees such good looks and grace combined.”
Cami’s fingertips twitched involuntarily at the memory of the strength that had flowed through Lord Ashborough’s arm. The elegant economy of his every movement. His smooth, confident stride, fitted perfectly to her own.
Her aunt was correct. In the ballroom, at least, he would be a partner to envy.
But in all other respects? Well, marriage was hardly a country dance. If it were, a lady might at least be granted the power of refusal.
* * * *
“I must admit I was surprised you received an invitation for tonight’s ball,” Fox said, shaking the rain from his hat as he stepped into Gabriel’s marble-tiled foyer.
“I haven’t.”
“No invitation! Then just how do you expect to get in?”
“Like as not he means to wait until the receiving line has ended and the majordomo has left his post, then brazen his way past some poor, unsuspecting footman,” Remy muttered as he held out Gabriel’s opera cloak.
“Your concern for your fellow soldiers in domestic service is admirable, Remy,” he said as he lifted the dark garment from his manservant’s outstretched hands. “But do not worry. No footman’s career will be cut short by my doings tonight.”
Remy cast a chary glance over Gabriel before accepting the words as dismissal. “I’ll just hail a cab, shall I, my lord?”
Gabriel suspected the man’s uncharacteristically sullen demeanor was the result of being required to partner his employer through the intricate steps of the cotillion for half the afternoon. But practice had been
