Wildflowers?
Gabriel, who had built his reputation on never revealing more than he meant to reveal, blinked. Twice.
A dreadful tell. Little old ladies who played nothing more daring than loo would have tittered at him knowingly behind their cards. A sharp would have called his bluff on the spot.
Camellia did neither. But she knew he had come up empty this hand. Of that, he had no doubt. The corners of her brows drew together ever so slightly, and her gaze slid past him, to the extravagant arrangement on the table.
Oh. Wildflowers.
“And was Lady Felicity also…pleased?” he heard himself say.
“You must ask her yourself.” Camellia’s bright eyes were still focused on some point behind him, but higher now. The object of her gaze was something other than the flowers.
They were no longer alone.
“My lord. How good of you to call.” On silent feet, Felicity crossed the room, her voice brittle and dull, like the wintry leaves on a tree from which the sap of life had been sucked. No, she was certainly not eager. But she had come, nonetheless.
When she stopped and stood beside her cousin, comparison between them was inevitable. In the unforgiving morning light, filtered through yellow draperies, Camellia looked drawn and tired, every bit ten years Felicity’s senior. Dark and more than a little defiant.
Next to her, the daughter of the Earl of Merrick glowed gold, like a beam of sunlight herself. She was not smiling; in fact, her expression was so blank, he suspected she had spent some time in the looking glass perfecting it, having seen the animation in her face when she spoke with others. An English rose, which he was to prune and train and pluck as he saw fit. She would never shock or scold him. She would never, never tell him no.
No other man of his acquaintance would have thought it a decision worth weighing. Felicity was in every respect the ideal toward which marriage-minded English gentlemen strived, and if not for her brother’s foolishness and her father’s weakness, he would have lost any chance at her hand long ago. His choice was clear. So clear, he ought not even call it a choice.
But oh, he craved something quite different in a woman. A challenge. A contest of wits, of wills—one he was not certain to win. The companionship of one as sharp and cynical as he. For beneath that diamond-honed edge of defiance that glittered in Camellia’s green eyes, he saw passion. Throbbing, aching, scratching, clawing, dangerous, deadly passion. It might destroy him, but he would revel in his destruction.
Worse, though, he would destroy her.
Turning slightly, he bowed to Felicity. He thought of the promise Fox had extorted from him. He must be a gentleman. He must marry this girl and do his duty by Stoke and the memory of his father. “How lovely you look this morning, ma’am,” he said to her.
A curtsy, accompanied by a careful smile. “Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” With the wave of one arm, she gestured him to the chairs behind her, then cleared her throat nervously. “Mama wishes to speak with you, Cousin.”
So, they were to have a moment’s privacy. Time enough for him to speak his piece, if he chose. A glance darted between the two women. He expected to see desperation in Felicity’s eyes, a plea not to be left alone with this monster. But she was braver than he had realized. He saw only resignation to her fate.
Camellia gave a sharp nod. “Of course. I’ll just…” She turned and hastily gathered her papers, so dense with ink they crinkled and crackled in her hands. In another moment, she was gone, the door left open behind her.
“I fear I disturbed Miss Burke at her work,” he said as he sat. Rather than giving under his weight, the overstuffed cushion resisted, as if trying to push him onto the rug. Onto one knee, perhaps. Firmly, he planted the soles of his boots flat against the floor.
“Oh, it is nearly impossible not to disturb her work. She’s always writing. Mama says she goes through paper and ink at an alarming rate.”
Bristling at the implied criticism of Camellia, he said, rather more loftily than he had intended, “On Lady Merrick’s behalf, I suppose.”
“On occasion, yes. But my mother is…”
Too lazy for letter writing, Gabriel silently supplied.
After pausing and pressing her lips together, giving the unexpected impression that she had restrained a similar observation, Felicity began again. “The letters, I believe, go to some Irish correspondent of my cousin’s. She has several family members in Dublin.”
Gabriel nodded. “Yes. I believe Fox mentioned something about it.”
But those overwritten outpourings of Camellia’s pen surely were not destined for a doting parent or a curious sibling. A lover, jealousy whispered petulantly in his ear.
Damn it, why did he care to whom she wrote?
Because he did not like to imagine those eyes scouring some other man’s face. Because he wanted to believe that she too had spent a lifetime seeking a match she had never found, a game of chess in which she would not have to resort to swiping at the pieces like a bored house cat merely to liven up the contest. Because when he thought of her a thrill of something like terror chased through his veins, and because he knew he didn’t frighten her at all.
Though God knew, she should be frightened.
“My dear Felicity,” he began, determined to do the thing he must do. Utter madness to be thinking of anything other than his duty. Utter madness to be thinking of Camellia.
Her breath caught. Anticipation, but not of the pleasurable sort. “Yes, my lord?”
My lord. He might have corrected her. After all, they were to be married, were they not?
Curious that he had no particular desire to hear his given name on her lips.
Afterward, he could not have said what
