To Tame a Rogue (4 page)

Genevieve appeared to be waiting for an explanation, but when none was forthcoming, she said, “I brought a chemise and petticoats. I made them myself and they’ve never been worn. I'd also like you to have this...I think we're probably about the same size." Camille looked at the beautiful white muslin dress. Now she had no choice but to wear it.

She didn't want her life complicated by marriage, complicated by a man like Nicholas Branton. Why was everyone being so stubborn about it? She was a common tavern maid, for God’s sake, not a desirable socialite. She wasn’t even beautiful. Her uncle had told her over and over that she was ‘passable.’ She had nothing to offer the man! How in the world had this betrothal come about?

A faint smile curved her lips. All was not lost. She might look like a lady after she put the dress on, but that didn’t mean she had to act like one. All she had to do was get through dinner, get home, and find some way to return the pretty clothes to Genevieve.

A servant helped her to dress. Camille's stomach was grumbling—she hadn't eaten a thing all day. Not that she could. Every time she thought of marriage to Nicholas Branton, a vision of a lecherous old man with rotting teeth and whiskey breath popped into her head. She certainly hadn't expected him to be so...virile. She knew instinctively that the man was definitely not husband-material.

"Miss, why is you bein’ so nice? Why all the pamperin’?"

“Please, call me Genevieve. And why shouldn’t I be nice to you? You act as if I’m breaking the law by showing you a kindness.”

“Well, it’s just that, folks of yer station don’t usually treat someone like me with...kindness.”

Genevieve grasped Camille’s hand.

“Let’s forget our stations for a while, shall we? That doesn’t matter anyway. I just want to get to know you a little better.”

Camille nodded shyly.

“Okay, but I can’t stay.” Camille suddenly felt sad. Here was a kind girl who felt like a friend, but Camille knew it wouldn’t last. They came from different worlds. But she didn’t have too many friends.

Genevieve winked. The transformation complete, they left the room, made their way down the hall, and descended the stairs together, Camille's heart hammering in her chest.

Nicholas Branton, dry and shaven, was dressed in a dark overcoat, trousers, and a crisp white shirt. He was standing at the bottom of the staircase waiting for them, one arm casually hung over the banister. His eyes, darker now and tinged with gold, traveled leisurely over her form; they lingered on the swell of her breasts and her slim hips.
He wasn't smiling.

6
 

Nicholas took her arm in his, but said nothing, his lips drawn into a hard line. They walked down the wide hallways over pine-heart floors so polished that Camille was nearly blinded. A low murmur of voices drifted toward them.

“We have guests this evening,” he said, arching a dark brow and his eyes probed hers.

Camille smiled demurely. “That’s just dee-lightful,” she quipped. She thought she detected a slight grimace on his much-too-handsome face.

The dining room was open and airy, the walls papered in a creamy gold-flocked pattern. Carved, high-back chairs surrounded a gleaming oblong table that sparkled with silver and fine porcelain. Candles flickered softly on the table and the mantle above the marble hearth, adding to the warmth of the room.

“Martha, Harold, may I present Miss Camille Hardison,” Nicholas said. “The Quinns are frequent visitors from a nearby mansion and were good friends of my mother’s,” Nicholas explained.

The pair stood. Harold was a pleasant-looking, red-cheeked man with a rather round face. Martha was a plump, flamboyant woman with garishly red-orange hair who was wearing an ample boa feather around her shoulders. Camille had never seen so many feathers on a human. She smiled warmly.

“Howdy do,” Camille said.

She felt Nicholas stiffen beside her.

“Why this is a delight,” Martha said. “A lady guest tonight, Nicholas?”

“I ain’t no lady.”

Martha laughed loudly, the blue and yellow feathers of her boa quivering with the effort. “Well, my dear, and Thank God for that. Being a lady is quite frankly overrated.”

“Camille is my fiancé. We are…betrothed.” Nicholas hastily seated Camille between Genevieve and Martha before seating himself at the head of the table. There was stunned silence.

“Mr. Branton is confused...I ain’t agreed to marry no one.”

As cold tomato and cucumber soup was served, Martha cleared her throat awkwardly and asked Camille what family she was from.

“I ain’t no blue-blood, if that’s what you mean,” Camille said. “My mother and father died a long time back. I work in my uncle’s tavern in the city—perhaps you’ve heard of it? The Black
Garter
?
” She looked at Nicholas. “I...got soaked in the river and that’s why I’m wearin’ one of Miss Genny’s gowns.” Careful not to spill anything on the dress, Camille deliberately picked up the bowl of soup with her fingers, brought it to her mouth, and began slurping loudly. She’d seen plenty of patrons at the tavern do exactly that, and most often, if you offered them utensils, they glared at you.

“Oh, my dear, I certainly didn’t mean to offend. We’re from
England
originally. My great grandfather was a footman. But that didn’t stop Harold from marrying me.

“You see, Harold was a very distant relation to some Prince but he defied his father’s wishes and married me anyway. No, we’re not pretentious people. Life is too short for that.” She paused to take a breath and continued.

“Dear me, but after that battle in the harbor, we weren’t very popular in these parts, being English and all. And it was certainly humiliating for
England
when our troops, which had just vanquished that little water rat Napoleon, were defeated by a bunch of disorganized, scraggly Americans. But we consider ourselves more American than English, and those troops had heart.”

"You'll have to excuse my wife. Talks too much about wars and politics and things that don't concern her."

"Why, certainly they concern me," Martha replied. "There isn't a reason on earth why a woman
shouldn’t
be concerned about such things."

Harold smiled complacently and sighed.

"I think if she could, she'd put on a soldier's uniform and march off to fight. Thank the Good Lord in Heaven that soldiers don't wear feathers."

Much to Camille’s surprise, Martha picked up her bowl of soup and began slurping.

“Yes, I like this. It’s rather fun.” Harold rolled his eyes.

Camille was too stunned to speak. She slurped her way through the re
st of the meal, deliberately
ignoring the shiny utensils by her plate, licking her fingers noisily, barely grunting in response to questions. She listened as they spoke of Nicholas’ father. She thought she saw something flash in Nicholas’ eyes at the mention of his name, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. They inquired after his young daughters, Arabelle and Damaris, who were now abed.

Daughters?
The thought didn’t have time to digest itself.

Genevieve talked of upcoming soirees and the balls she would be attending, while Martha suggested the names of handsome, eligible bachelors she might consider as husband material. Genevieve then related the faults of each in painstaking detail.

Camille was beginning to panic. Despite her ill manners, she had yet to shock them. She looked up once or twice to find Nicholas’ eyes on her, but they were unreadable.

The meal was nearly over. Unexpectedly, Camille recalled a similar room, fine china, her father and mother laughing together. Her father was flinging food and her mother was flinging it right back. Her head started to ache. The memories were always so vivid, but her uncle insisted they were just the fancies of a poor girl, nothing more.

He’d told her many times she couldn’t possibly have any memories of them; she was so young when they’d died, and they’d never lived in such a grand manner.

Dear God, what did she have to do to shock these people? Suddenly it came to her. Nicholas was rising from the table, turning to go. She had so thoroughly disgusted him he hadn’t even excused himself politely. Wasn't
that
what these types did? Excused themselves from the table properly?

Camille slid some peas onto her spoon and angled her wrist. With all the deftness and grace she could muster, she sent the peas flying, hitting Nicholas square in his masculine backside.

He stopped but did not turn around, peas rolling ignobly at his feet. The room had gone quiet. Camille smiled. She couldn’t help it.

“Madame, did you just fling
peas
at me?”

Geoffry, who had been standing by the doorway with a linen napkin draped over his arm, laughed loudly. He quickly recovered himself, clearing his throat. Harold and his overdressed wife joined in.

No! They weren’t supposed to be laughing! They were supposed to be appalled, disgusted, speechless! They were supposed to think she was ill-mannered, crude, and atrociously behaved!

Nicholas’ deep voice cut through the banter. He still had his back to her.

“Madame, you are worse than my own daughters. I will see you, alone, in my study. Now.” With that, he strode out of the room, never questioning that she should follow him.

Harold was the first to recover. He wiped at his watering eyes.

“This has been the most entertaining evening I’ve had out in a very long time. Isn’t that right, Martha? You ask me, his backside needed a good pea-slinging!”

Martha rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Marvelous, my dear. Dinner parties are usually so stuffy, people talking about the weather, the latest blight to their crops, or some such boring thing. Honestly!” She turned serious for a moment and grasped Camille’s hand warmly.

“I’ve known Nicholas for a long time. He wasn’t always so hard. His mother and I were great friends. And if you ask me”—she leaned over the table conspiratorially—“he’s been much too serious since his first wife.... Well anyway, My God, but Marlena certainly never would have done
that
.” She looked faintly disapproving when she spoke of Marlena.

“She never did anything that wasn’t to her benefit…leaving two daughters behind….”

“Yes, a great tragedy, but that’s enough, Martha,” Harold said, more sternly this time.

“Tragedy, humph.”

Camille was too shocked to speak. Good God, were they all daft?
She
was supposed to be shocking them, not the other way around!
First wife?

She stood, excused herself, and followed Nicholas down the hallway to his study. She didn’t follow him because he expected
her to but because she needed to tell him that he couldn’t order her about like one of his servants! She didn’t belong to him; she would never belong to him!

7

Camille opened the door to the study and stomped in.

“Close the door, madame. I would converse in private.”

Another order.
She ignored his request. “You are the most arrogant, pompous, atrociously behaved gentleman I have ever met and this whole arrangement is utterly preposterous.”

He stepped out of the shadows.

“What did you say?”

Camille flushed, her mind gone suddenly blank with fear.

“I said it was a foolish idee...”

“That’s not exactly what you said, is it my dear?”

She’d just slipped up royally. She smoothed her dress, clenching and unclenching her small hands at her sides, and began pacing.

He continued to lean against the massive mahogany desk, his powerful arms crossed in front of him, calmly studying her. He removed his dinner jacket and walked to the sideboard.

“Would you like a brandy, Miss Hardison? You are obviously an educated lady. Yet you act as if you were raised in a barn. Care to explain?”

Camille faltered. "Not in a barn. A tavern. And no thank you.” She cleared her throat nervously. “I mean no thank you to the brandy.” There was no avoiding the truth now.

“As far as an explanation, it’s simple. I...do you have any dreams, Mr. Branton?” He looked momentarily stunned as he poured brandy from a crystal liqueur decanter into a glass, took a sip, and then set his glass down on the desk. “Dreams are the useless fantasies of fools.”

He moved to the window and laced his arms behind his back, staring out at the darkened sky, latticed with swollen storm clouds.

“Well, you can afford not to dream,” Camille said quietly. “I...I do not wish to marry...for the wrong reasons.”

“Nor do I, Miss Hardison.”