'Twas the Night After Christmas (27 page)

“And do you know what her response was?” he ground out. “She shoved me away and stood there, hands clenched, while she told me she didn’t want or need my protection, that she wanted only to be free of me. Then she walked out.”

He stood there as he had then, hearing the crackle of the fire, the distant peal of the case clock. Tasting the bite of unshed tears as it dawned on him that he really had no parents. Not anymore.

“The footmen entered a few minutes later,” he said, “but I had already gotten the message. I left. I went back to London, and I began a systematic course of study in the art of pleasure. I got drunk and I gambled and I had a string of mistresses as long as my arm. It was the only way to show them that they hadn’t broken me.”

The only way to obliterate the memory of that day. For a time, anyway.

But not anymore. Even before he’d responded to Camilla’s damned summons, Mother’s weekly letters had started to crack his armor despite his refusal to read them. That was the reason for his restlessness. He could see it now.

“Was that the last time you saw her?” Camilla asked softly.

“Until Father’s funeral.” He whirled on her, steeling himself for anything, but though pity glimmered in her gaze, it was mingled with something greater. Understanding perhaps. Even empathy.

And more words spilled out of him. “So now you see why I assumed it was all about the money. I thought she wanted me back here because she’d decided she had a use for me at last.”

Camilla’s heart shone in her face. “I suppose you had good reason to think so ill of her. What she did, what she said, was awful.” She spoke slowly, cautiously, as if choosing her words. “But surely now that you’ve spent time with her and seen what she’s really like, you realize that matters couldn’t have been what you thought, that nothing was as it seemed.”

“I don’t know a damned thing anymore.”

“Then know this.” She came up to him, her eyes bright. “Having sat with that woman for six months and having heard her go on about her fine son for every day of them, I can assure you that she loves you. As I suspect she did then, no matter what she said that day.”

“If she loved me,” he growled, “she would explain herself!”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s
because
she loves you that she won’t. She may just be too ashamed of whatever brought her to that pass. I understand why it drives you mad. It drives me a little mad myself, and I know her better than you.” She met his hard gaze unabashedly. “But you may have to resign yourself to never knowing the truth.”

“The hell I will,” he bit out.

“Listen to me, Pierce,” she whispered, her voice so full of compassion, it made him tense up.

Because he didn’t know if the compassion was for him or for his mother. And it couldn’t be both. “If you’re going to argue for
her
—”

“I’m going to argue for
you.
Whatever happened in the past can’t be erased. And clearly she won’t explain it. But she might in time, if you can bring yourself to put your anger aside for a while.” She gave him a sad little smile. “Speaking as someone who never had parents, I can promise that even having an imperfect one who loves you is better than having none at all.”

He gritted his teeth. Camilla wanted him to forgive and forget. Why couldn’t she see that it was impossible? “You don’t understand.
Your
parents were taken from you by a force of nature or illness or . . . or something.” It occurred to him suddenly that she’d never said how. Not that it mattered. “Whatever it was, it was comprehensible. You knew from the beginning that you were an orphan, whereas I—”

“I’m not an orphan,” she broke in.

He narrowed his gaze on her. “Of course you are. You told me all about the orphanage.” As she tensed, his blood began to pound in his chest. “Your letters of reference were from St. Joseph’s Home for Orphans.” His voice rose. “Are you saying they were lies?”

She didn’t flinch from his angry tone. “No, they’re all true. I was raised at St. Joseph’s, and I worked there later. That’s how I found out that I had no parents. Or rather, none who would claim me.” With color suffusing her cheeks, she dropped her gaze
to her hands. “I’m not an orphan, Pierce. I’m a foundling. And as I’m sure you know, they’re very different things.”

For a moment, he could only stand there speechless. They were indeed. “Is that why you
lied
to me about it?” he snapped, his heart thundering in his chest.

Her gaze shot up to his face. “I never lied to you. You made an assumption and I let it rest, as I’ve let it rest for years with everyone. Because I had to. Because it made it easier for me to be hired.”

Her words gave him pause. He thought through every conversation they’d had, then groaned. She was right. She’d never claimed to be an orphan. She hadn’t spoken of her parents at all, obviously because she didn’t know anything about them.

He’d looked at her on the surface, just as he had with the matter of her son. He hadn’t delved any deeper, too absorbed with his own pain to see hers.

She went on in a leaden voice. “I suspect that my parents, whoever they were, personally knew one of the people who managed the orphanage and convinced that person to take me, despite my bastardy.” Anger flared in her face. “Otherwise, you and I both know I would never have been admitted. Even the Foundling Hospital, with its rich patrons, has been forced to limit the number of babies it will accept. Every charitable institution is afraid that taking in bastards will encourage the lower orders to leap into bed with each other willy-nilly.” She snorted. “As if a woman would
choose
to gain nine months of discomfort, would risk losing her life bearing a child, just for one night’s pleasure. People are fools.”

“They are indeed,” he said hoarsely, still trying to comprehend this new facet of her.

She shot him a look of pure defiance. “My point is, my parents wanted to be rid of me from the moment of my birth. I may not know who they are, but I know that much about them. They couldn’t get me into the crowded Foundling Hospital, so they got me into the orphanage.”

Her voice turned bitter. “Either way, they had to know I would never be adopted. No one who is willing to take in someone’s bastard wants a redheaded, freckled child—they all want pretty children, with blond curls and porcelain skin.”

“Camilla—”

“Don’t say it!” she snapped. “Don’t try to claim that I
am
pretty, that anyone would have been lucky to have me. Don’t tell me all those nice things people say to children who nobody wants.”

“All right,” he said, taken aback. He’d never seen her like this, at least not on her own behalf.

“Even my husband wanted me only for what he could get out of me.” She was shaking now, her temper higher than he’d ever seen it. “Your mother may have abandoned you at eight, but you had her until then. And when she gave you up, she made sure you were put in a safe place, a comfortable place, with good people who cared about you. You weren’t left to the indifferent care of an institution. The orphanage wasn’t a bad place, mind you, but it wasn’t a home, either.”

Anger and anguish twisted into one thread in her voice. “So don’t tell me how justified you are in throwing away a mother
who loves you. Whether you accept it or not, you have her in your life now. You have your cousins and your great-uncle.” She set her shoulders like a fierce lioness preparing to fight. “I have no one but Jasper.”

He stared at her, unable to look away.

All this time, he’d seen her as sensible, forthright, impossible to ruffle. But beneath that sensible exterior she was a cauldron of righteous fury, a roiling mass of seething emotion. She wanted, she needed . . . she burned every bit as much as he did.

She was magnificent.

As if aware of how much of herself she’d revealed to him, she started to turn away, but he caught her by the arms to hold her still. “You have me,” he said hoarsely. “You bloody well have me.”

Shock lit her face. Then she gave a mocking laugh. “And what is that supposed to mean? You’re going back to London tomorrow, and you made it clear you won’t be returning to the dower house. I don’t have you in any sense of the word.”

When she tried to wrest free of him, he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he dragged her closer, his pulse pounding madly. “You would if you came with me.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“To London. You and Jasper could return with me.” When her brow lowered to a scowl, he added hastily, “Hear me out. I could take a house for you, for us. The two of you would be under my protection.”

Her gaze turned wary, like that of a cornered hare. “Let me make sure I understand you correctly. You’re offering to make me your mistress, my lord?”

“Yes,” he said, ignoring the frosty edge she gave to the words
mistress
and
my lord.
“That’s exactly what I’m offering.”

He ought to have been surprised that she had leaped right to that conclusion instead of assuming that he meant marriage. But he wasn’t surprised. She knew him, understood him, as no woman ever had. So of course she understood that, too.

But that didn’t mean she would accept it. He would have a fight on his hands to make her agree.

And he was prepared to fight. He wanted her that much.

This time when she jerked free, he let her go, though he was ready to snatch her back if she tried to flee.

Instead, she went to stand before the dead hearth. “You have a mistress already,” she pointed out dully.

“I gave my last mistress her congé before I even came here.”

She whirled on him, face ablaze. “So now you need a substitute, is that it?”

“Damn it, no! That’s mere coincidence.” He approached carefully, not wanting to spook her again. “If all I wanted was a substitute for her, I’d take one from among the demimonde as I always have. But that’s not enough for me anymore.”

“I see. You want a change of pace,” she said bitterly. “You think to try your hand at a respectable woman, someone who might actually care about you. Is that it?”

As always, the depth of her perception surprised him. But she didn’t have the whole story by far. “No. That’s not it.” Then the rest of her words dawned on him. “Wait, you
care
about me?” And why did that make his pulse quicken? It was only words.

Except nothing was ever “only words” with her.

“Of course I do,” she choked out. “I certainly care enough not to want to be your temporary diversion.”

“You’re more than that to me,” he said fiercely, and realized, to his shock, that it was true. When had that happened?

“You say that now, but how long will it be before you tire of me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Especially when I have a child in tow.”

For some reason, that sparked anger deep inside him. “It’s not like that between you and me,” he bit out.

“Isn’t it?” Sorrow glinted in her eyes. “You’re hurt and lonely, and you have no one waiting for you back in London. So you’ve decided I will do in a pinch.”

“No. That’s definitely not it.”

He stalked her now, determined to make her understand. When she blinked and started to back away, he caught her about the waist and pulled her to him. “Don’t you see?” he murmured. “We’re alike, you and I. We both show a carefree face to the world while we keep our private torments hidden.”

She swallowed hard, showing that she knew exactly what he was talking about. “That merely makes us liars.”

“To the world perhaps, but not to each other. We see each other for what we are, and understand each other down deep.” He lifted one hand to cup her cheek. “
That’s
why I want you to be my mistress.”

C
amilla knew she ought to be insulted. But staring up into the face that had become much too dear in the past week, she ached to accept his offer.

And that made him dangerous.

“We aren’t alike at all,” she shot back, trying to convince herself of it. “You despise respectability while I—”

“Want it? Really?” He searched her face. “Admit it, dearling, the only thing respectability has gotten you is years of waiting on other people’s leisure.”

She uttered a harsh laugh. “And I wouldn’t be doing that with
you
?”

He scowled. “It wouldn’t have to be like that.”

“Oh, really. Then tell me what it
would
be like.” When he
drew breath to explain, she touched a finger to his lips. “You don’t have to—I already know.”

With his dark eyes alight, he moved her finger aside, only to catch her hand and press his lips tenderly into her palm. “You don’t know anything,” he rasped, then kissed her wrist. “We would make our own rules.”

Her pulse raced beneath his caress despite her determination to stand firm against him. “I doubt that,” she said shakily. “Living in the corners of society as I have, I know how these things work. Nobody makes their own rules.”

He trailed kisses up her forearm to the soft skin of her inner elbow.

She fought the desire bolting through her. “If I were your mistress, I would see you at
your
leisure. You would send word that you wished to see me whenever you wanted female companionship, and I’d stop everything to be ready for you. I’d send Jasper to his room with orders not to come out, and I’d—”