Free Never Romance a Rake by Liz Carlyle Page B

pig—and a depraved one at that. She had not needed Lord Rothewell’s counsel in that regard, for she had spent too much time in Paris, surrounded by her mother’s coterie of desperate, over-painted friends, and the débauchés who courted them.
    Just then, she heard Emily stirring on the bed behind her. She turned to see the maid lift her hand to block a shaft of early-morning sun as she sat up. “Beg pardon, miss,” she managed. “I didn’t mean to lie abed so late.”
    â€œIt’s quite all right, Emily.” Camille returned to her vigil at the window. “You had no rest last night.”
    â€œNor did you, miss,” she answered.
    Camille listened to the sounds of the maid dressing behind her. Emily doubtless wondered what was to become of them, and Camille had no good answers. At last, however, she turned round to watch the girl. “You mustn’t worry, Emily,” she said. “I am sure this will all work out.”
    â€œYes, miss.” Emily had begun to fold their nightclothes. “I’m sure you know best.”
    Camille suppressed a hysterical laugh. “We must hope so,” she answered. “Of course, I would like to keep you on, Emily, whether I marry or not.”
    But she had to marry. She must .
    Death had finally relieved her of the burden which had hung over her these last few years, and she had awakened from her mother’s long illness as if from a dark dream, only to realize her life was empty. The awful truth was that she longed for far more than financial independence. She yearned for a child —a yearning which had only grown more acute with every passing year until it was like the pain of a knife’s blade pricking at her heart.
    And just when she had believed it would never be possible, that she must endure the pain with her arms empty—she had found her grandfather’s letter. His eccentric bequest had laid open a path—but she now realized that that meant a marriage to Lord Rothewell, or to someone like him.
    Oh, she could return to Limousin with her tail between her legs, sell what was left of her mother’s jewelry, and perhaps survive for a time. But she was almost twenty-eight years old and no longer content with mere survival. And to return to her old life in France as a poor relation, clinging to the bedraggled hems of an ignominious family? No. No, it did not bear thinking about. She had seized this opportunity with her bare hands, and the only thing left to do was dig in her nails.
    At that thought, she exhaled on a shuddering sigh. Her hands began to clench again, and the sense of hopelessness which had followed her from Paris began to edge nearer. Lord Rothewell really was her last hope. Despite her brash threat last night, Camille had been terrified of Lord Enders. So she had played upon that tiny sliver of decency she thought she’d glimpsed in Rothewell’s eyes.
    But perhaps the joke was on her. Perhaps Rothewell was worse. There was a darkness about the man of a sort she’d never seen before. Not evil. Not simple dissolution. No, it was a darkness of the soul, and it hung about him like a shroud.
    At that, Camille did laugh. Emily looked at her strangely.
    Yes, she really had lost her mind, Camille decided. She was becoming fanciful, and worse, melodramatic. Just a few steps further along that path, and she would turn into her mother.
    Just then, there was a light knock at the door. Emily opened it. A footman stood rigidly at attention. The Countess of Sharpe desired Camille’s company. Doubtless the lady was thrilled to hear that the illegitimate child of London’s most disreputable scoundrel had been installed in one of her guest rooms whilst she slept.
    Ten minutes later, Camille was ensconced in Lady Sharpe’s private sitting room with a cup of coffee in hand. A proper cup, too. Not the cheap, watered-down brew which Valigny had insisted be served when there were no