Free To Tame a Rogue by Kelly Jameson Page A

and hers alone, though a door connected her room with his.
    It was taking a sobering long time to get home! The streets were choked with water from the recent rains and the soil was slippery. In the balmy winds, oil lamps nailed to wooden posts swung haphazardly from their projecting arms.
    Obviously, Nicholas was toying with her. He was an arrogant man, a wealthy man, an experienced man who had probably had many lovers. Her embarrassment abated and was replaced by relief at the thought that he really had no desire for her; he was just exposing her to further humiliation. After all, he’d said she wasn’t his type.    
    Genevieve had said she was just what Nicholas needed. Why had she had such a thought, when they were so clearly wrong for each other? Camille felt a strange ache in her heart. She was sure she wasn’t Nicholas Branton’s type. She was sure no gentleman would ever want her, would ever have proposed marriage to her in the way she had dreamed about since she was a little girl. There was no sense in conjuring up that dream ever again.
    She could imagine the sophisticated, beautiful ladies Nicholas had charmed into his bed. She’d only been kissed once before, and hadn’t found the experience pleasurable. It didn’t sit well with her that she’d discovered it could be pleasurable, and that Nicholas Branton was the one to show her. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She didn’t need any lessons from him.
    They finally arrived at the mansion, the carriage passing down the long, wooded lane. Pinewood and the hot, sharp scent of magnolia blooms lingered on the night air.
    As she alighted from the carriage, ignoring the hand he offered to her, she didn’t dare look into those heated gold-brown eyes. She was caught in a world she barely remembered as a child, a world where she didn’t belong. Her husband thought her a thief and a common whore. Her uncle had successfully ridded himself of her. She had no family to speak of and precious few friends.
    She raced up the hulking porch stairs, ghostly white magnolia petals waving behind her in the breeze. She waltzed through the foyer and hurriedly climbed the marble staircase, retiring to her quarters—and he to his.
    Both doors slammed, one after the other.

 
     
     
     
     
    16
     
    Kipp Gresham stood in Nicholas’ study idling twirling the chain of his gold pocket watch around his finger. His light blue eyes looked both amused and concerned. “You look terrible, old chap. Like you slept in your clothes.”
    Kipp was one of the few men Nicholas had befriended over the years, one of the few men he trusted. They’d spent a considerable amount of years carousing, gaming, and pursuing some of the ton’s most notable and ‘unattainable’ ladies in London—unattainable, that is, until they’d set about seducing them into their respective beds. Because of their obligations and travels, they hadn’t seen each other in nearly a year.
    “You look different. Almost like a married man the day after his wedding. I’ve seen you look like that once before....”
    Nicholas grunted. “You know damn well too much about me...and always before I get the chance to tell you myself. Don’t tell me it’s already made the gossip columns.”
    “Why, yes, old chap, it has. Imagine it. There I was, sitting down to my first breakfast back in the states. I was reading the newspaper and the most alarming paragraph slaps me in the face!” Kipp pulled the article out of his pocket and gave it to Nicholas. He began to read:
     
    It is strongly rumored that Nicholas Branton, son of international shipping magnate Caindale Branton, wed shortly after his father’s recent death to a woman of unknown pedigree. This is a rather shocking development, as it is well known to the community that Nicholas’ first wife is presumed to have drowned, her body was never recovered. It was also assumed the notable rake would never marry again. It is known that the younger Mr. Branton’s first