The Rake Revealed (8 page)

She gave him a look. ‘You should not have meant to kiss me at all. And I…,’ Camille paused, collecting her sadly shattered composure. ‘I most certainly have not behaved well. I am glad that your shoulder is healing, but now I have many things to do. I believe you know this house well enough to show yourself out so I will bid you good afternoon, sir.’ And with that, she turned and left the room.

It was a craven retreat and she knew it. She should have told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t the kind of woman a rake set his sites on seducing. She wanted a
quiet
life and an ill-advised love affair with a man she barely knew, in a community she was trying to enter into, was hardly the way to go about things. There was nothing worse than starting over with a bad reputation. It was just that he had thrown her completely, not just by kissing her, but by stirring up such an intense maelstrom of emotions. She had
wanted
him, with the kind of raw, physical lust that was quite shocking. Ladies did not lust. And if they did, they certainly did not lust after unsuitable men.

Camille needed to retreat and regroup. She was more disconcerted by what had just taken place than she could manage just at the moment. A kiss was just a kiss. Any fool knew that. It could mean everything or nothing. But that kiss had been different.

I will avoid Lord Tapscott from now on. Clearly, I underestimated him, but he cannot stay in the area forever. Soon, he will return to wherever it was he came from. All I need to do is avoid him and then life will settle down. I will settle down.

Simple enough.

Craven or not, it was the best solution she could conceive of because, clearly, she was not immune to Lord Tapscott’s charms. Avoiding him all together seemed the safest course available.

He could not stay in Lymstock forever.

Tapscott was, quite frankly, shaken by his encounter with Camille Durham. So much so that, when she had left him, he had almost been inclined to go after her, but chasing his hostess through her own rooms just so he could justify himself or, worse still, taste what had proved to be so sweet, was hardly suitable behavior, although it would undoubtedly enhance his local reputation as a rake. Damn it.

Rearranging his clothing, he slipped back out the front door and headed towards the beach again, desirous of a little time to work out what had just happened. Well, he knew what had just happened. Driven on by a compulsion he’d had no control over, he had kissed Lady Durham and she had returned the kiss in full measure. As horrified as her reaction had been to him, there was no doubt in his mind that she had kissed him back again with all the intensity that he displayed.

Tapscott shook his head, still thrown off kilter by emotions he had never experienced before. One kiss from the woman and he had been utterly overset, ready to seduce her on the aged Oriental rug. Her deceased
husband’s
rug, he reminded himself absently. Somehow, that made the whole thing just that much harder to dismiss.

Looking back over his shoulder at Kirkham Hall, he wondered what the devil had gotten into him. Yes, Camille was a very fine woman indeed and, generally speaking, he had no objections to indulging in enthusiastic flirtations. Sometimes, if the female and the situation were right, it went beyond flirtation, although he was always careful to choose a woman who knew exactly what he was about. No commitments, no promises, just a little bit of fun. Women were so very delightful and quite a number of them were generous enough to share their charms with him willingly.

It was never serious. He did not have the kind of lifestyle that encouraged serious relationships, but he had known the moment he set eyes on Camille Durham that she was not flirtation material, no matter how much he might want to see that glorious hair unbound or strip the clothing away to reveal the alabaster smooth skin beneath. A man did not contemplate seducing women like Camille because… Well, because the usual rules did not apply. He did not have to have the wisdom of Solomon to know that a woman like Camille would be hazardous to his peace of mind. And that was not what Lucius Tapscott was about, not at all.

He had other plans entirely, plans that pretty widows did not feature into, no matter how unusual they were.
Or how right their lips felt when kissed.

Tapscott walked on, heading back towards Barstock Keep. Morosett was out for the afternoon, paying a visit to an old friend down the coast. He was not expecting to be home tonight, which suited Tapscott very well. He had been waiting for an opportunity to get the Keep to himself. Morosett was proving to be damned suspicious and Tapscott knew that it was almost time to find himself a new berth if he were going to continue on in the area. Not that it should be difficult; he had made himself as charming as possible to any number of people and he had high hopes of an invitation if and when the need arose.

It was the opportunity to have free reign in the Keep that had kept him past his welcome. He had been counting on Morosett absenting himself from home
some
time. All he needed to do was to avoid the man’s servants, a job in itself as they were a nosy lot, and he could perform the kind of search he had been itching to make. It was why he had come to this part of Kent in the first place.

He needed to focus on what lay ahead, not on what lay behind; specifically the absurdly alluring young widow who was becoming more and more of a distraction.

Clearly the best thing he could do was to avoid her completely.

Clearly.

Tapscott sighed and shook his head, wishing he had found another house in which to take shelter four nights ago. It would have avoided a world of complications he didn’t need.
I can’t have Camille Durham in my life right now,
he thought in exasperation. Another time, another place, perhaps, but not right now.

He would have to find the strength to stay away from her.

During the night, a sound woke Camille and she sat up, completely awake, eyes wide as she stared through the shadows in her bedroom. Thanks to the curtains that never quite closed, the moonlight spilled through, throwing cold silver light onto the ancient rug by the bed. A few coals still glowed dully in the hearth, but the fire had nearly died.

What had woken her?

Had he returned?

The thought that Lord Tapscott might have come back sent a shiver rippling through her, but she refused to think about why her heart beat a little faster at the prospect. If it was him, then she would tell him exactly what she thought of men who took advantage of others, both their houses
and
their lips. She threw back the covers and slid out of the bed, wrapping herself in her robe and pushing her feet into her slippers. This time, she did not light a candle. Instead, she slipped quietly from the room, ears straining, listening for something more. Had she dreamed that sound? There were a few times, in the intervening nights, when she had thought that she heard something, but this had been different, she was sure of it.

She was convinced that somebody was moving around in the house.

From somewhere below, came another thud, muffled, but clearly discernible. Somewhere
below.
Was his lordship back again, off-loading illegal brandy in her cellar? She had not been down there yet, there was really no need, but she would not have been surprised to discover that it was full of bottles in which the local excise men would be very interested. Further, it would not have surprised her that the Hibberts were well aware of what took place or, indeed, were actively involved. Smuggling seemed just the kind of thing the rat like Hibbert would excel at. He was certainly a useless gardener.

Moving into the main hallway, she paused. There was nothing but silence. She checked out the main rooms, but all lay quiet and dark. Whoever was about was definitely down in the cellar.

Should she go and investigate? Camille hesitated. She was not by nature a timid person, but it did occur to her that it might be smugglers she encountered down there, not some amiable nobleman with a propensity to flirt. And she wasn’t sure that she was up to facing real smugglers all by herself. Besides, the noises had stopped. Now all she could hear was the soft sigh of the wind and, more faintly, the wash of water up onto the sand from the ocean below. The night seemed quite abandoned, but for herself.

Camille shrugged and headed back up the stairs. There hardly seemed any point in asking Hibbert to check the cellar for strangers. If he were participating in the smuggling, then he was probably down there himself. Perhaps a carpenter from Kingsdown might come and see to those entrances? Although she supposed that there was nothing to stop somebody reopening whatever he put into place. It was a vexing question and one that she knew she could not simply put aside.

Hurrying back between the bedcovers, she lay for some time, shivering. Smugglers, neighborhood rakes, and curious collection of local landed gentry. And she thought she’d be bored after the chaos of France.

‘
Oh
,
de s’ennuyer
,’ she thought ruefully, wishing she’d thought to put on bed socks.

Perhaps she could do with a little more boring in her life.

Chapter Four

The next two days passed without incident for Camille. She contemplated going into Kingsdown and engaging a carpenter, but nothing more disturbed her peace and she decided that she was overreacting. She did receive invitations from her welcoming neighbors; two dances and a musical soiree. With these engagements in mind, she went into town, collected some of her newly finished gowns, and ordered some more, just to be wicked. She interviewed and hired her new lady’s maid, a pleasant girl called Merry, who had her wardrobe organized in a surprisingly short time. After only twenty-four hours of having Merry about, Camille decided that she could never again do without her, for the girl was sweet tempered, efficient, and looked to her new employer's comfort with impressive vigor. So much so, that Camille had been forced to quell a riot in the kitchen when Mrs. Hibbert had taken against the girl and her ‘jumped up airs’.

She had come firmly down on Merry’s side. It was time that the housekeeper understood that it was not she who ran the household, but Camille herself.

For two days, she did
not
encounter the man who occupied her thoughts far more than he should. Lord Tapscott remained mercifully absent, giving her an opportunity to put the whole kiss into the perspective it deserved. It was really quite simple. Lord Tapscott was a rake. Rakes kissed ladies who, more often than not, kissed him back. She was new to the area and, as yet,
un
kissed, which must necessarily prove a challenge. Really, if she considered it impartially, it was
inevitable
that his lordship should kiss her. The only thing that was the least disturbing about the entire episode was her own response to it, but she was becoming more adept at glossing over that particular part of the encounter. It had been a long time since a man had truly kissed her and Tapscott was rather good at it.

Perhaps she should just absolve herself on the ground of temporary madness and move forward.

Shortly after luncheon on the third day (after that kiss) Lady Fallston and Mrs. Harkness paid a call, not together, but at the same time, encountering each other at the front door. Camille had been half expecting visitors, the right amount of time having elapsed, and so had changed into one of her new gowns, a pretty thing of deep russet crepe with worked Flemish lace in a fichu that tucked into the bodice, touches of the same lace on either wrists. The little dressmaker had proved to be quite gifted and Camille had adopted her suggestions with enthusiasm. It was nice to have one of her new maids show in her guests, even nicer to order tea and not have the sullen Mrs. Hibbert serve it. All in all, Camille was beginning to feel more like the lady of the house and less like a
rustiques
provinciaux
who smelt of straw and the stable.

Both ladies greeted her with effusive friendliness, their eyes taking in Camille’s dress, her new staff, her drawing room (which was glowing with cleanliness, if nothing else), even as polite words were spilling from their lips.

‘My dear Lady Durham,’ Lady Fallston cried. She was a thin, nervous creature whose hands fluttered restlessly and who had enormous blue eyes that dominated her face. ‘How delightful to see you.’

‘And you, my lady. Mrs. Harkness. You are so kind, coming to see me. I was thinking it was time to pay a call on my new neighbors and you have pipped me at the post. Is that the right way to say it?’ Camille had been thinking of calling, but she had also been putting it off. There was so much to do at the Hall and she was just a little worried that she might encounter Lord Tapscott.

‘It most certainly is, but, oh, my dear, it is a pleasure. I could not help but wonder how you were getting on,’ Mrs. Harkness assured her. ‘I had not realized that Amelia was coming as well.’ She shot Lady Fallston a faintly malicious look. ‘You seemed rather poorly when I saw you in Kingsdown yesterday. I thought you would be resting today. Have you quite recovered, my dear?’

Lady Fallston went pink. ‘Quite recovered, thank you Letitia. I… I was feeling faint.’

‘The sun was quite strong,’ Mrs. Harkness said thoughtfully, ‘and you did seem to be hurrying along. Did you actually manage to catch up with Lord Tapscott?’

Lady Fallston’s pink deepened to an almost painful red. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

‘Oh? I thought I saw you trying to have a word with his lordship. I am sure it was him.’ Mrs. Harkness gave Camille a smile. ‘He has such a distinctive figure, don’t you think?’

Lord Tapscott again. Camille felt deeply sorry for Lady Fallston. She recalled that her maid Gillie had said that the lady had a partiality for the handsome rake and clearly it was common knowledge. Just as clearly, Mrs. Harkness was determined to make hay out of whatever she had seen the day before, which seemed a little cruel. It was quite usual for a middle-aged lady in France to have a
affaires
with gentlemen, be they younger or older. It was almost expected of them, but things were a little different in England. His lordship had obviously made quite an impression on a great many ladies. Camille wondered if he was having a dalliance with Lady Fallston and if she fancied herself in love with him.