To my dear friend, Vanessa Barneveld
London, December 24th, 1825
In a borrowed bed in a borrowed room, she waited for him.
Although she’d lit the fire in the grate, she shivered a little under the threadbare blankets. The white light of a London winter poured through the windows. Tucked away in this shabby chamber high in Soho, she always felt like a princess in a tower, above the grimy reality of the noise and traffic below.
Every Tuesday for the past six weeks, Campion had met him here. He always came to her during these quiet midafternoon hours. Before the fashionable crowd promenaded in Hyde Park. Before high society prepared for the opera or the gambling hells or glittering parties.
Tonight the most glamorous event of the season took place. The Countess of Winterson’s Christmas ball in Grosvenor Square. A spellbinding fantasy of an evening where magic descended, romance prevailed, and true love emerged triumphant. At Lucy Frost’s annual ball, the legend was that faithful lovers would find their happy ending against all odds.
Campion stifled a pang of envy for whatever lucky couple fortune favored this Christmas Eve. She’d known before she became a temporary mistress that no wedding bells would ring out for her and the man she loved.
Instead all they had were Tuesday afternoons and occasional discreet meetings at society gatherings. Compared to her humble circumstances, he moved in the most elevated circles. Their encounters beyond this room were so rare that Campion stored them in her memory like priceless jewels in a coffer. A whispered word here or there. The surreptitious brush of hands. Once they’d even snatched a few kisses in a dark garden, kisses so hot she hadn’t felt the snow falling about them.
On one unforgettable occasion, she’d connived to escape with him to Vauxhall’s shadowy walks. They’d held hands and spoken romantic nonsense and acted like lovers. Until too many people had recognized him and she’d feared that someone might discover her identity beneath mask and cape. For her reputation’s sake, they’d abandoned the pleasure gardens before she’d fulfilled her dream to dance with him. Just once.
Now she strained for the sound of his boots on the stairs. He always walked as if he knew exactly where he wanted to be. For the last month and a half, at least on a Tuesday, he’d wanted to be with her. As a result, she’d discovered delight beyond measure and a love that would never die.
But yesterday, she’d learned that this must be their last afternoon. She had no choice in the matter. Such was the harsh price of being a penniless dependent, subject to a selfish woman’s whim. Tomorrow when Campion returned to the country, the gates of paradise would slam eternally shut behind her.
Blindly she stared up at the sagging, stained ceiling and told herself that she wouldn’t greet him with tears. After such radiant joy, she refused to leave a final impression of a weeping, clinging coward.
But courage was so difficult when the idea of never again lying in his arms cut her like a knife. He’d awoken part of her soul. She didn’t know how she could endure losing both her lover and the woman she became when she was with him.
But, oh, how she wished he’d hurry. Every stolen second of this afternoon was precious. Because ahead of her stretched the long, barren, lonely years.
At last she heard his determined tread. Her belly tightened in anticipation and her toes curled against the linen sheets. She intended to make this an encounter he’d never forget, even when he’d wed a high-born heiress and settled into life on his far away estates. She’d brand these hours onto his heart, so that when he lay old and contented and surrounded by the children she wouldn’t give him, his last breath whispered her name.
The door swept open and bumped against the faded wallpaper. Just the sight of him flooded her with joy. She’d never been in love before. Something essential within her recognized that she’d never love like this again.
For a charged moment, he surveyed her. His green eyes flared to bright emerald and color lined his high, slanted cheekbones.
“I can see you’re in no mood to waste time, sweet love,” he murmured, his Scots brogue in evidence. It always thickened when he was moved or angry. Or aroused.
A thrill rippled through her, set every cell of her body vibrating. He’d immediately guessed that under the covers, she was naked. “We can take the preliminaries as read.”
“Every time I see you, I remember why I love you,” he said softly.
She blocked the treacherous warmth that the declaration always inspired. He frequently told her that loved her. When he challenged her inhibitions. When he was buried deep inside her. When she made him laugh.
Campion wasn’t a complete dimwit, however badly love had sapped her common sense. Young men who set out to lure foolish girls pledged their affections lightly.
Or perhaps he meant it, if love equaled desire in his mind. She’d been an innocent before this affair, but she’d soon realized that he was in a perpetual lather for her. As she was for him. She’d reached her twenty-third year before discovering desire’s power. Now sensual appetites enslaved her.
With a deliberate gesture, she swept aside the covers. The cold air contrasted deliciously with the heat rising in her blood. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
When his expression turned predatory, she trembled with excitement. She loved how she could shatter his control. She’d learned to be daring. They didn’t have time for coyness, although she’d been shy and unsure when they’d first come together. Terrified that at any moment, her aunt would thunder in and proclaim her a whore. Positive that she couldn’t possibly measure up to the other girls this man had welcomed into his bed.
His open delight in her had soon banished self-doubt. And her aunt was yet to suspect that under the guise of feeding an absent childhood friend’s cat, her frumpy niece sneaked away to wallow in sin.
After ten dreary, sunless years as her aunt’s dogsbody, at last Campion stepped into the light. She felt free here as she never felt free with her unloving relatives who treated her worse than a servant. Ida Parnell had soon discovered that Campion was quick and hardworking. A diligent poor relation, while hardly welcome, was much cheaper to keep than a maid. And less likely to march out in response to impossible demands upon patience or feelings or abilities.
Campion didn’t lie about feeding Letitia’s cat. Plato snoozed on the corner chair, long ago bored with the two humans. Most days, Letitia’s neighbor saw to Plato, but on Tuesdays, Mrs. Brown visited her son in Hampstead.
Such fortuitous timing. This room tucked away in an unfashionable corner of London provided the perfect rendezvous. Here nobody from Mayfair or Belgravia was likely to discover Campion with her secret lover.
Letitia’s lodgings didn’t meet his standards of luxury, she’d always known that. But if Campion was to maintain her good name, they couldn’t go to a hotel. And if he smuggled a mistress into his house on Half Moon Street, he risked an almighty scandal.
He curled his long, elegant fingers around the edge of the door. His attention on her unwavering, he shut it behind him with a soft snick. The world outside would take its merry way. But here above the streets, thronging with hawkers and shoppers and ladies of ill repute, she and her lover existed in a realm of unconfined physical pleasure. If only for a few hours.
Campion’s anticipation intensified as he ripped at his neck cloth and shrugged his superbly tailored blue coat off his broad shoulders. He undressed with gratifying speed, flinging clothes around the room. When his shirt landed on top of poor Plato, the cat protested and jumped down to stalk toward the fire.
Within seconds, her magnificent beloved stood naked. Tall. Lean. Handsome.
Lachlan Macmurrie, Earl of Ravenglass. Scion of a great family. Custodian of lands throughout Scotland. London’s most eligible bachelor. A man with the devil’s own charm.
And this afternoon, Campion Parnell’s to enjoy.
To her surprise, their looming parting had retreated from her mind. She’d imagined thi
s last meeting laden with sadness. But when this resplendent man wanted her so blatantly, she couldn’t help but bask in his molten gaze. She stretched against the sheets, raising her arms above her head with an abandon that would astonish anyone who knew her outside this enchanted domain.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said softly. The reverence in his voice made her bones dissolve with longing.
She wasn’t beautiful, but when she looked into his face, she felt as if she was. She was ordinary; fair hair, medium height, blue eyes as common in Englishwomen as buttercups in the spring.
Lord Ravenglass was anything but ordinary. Her eyes feasted upon him, cataloguing every detail. The narrow, intelligent face under its wing of ruler-straight dark hair. The long, thin mouth that kissed her into delirium. The blade of a nose as haughty as an emperor’s. The powerful body with its spare muscles.
An exultant smile stretched her lips. “You’re quite picturesque yourself.”
His mouth quirked. “Like a garden folly?”
That mouth had fascinated her from the moment she’d met him at the Fulfords’ masquerade, a month after she’d arrived in London to assist in her cousin’s husband hunting.
By rights, Campion Parnell should have been well below the superb Earl of Ravenglass’s touch; in looks, in fortune, in breeding, in rank. But the Fulfords’ party had been a crush and she’d been masked and more inclined than usual to respond to friendly overtures. At every other event she’d attended, she’d been too conscious that she was the poor relation to put herself forward.
When the tall stranger had remarked upon the music, which had been awful, and offered a hand to help her through the crowd, she’d accepted. Although if her aunt had seen her niece with the famous Lord Ravenglass, she’d have packed Campion off to Sussex in disgrace that very night.
Aunt Ida harbored ambitions for her daughter Fenella. If either Parnell girl was to catch the earl’s attention, it wouldn’t be the annoying burden that her brother-in-law’s death had inflicted upon her household. Luckily, Aunt Ida’s attentions in London were so focused on Fenella’s social progress that Campion could escape the house more often than was strictly proper.
Lord Ravenglass was a man of the world, a veteran of romantic intrigues. Only someone of his experience could have contrived further meetings. Their flirtation had progressed quickly through secret walks in the park and drives in a closed carriage. Drives that Campion recalled mainly for increasingly halfhearted attempts to retain her chastity.
When Lachlan had begged her to come to his bed, she hadn’t hesitated. Fate seemed to favor her lapse from virtue. For the only time in her life, Campion was largely unsupervised, she had access to a private room, and she wanted to give herself to a man.
So easily had she strayed from the once inevitable path of virginity, drudgery, and obedience. Whatever untold misery awaited once she left London, still she couldn’t repent her recklessness.
“Come and ruin me again,” she said in a low voice.
“With pleasure.” He strode forward, expression intent. The air sizzled with his desire. The sight of his hardness made her shift restlessly against the sheets to ease her rising need. Her belly tightened with liquid heat.
He snatched her up and kissed her with a desperation that left her quivering with excitement. The prospect of leaving him stabbed anew. With a strangled sob, she flung her arms around his neck. Before he could query her distress, she distracted him. He groaned into her mouth as she stroked him.
With an urgency that sent the blood rushing through her veins, he pushed her into the mattress and came down over her. She immediately arched up, curling her legs around him. When they’d first become lovers, she’d been awkward. Now she swiftly positioned herself. He slid into her with a powerful ease that forced the breath from her lungs in a long exhalation of satisfaction. He filled her, made her complete, anchored her in the world.
At the peak of his thrust, he stopped and rose on his arms, staring at her as if memorizing every line and plane of her features.
She felt trapped in bright light. Could he see the love she’d never confessed? He must guess that a woman who until now had kept herself pure felt more than just a passing fancy.
As the craving to move became irresistible, her fingers dug into his shoulders with bruising pressure. She could tell from his tightening muscles that he too felt that primitive compulsion to finish, to rush to completion, to seek ecstatic oblivion.
Still he didn’t move.
She clenched in subtle invitation. Hold. Release. Hold. Release. Her body tempted him, demanded that he break this stasis.
“Lachlan?” It hurt to speak, her throat was so jammed with the tension spinning between them.
“Don’t move.” He shifted infinitesimally, sparking a jolt of tumultuous sensation. But still it wasn’t enough.
“What do you want?” she asked helplessly, plowing her fingernails into his back. Even through her striving, she felt a savage pleasure in knowing that he’d wear her mark tomorrow. After she’d gone.
“I want to know you’re mine,” he grated.
“Of course I’m yours.” She heard the despair in her voice. If he only knew how true those words were.
“When I’m inside you, like this, I know that.”
His unexpected vulnerability breached her barriers against revealing her love. “It’s always true,” she confessed, pressing upward, frustration fizzing in her blood.
“Make me believe it.” He caught her thighs and pushed them high, changing his angle. The movement set off a series of small explosions inside her. She was so close to the familiar crisis and he’d hardly touched her yet.
“Believe it.”
She was his. She always would be.
The hunger in his kiss ripped through her, made her shake. This possession stirred responses that she’d never felt before. She met him with open-mouthed welcome, teeth clashing, tongues dancing. He crushed her into the bed, tangling his hands in her wild mane of hair.
Still he kissed her. Still he didn’t move.
She whimpered beneath him. “Please, Lachlan. Please.”
“Do you want me?” he growled, rubbing his cheek against hers like a lion greeting his mate. And still his huge, throbbing power filled her.
“More than life itself,” she admitted.
He sighed with shuddering relief. His breath ruffled the hair at her temple, teased the delicate shell of her ear. “You’ve never said that before.”
“You knew.” She curled her hands around his neck and tugged sharply at the damp strands at his nape.
He grunted at the discomfort. “I hoped.”
“You knew,” she insisted.
Finally he shifted, dragging back slowly, stealing her capacity for speech with every inch of retreat. She moaned and trembled. She’d reached such a pitch of arousal that the deliberate, gradual withdrawal took her flying toward the edge.
Then implacably he filled her again. And again.
Usually it took longer to reach her peak. Not today. With a choked cry, she jackknifed and lashed her arms around him, convulsing as stars and fire and lightning raged around her. Transforming the world to fiery brilliance.
She was still quaking and gasping when she opened her eyes to find him watching her. His eyes were black with barely leashed desire and his body was rigid.
With an unsteady hand, she traced the stern line of his mouth. The skin stretched against the bones of his face. His jaw was adamantine with the control he exerted. He looked like a man who conquered nations. Just so must his ruthless Highland ancestors have looked before they stole their neighbors’ cattle and women, and started the inexorable climb to greatness.
She braced for him to seek his release. Instead he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was tender as his loving hadn’t been. It felt like a silent pledge, although she had no idea of what. Shocked she lay quiescent under the sweet exploration. Then he closed his eyes. His should
ers straightened and he plunged into her.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He groaned low in his throat and his grip on her hair tightened to pain. An unfamiliar liquid heat flooded deep inside her.
Lachlan slumped beside Campion, turning her to keep their bodies joined. For a long, silent moment, they lay thigh to thigh, chest to chest. Both panting to fill lungs starved for air.
She shifted a little, not enough to separate them, testing the satiny warmth inside her. He’d always been careful to protect her from a child.
Not today.
Shock held Campion silent. The implications of what Lachlan had done were so shattering, she had no idea how to react. In those turbulent moments when he’d surged into her, she’d felt powerful and cherished. As if the pledge he made to her had been one of lifelong love. When of course she knew the rich, aristocratic Earl of Ravenglass would never lower himself to wed a girl as insignificant as Campion Parnell.
A child would cause so many problems. She should be utterly appalled. She should be furiously angry. Instead she felt bewildered and anxious. The turmoil left her feeling lost, struggling blindly to find her way ahead.
He hadn’t quite drifted off, although he looked exhausted. Under heavy eyelids, he surveyed her, a faint smile of masculine triumph teasing his lips. The possessiveness in his gaze and in his embrace made her feel wanted, needed…loved.
She’d always recognized that it would be dangerous to surrender to the illusion that he cared. But after that shattering union, she couldn’t rebuild the barriers between what she knew was real and what she longed to be true. For a moment, she imagined the poor relation and the brilliant earl establishing a life together.
Only for a moment.
Even through the ebbing tide of pleasure, sorrow stabbed at her. Her heart clenched in futile denial of what she knew to be inevitable. This was the last time they’d lie like this, the last time he’d hold her in his arms. How could she bear to lose him?
Abruptly she realized that she couldn’t spoil the memory of this afternoon by saying goodbye.
Far better to disappear back to Sussex without a farewell. Write a note explaining that she’d been called away. Wish him well from a distance, when he couldn’t look into her eyes and see that forsaking him ripped her into jagged pieces.
Just as it tore at her to imagine him taking some other woman to his bed.
The gossip was that now the earl had reached the age of twenty-eight, he intended to choose a bride. Perhaps even tonight at the Winterson ball. Campion knew that he was going. He’d mentioned his mother madly shopping for a new gown to befit the occasion.
Every time Campion thought of Lachlan marrying someone else, she felt physically ill. The rational side of her recognized that men of noble lineage were obliged to produce aristocratic heirs. But loving him so desperately, she couldn’t be entirely rational. At the deepest level and despite everything she knew of the world she lived in, she believed that he was hers. Forever.
“You’re crying.” His voice roughened with concern.
“Am I?” She raised one hand to her face and her fingers came away wet.
His slashing black brows lowered. “Did I hurt you?”
When he shifted, his body slipped from hers. She missed him immediately.
“No.” She blushed, although surely an earl’s mistress should have long ago lost the ability to blush. “I’m just…overwhelmed.”
“I wanted to overwhelm you,” he said softly, his voice weighted with drowsiness. He drew her against him. “Rest now.”
Past the line of his shoulder, she watched the cat stretch and pad toward the door.
“I’ll tend to the cat first.” She always allowed Plato a couple of hours to roam while she was here.
“Hurry back,” he murmured, kissing the tip of her shoulder.
She pressed her lips to his. It wouldn’t do to make the kiss too emotional, too passionate. Nonetheless, she lingered, memorizing the taste of his mouth and the way his lips moved upon hers. Etching into her mind the scent of his skin and the heat of his body.
Before she could cling too long, so long that she’d never let him go, she lifted her head and smiled. “You make me very happy.”
It was the closest she’d ventured to telling him that she loved him. She wanted him to know that the greatest measure of joy she’d ever experience was here with him. But that, again, betrayed too much.
Between his thick black lashes, his green eyes sparked with a warmth that had little to do with passion and everything to do with affection. This was when her heart begged her to trust in impossible happy endings, when he looked at her as though she carried the stars in her hands. “I’m glad.”
She kissed him once more. Briefly. Urgently. She couldn’t meet his eyes again without bursting into tears. “Sleep.”
His smile developed a sensual edge, even though he was nearly asleep. “For a little while. I have plans for this afternoon.”
More love play, she guessed. The yen to stay and let him possess her once, twice more nearly made her hesitate. But she knew that her resolve failed. She wasn’t far from pleading with him never to leave her.
Her plan had always been to finish this affair with dignity, to walk away with her head high. She wanted Lachlan to remember her as proud and strong. Although right now she felt like crumpling onto the floor and crying her eyes out.
Before she weakened, she slipped out of the bed and gathered her clothes. She dressed hurriedly, hiding under the hooded cape that had proven such a boon in this intrigue.
While she prepared to leave, Lachlan tumbled into slumber, rolling onto his back and flinging one arm out as if reaching for her.
The gesture made her heart ache. They’d never spent a night together. They never would. Another source of piercing regret.
She straightened and told herself that women without fortune and beauty had no business dabbling in foolish dreams. The admonition didn’t ease the crippling weight inside her. Perhaps after she’d repeated that grim litany for ten years or so, it would prove more bracing.
Very quietly, she opened the door a crack, letting Plato brush past her skirts. After one last glance behind her, she slipped away, abandoning Lord Ravenglass to the dimly lit room.
Campion was sitting at the kitchen table, struggling with a pile of mending, when Alice the housemaid came to fetch her, her face alight with curiosity. “You’re wanted upstairs, miss.”
Sighing, Campion put her sewing aside. It was hopeless doing fine work by the light of cheap tallow candles. She refused to blame her clumsiness on the tears stinging her eyes. “Is something wrong?”
Alice spread her hands to convey ignorance. “Hobbs said not to dawdle.”
Hobbs was the haughty butler, with more airs and graces than a blue-blooded debutante. Aunt Ida had hired him to lend consequence when the ton called.
Unfortunately so far, people of rank hadn’t chosen to call upon Mrs. Parnell, undistinguished widow from Croxley in Sussex. Campion’s aunt and cousin had arrived in London fortified with dreams of baronesses taking them about in carriages and wellborn young bucks inundating Fenella with bouquets. Aunt Ida had even hoped Fenella might attract the famous Earl of Ravenglass who sought a wife, so everyone said. Who better than the belle of Croxley?
Sadly Fenella, while pretty enough to grace a country assembly, didn’t sparkle in the capital’s brighter lights. The trains of admirers had never materialized. The peevish belle of Croxley and her disappointed mother planned to return home within the month. Both had taken their failure out on Campion.
She hardly dared to imagine their reactions if they discovered that the despised poor relation had caught Ravenglass’s attention. Although if her aunt knew that her niece was a fallen woman, Campion would be out on her ear with nowhere to go.
As Campion stood, she couldn’t help resting one hand over her stomach, wondering if a child grew there. It would be an irredeemable disas
ter if she carried Lord Ravenglass’s bastard, but some pathetic, sentimental part of her longed for his baby.
And didn’t that prove that her previously reliable brain dissolved into mush?
She had no money, no friends, no family apart from her heartless aunt. If Aunt Ida banished her, there would be endless shame and nowhere to turn. Even knowing that, Campion couldn’t hate Lachlan for his loss of control. She’d never felt closer to him than in those moments when he’d spilled inside her.
Trying to hide how her hands trembled, Campion untied her apron and tidied her faded merino dress. It should have gone into the rag basket years ago. Perhaps her aunt would grace her with a new dress tomorrow, but she doubted it. Her only Christmas gift would be the long, cold journey back to Sussex and the thankless work of preparing the house for the family’s return.
With heavy tread, Campion climbed the stairs. The grief crushing her heart left her exhausted beyond her usual weariness after being at her aunt’s beck and call.
Tonight’s summons would surely involve some trivial complaint. There was no reason her aunt should have suddenly discovered about Campion’s trysts with Lord Ravenglass. After ten years of Aunt Ida’s carping, Campion had learned that meekness was her only possible response to a scolding. But the spirit of rebellion festered, even while she knew it could do no good. She hadn’t a penny to her name. She’d only managed to pay the hackney from Soho by hoarding a few shillings from housekeeping.
When she entered the drawing room, Campion discovered not just her aunt and cousin sitting in front of the fire, but another lady in the position of honor on the chaise longue. A dark haired and extravagantly dressed lady Campion knew only by sight.
“Lady Ravenglass…” she stammered and dipped into a deep curtsey.
What on earth was Lachlan’s mother doing here? As far as Campion was aware, the countess didn’t know the Parnells existed.
Her belly knotted with sick shame as she recalled what she’d done a few hours ago with this lady’s son. Then shame surrendered to icy terror as she wondered if Lady Ravenglass intended to denounce Campion as a slut.
But Lady Ravenglass’s expression was friendly as she rose and approached to draw Campion upright. “My dear Campion, how lovely to see you again.”
Instead of spewing insults and recriminations, the countess spoke as if to a beloved friend. Yet they were strangers. Campion’s mouth sagged open and she stiffened with disbelief. She must look completely witless.
The countess was dressed in an elaborate green ballgown. She must be on her way to Lady Winterson’s.
Behind the countess’s tall, willowy form, her aunt regarded her with shock and mounting fury. Fenella looked sulky, her rosebud mouth contracted in a way that boded no good. Fenella was mean, inclined to pinch and pull her cousin’s hair.
Oh, dear, after this, Campion’s relatives would subject her to weeks of spite.
She stared into the countess’s face, trying to discern disdain or mockery. Did Lady Ravenglass know that Campion was her son’s mistress? Surely he couldn’t have told his mother that he’d debauched Campion Parnell. A man didn’t discuss his doxies with the respectable women of his family. Yet if Lachlan hadn’t mentioned her to his mother, how did the countess know who she was?
Keeping Campion’s hand, the countess turned toward Aunt Ida. “Your niece was so kind when I was searching for my lost dog this afternoon. I just had to call and thank her in person.”
Lost dog? What lost dog?
Feeling she’d been bundled into a universe that made no sense whatsoever, Campion shut her mouth with a snap and regarded the countess in complete bewilderment. She’d never seen the lady up close before. Her striking resemblance to Lachlan stirred the painful longing in Campion’s heart to agony. The same black hair and strong features. The same bright green eyes.
Green eyes that stared at her now with the message to cooperate.
“You didn’t have to go out of your way, my lady.” Campion managed a shaky smile, although her nervousness about what this meeting portended made her as taut as a violin string.
She tried and failed to pull her hand free. Years of housework had left her hands rough, suitable for a farm girl, not a lady. Under Lady Ravenglass’s searching regard, she felt like a peasant in the presence of a queen.
Her aunt also forced a smile. Campion hoped hers was more convincing. “I’m delighted that my dear niece was so helpful, your ladyship.” The gimlet glare fastened on Campion and, despite the warmth of the countess’s grip, she repressed a shiver. “And so self-effacing. You didn’t say anything about meeting Lady Ravenglass, Campion.”
Before Campion could think of a convincing answer, the countess spoke. “I’m sure she considered her help a mere trifle. But I insist upon repaying her trouble.”
“Your visit here is surely payment enough,” Aunt Ida simpered and Campion cringed at the toadying. “I hope you will call again.”
The countess’s smile remained in place. “I’m sure I shall, Mrs. Parnell. I took such a fancy to dear Campion.”
Dear Campion heard Fenella’s faint snort of disbelief.
“I was happy to help, my lady,” Campion said, battling to sound as if she knew what all this was about.
Lachlan’s mother beamed at her with a glowing approval that she didn’t deserve. Surely if she knew about Campion’s affair with Lachlan, she wouldn’t be so amiable. Still, shame was a sour taste in Campion’s mouth.
“To show my appreciation, I’d like you to accompany me to Lady Winterson’s Christmas ball. Lucy knows that I’m bringing a special guest, so I beg you not to disappoint us.”
The last few minutes had bristled with surprises. Now utter befuddlement descended upon Campion. Lady Winterson’s Christmas ball? The most prestigious event of the year? A countess begging for humble Campion Parnell’s company?
And dearest surprise of all, one last opportunity to see the man she loved.
“Your ladyship!” Aunt Ida interjected with disapproval. “My daughter and I would be—”
The countess’s tone developed a hint of steel, another reminder of her son. “I’m afraid Lady Winterson’s ball is such a crush that I can only take dear Campion.”
“But Fenella—”
“Some other time.”
The exchange offered Campion time to recognize that, despite this miracle in her aunt’s drawing room, she couldn’t accept Lady Ravenglass’s inexplicable generosity. “My lady, I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily, a long, painful rift splitting her heart. “But I can’t come.”
“So Fenella—” Aunt Ida began, but the countess ignored her with an aristocratic carelessness that made Campion want to cheer. Aunt Ida was far too accustomed to dominating the scene.
The countess squeezed Campion’s hand. “Of course you can.”
“I appreciate your kindness, but I did nothing.” The glint in the countess’s eye indicated that they both recognized that statement’s truth. The wry humor reminded her so vividly and painfully of Lachlan that she caught her breath. Campion’s voice was husky when she continued. “And in any case, I have nothing to wear to the ball.”
Her best dress was another of her aunt’s castoffs. It wasn’t fit for Croxley’s assemblies, let alone London society. Even if she only played Fenella’s drab satellite.
“Do you think I haven’t considered that, my dear?” The countess waved one graceful hand as if preparing to conjure a gown from the air. “After your efforts on my behalf, I took the liberty of calling at my modiste. I gave her an idea of your size and my maid is waiting outside to do any alterations.”
“But that’s too much…” Yet again, Campion tried and failed to withdraw her hand. “I can’t accept such generosity.”
The countess leveled another speaking look upon her. She seemed to assume that Campion understood the rules of this game. “I must insist.”
“Fenella—” Aunt Ida bleated, stepping forward to impose her will.
r /> Again, Lady Ravenglass ignored her. “And my son requests the first waltz.”
Did Campion imagine the emphasis the countess placed on “my son”? But that would mean she must know of Campion’s connection with Lachlan. If she did, why would she encourage further contact? Confusion made Campion giddy, even as her heart raced at the thought of dancing with Lachlan.
“Lord Ravenglass—” her aunt gulped and Fenella shot Campion a killing glare from her chair beside the hearth. Aunt Ida rallied. “I’m afraid my niece can’t attend the ball, my lady. She’s due to return to Sussex tomorrow.”
“You’re sending your niece away on Christmas Day?” The countess’s tone expressed polite incredulity.
To Campion’s surprise, her aunt flushed. Until this moment, Campion had believed that her bombastic relative didn’t understand the meaning of shame. “She has duties in the country.”
“I’m sure they can wait.” The countess’s expression remained pleasant but determined. “In fact, I hoped to keep dear Campion with me overnight so that she can spend the festival with my family.”
Campion only just saved herself from gaping open-mouthed once more at the countess. Christmas was an intimate celebration for one’s closest associates. The countess’s invitation was a mark of immeasurable favor. A privilege one might extend to a prospective daughter-in-law.
“My lady, she hardly merits such preferment,” Aunt Ida protested. “If she found your dog, well and good. But this kindness is beyond her wildest dreams.”
For once, Aunt Ida spoke nothing but the truth. Still the countess didn’t budge. “I’m sure Campion and I will be the dearest friends.”
Campion wasn’t so sure. Lady Ravenglass’s charm and drive were rather overwhelming. She now saw where Lachlan had learned his single-mindedness. But why did Lady Ravenglass go to this trouble for her?
Before Aunt Ida could respond, the countess addressed Campion with a smiling implacability that would rout an army. “If you step out into the hall, my dear, you’ll see my maid. We must hurry. You won’t want to miss a moment of the party of the year.”
Feeling as though she’d been whipped up into a whirlwind, Campion yielded. After all, this unprecedented evening delivered so many of her most cherished dreams, including that unfulfilled dream of dancing with the man she loved. Behind Lady Ravenglass, Aunt Ida’s cheeks were purple with outrage.
“Thank you, my lady,” Campion murmured, caught between wonderment and trepidation and laughter. Through ten years of her aunt’s tyranny, she’d never seen that lady routed. She’d have been inhuman not to gloat just a little.
Up in Campion’s cold attic, the countess’s maid Lise crimped, stitched and fussed. All the while, she muttered away in a French too idiomatic to follow, although her contempt for Campion’s spartan surroundings needed no translation. Campion didn’t mind the girl’s monologue. It saved her having to strain for conversation when the world reeled around her.
A thousand questions buzzed in her head. But discretion kept her silent. Discretion, and the superstitious fear that, if she inquired too deeply into this extraordinary chance, it might vanish like mist,
When Lise finally turned Campion toward her mirror, a princess gazed back. Campion’s heart gave a mighty thump of disbelief. She hardly credited that the slender woman in spangled azure could be plain, workaday, unimportant Campion Parnell. Her golden hair was swept high in a regal style. Jewels sparkled at her throat. Her skin glowed like a pearl. Shy excitement shimmered in her large sapphire eyes.
One shaking hand rose to touch her tremulous mouth, red and full in her pale face. None of this felt real. Never had she imagined that she’d wear such a spectacular gown. Never had she imagined that she could look like this if she did. She half-expected to wake from a doze and find herself crouched over the mending in the kitchen.
For once in her life, she made a suitable partner for the magnificent Earl of Ravenglass. She didn’t understand why this happened, but she meant to shine tonight, shine so bright that he never forgot her.
She’d cry later, she knew, when she returned to Sussex and life as her aunt’s drudge. But right now, she wanted to laugh and dance and smile, and flirt with the man she loved. Right now, she wanted to seize this brief happiness and wring every drop of joy from it before fate snatched it away.
As Campion descended the stairs, Lise following, Lady Ravenglass’s face lit with admiration. “How beautiful you are.”
From beside Lady Ravenglass, Aunt Ida and Fenella stared appalled at the transformed Campion. Right now, Campion didn’t care. She was going to the season’s most exclusive ball. She would dance with the handsomest man in London. She wore a gown more dazzling than the sun. Whatever punishment her relations inflicted, nothing could ever take tonight away.
Raising her chin, she met the countess’s eyes with a confidence she hadn’t felt in her shabby merino frock. Around her throat, she felt the weight of the sapphire and diamond necklace Lise had produced for her.
“Thank you so much, my lady.” The words were inadequate to express her astonished gratitude, but they were all she had.
The countess made a dismissive gesture. “It’s the least I can do, my dear.” She signaled to Lise to place a deep blue velvet cape across Campion’s shoulders. “Come. The ball awaits.”
As luxurious warmth surrounded her, anticipation stirred in Campion’s heart. Anticipation and yearning. She’d see Lachlan once more. And however the future turned out, he’d remember her as lovely and poised and elegant.
With a flourish, Hobbs opened the door. His bow to Campion conveyed a respect he’d never shown her aunt or Fenella.
Campion stepped outside. The icy air stole her breath and she snuggled into her cape. Something feathery touched her cheek. It had started to snow. She smiled up at the cloudy sky and made the one wish that until now she’d never dared to make. After all, the most impossible dreams came true at Lady Winterson’s ball.
Two carriages waited. The smaller, presumably for Lise, was familiar from those delicious, frustrating excursions before she’d ceded herself to Lachlan.
When Campion turned to the countess, she prayed that she wasn’t blushing. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.”
The countess’s eyes sparkled, as if she concealed a delightful secret. “Don’t you know, my dear? Really?”
Campion stared at her, puzzled. “I didn’t save your dog.”
“Perhaps not.” The countess smiled. “But I hope that you might save my son.”
Oh, no. Humiliation twisted her stomach. Lachlan must have told her about those afternoons in Soho. Despite the cold, Campion’s face stung with heat. “I don’t—”
“I know you feel completely at sea.” Lady Ravenglass leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Still smiling, she nodded toward the small carriage. “But over there, you’ll find answers to every question.”
In front of Campion’s dazed eyes, the carriage’s door swung open. Even before the lamplight struck the man who leaned forward, Campion recognized Lachlan. For a moment, she stared at him, transfixed with love. He looked breathtaking in his black evening clothes.
Then she wrenched her attention back to the countess. “How did you—”
A gentle push propelled her forward. “Go to him, Campion.”
Without her making a conscious decision to move, the delicate blue slippers that matched her dress carried Campion three steps to the carriage. She moved so quickly that she wasn’t aware of covering the distance.
All ability to speak had deserted her, but in her chest, her heart swooped with incredulous joy. Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Lady Ravenglass entering the other carriage and of Hobbs shutting the front door against her aunt and cousin’s avid curiosity.
“Lachlan?” she stammered, too bewildered to use his title. Not long ago, she’d believed she’d never see him again. However this magical night ended, this opportunity to speak with him, to tou
ch him, even if only once more, felt like a wondrous gift.
He smiled. That wonderful smile that always set her heart somersaulting. Except that her heart already performed somersaults. And cartwheels. And pirouettes. In the last few seconds, her heart had become home to a whole troupe of acrobats.
“You look a little overcome.” He took her hand, his grip firm and warm. As always when he touched her, the bewildering whirl around her settled, even tonight when nothing else made sense. “My mother is a force of nature. I knew she’d prevail against your aunt.”
Campion laughed softly, curling her hand around his as she stepped into the carriage. “You’re a force of nature too.”
A low laugh sent sensual awareness rippling down her spine. “Glad you acknowledge that.”
His free hand pulled the door shut, enveloping them in darkness. The blinds were drawn, making the space disturbingly intimate. His grasp tightened as he drew her down beside him. “Kiss me, Campion.”
Eagerly she leaned forward and twined her arms around him. He felt strong and solid and so very, very dear. If only she could hold him like this forever. She still didn’t understand the schemes he and his mother pursued, but this chance to be alone with him was too sweet to resist.
For a teasing interval, he merely skimmed his lips across hers. Then on a muffled groan, he lured her into incendiary passion. His mouth was hot and ardent. As the carriage rolled into motion, she sank into velvety pleasure.
After a breathless interlude, Lachlan raised his head. “I’m furious with you,” he said almost idly.
Curled in his arms, warm and safe with his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek, it was difficult to take his displeasure seriously. “Why?”
“You left without saying goodbye this afternoon.” In the lightless, confined cabin, his Scottish accent seemed impossibly exotic, so much more noticeable than in the light of day.
She buried her face in his brocade waistcoat and felt his hand rest on her coiled hair. If they weren’t careful, all Lise’s hard work would go for nothing and Campion would emerge from the carriage looking like she’d run through a hurricane. The spicy essence of lemon soap and Lachlan’s skin filled her senses. “I couldn’t bear to tell you that it was our last afternoon together.”
He tensed against her and his heart kicked into a faster rhythm. “Last?”
She raised her head. Her vision had adjusted enough for her to see the glitter of his eyes. “My aunt is sending me back to Sussex tomorrow.”
“Damn it, Campion, you should have told me.” His embrace firmed as he pressed her closer. “I had things to say to you today. Important things.”
Happiness had fluttered inside her like fledgling birds since she’d seen him. His somber tone pricked at her elation. “I suppose you want me to leave my aunt’s home and stay in London as your mistress,” she said flatly.
He thrust her back against the seat so hard that she bounced. She flinched beneath his blistering anger as his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Of course I wasn’t going to say that, you lovely fool.”
She hardly heard him. “I know I’m provincial and poor, but I’m proud of the Parnell name. My parents were fine people who loved me. I can’t bring shame upon their memory by accepting your carte blanche.” She blinked away the prickling rush of moisture. For a fleeting instant tonight, she’d imagined that she was done with tears, at least until Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. “Whatever else I might choose to do if there were no other considerations.”
“So are you saying that you’d like to be my mistress?” he asked slowly, in a tone she couldn’t interpret.
She shrugged unhappily and risked the truth. “I don’t want to leave you.”
His sigh expressed temper. “Yet you did leave me.”
“Lachlan, don’t be angry. Not tonight.” She framed his face with her hands, although it was too dark to see his expression. He’d recently shaved. His skin was smoother than it had been this afternoon. “I know I was a coward, but it seemed easier on both of us if I just disappeared.”
“Did it indeed?” The muscles of his cheeks were taut under her palms, but his question sounded merely curious.
“I thought that was the last time I’d ever see you.” She swallowed to dislodge the tightness in her throat as she remembered how leaving him had slashed at her soul. The reminder of that desolation made tonight doubly precious. It felt like a second chance. “I had no idea that you would come up with this mad scheme. How did you enlist your mother in your wickedness? What lies did you tell her?”
“None. From the first, my mother has known exactly who you are.”
His nonchalant reply knotted her stomach with shame and anger. How could he be so careless of her reputation? “Your mistress?”
After a fraught pause, Lachlan’s voice emerged deep and steady. “The woman I want to marry.”