It wasn't easy, but it was doable. Being busy helped. Having no moral or philosophical opposition to solitary releases helped. Immersing himself in his chosen field helped—thermodynamic equations and advanced calculus tended to keep one's mind off breasts and buttocks.
But nothing helped now. He was busy all day long, seeing to the beast of an estate that was Twelve Pillars, yet thoughts of Miss Rowland clamored every other minute. Whatever he did in the privacy of his bedchamber only created more fantasies of her to agitate him the next day. Thoughts of her breasts and buttocks—not to mention her morosely hungry eyes and her heavy, cool spill of hair—rendered him slow and bungling before simple quadratic equations and utterly impotent in the face of integrals of logarithms.
And yet if it were only a case of simple, rampant lust. That would be perfectly understandable in the case of a young man of robust appetites who stubbornly refused to surrender his virginity. But he wanted more than just to touch her. He wanted to know her.
Theodora's mother, as pushy and determined as she was, had nothing on Mrs. Rowland, the patron goddess of all ambitious mamas. At least Countess von Schweppenburg had the excuse of being poor and needing the security of a well-married daughter, whereas Mrs. Rowland was driven entirely by—he felt—her own unfulfilled ambition, something that cracked a harder whip than did any of Beelzebub's lieutenants.
And yet Miss Rowland did not fear her mother, not one little bit. If anything, Mrs. Rowland was in awe of her daughter, amazed beyond all expectations by this Hannibal of social climbing, who managed to bring her pound-sterling elephants across the figurative Alps of aristocratic disdain to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting London society.
Two days after their accidental meeting, he'd paid a formal call to the Rowlands, in the company of his parents and his siblings, Claudia and a bored Christopher. Claudia, impressed by the Greek marbles, Louis XIV furniture, and Renaissance paintings stretching as far as the eyes could see, begged to have a tour of Briarmeadow.
While his parents continued to converse with Mrs. Rowland, Miss Rowland obligingly conducted the three callers of her generation through the drawing rooms, the library, and the solarium. Christopher became more and more restless and, finally, in the gallery, before a miniature portrait of Carrington that must have been given to Miss Rowland upon their engagement, he lost his company manners and reverted to fourteen-year-old loutishness.
“Mother always said Cousin Carrington was a terrible example,” said Christopher. “I guess you'll marry any bounder who has a coronet of strawberry leaves.”
She didn't even break her stride. “My Lord Christopher, with your family's depleted resources and your vast personal charm, I predict you'll marry any heiress who would have you, teeth and literacy on her part strictly optional.”
Camden's face hurt from not laughing out loud at his brother's dismay. Christopher might be an oaf, but he was still the son of an English duke and the grandson of a Bavarian prince. Another young woman in her place, feeling the inferiority of her station, would have suffered his rudeness or, at best, laughed it off. She, however, smacked the boy hard and put him in his place with the ruthless efficiency of a born predator.
Unlike her mother, who garnished the house with subtle reminders of her erudition—Mycenaean bronze, possibly older seals from the island of Crete, glass-encased fragments of papyrus dating to the time of the pharaohs—Miss Rowland felt no need to prove to the world that she knew Antiphanes from Aristophanes. She was fine, thank you, with being the daughter of a man whose forebears, only a few generations ago, had washed laundry and carried coal for those exalted families into which she intended to marry.
He admired her surety. She knew her own worth and did not pretend otherwise for those who judged her on her parentage. But by refusing to tolerate fools and play nice, she'd condemned herself to a solitary path, both in defeat and in victory.
Camden walked his horse down the incline until he was nearly at water's edge and mounted it to cross the stream. As soon as he reached dry land, he dismounted and tethered the horse. By then she was already standing up, shaking the dust from her skirts.
“Miss Rowland.” On impulse he didn't offer to shake her hand but took her by the shoulders and kissed her on each cold, satiny cheek. He was still a foreigner to these parts, and he wasn't above taking advantage of it. “I beg your pardon. I must have thought myself still in France.”
Their gazes entangled. Her eyes were a nearly absolute black, the boundary between pupil and iris impossible to discern at any civilized distance. She glanced down momentarily, her eyelashes long and striking against the paleness of her skin. Then she looked back at him. “No need to beg pardon, my lord. It's quite acceptable to flirt with a girl you don't plan to marry. I don't mind.”
He should be embarrassed, but he wasn't. “Do you flirt with men you don't plan to marry?”