Camden found he was almost enjoying himself. He appreciated a fine bit of farce. “Likewise. You wouldn't be the same Felix Wrenworth who authored that fascinating article on the capture of comets by Jupiter?”
This took everyone aback, especially Lady Tremaine.
“Are you an astronomy enthusiast as well, my lord?” asked Lady Wrenworth, her tone tentative.
“Most assuredly, my dear lady,” Camden answered with a smile.
His wife glanced uneasily at her former lover.
The guests, faced with the choice of either being the first to observe and gossip about the Tremaines appearing in public together or attending a ball not so different from the one they went to three days ago, forgot to leave.
Camden did not disappoint. He was a charming host. But better than that, he was candid, to a degree.
How long did he intend to stay in England? A year, at least.
How did he like his house? His house, which he liked exceedingly well, was on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. But he found his wife's house agreeable enough.
Was not Lady Tremaine looking very fine tonight? Fine was much too tame a word. He'd known Lady Tremaine since she was practically an infant, and she'd never looked anything less than spectacular.
Had he met Lord Frederick Stuart yet? Lord who?
It was past midnight—and after a few pointed reminders from his wife about their subsequent commitments—that their guests finally prepared to depart. Lord and Lady Wrenworth were the last to leave. As Lady Wrenworth exited the front door, Lord Wrenworth turned around, pulled Gigi close, and whispered something into her ear, as if her husband weren't standing only five feet away.
She laughed, a sudden swell of mirth, and literally shoved Lord Wrenworth out the door.
“Let me guess. He proposed a ménage à trois?” Camden asked lightly, as they mounted the stairs side by side.
“Felix? No. He has become a tiresome proponent of home and hearth since his marriage. In fact, he was arguing most tediously against the divorce the whole evening, before you came along.” She, too, kept up her winsome facade. “Well, if you must know, he said, ‘Shag him silly.' ”
“And are you going to take his sage advice?”
“To scrap the divorce or to shag you silly?” She chortled, her nimbus of sexual charisma unmistakable. “I'm not accepting counsel from Lord Wrenworth at this juncture, or from anyone else stupid enough to think that I should remain married to you. Frankly, I would have expected better from him. Freddie considers him a friend.”
Poor Freddie, he thought.
“Well,” she said, as they prepared to go their separate ways. “Should I expect a visit tonight?”
“Unlikely. I don't wish to upset my stomach. But do be on the lookout for them in the coming days.”
She rolled her eyes. “I can't wait.”
She had said the same thing to him once before, on the last day of their short-lived happiness. Then she had meant it, had been pink-cheeked with delight and anticipation. As had he.
“I can,” he said.
She sighed, a weary flutter of air. “Go to hell, Camden.”
Chapter Eight
December 1882
Theodora's letter arrived on the midday post three days after Camden's encounter with Miss Rowland. The sheaf of rose-scented paper notified him of her imminent marriage to a Polish nobleman—imminent only in the past tense. The letter had been composed two days before the date of the wedding, but not posted for another three days.
Camden could not imagine Theodora being married to anyone else. People in general made her nervous; even he did, to some extent, though she'd let him hold her hand and kiss her. She'd have been happiest far removed from the rest of humanity, a musical recluse in a chalet high up the Alps, with no neighbors but the cows at their summer pasture.
He worried about her. But even as he did, he could not stem the tide of excitement that the news engendered. Desire. Fascinated lust. Sensual bedazzlement. Covetousness by any other name was still rapacious. He wanted Miss Rowland. He wanted to laugh with her. He wanted to burn with her. And now he could.
If he married her.
Marriage, however, was a serious matter, the commitment of a lifetime, a decision not to be rushed. He tried to approach the matter rationally, but like idiotic, lust-addled young men since time immemorial—to which club he never imagined he'd belong—all he could think of was Miss Rowland's eagerness on their wedding night.
She'd probably be the one to come into his room, rather than the other way around. She'd allow him to keep all the lights on so he could visually devour her to his heart's content. She'd spread her legs wide, then wrap them tightly about him. And he might even make her look at what he'd do to her, so he could watch her flushed cheeks, her lust-glazed eyes, and listen to her moans and whimpers of pleasure.