God, he would make love to her for days running.
After a night of internal debate, during which much voluptuous fantasizing and very little sensible debate occurred, Camden resolved to put the choice to the Fates. If Miss Rowland was there again by the stream that day, he'd propose to her within the week. If not, he'd take it as a sign that he should hold off until the end of next term to allow time for more solemn reflection.
He spent the entire day at the bank of the brook, pacing up and down, all but climbing the naked trees. But she did not come. Not in the morning, not in the afternoon, not when the sky turned blue-black. And that was when he realized he was far gone: Not only was he immensely unhappy with the Fates, but he'd decided that the Fates could all go drown in a cesspit.
He returned his horse to the stable and requested a brougham be readied for him immediately.
The footman hesitated and looked inquiringly at Gigi. Her plate was still almost full. She pushed it aside. The plate disappeared to be replaced by another, a compote of pears.
“Gigi, you hardly ate anything,” said Mrs. Rowland, picking up her fork. “I thought you liked venison.”
Gigi picked up her own fork and excavated a cube of pear from the clear syrup. She was being too obvious in her preoccupation. Her mother never worried that she ate too little. Quite the opposite. Mrs. Rowland usually feared that Gigi's appetite was too robust, that her corsets wouldn't lace tightly enough to achieve any decent approximation of the wasp waist.
She stared at her fork and could not accomplish the simple task of putting it in her mouth. Her stomach churned already. She had no confidence it could handle the sugar-drenched piece of fruit.
She set down the fork. “I'm not that hungry tonight.”
Merely terrified.
What she'd done was in every way unprincipled, and quite possibly criminal. Worse, she'd not only perpetrated a fraud, she'd made an incompetent mash of it. She'd been too impatient, her methods too crude. Any half-wit could pick up the rank odor of villainy and sniff the trail right to her door.
What would Lord Tremaine do should he find out? And what would he think of her?
A footman entered the dining room and spoke a few low words to Hollis, their butler. Hollis then approached Mrs. Rowland. “Ma'am, Lord Tremaine is here. Should I ask him to wait until dinner is finished?”
It was a good thing Gigi had quit all pretense of eating, or she'd have dropped everything in her hand.
Mrs. Rowland rose, radiant with excitement. “Absolutely not. We shall go greet him this instant. Come, Gigi. I've a suspicion that Lord Tremaine didn't come all the way to see me.”
Mrs. Rowland was no doubt hearing wedding bells. But scandal and ruin loomed large in Gigi's mind. She would live out the rest of her life like Miss What's-her-name, the mad old spinster in a wedding dress, laying waste to her estate and infecting everyone with her bitterness.
She had no choice but to follow her mother, bleakly, grimly, a foot soldier who shared little of the general's optimism for victory and spoils, who saw only the bloodbath ahead.
He was there, standing in the middle of the drawing room—the epitome of her desires, the instrument of her downfall, the eligible young scion who groomed horses and ran just slightly shady games of probability.
“My lord Tremaine,” gushed Mrs. Rowland. “Such a pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to our humble abode at this unusual hour?”
“Mrs. Rowland. Miss Rowland.” Did he glance at her? Was that a flash of intense longing or chagrin? “I do apologize for intruding on your evening.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Rowland airily. “You know you are always welcome here, any time. Now do answer my question. My curiosity slays me.”
“I'm here for a private word with Miss Rowland,” replied Lord Tremaine, with breathtaking directness. “With your permission, of course, Mrs. Rowland.”
For the very first time in her life, Gigi felt faint without having first suffered a concussion. Either he'd come to denounce her or he'd come to propose to her. Unthinkable as it might have been a few days ago, she fervently hoped it was the former. He'd castigate her for the scum that she was. She'd grovel hopelessly for forgiveness. Then he'd depart and she'd lock herself in her room and bang her head on the wall until the wall gave.
“Most certainly,” acceded Mrs. Rowland, with admirable restraint.
She withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her. Gigi did not dare look at him. She was certain that that, in itself, already betrayed her culpability.
He drew close to her. “Miss Rowland, will you marry me?”
More bloodcurdling words she'd never heard. Her head snapped up. Her eyes met his. “Three days ago you were determined to marry someone else.”
“Today I'm determined to marry you.”