Suddenly she felt a shiver of fear. “Where is Croesus?” she asked Goodman. “Is he—”
“No, madam. He is well. I believe he is with Lord Tremaine in the conservatory.”
So Camden had come back from wherever he had been the past week. “Very good. I'll go rescue him.”
The conservatory stretched nearly the entire width of the house. From the outside, it was an oasis of verdancy, even on the dreariest days of winter—the vines and fern fronds weaving a green cascade through the clear glass walls. From the inside, the structure offered an unimpeded view of the street beneath and the park beyond.
Camden sat sprawled on a wicker chair at the far end of the conservatory, his arms stretched over the back of the chair, his stockinged feet propped up on a wicker ottoman before him. Croesus lay snoozing next to him.
Camden had his profile to her, that strong, flawless profile that had so reminded her of a statue of Apollo Belvedere. He glanced away from the open windows at the sound of her approach, but he did not rise. “My lady Tremaine,” he said with mock courtesy.
She ignored him, scooped up Croesus—who wriggled and snorted, then settled into the crook of her elbow and went on with his nap—and turned to leave.
“I was introduced to Lord Frederick earlier this afternoon, at the club,” said her husband. “It was an edifying encounter.”
She whipped around. “Let me guess. You found him to possess all the intelligence of a boiled egg.”
Let him dare to agree with her. She was quite in the mood for slapping someone. Him.
“I did not find him either eloquent or worldly. But that was not the thrust of my remark.”
“What was the thrust of your remark, then?” she asked, suspicious.
“That he would make some woman an excellent husband. He is sincere, steadfast, and loyal.”
She was stunned. “Thank you.”
His gaze returned to the outside world. A pleasant breeze invaded the conservatory, ruffling his thick, straight hair. Carriages on exodus from the park crammed the street below. The air echoed with coach-men's calls, cautioning their horses and one another to pay heed to the logjam.
Apparently, their little exchange was over. But Camden's remarkable compliment to Freddie had bred an opportunity that she could not let pass. “Would you do the honorable deed and release me from this marriage? I love Freddie, and he loves me. Let us marry while we are still young enough to forge a life together.”
In his perfect stillness she sensed a sudden stiffening.
“Please,” she said slowly. “I beg you. Release me.”
His gaze remained fixed on the daily tide of phaetons and barouches, of England's vanity and pride on parade. “I didn't say he would make you a good husband.”
“And what would you know about making anyone a good husband?” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. But there was no taking them back now.
“Absolutely nothing,” he admitted without hesitation. “But at least I saw a few of your faults. I thought you interesting and appealing in spite of them, or perhaps because of them. Lord Frederick worships the ground you walk on because you have the kind of strength, resilience, and nerve he can only dream of. When he looks at you he sees only the halo he has erected about you.”
“What's wrong with being perfect in the eyes of my beloved?”
His eyes locked with hers. “I look at him and I see a man who thinks we are going to be as chaste as God and Mary in this house. Does he know you are protecting him from the truth? Does he know that a few big lies in the service of love are nothing to you? That your strength extends to remorseless ruthlessness?”
She'd have spat on the floor if she hadn't been raised by Victoria Rowland. “I look at you and I see a man who is still stuck in 1883. Does he know that ten years have passed? Does he know that I have moved on, that he is the relentless, ruthless one now? And does he really think I plan to tell the man I love that I'm to be impregnated by another, against my wish?”
Someone laughed in the distance, a shrill, feminine giggle. Croesus whimpered and shifted in her arms. She was crushing him with the stiffness of her grip. She let out a shaky breath and forced her muscles to relax.
He pressed two fingertips to his right temple. “You make it sound so ugly, my dear. Don't you think I deserve to get something out of this marriage before you traipse into your happily-ever-after?”
“I don't know,” she said. “And I don't care. All I know is that Freddie is my last chance for happiness in this life. I will marry him if I have to turn into Lady Macbeth and destroy all who stand in my path.”
His eyes narrowed. They were the dark green of a nightmare forest. “Warming up to your old tricks?”
“How can I fail to be unscrupulous when you keep reminding me that I am?” Her heart was a swamp of bitterness, at him, at herself. “We will begin our one year tonight. Not later. Not whenever you finally feel like it. Tonight. And I don't give a ha'penny if you have to spend the rest of the night puking.”
He merely smiled.