She scrambled out of bed, shrugged into the robe that still lay in a heap on the Kashmiri rug, ran into the mistress's bedroom, and pulled the cord for hot water. Her traveling gown had already been set out the night before. She pulled on drawers, a merino-wool combination, an underchemise, a chemise, and stepped into her pantalettes, two layers of woolen petticoats, and a dress petticoat with an embroidered, scalloped hem.
The next item was her corset. She stopped. Granted, she'd dressed with exceptional speed. But still her maid should have arrived already, hot water in tow. Perhaps she'd made a wrong turn in an unfamiliar house.
She tackled the corset, straining her arms to pull the laces tight through each set of steel-reinforced eyelets, twisting her neck to check her progress in the mirror.
The door opened.
“Hurry, Edie!” she cried. “I needed to be dressed two hours ago.”
It wasn't Edie. It was Camden, all ready to go, looking as if he'd just descended from Mt. Olympus, cool, serene, and perfect. Whereas she was in a disgraceful state of dishabille, her hair a wild disarray.
But he'd already seen her in much less, hadn't he? She'd been a complete wanton, curious and rapacious, and he . . . well, he hadn't seemed to mind at all. They'd made delicious love well into the small hours of the morning.
“Hullo, Camden,” she said, feeling unusually shy. Her cheeks were hot, her throat and belly too.
“Hullo, Gigi,” he replied. He had lost all traces of his accent during the past month. Now he sounded as if he had been born and raised in the queen's household.
She struggled a little over what to say, gave up, and smiled at him instead. “Sorry. I will be ready in a minute. Then we can leave.”
He studied her, his face serious, his eyes opaque. “Can you manage that by yourself?”
Without waiting for a reply, he came to her aid, turning her around and applying himself to the intricacies of her corset. She sucked in a breath, held it, and admired his progress in the mirror. He had such a light yet sure touch, his hands as dexterous as those of Apollo himself. She loved admiring him, a divine sensation, all joy and breathless pride.
“Done,” he said.
She spun around, but he turned away just as she was about to reach for him. She hesitated. Perhaps he did not see her outstretched hand. She grabbed a hairbrush instead. “I don't know why my maid isn't here yet. I've only the most rudimentary idea how to manage my hair.”
He stood gazing out a window that overlooked the park behind the house. “No hurry, take your time. I gave the staff the day off. We are not leaving.”
“But you are already late for your classes.” She dragged the brush through her tangled hair. “The train doesn't depart Bedford 'til half past one. We still have plenty of time.”
His lips curved into something that resembled a smile but wasn't. “Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I didn't say I was not leaving.”
Many years ago, at a family gathering, one of her cousins had pulled the chair out from under her as she was sitting down. Though the fall had been less than two feet, the collision had jolted every organ inside her body.
She felt like that now, a moment of physical jarring and utter disorientation. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought I'd come and say good-bye before I left,” he said, as if he wasn't proposing to do something as absurd as leaving her the day after their wedding, the morning after the most memorable wedding night in history.
“What?” she cried stupidly, too stunned to think.
He glanced at her. His eyes glittered with something she couldn't read, something frightening. “I thought it was always the plan, that we go separate ways after we consummated our marriage, until it was time for heirs.”
An utterly asinine response formed in her head. Don't you know anything about contracts? she wanted to ask him. You turned down my offer, therefore that offer no longer stands. This marriage is contracted on an entirely different set of premises.
“What—what about our reception?” She hated how baffled and despondent she sounded. But she could not grasp how he could have been that devoted, tender lover only hours ago and now speak as if he had never meant for it to be more than a marriage of convenience. Why, then, had he come to see her every day of their engagement? Why had he made plans with her for the future? What about the engagement ring that sparkled upon her finger? What about Croesus?
“There will be no reception,” he said.
“But we've already decided on the menu, and the wines . . .” She took a deep breath. Stop. Stop all that blabbering.