And with that, she left, the intricate train of her gown swaying majestically, leaving behind a speechless crowd, the ladies fanning themselves much too vigorously, the men looking as if they'd sign away half of their companies if only they could follow her out on the heels of her black suede evening slippers.
“Alas,” said Camden, keeping his tone light. “It seems I have utterly failed in my husbandly duties of guidance and discipline. I shall henceforth devote the greater part of my time and energy to that eminently noble endeavor.”
Half of the women blushed. Three-quarters of the men cleared their throats. The leave-taking began in the next minute, and the drawing room emptied at record speed.
Camden raced up the stairs, charged into his apartment, and threw open the door to his bedchamber. She lay prone across his bed, her cheeks in her palms, studying his copy of the Wall Street Journal—completely naked. Those legs, that sumptuous bottom, the curvature of her breast squeezed round and tight against the underside of her arm, and all that beautiful hair spilled across her back. Carnal desire, already simmering, exploded in him.
She tilted her head and smiled. “Hullo, Camden.”
He closed the door behind him. “Hullo, Gigi. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Well, you know how it is. Investment opportunities, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Took you long enough,” he growled. “I was about to hire dognappers.”
She licked her teeth. “Am I worth the wait?”
God above! He could barely remain standing. “You were unspeakably brazen before my guests. I'm afraid you have laid waste to my staid, upstanding reputation.”
“Have I? I'm terribly sorry. I must learn to be a better wife. If only you'd give me a little more practice . . .” She turned onto her back and slid a knuckle across her lower lip. “Won't you come to bed and make me pregnant?”
He was on that bed and inside her in a fraction of a second. She was all hellfire and heavenly suppleness, clutching at him, her legs wrapped tight about him, her unabashed gasps and moans driving him mad with desire.
He shook, shuddered, and convulsed, his vaunted control in pieces as he came endlessly, well on his way to making her pregnant.
“Will you remonstrate me for my lack of punctuality now?” Gigi said later, still mostly breathless, lying with her head on his arm.
“That and your utter want of respect toward the beauty and splendor of the public rooms of my house.”
“I like them. They quite suit my parvenu tastes.” The private quarter, which housed his Impressionist collection, was by contrast cool and serene. “I was looking for something to say that would immediately establish my English eccentricity.”
“I think you've succeeded beyond all hope,” he said. “They will prattle of this night for years to come, especially if you go into confinement nine months from today.”
She smiled to herself. “You think you are so virile.”
“I know I'm so virile.” He kissed her earlobe. “Let's just hope the second time's the charm.”
She didn't immediately catch the significance of his words. When she did, she found herself scrambling to a sitting position. He'd obliquely referred to her first pregnancy, which had ended in a miscarriage. But she had never spoken of it, not even to her mother. Had hidden it, along with her ravenous love, in the deepest recesses of her heart, a secret prisoner in the dungeon, whose clanking chains and whimpers of despair only she heard in the witching hours of the night.
“You knew,” she whispered.
She shouldn't be so surprised. It was silly to believe her mother wouldn't have found out about it—and that once she did, she wouldn't have told Camden in the hope of forcing a reaction from him.
“Only years after the fact. I got quite drunk the day I learned of it. I believe I smashed my entire model ship collection.” He sighed, smoothing a strand of her hair between his fingers. “But perhaps that was out of jealousy, since your mother mentioned the miscarriage in the same breath she invoked Lord Wrenworth's name.”
She lay down again, facing him. “You? Jealous? You are with a different woman every time I turn around.”
“Guilty as charged in Copenhagen. But I didn't sleep with anyone in Paris.”
What she really wanted to know was what he'd been doing with the former Miss von Schweppenburg. But his extraordinary claim about Paris perked her ears nevertheless.
“Who was that woman calling on you late at night, then?”
“A rising actress at the Opéra. I hired her to knock on my door and sit in my apartment for a few hours, so that you'd assume the worst and hurt as much as I did. But I didn't touch her, or any other woman. I was faithful to you, for what that's worth, until I learned that you'd taken a lover already.”