Page 33 of Private Arrangements
“Are you calling me fickle?”
“No, of course not.” Oh, dear, however did one explain to a girl that her intended had less brains than a chipmunk? “I'm only saying that, well, I don't think Lord Frederick is the best man for you.”
“He is a good, gentle, and kind man of absolutely no vices. He loves me very much. What other man can be better for me?”
Crumbs. The girl was daring her. “But you must consider this carefully. You are a clever woman. Can you really respect a man who does not possess the same perspicuity?”
“Why don't you just come out and say you think he is dense?”
Oh, stupid girl. “All right. I think he is dense, denser than Nesselrode pudding. And I can't stand the thought of you being married to him. He is not good enough to carry your shoes.”
Gigi stood up calmly. “It is good to see you, Mother. I wish you a pleasant stay in London. But I regret I cannot come to Devon next week, the week after, or the week after that. Good day.”
Victoria resisted the urge to put her face into her hands. She was bewildered. She had been so careful not to mention Camden or to criticize Gigi on the petition for divorce. And now she couldn't state the obvious concerning Lord Frederick either?
Gigi arrived home fuming. What was wrong with her mother? A millennium had passed since Gigi had come to see the utter meaninglessness of a title. But still Mrs. Rowland cleaved to the illusion that a strawberry-leaf coronet cured all ills.
She went in search of Croesus. Nothing and no one soothed her the way Croesus did, with his patient understanding and constant affection. But Croesus was neither in her bedchamber nor in the kitchen, where he occasionally went when his appetite returned.
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 makeyoua good husband.”
“And what wouldyouknow 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.
