Page 41 of Ravishing Camille
She pulled back when he would have taken her curl and pushed it under her brim.
“Let me,” he seemed to croon.
She shut her eyes as he did whatever it was with her hair. She could smell him, sandalwood—and perhaps, what? Jasmine? She could feel him, his heat, his deft fingers on her scalp. She could kiss him now, so easily on his lips and forget about her mother’s business and her friends for luncheon. She could have him, as on the beach in Brighton before he knew to object. She could feed her own craving and fill her emptiness. She swayed toward him, and he caught her by the shoulders.
“Do you still wish me to meet your friends at luncheon?” His voice was hoarse.
Could he have trouble speaking being so very near to her?She opened her eyes.
He stared back, his silver gaze probing hers and falling to her mouth.
He licked his lower lip.
She caught her breath.
“Do you?” he asked on a breath.
What were they talking about?
His fingers dug into her upper arms. “Do you want me to come?”
Oh, you cannot imagine how much.
“Camille?”
She blinked. “Of course. Lunch.” She’d not reneg on that. But she would do it in a moment if he wanted her now in bed. In that chair. Here, standing. Ohhh, she’d lie to herself if she didn’t admit that she’d do anything to be near him. But how wise was that?
Not at all. And if she was too quick, too rash or too wrong to try, she could ruin him and the entire family. Irrevocably.
And she mustn’t. Mustn’t destroy the family unity and camaraderie. The immense pleasure each took in the others’ company. Her mother who’d worked so hard to give her a good life after the death of her father. Her step-father, Killian, who loved her and treated her as if she were his own. Her young half-brothers, William and Dylan, sweet boys. Her step-sisters, Lily and Ada and their families. Marianne and Remy and their children in Paris. Each one, accomplished and intelligent, who valued the family trust and bonds of respect. All wonderful giving people who were, above all, honorable. If she took Pierce to bed, if he would be so bold as to come, and love were not the cause nor the enduring bond, then she would have to leave the family circle because she’d broken it in the name of lust.
She tried to smile at him. But her heart was not in it.
She must be stalwart and logical. Find a way to discover if she loved this man so that she could honor him as his lover and as his wife. Because it was one thing for him to desire her, but if he could want her only as his lover, then there was no benefit in making love to him. Only disaster would come of it.
Had she known that? Instinctively?
Yes, she’d probably known that for a decade. If indeed he could never want her in the fullness of matrimony, then she must abandon all feelings for him, save friendship.
So she pulled back. Patted her hair above her ear and threw him a breezy toss of her head. “Two o’clock at Cafe Royal.”
“I look forward to it.”
* * *
Cafe Royal was an established restaurant in Regent Street off Piccadilly that served the best French cuisine and the finest British clientele. While many dined here or at Kettner’s after theatre performances, for luncheon the literary set was the crowd that congregated.
Oscar Wilde was known to put in an appearance. His friend—Bram Stoker who managed the Lyceum Theater—brought in his associates most of whom were playwrites. While tales of writers’ odd midnight hours swirled about, one could prove them true by looking into the weary complexions of the males. Like Frenchflaneurswho keptgarçonsbusy in Parisienne cafes, the men of the literary bunch in London appeared in their high starched collars and tweedy suits swilling down their wine, resembling high class pimps.
As Pierce was shown to the table where Camille and her friends sat, he welcomed the diversion from his struggles desiring her. This morning touching her wrist, her thigh, her breast had set him to grinding his teeth—and cursing his rebellious body. Christ, how he wanted to put his hands all over her. Claim her. Consume her.
He threw himself into the art of the business luncheon, expecting to meet somber young ladies of meager means who scribbled for a living.
From what Camille had told him about her pitiful royalties, he did not expect feathers and boas or stylish attire from her colleagues. Instead he faced Camille in her splendid green and gold and her two young friends who were so dressed to the teeth that they appeared to be princesses rather than novelists.
“Allow me to present Mister Pierce Hanniford, Rosalie. Pierce, this is my friend, Lady Rosalie Marchand.”
He had understood that he was to be the showpiece of their luncheon. A lady does not invite a man to dine with her friends unless she wishes to display him like a male peacock. He didn’t mind. He was Camille’s male peacock, becoming more so by the second.
