Page 40 of Ravishing Camille
Why?
She was not his blood.
Not his sister.
Never had wanted to be thought of in that way, not by proclamation or proximity.
She straightened. The only reason she could not take him, have him as a lover, was because of possibilities. If she invited him to bed, what were the odds he’d accept? She must weigh them.
Then too if she took him to bed and he did not enjoy her, what were the possibilities that he’d no longer be her friend? That would crush her.
Ah. And if she took him to bed, what could the probability be that she’d find him boring? Commonplace? That she’d not want him wrapped around her, inside her, again and again?
She knew that answer. He was older, surely acquainted with the arts of love. If she asked him, if he accepted and she enjoyed herself, she could count good odds that she would be entranced. She’d never want to give him up. Never want another man. Her hopes to find a lover who would want her until the end of time would be dashed.
Then too she faced another problem. Her married friends had often exclaimed that a girl could not help but fall in love with a man who’d taken her and shown her passion. But she’d had one man on purpose to prove to herself that the popular belief was a misconception. She hadn’t loved that man. Not before. Not after. But wanting Pierce, craving Pierce was a different desire. It was not a hope for education. Ha! No. Instead, it was a hope for culmination.
She loved him now. Loved him as he was. Devilishly handsome Pierce. Accomplished. Hard-working. Daring to take chances in business that Carnegie and J.P. Morgan and his father, Killian took daily. Winning.
And he’d had lovers. She’d overheard him, years ago, speak to Killian about them. About one whom he’d taken as a mistress and pensioned off, years ago. About his fascination with Elanna, Julian’s sister, the Countess of Carbury. If he’d had an intimate relationship with Lee Macfarlane’s sister, May, she was not certain. One did not have to go to bed with a person to be in love.
But she must tally up her probabilities for success with him. She could not continue in this limbo, yearning for him and gaining nothing but frustration.
She could lead him to her bed, and he could decide. She’d have to state well her reasons. And her promise that if he refused her, she would never mention it nor approach him again.
And if he came to her? If he agreed?
Oh, my.
She ran a hand along her belly to her hip bones and into the curls at the apex of her thighs. She bit her lip.
If he made love to her and he found her…lacking? Oh, that would be impossible to bear. But she might be nothing he’d want as a lover. The truth was, she had no way to know unless she invited him to it. She’d have to promise beforehand that she’d never reproach him. That she’d forget the moment, the impulse and how she adored him. That might be the most difficult of all results. But she would have to bear it.
She must.
She could not go on this way.
Instead, for her own sanity and peace, she would risk alienating him forever.
Chapter 11
She hurried downstairs to the first floor and found him sitting at the desk in the library, working over a sheaf of papers, pencil in hand.
“I’m off,” she told him, yanking on her gloves.
Something in her nature made him snap his head to one side. His calculations suddenly mattered not as much as the sight of her, fresh and enticing. “Refresh my memory. Where are you going this morning?”
“Mama’s man of business again. The other day he promised to notify me the instant he heard of the delivery of her French upholstery fabric. I haven’t heard from him, and I’m worried. That ship was due in Dover yesterday afternoon. She must have that for the show.”
“Yes. I recall now you said.” His eyes, sharp and probing, ran over her, head to toe and back again. He must have liked her lime green day gown and gold-trimmed walking jacket because he smiled in that slow way that spread his magnificent lips in approval.
She quivered, alive in every nerve.
“As ever, your hat cannot remain on your head.”
She patted her hair. A lock fell to her cheek and she tried to weave it up.
“Don’t.” He rose, pushing back his chair, and strode to her. “We must have a few words with Ivy about your hair.”
