Page 42 of Ravishing Camille
He greeted one lady and turned to the next. They were practically cooing at him in appreciation.
Camille did not seem to notice. “And this, Pierce, is my other talented friend, Miss Sheila Buford.”
To neither woman did Camille introduce him as her step-brother. God in His Heaven knew, he did not feel brotherly toward her. When was the last time he had?
“My pleasure to meet you both. Lady Rosalie. Miss Buford.”
“Let’s dispense with all that, shall we?” Rosalie, a thin blue-eyed red head who looked like she belonged in the Highlands, flicked a dismissive hand.
“We are to be friends, and so I am Sheila and this is Rosalie,” declared the other one who was blonde, buxom and as languid as someone on laudanum.
“We all went to finishing school together,” Camille put in.
“But our instructors could not seem to polish us up!” Rosalie looked about for the waiter. “We need another bottle of champagne, don’t you think?”
“He’ll appear,” Sheila said, but her attention was on Pierce. “We are here to learn about Shanghai, Mister Hanniford.”
He was certain that they were here to inspect him, but he was here to discover the facets of Camille. Thus he played along with the social game. “I am at your service. But we may need more than two hours at lunch.”
“I agree,” said Rosalie with the shrug of her shoulders. “My grandfather had an interest in the East India Company long ago. Went out once. Took my father’s youngest brother and the poor boy died of cholera. Grandpapa returned home and declared the Orient hell. Obviously,” she said, her gaze drifting from his face to his shoulders, his navy blue afternoon frock coat and back to his lips, “you find it otherwise.”
“I do.”
“Well!” exclaimed Sheila with big brown eyes, “now that Rosalie has thoroughly alienated you, we must not discuss ‘the Orient’at all. Rosalie will trip over her tongue in an attempt to be—”
“Rational. Accepting. Not judgmental?” The woman in question offered.
“Exactly,” said Sheila. “May we start again, Mister Hanniford?”
He glanced at Camille who sat calmly, a smile wreathing her perfect oval face. Unperturbed by his ability to fare this storm, she pursed those ripe lips of hers together and drove him mad with want.
How damn soon could he leave here and have her all to himself again?
His body wanted her now. In his lap. His mouth on hers.
He sat forward and sought the waiter himself. As they shared champagne and oystersa la Greque, he gave himself over to telling Rosalie and Sheila about the mechanics of rickshaws, the terrors of Triad coolie gangs, the subtle art of calligraphy and the beauty and squalor of Shanghai. In so doing, for his forbearance, he gained the approval of Camille who in recognition of his efforts, ran the toe of her shoe up his ankle. Once. Twice. She’d started that soon after they met years ago and gave it as homage for whatever he’d said or done. Then, he’d taken her approval with laughter—and marked it to their friendship. This afternoon, the friendship was there, beneath another emotion he mustn’t dare to name. Oh yes, he continued his revelations about life in Shanghai. Plus he liked Rosalie and Sheila, because they were straight-forward in their likes and dislikes. They were looking for an education and so he did what he could, by Jove. But he did it because he craved that slide of Camille’s toe along his ankle.
He answered it with his own toe to her foot.
Her gaze delved into his, a frank invitation to continue their play.
He choked back a laugh. He might as well be sixteen again! But damn his soul, he kept feeding information to Rosalie and Sheila. And playing footsie with the irresistible woman next to him.
He would have it that he admitted over theflambé de tournadoes—and the wicked torment of Camille’s foot skimming up his shin—that he would do anything to please Camille Bereston and to revel in the torment of his hard full cock pressing against the constraints of his ridiculously tight trousers.
Chapter 12
“Ithought we’d walk home from here,” he told her as her friends climbed into a hansom cab. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” She welcomed the chance to be out with him, on his arm for the world to see. She looped her arm through his, daring for just a second to press her breast to him and shielding her face from the sun by pulling down the brim of her straw hat. “The day is glorious and I’ve had four glasses of champagne that I must walk off.”
As they strolled down the crowded by-ways of Piccadilly, he asked her what she thought of her friends’ work. “Do they write as well as you?”
She could puff herself up with pride, but on this subject, not ever. “Better.”
“Are you being humble?”
She chuckled. “No! I am being honest.”
