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H ow was one supposed to behave the morning afterward? Camellia had not thought of that—what to say to him when they saw each other again. What could she possibly say?

She dressed in a modest blue gown, nothing red, and went downstairs. Neville was at the table by himself, a light blanket draped across his shoulders. His face was more haggard than ever. Camellia took the seat beside him.

“Are you feeling better?”

He grunted. “Stop fussing.” He pushed aside his plate and picked up his cup of coffee.

“And where is the major this morning?” Good Lord. Her voice was pitched as high as a nervous schoolgirl’s.

“Gone into Tonbridge. He said that horse of his lost a shoe.”

“Oh.” Was that true? Or an excuse to avoid her?

Across the table from Neville lay a plate and an empty teacup.

If Mrs. Clay had not cleared them away yet, the major must have just left.

And was that—“Did he have toast ?” Crumbs and a bite of crust remained on the plate.

But he didn’t eat bread. He’d said he didn’t.

Neville shrugged impatiently. “He’d already finished when Diakos brought me out. Then he bolted.”

“The major bolted?”

“In a hurry to get the horse seen to. Bring me another cup of coffee, will you? My throat is dry as sand.”

*

Crispin pointed Mercury in the general direction of London and let him run. It was not until the horse was panting and lathered that he cursed himself and turned around. He had to go back. Rogue he might be, but he would nevertheless go back. His fate was sealed.

At first, he’d tried telling himself that it made no sense.

That he couldn’t believe Camellia had come to him and he had taken her.

But that was denial, not disbelief. He’d fallen into an age-old woman’s trap.

God! He’d heeded Vanessa’s warning not to swoop young ladies alone out onto dark balconies.

Did he really need her to tell him it was a bad idea to take his ex-commander’s sister to bed?

How long had Camellia been dangling after him?

It was not that he considered himself such a prize. But the Taverston name meant something. He had property and a comfortable degree of wealth. And he was in line for an earldom, though it was impossible to see himself outliving Jasper. In catching him, she had done well for herself.

Until he fell sick again. Then she would see the devil’s bargain she’d made.

Damn it! He’d liked her. That was what made him so furious. He’d liked her. He’d trusted her. Even confided in her. And then, she turned around and did this!

It was not even cleverly done. He could have appreciated a well-plotted ensnarement. But she’d merely jumped into his bed. He should have demanded that she leave. Why didn’t he? Why the blazes didn’t he? Why the bloody hell didn’t he?

The same thoughts whirled again and again through his brain as he retraced the path of his flight.

He approached a village he’d passed by a short time earlier.

He had to stop. Mercury needed a rest. And he was in no hurry to reach the farm.

No rush to approach the colonel like some honorable mooncalf and ask for the trollop’s hand.

Who had taught her how to pleasure a man?

He hoped not Manfred. Certainly not Castor.

The idea sickened him. No. Some young fellow in town.

Or in London. Surely that night at the Temple of the Muses, she had been waiting to rendezvous with an inamorato.

The poem she’d written—something about being in her lover’s arms at night. Who?

He dismounted in the village and led Mercury along a dirt street, oblivious to his surroundings.

His chest ached. Or his heart hurt. He didn’t want to believe she’d had other lovers, but neither did he want to have been the one to ruin her.

He should have checked the bed linens. He’d been too stupefied to even examine the linens for blood.

But she wasn’t an innocent. She couldn’t be.

Not with that wanton’s touch. She’d licked him.

He came across a tavern. A small, suitably filthy place. He entered and tossed a coin to the man who stepped forward. “Water my horse.”

“Yes, Milord. Of course. And for you?”

Damn it all. Let her see what she was getting. “A mug of ale.”

*

Camellia’s state of mind veered from nervous, to calm, to panicky as the day wore on and Major Taverston did not return.

At one point, she even went upstairs to sneak a look into his room.

A faint hint of his cologne hung in the air, but the chamber was immaculate.

Except for his valise in the corner, he might never have been there.

But surely the valise indicated he meant to come back.

Standing there in the emptiness, she felt a shiver as it occurred to her how little she knew him.

Why had he joined the army? When was he going back to it?

Had he ever been in love? Did he have a sweetheart?

She wasn’t about to go sifting through his valise for clues, but she recalled that she had old letters from Neville that referred to “Lieutenant Cheatdeath.”

She spun about and went to her own chamber, where the accumulated clutter of twenty-six years welcomed her, chasing away the oppressive nothingness that she’d felt in the guestroom.

She opened the right-hand drawer of her writing desk.

The drawer was full of letters, tied with ribbons in neat little stacks.

The earliest ones would be from Neville’s posting in Ireland.

He’d written her short notes with funny pictures because he was writing to a child.

Looking at those would likely make her cry, and they would be from before Neville had met the major, so she moved them aside.

She pulled out the bundles from the peninsula and took them to her bed.

She sat down, untied the ribbons, and spread the letters out before her.

She skimmed several until she found a possible reference.

A new officer has been assigned to me. Another wet-behind-the-ears son of a peer. But this one listens and follows orders without grumbling. I think he’s smart, but we’ll see.

The next letter came a few months later. This was certainly about the major.

Terrible weather. Usually that keeps the frogs quiet, but we fell into an unexpected skirmish.

We nearly lost a company that was badly situated, but this new lieutenant threw his own men into the fray, and they saved the lot.

He leads from the front. A reckless act and I shouldn’t condone it, but it is hard to discipline a man for success.

Frankly, I’ve never seen anything so stupidly brave.

Lieutenant Cheatdeath. He should not have come out of it unscathed.

Nothing more. And nothing in the next few letters. It was nearly a year later before Neville mentioned him again.

There is a young lieutenant under my command whose sangfroid rivals General Wellesley’s. Unfortunately, the General has taken notice of Cheatdeath and has begun pulling him from my regiment for special duties.

Frustratingly he gave no details. But in the next letter, there was this.

Cheatdeath is back with the regiment, which strengthens us. His men are the best disciplined and will do anything he asks of them, but whether for love or fear is difficult to say. He is a cold-blooded devil.

And that was all. Neville’s letters were always murky in that way.

They were mostly concerned with the weather, the scenery, the food, and amusing anecdotes about the long marches and coping with boredom.

He mentioned military engagements only in the briefest way.

And he referred to other officers in vague terms with the nicknames he’d given them.

She hadn’t wondered before what he meant by “coldblooded devil.” But she wondered now.

*

It was not until evening that Camellia heard Mrs. Clay greeting Major Taverston in the kitchen. His tone sounded short. And when he came into the receiving room and saw her and Neville, he scowled at them both.

“Horse shod?” Neville asked.

“ Hmm? Yes. Taken care of.”

She was sitting on the pianoforte’s bench but had stopped practicing a while earlier. She knew she should say something, but her mind buzzed with such confusion she could not even greet him. She remembered how his skin had felt, how his voice shook. Heat flooded her neck.

“I had a letter from Captain Leyton. You remember him,” Neville said. “He said Wellington is in a tight spot.”

“I’ve heard the same.” The major glanced at the couch, then at an empty chair near the pianoforte, but rather than sit, he paced.

“The duke said once that Napoleon would be a better ruler for France than King Louis, if it were possible to ensure he would keep within France’s borders. But Boney can’t be trusted.”

“Neither can the Bourbons.”

Camellia breathed a little easier as they discussed the instability of the French king’s hold on France. Until Mrs. Clay stepped into the receiving room and said, “Should I serve?”

“Yes, do,” Neville said.

The major pushed Neville’s chair to the table.

Then he walked back toward Camellia, meeting her halfway.

He offered his arm as though to formally escort her.

It was absurd since they were only crossing the room.

Still, she laid her hand on his arm. He leaned toward her.

“I will speak to your brother after supper.” His voice was hard as granite.

“Speak to him?” she murmured back, confused.

“Of course.”

Oh, dear God! He couldn’t mean to ask for her hand. “No, don’t. Please, don’t.”

He gave her a dark look. “We both know the rules.”

“And broke them. That’s the end of it.” She pulled her hand away and hurried to the table to take a seat beside her brother. Major Taverston followed. He didn’t sit. He poured himself a glass of wine and drank it standing.

“I ate in the village,” he said. He set the glass down. “If you’ll excuse me…” He bowed stiffly and headed for the stairs.

*

Dinner was uncomfortable. Neville still did not appear well, and Camellia hated that she found his fatigue to be in her favor.

He retired immediately after the meal. Major Taverston could not possibly speak with him tonight.

Since she saw little point in sitting alone in the receiving room, she decided to go to her chamber.

But nearing the top of the stairs, she heard footsteps in the parlor.

The major must have been waiting to hear her come up, because he stepped out of the room the moment she reached the landing.

“Miss Harrington.” He grasped her elbow.

“Come with me.” He didn’t return to the parlor, but rather pulled her down the hallway toward their bedchambers.

When she tried to twist from his grip, he let go and caught her wrist instead.

“Would you prefer to have this discussion here? Or behind closed doors?” His voice was flat and devoid of warmth.

She’d rather not have the discussion at all.

“I will come. You have no cause to drag me.”

He released her wrist at once, then walked ahead of her. She followed, a cold ball of fear rising in her chest. He opened the door to his bedchamber and, with an exaggerated, mocking swoop of his arm, invited her in. She stepped inside. She jumped when he shut the door and latched it.

“Frightened?” He laughed harshly. “How odd. You weren’t last night.”

“I’m not frightened.”

He regarded her a long moment. His gaze was intense, as if he were digging around in her soul. Then his lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Why don’t you want me to talk to the colonel? Afraid he’ll refuse? Would you prefer to elope? It makes no difference to me. A run to Gretna Green or—”

“No!”

“There is no choice. Although your chastity is doubtful, you are Colonel Harrington’s sister, a gentlewoman, and I’ve lain with you.”

He doubted her chastity? She blinked away a sudden welling of tears. He had good reason to doubt. “I have the right to say no. I don’t want to marry you.”

“And yet you climbed into my bed.”

“Major—”

“Camellia,” he wagged his finger at her, “I believe we established that you are to call me Crispin.”

“Stop.” It was hard to explain herself when his whole bearing was one of mocking disdain. “It was not my intention to compel you to ask for me. I didn’t think you would.” She couldn’t tell him she’d been relying on his dishonor . “I won’t marry you. I don’t intend to marry at all.”

“Just a tup then?” He sneered. “You wanted me to oblige you in bed? And you thought I would not mind doing so?”

It was as awful as he made it sound. But she nodded.

“We have to marry.” He nearly spat the words. “You may not care a fig for me, but you could be carrying my child.”

She shook her head. “I’m not. I—I took care of that.”

“You took—?” His eyes flared, then narrowed. “Whores’ tricks?” His voice cracked. “You even know whores’ tricks?”

She gasped, then retorted, “Harlots have to use ‘tricks’ for the convenience of men like you!”

“I didn’t ask for this!” Voice thinned to a whisper, he demanded, “Do I owe you a shilling?”

“Why are you being so hateful?” He was not only insulting her, but also Marianne. “Precautions are used by perfectly respectable wives.”

“Which you are not. You’re nothing but a pleasure-seeking—”

“ Pleasure? No woman could possibly find pleasure in”—she threw her hand out toward the bed—“in that!” Her voice caught. “Don’t judge my pleasure by yours. It was awful! You couldn’t even be bothered to kiss me!”

His head drew back. For a fraction of a moment, a shadow passed over his face. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and clenched his fists. “Get out.”

“It wasn’t a trap,” she murmured. She couldn’t bear his misconceptions. “I was only—”

“Your motives don’t interest me.”

“Please don’t say anything to Neville.”

“We’ve both been very clear we don’t want to be shackled to each other. Now, get out.”

*

Crispin quit the Harringtons early the next morning.

He said polite goodbyes with the excuse he was overdue at his brother’s.

He felt like scum as he shook Old Harry’s hand, pretending he had not betrayed his former commander in the vilest way.

He bowed to Miss Harrington, but could not bring himself to look her in the eye.

Not after the heinous things he’d said to her.

As Mercury bore him off toward London, Crispin marveled that the animal could still carry him, freighted as he was by self-loathing.

There had been blood on the linens. He’d found the stain when he got into bed, proof he’d taken Miss Harrington’s maidenhead. She’d been an innocent.

A guilty innocent. She’d used him. She robbed him of his honor, or at least, the last bit of honor that he’d believed remained to him. It was selfish of her after he’d been selfless with them.

She’d said it was awful. And complained that he hadn’t kissed her. Hadn’t bothered to kiss her.

The trick is that I only do the things I can do well.

Damn. What a liar he was.