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All his worst secrets, spilled. He couldn’t sit still, so he got to his feet and began pacing between flowerpots.

She was watching him with a curious, concerned expression.

“I hate the drug. I hate taking it.” He coughed.

Choking on his words. If he owed anyone the truth, it was Camellia, but he would almost rather she believed him to be a blackguard.

Now she would know he was weak . “Ever since I was a child, a schoolboy, I’ve been sickly.

Scrawny. My parents brought in physician after physician.

They never could figure out what was wrong. ”

“Sickly? How?”

“Dyspepsia. Poor appetite. Aches in my bones. Flux.” He grimaced.

What an inappropriate conversation to have with a lady.

“There have always been things I wouldn’t eat, instinctually, from childhood, but even with avoiding things that I knew made me feel awful, my health fluctuated.

And from time to time, it got very bad. It gets very bad, and I never know why.

” Then he sniffed. “That isn’t true. Sometimes I do know why. ”

He tried to distance himself from his narrative, explaining as if he was speaking of someone else.

A sorry creature who had come close to dying while studying at Oxford, then decided he should perish on a battlefield so that his death might mean something.

He discovered he did better in the army where no one pressed food upon him, or cared what he ate, or even whether he ate.

Then he met Adam. And since then, he’d been trying, systematically, to find out what he could eat and what he could not.

What he couldn’t confess was how Adam’s theorizing and battle plan had given him hope. He’d never had control over his own body, but Adam made him believe it might be possible. Except it was so damned hard .

She said, “I would not have guessed that you were ‘sickly’ when we met. Of course, you were particular about food, but you never seemed ill.”

“I was doing very well for a while. Better than I ever have been. But I gave into temptation after leaving Tonbridge. It was stupid of me. Self-destructive.”

Adam had warned him his next bout could be worse. His gut was “primed to become inflamed,” whatever that meant.

She frowned. Her eyes did not leave his face. “Why did you?”

“I think you know.”

She stood and came toward him, her hands clasped before her. “I suppose it was because I made you do something you were ashamed of. And when you tried to make it right, I would not let you.”

“That is an interesting way to put it. It’s true, and yet, not entirely true. You didn’t make me do anything. I told you before, I wouldn’t have lain with you if I hadn’t wanted to. Desperately.” His voice rasped. “I desperately wanted to.”

“But you would not have come to my bedchamber. To my bed.”

He half-laughed. “No. I would not have.” He had some self-control. “I still don’t understand why you came to me.”

She turned her gaze downward. “Please don’t judge me harshly.”

“I won’t. By God, Camellia, at this point, I couldn’t possibly.”

“I wanted to know what it was like. That’s all.

” She crossed her arms, hugging them to herself.

“I thought I was…not just thought, I knew I was never going to marry. The years when I might have met someone, someone besides Manfred or Mr. Castor, I was taking care of my parents. And then Neville came home and needed so much. I loved my mother and father. I wanted to be there for Neville. But looking ahead, I saw I would never have a…a life of my own. I had no dowry to tempt a suitor. And my looks are strange, I know—”

“Strange?” He wanted to rattle the brains of whoever had told her this. “Camellia, you are beautiful!”

She tossed her head. “I’m not. But Crispin, listen. I wanted to know what it was like to lie with a man. The big mystery. I thought it was my last chance to find out.”

“Curiosity.” He felt a drag on his heart. “And I was conveniently there.”

“No. Not only that.” Pink stole into her cheeks. “You were perfect. I didn’t want to have to marry to satisfy my curiosity. To be trapped for life. And I didn’t expect you to offer for me.”

“But how could you not have?” He was a gentleman. More than that, he was a Taverston. “Did I seem so blackhearted?”

“No. No, of course not.” She bit her lip. She looked so hesitant that he knew her explanation would rip him apart.

Even so, he pressed. “Did you think I was without honor?”

“Neville said you would return to the army,” she said, soft voiced. Apologetic.

“Which would be inconvenient, but would not preclude marriage.”

“He said you were a rake.” Her words were barely audible.

“A rake? Me ?” His first thought was that was preposterous. But then…yes, he could believe Harrington found his morals questionable. Jasper certainly did. And Reg probably did too.

“I’m certain now that he only said it to protect me. He was afraid I would fall for you. He thought to warn me off.”

“Instead it made me appealing. For your experiment.” It was almost humorous. Or it would have been had it happened to someone else.

“It was terrible of me. Thoughtless and selfish.”

“But understandable.”

“Was it?” She glanced up, a little hopeful, then away. Then she murmured, “But I would not have done it if it hadn’t been you.”

“No?”

“No. I suppose I was a bit infatuated with you.”

His heart warmed. That was kind of her to say.

To admit. She was braver than he was. He’d been more than “a bit” infatuated.

He still was. Was she? He couldn’t see how.

Still, he took hold of her hand, wondering if she could feel the heat of his palm through their gloves.

She had been curious about that elemental act, and what had he shown her? That it was painful and unpleasant?

“I hope that Manfred…acquitted himself better. You deserve—” He stopped. She was shaking her head.

“He was not well,” she said. “We were never together.”

“Oh.” One might think that would please him, but it did not. “Oh, Camellia. I’m sorry.”

“Yes.” She snuffled and tried to smile. “I have uncommonly bad luck.”

“I should have kissed you.”

“Oh,” she groaned. “Please let us not talk about that fight. We said such awful things to one another.”

“I said awful things. You spoke the truth.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it.

“I was wrong not to kiss you.” She was blushing furiously now, turning his heart to pudding.

“It is my worst regret.” It was not only kisses that had been lacking.

He’d read Aretino’s Amours . It had been instructive.

While much of it seemed incredible and not particularly enviable, he did learn that there were things he should have done.

Things he would have liked to have done.

To do. But would not. He edged half a step closer.

“May I? Just a kiss, Camellia?” Nothing more. He was not that amoral.

She made a small squeaking sound of assent, tilting her face up to him. Letting desire overcome his anxiousness, he touched his lips to hers. Desire took over completely. Kissing was not difficult. Not a puzzle to solve. Not when her lips were so soft. Yielding. Sweet. And responsive.

It was more than one kiss. Rather it was several minutes of kissing. His hands ached to explore her. He wanted to lay her down amongst the greenery. But he drew back. Stepped away.

“Camellia, I care for you a great deal.” Care for?

That was weak. He was in love with her. Of course, he was.

If he hadn’t been, he would not have been so furious with her.

He would have been relieved by her rejection, not cut to the quick.

How could he recognize love so easily in others yet not in himself?

How smug he’d been, barreling in to straighten out his brothers’ relationships, when he was incapable of managing his own. “If I were able to court a wife—”

“It was just a kiss.” She laughed awkwardly. “I don’t expect a proposal. Let’s not have that fight again.”

“You are young and beautiful, Camellia. And generous. Clever. You deserve better than to be tied to another wreck of a man.”

“You are hardly a wreck.”

“But I will be. My disease will return. It always does. And one of these days, it will kill me.” He had to eat, after all. He had to eat in this world, with all its hidden poisons. “I love you too much to put you through that.”

There. He’d managed to say the words. And in response, her eyes softened. Glistened.

“Oh, Crispin.” She breathed. Then she said in a singsong voice, “If you knew how devotedly I’ve loved you, and how long…”

“Camellia, I can’t—”

“Don’t torture yourself making excuses. If you were to ask for me again, I would still say no.

” Her eyes welled, and tears leaked from the sides.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be the uncomplaining nurse.

The selfless wife. The grieving widow.” She turned away and plucked at the leaves of a stunted orange tree as if the plant had offended her.

“This is the most selfish thing I have ever said, but I cannot put myself through that.”

“That is not selfish. It is self-preserving.” He was not hurt, but he was devastated.

This conversation had all the elements of two fools throwing away a chance for happiness.

But it was a false chance. And they must not be taken in.

“I should leave. We can part friends now. If we continue to spend so much time in each other’s company, people will make assumptions. ”

“That I have set my cap for you.”

“Or that I am taking advantage of you. Or that a wedding is imminent.” He’d leave before nightfall. Slink out. “But Camellia, if you should ever need anything, please get word to me. I won’t fail you again.”