Page 11 of Private Arrangements
Gigi could not prevent the mother-hen hug that swooped upon her. Mrs. Rowland kissed her on her forehead and cheeks. “Gigi. You foolish, foolish girl. Where have you been? Look at this weather! You could have frozen to your death out there.”
“Mother!” Gigi protested, embarrassed to be so fussed over before Lord Tremaine. “I was not out in Antarctica risking frostbite and gangrene.”
“I'm just worried because you haven't been yourself lately. Now, do let us—”
At last Mrs. Rowland noticed the stranger, and the very large horse, next to Gigi. She swung toward Gigi in alarm.
Gigi sighed. “Mother, may I present his lordship, the Marquess of Tremaine? Lord Tremaine, my mother, Mrs. Rowland. Lord Tremaine has graciously deigned to accompany me, to help me grope my way home in the midst of this veritable blizzard we are experiencing.”
Mrs. Rowland ignored her acerbic remarks. “Lord Tremaine! We thought you still in Paris.”
“My term ended a week ago, madam.” He bowed. “I hope you will forgive me. I trespassed onto your land without knowing and came upon Miss Rowland. She kindly permitted me to walk with her.”
He turned to Gigi and bowed also. “It's been a rare pleasure, Miss Rowland. I trust you are in good hands now.”
“But you cannot mean to go back the way you came!” Mrs. Rowland gasped in horror. “You will surely get lost in this darkness and this weather. You must come to our house instead.”
He protested. But Mrs. Rowland was convinced he would perish if he went ahead with his foolhardy plan to return to Twelve Pillars either on foot or on horseback. In the end he acquiesced to dinner and to being taken home in a warm, comfortable brougham afterward.
Gigi was unhappy about it. She was all for sending Lord Tremaine away, the sooner the better. It did not amuse her to see her mother's extremely favorable reaction upon viewing him for the first time in good light. And it hurt—a sharp pinch somewhere deep in her chest—watching Mrs. Rowland shower him with the kind of pampering attention reserved for prospective sons-in-law.
Yet Gigi put on her best dinner gown, a midnight-blue confection of silk and tulle, and had her hair re-coiffed three times. God help her, she wanted him to think her pretty and desirable.
Over dinner, Mrs. Rowland patiently, skillfully elicited details of Lord Tremaine's twenty-one years of life. He had led quite the cosmopolitan existence, it appeared, having sojourned in every major capital of Europe, plus quite a few of the Continent's favorite watering holes.
He conducted himself with the poise of a prince but without the arrogance so ingrained in most members of the aristocracy. Yet he was most certainly an aristocrat. Not only was he heir to an English ducal title, but through his mother, who'd been born a Wittelsbach, he was related to the House of Hapsburg, the House of Hohenzollern, and the House of Hanover itself, from cousinship with the dukes of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.
Worse, unlike Carrington, whose slack chin, wet lips, and vacant eyes became all too noticeable upon further acquaintance, Lord Tremaine's already handsome features, married to his graciousness and intelligence, grew more striking with each passing minute.
Mrs. Rowland was clearly in awe of him. She sent Gigi pointed looks.Speak more. Enchant him. Don't you see he's perfect?Gigi, however, was nose deep in misery, a desolation made more unbearable by every minute spent in his painfully enjoyable company.
Her torture did not end there. After dinner, Mrs. Rowland asked him to play for them, having heard from the duchess that he was a fine pianist. He did, with a born performer's flair. Gigi stared alternately at his flawless profile, his long, strong hands, and her lap, fighting a wretchedness that seemed to have seeped into her blood.
The final blow came when he rose to take his leave of them, only to discover that a blizzard had indeed arrived. Mrs. Rowland smugly informed him that in her great foresight, she had already sent off a messenger three hours ago to inform his parents that he'd stay the night because of the worsening weather.
Gigi had counted on his departure, on never seeing him again. How was she to get through the night with him under the same roof and almost within reach?
Camden had trouble falling asleep, but it had nothing to do with being in an unfamiliar bed. He was used to it, having never had a home of his own, always traveling to a different city, a different house, always sleeping in rooms that belonged to other people.
He hadn't lied to Mrs. Rowland. He'd indeed lived in some of the Continent's most glamorous locales. He'd simply omitted the less than glamorous reasons behind this peripatetic life: because his parents hadn't an ounce of money sense between them and could never afford a permanent residence.
So they moved in counterrhythm to the wealthier elites. In summer, when everyone was off to Biarritz and Aix-les-Bains, they occupied some relative's winter villa in Nice. In winter, the reverse. Occasionally, they stayed in one place for a while, when a house stood vacant because its owners had gone off on some wild adventure, such as when Cousin Konstantin left Athens for schemes in Argentina. Or when Cousin Nikolai went to China for two years.
At age thirteen, Camden had taken over the management of the household. By then he was already accustomed to dealing with creditors, handling servants, and learning new languages in an instant so he could haggle with local merchants in order to stretch his family's meager coins further. He didn't mind being poor, but he hated having to lie about it, to dissemble and feign, as he did tonight, so that his parents could continue on in their blissful ignorance of their financial precariousness.
It had been a relief to be with Theodora. They'd met in St. Petersburg, where their mothers shared the use of a troika. He'd been fifteen then, she sixteen. She was as poor as he and, like him, lived in fashionable places in unfashionable seasons. They understood each other's plight without ever needing to speak a word of it.
But it was not thoughts of Theodora that kept him awake. It was Miss Rowland.
Even before their accidental meeting, he had more or less expected Miss Rowland to propose a merger between his future title and her fortune. He had also expected a great deal of regret over turning down those sweet stacks of pounds sterling, after having lived in want of them his entire life.
What he emphatically did not expect was Miss Rowland herself. She was unsentimental, hardened, and cynical beyond her years—but her greatest cruelty was reserved for herself, in her insistence that she would be perfectly fine, thank you, if she could only cosh a duke senseless with his own ledgers and haul him to the altar.
For someone who was otherwise levelheaded and manipulative, there'd been an odd, poignant transparency to her this evening. She liked him. She liked him enough to be not just disappointed over his unavailability, but unhappy.
He liked her too, surprisingly. How could he not like a girl who called him an “impoverished nobody” to his face? Her frankness was refreshing and welcome after the nuanced subtlety and selective narratives that had characterized his exchanges, all his life, with people outside his immediate family.
But what caused his fidgeting at this witching hour was not her overly simplistic approach to things and people, but her brooding sexuality.
