Mine Till Midnight

  He didn’t move or speak. She felt him watching her as she went to Christopher Frost … she felt his gaze penetrating her clothes, lingering against her skin. And as she walked away, a sense of loss rushed through her.

  * * *

  They wandered slowly, she and Christopher, falling into a familiar harmony. They had walked often during their courtship, or gone on discreetly chaperoned drives. It had been a proper courtship, with earnest conversations and tenderly composed letters, and sweet stolen kisses. It had seemed magical, unbelievable, that someone so handsome and perfect would want her. In fact, Amelia had put him off at the beginning for that very reason, telling him with a laugh that she was sure he meant to trifle with her. But Christopher had countered by saying he was hardly going to trifle with his best friend’s sister, and he was certainly not some London rake who would play her false.

  “For one thing, I don’t dress nearly well enough to be a rake,” Christopher had pointed out with a grin, indicating his well-tailored but sober attire.

  “You’re right,” Amelia had agreed, looking him over with mock solemnity. “In fact, you don’t dress well enough to be an architect, either.”

  “And,” he had continued, “I have an exceedingly respectable history with women. Hearts and reputations all left intact. No rake would make such a claim.”

  “You’re very convincing,” Amelia had observed, a bit breathless as he had moved closer.

  “Miss Hathaway,” Christopher had whispered, engulfing her cool hand with both of his warm ones, “take pity. At least let me write to you. Promise you’ll read my letter. And if you still don’t want me after that, I’ll never bother you again.”

  Intrigued, Amelia had consented. And what a letter it had been … charming and eloquent and fairly blistering in parts. They had begun a correspondence, and Christopher had visited Primrose Place whenever he could.

  Amelia had never enjoyed any man’s company so much. They shared similar opinions on a variety of issues, which was pleasant. But when they disagreed, it was even more enjoyable. Christopher seldom became heated on a subject—his approach was analytical, scholarly, rather like her father. And if Amelia became annoyed with him, he laughed and kissed her until she forgot what had started the argument.

  Christopher had never tried to seduce Amelia—he respected her too much for that. Even at the times when she had felt so stirred that she had encouraged him to go beyond mere kisses, he had refused. “I want you, little love,” he had whispered, his breath unsteady, his eyes bright with passion. “But not until it’s right. Not until you’re my wife.”

  That was as close to a proposal as he had ever come. There had been no official betrothal, although Christopher had led her to expect one. There had only been a mysterious silence for almost a month, and then Leo had gone to find him on Amelia’s behalf. Her brother had come back from London looking angry and troubled.

  “There are rumors,” Leo had told Amelia gruffly, taking her against his shirtfront, drying her tears with his handkerchief. “He’s been seen with Rowland Temple’s daughter. They say he’s courting her.”

  And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone’s soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive. She had gone to bed for a week, not venturing from her darkened room, crying until she was ill, and then crying some more.

  Ironically, the thing that had saved her was the scarlet fever that had struck Win and Leo. They had needed her, and caring for them had pulled her out of the depths of melancholy. She had not shed a tear for Christopher Frost after that.

  But the absence of tears wasn’t the same as an absence of feeling. Amelia was surprised now to discover that underneath the bitterness and caution, all the things she had once found appealing about him were still there.

  “I’m the last person who should remark on how you conduct your personal affairs,” Christopher said quietly. He offered an arm as they walked. She hesitated before taking it. “However, you know what people will say if you’re seen with him.”

  “I appreciate your concern for my reputation.” Amelia’s tone was lightly salted with sarcasm. “But I’m hardly the only person to indulge in a few caprices at the village fair.”

  “If you’re with a gentleman, a few caprices may be overlooked. But he’s a Gypsy, Amelia.”

  “I noticed,” she said dryly. “I would have thought you above such prejudice.”

  “It’s not my prejudice,” Christopher countered swiftly, “it’s society’s. Defy it if you wish, but there’s always a price to pay.”

  “The argument is moot, at any rate,” she said. “Mr. Rohan is leaving for London soon, and then for parts unknown. I doubt I’ll ever see him again. And I can’t fathom why you would care one way or another.”

  “Of course I care,” Christopher said gently. “Amelia … I regret having hurt you. More than you could ever know. I certainly don’t wish to see you endure further harm from yet another ill-advised love affair.”

  “I’m not in love with Mr. Rohan,” she said. “I would never be so foolish.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  His excessively soothing tone was grating. It made her want to do something wild and irresponsible just to spite him. “Why aren’t you married?” she asked abruptly.

  The question was met with a long sigh. “She accepted my proposal to please her father, rather than out of any sincere attachment to me. As it happened, she was in love with someone else, a man her father didn’t approve of. Eventually they eloped to Gretna Green.”

  “There’s some justice in that,” Amelia said. “You abandoned someone who loved you. And she abandoned you for someone she loved.”

  “Would it please you to know that I never loved her? I liked and admired her, but … it was nothing compared to what I felt for you.”

  “No, that doesn’t please me in the least. It’s even worse that you put ambition before all else.”

  “I’m a man who’s trying to support himself—and someday a family—with an uncertain career. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Your career was never that uncertain,” Amelia shot back. “You had every promise of advancement, even without marrying Rowland Temple’s daughter. Leo told me your talent would have taken you far.”

  “Would that talent were enough. But it’s naïve to think so.”

  “Well, naïveté seems to be a common failing of the Hathaways.”

  “Amelia,” he murmured. “It’s not like you to be cynical.”

  She bent her head. “You don’t know what I’m like now.”

  “I want the chance to find out.”

  That drew a glance of startled disbelief from her. “There’s nothing to be gained by a renewed acquaintance with me, Christopher. I’m no wealthier, nor am I more advantageously connected. Nothing has changed since we last met.”

  “Perhaps I have. Perhaps I’ve come to realize what I lost.”

  “Threw away,” she corrected, her heart thumping painfully.

  “Threw away,” he acknowledged in a soft tone. “I was a fool and a cad, Amelia. I would never ask that you overlook what I did. But at least give me the opportunity to make amends. I want to be of service to your family, if at all possible. And to help your brother.”

  “You can’t,” Amelia said. “You see what’s become of him.”

  “He is a man of remarkable talents. It would be criminal to waste them. Perhaps, if I could befriend him again…”

  “I don’t think he would be very receptive to that.”

  “I want to help him. I have influence with Rowland Temple now. His daughter’s elopement left him with a sense of obligation toward me.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “I might be able to interest Leo in working for him again. It would benefit them both.”

  “But how would it benefit you?” she asked. “Why would you go to such
trouble on Leo’s behalf?”

  “I’m not a complete villain, Amelia. I have a conscience, albeit a somewhat underused one. It’s not easy to live with the memories of the people I hurt in the past. Including you and your brother.”

  “Christopher,” she murmured, throwing him a distracted glance. “I don’t know what to say. I need some time to consider things—”

  “Take all the time you wish,” he said gently. “If I can’t be what I once was to you … I will have to be satisfied as a friend-in-waiting.” He smiled slightly, his eyes filled with a tender glow. “And if you should ever want more … a single word is all it will take.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ordinarily Cam would have been pleased by the arrival of Lord and Lady St. Vincent at Stony Cross Park. However, Cam wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of telling St. Vincent about his decision to quit the club. St. Vincent wouldn’t like it. Not only would it be inconvenient to have to find a replacement manager, but the viscount wouldn’t understand Cam’s desire to live as a Roma. St. Vincent was nothing if not an enthusiastic advocate of fine living.

  Many people feared St. Vincent, who possessed a lethal way with words and a calculating nature, but Cam was not one of them. In fact, he had challenged the viscount on more than one occasion, both of them arguing with a vicious articulateness that would have sliced anyone else to ribbons.

  The St. Vincents arrived with their daughter Phoebe, a red-haired infant with an alarmingly changeable temperament. One moment the child was placid and adorable. The next, she was a squalling devil-spawn who could only be soothed by the sound of her father’s voice. “There, darling,” St. Vincent had been known to coo into the infant’s ear. “Has someone displeased you? Ignored you? Oh, the insolence. My poor princess shall have anything she wants…” And, appeased by her father’s outrageous spoiling, Phoebe would settle into hiccupping smiles.

  The baby was duly admired and passed around in the parlor. Evie and Lillian chattered without stopping, frequently hugging and linking arms in the way of old friends.

  After a while Cam, St. Vincent, and Lord Westcliff withdrew to the back terrace, where an afternoon breeze diffused the scents of the river and reed sweetgrass and marsh marigold. The raucous honks of greylag geese punctuated the peace of the Hampshire autumn, along with the lowing of cattle being driven along a well-worn path to a dry meadow.

  The men sat at an outside table. Cam, who disliked the taste of tobacco, waved his hand in dismissal as St. Vincent offered him a cigar.

  Under Westcliff’s interested regard, Cam and St. Vincent discussed the progress of the club’s renovations. Then, seeing no reason to tiptoe around the issue, Cam told St. Vincent of his decision to quit the club as soon as the work was completed.

  “You’re leaving me?” St. Vincent asked, looking perturbed. “For how long?”

  “For good, actually.”

  As St. Vincent absorbed the information, his pale blue eyes narrowed. “What will you do for money?”

  Relaxed in the face of his employer’s displeasure, Cam shrugged. “I already have more money than anyone could spend in a lifetime.”

  The viscount glanced heavenward. “Anyone who says such a thing obviously doesn’t know the right places to shop.” He sighed shortly. “So. If I’m to understand correctly, you intend to eschew civilization altogether and live as a savage?”

  “No, I intend to live as a Roma. There’s a difference.”

  “Rohan, you’re a wealthy young bachelor with all the advantages of modern life. If you’ve got ennui, do what every other man of means does.”

  Cam’s brows lifted. “And that would be…”

  “Gamble! Drink! Buy a horse! Take a mistress! For God’s sake, have a little imagination. Can you think of no better option than to throw it all away and live like a primitive, thereby inconveniencing me in the process? How the devil am I to replace you?”

  “No one’s irreplaceable.”

  “You are. No other man in London can do what you do. You’re a walking account book, you’ve got eyes in the back of your head, you’ve got the tact of a diplomat, the mind of a banker, the fists of a boxer, and you can put down a fight in a matter of seconds. I’d need to hire at least a half-dozen men for your job.”

  “I don’t have the mind of a banker,” Cam said indignantly.

  “After all your investment coups, you can’t deny—”

  “That wasn’t on purpose!” A scowl spread across Cam’s face. “It was my good-luck curse.”

  Looking satisfied to have unsettled Cam’s composure, St. Vincent drew on his cigar. He exhaled a smooth, elegant stream of smoke and glanced at Westcliff. “Say something,” he told his old friend. “You can’t approve of this any more than I.”

  “It’s not for either of us to approve.”

  “Thank you,” Cam muttered.

  “However,” Westcliff continued, “I urge you, Rohan, to reflect adequately on the fact that while half of you is a freedom-loving Gypsy, the other half is Irish—a race renowned for its fierce love of land. Which leads me to doubt that you will be as happy in your wandering as you seem to expect.”

  The point rattled Cam. He had always tried to ignore the gadjo half of his nature, lugging it around like some oversized piece of baggage he would have liked to set aside but for which he could never find a convenient place.

  “If your point is that I’m damned whatever I do,” Cam said tersely, “I’d rather err on the side of being free.”

  “All men of intelligence must eventually give up their freedom,” St. Vincent replied. “The problem with bachelorhood is that it’s far too easy, which makes it tedious. The only real challenge left is marriage.”

  Marriage. Respectability. Cam regarded his companions with a skeptical smile, thinking they resembled a pair of birds trying to convince themselves of how comfortable their cage was. No woman was worth having his wings clipped.

  “I’m leaving for London tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll stay at the club until it reopens. After that I’ll be gone for good.”

  St. Vincent’s clever mind circumvented the problem, analyzing it from various angles. “Rohan … you’ve led a more or less civilized existence for years, and yet suddenly it has become intolerable. Why?”

  Cam remained silent. The truth was not something he was readily able to admit to himself, let alone say aloud.

  “There has to be some reason you want to leave,” St. Vincent persisted.

  “Perhaps I’m off the mark,” Westcliff said, “but I suspect it may have something to do with Miss Hathaway.”

  Cam sent him a damning glare.

  St. Vincent looked alertly from Cam’s stony face to Westcliff’s. “You didn’t tell me there was a woman.”

  Cam stood so quickly the chair nearly toppled backward. “She has nothing to do with it.”

  “Who is she?” St. Vincent always hated being left out of gossip.

  “One of Lord Ramsay’s sisters,” came Westcliff’s reply. “They reside at the estate next door.”

  “Well, well,” St. Vincent said. “She must be quite something to provoke such a reaction in you, Rohan. Tell me about her. Is she fair? Dark? Well formed?”

  To remain silent, or to deny the attraction, would have been to admit the full extent of his weakness. Cam lowered back into his chair and strove for an offhand tone. “Dark-haired. Pretty. And she has … quirks.”

  “Quirks.” St. Vincent’s eyes glinted with enjoyment. “How charming. Go on.”

  “She’s read obscure medieval philosophy. She’s afraid of bees. Her foot taps when she’s nervous.” And other, more personal things he couldn’t reveal … like the beautiful paleness of her throat and chest, the weight of her hair in his hands, the way strength and vulnerability were pleated inside her like two pieces of fabric folded together. Not to mention a body that had been designed for mortal sin.

  Cam didn’t want to think about Amelia. Every time he did, he was swamped with a feeling he’d n
ever known before, something as acute as pain, as pervasive as hunger. The feeling seemed to have no purpose other than to rob him of sleep at night. There wasn’t one millimeter of Amelia Hathaway that didn’t attract him profoundly, and that was a problem so far outside his experience, he didn’t begin to know how to address it.

  If only he could take her, ease this endless ache … but having lain with her once, he might want her even more afterward. In mathematics, one could take a finite figure and divide its content infinitely, with the result that even though the content was unchanged, the magnitude of its bounds went on forever. Potential infinity. It was the first time Cam had ever comprehended the concept in the form of a woman.

  Aware that Westcliff and St. Vincent had exchanged a significant glance, Cam said sourly, “If you’re assuming that my plans to leave are nothing more than a reaction to Miss Hathaway … I’ve been considering this for a long time. I’m not an idiot. Nor am I inexperienced with women.”

  “To say the least,” St. Vincent commented dryly. “But in your pursuit of women—or perhaps I should say their pursuit of you—you seem to have regarded them all as interchangeable. Until now. If you are taken with this Hathaway creature, don’t you think it bears investigating?”

  “God, no. There’s only one thing it could lead to.”

  “Marriage,” the viscount said rather than asked.

  “Yes. And that’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  The fact that they were discussing Amelia Hathaway and the subject of marriage was enough to make Cam blanch in discomfort. “I’m not the marrying kind—”

  St. Vincent snorted. “No man is. Marriage is a female invention.”

  “—but even if I were so inclined,” Cam continued, “I’m a Roma. I wouldn’t do that to her.”