Chapter 17 #2
Pamela perched on the chair’s edge, hands folded tightly in her lap, and kept her head down.
“How are your lessons going?”
She glanced up, then down again, speaking timidly in his presence. “Mrs. Finch says that my stitching’s improving.”
“And your etiquette lessons?”
“She says there’s some work to be done.”
“Pamela,” he said flatly. “Embroidery is not as important as etiquette. A young girl must know how to act in Society. You need to focus.”
“Yes, Father, I understand,” she murmured.
“The reason for this meeting is not just to get an update on your lessons.” Dread coiled in Raph’s gut before he continued. “Your birthday’s coming up, Pamela.”
Her fingers tightened in her lap, and she nodded.
“We will visit your mother’s grave as usual, and you may have the day to yourself.”
Pamela’s eyes flicked up again, slightly wide, then dropped. “I… I’d like to celebrate my birthday, Father.”
Raph raised an eyebrow, masking his surprise with indifference. “Without paying respect to your mother?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but his anger simmered.
This must be Camelia’s doing.
“No.” Pamela looked stricken. “I would like to celebrate my birthday first and then visit Mother’s grave. If… if that’s all right?”
He froze, surprised by her choice and hearing her speak more than one or two words. “Celebrate first?”
“Yes, Father.” Her new confidence faltered when she struggled to keep eye contact with him.
“And what or who made you decide that?”
She hesitated, glancing at the door, then whispered, “Her Grace, Father.”
Raph sighed loudly. “Where is she?”
Pamela glanced at the door again, and Raph realized that Camelia was standing just outside, waiting for her or waiting to pounce on him.
She will be my ruin.
“You may leave, Pamela.”
The girl got up immediately and made for the door.
“And on your way out, tell the Duchess to come see me.”
His order stopped her in her tracks. She nodded, opened the door, and Raph heard the whispers and mumbles on the other side.
A strange feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Camelia was evidently changing things around Brentmere, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
As if she had read his thoughts, his wife barged into the study with the grace and confidence of a true duchess.
“What fire have you decided to start now?” he asked dryly.
Camelia stopped before his desk and slammed a palm down. The sound echoed, and a part of him wanted to reach for her and command her not to hurt herself in his presence.
“When were you planning to tell me that Pamela’s mother is dead?” she hissed through her teeth.
“I’m curious, Camelia. When did you and Pamela have time to discuss all of this?” he countered calmly.
“That hardly matters, does it?”
“You tell me. My daughter was placed in your care, and now she’s speaking of not visiting her mother’s grave on her birthday.”
“It’s her birthday, Raph. You cannot expect her to mourn for her mother all her life!”
Raph gritted his teeth.
“How dare you suggest that she forget the memory of her mother!” he snapped.
Camelia flinched slightly but stood her ground, placing her hands on her hips. She looked magnificent as she towered over him with a familiar passionate fierceness.
He had witnessed her in this state before, back at Lempster Estate when Lord Montague wanted little Lady Margaret. It was this very fierceness that made him decide right then and there that she would be a perfect mother for Pamela.
Was I wrong?
“I will never encourage Pamela to forget her mother! If that’s what you think I’m capable of, then maybe you shouldn’t have married me.” Camelia’s voice shook with fury.
Raph rose slowly from his chair. “You’re meddling with things you don’t understand.”
“Planning a cake and lemon tarts is meddling now? God forbid the girl smiles on the day she was born!”
His eyes narrowed to slits.
“I, of all people, understand what it’s like for a girl to lose her mother,” Camelia continued, stepping closer to his desk.
“But to be reminded of it continuously, and on the day when her life should be celebrated, is not fair! Pamela deserves some joy, Raph. She does not deserve to spend every birthday tiptoeing around grief.”
He rounded the desk in two strides and towered over her. “You think a few ribbons and songs will fix years of pain?”
“I think refusing her even one happy memory is cruel enough,” she shot back. “And I won’t let you do it.”
Raph’s voice dropped to a dangerous murmur. “You’re not the one who decides what happens under this roof.”
Camelia lifted her chin defiantly. “Then try stopping me. Pamela’s birthday will be celebrated. My sisters and I will see to it. There will be cake, music, and every ridiculous tradition we can think of. You can join us, or you can sulk in your study. I don’t give a damn which!”
“A birthday celebration is unheard of, Camelia! What do you plan to do?” he scolded.
But Camelia simply shoved past him.
In one fluid motion, Raph grabbed her arm before she could escape and spun her around. She braced herself on his desk as he stood behind her.
Pressing his body against hers, he brushed strands of hair from her neck and felt her shiver under his touch. His hand slid to her waist, and he held her there, fingers pressing just enough to remind her who held the power. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, coaxing a small moan from her.
He leaned in and whispered, “Go ahead with your little party.” Her body was hot against his, and he felt her arch into him. “Laugh, sing, and stuff yourself full of lemon tarts.”
His hands roamed over her corset, and to his satisfaction, her breathing slowly grew ragged and uneven.
“But when the candles are blown out, and the house is quiet… I have a very special lesson planned just for you.”
Raph let her go, ignoring the flush on her skin and how his own body reacted to her closeness.
Camelia took a moment to compose herself, keeping her back to him. Then, she cleared her throat and turned around slowly. Her defiance was still evident in her sparkling eyes.
She walked, head held up with what little pride she had left, and before she passed him, she hissed, “I will gladly accept your lesson, Your Grace.”