Chapter 11 #3
Camille had seemed radiant and happy enough while they were dancing, except for that brief moment when he had caught her glancing at Adam Thornton.
Now there was one insolent bastard he should have whipped to death when he had the chance.
He wouldn’t be surprised if her sudden unease had been due to his unwelcome appearance in her ballroom.
It must have been a rude shock for her to discover the license her father had granted that base, illiterate son of a miner who had somehow managed over the years to distinguish himself as a crop master.
It made Dominick sick to think that his former indentured servant, the surliest, most mutinous he’d ever come across, was living in this house and managing one of the richest plantations in the Tidewater.
He certainly wouldn’t tolerate Adam’s loathsome presence once he was the master of Briarwood.
He would have him horsewhipped right off his property.
“She did look a bit pale to me, I must admit,” Robert added with a loud hiccough, then he grimaced. “Nine weeks at sea aboard a disease-ridden vessel…”
Banishing Adam from his mind, Dominick reasoned that it did make sense that Camille might still be fatigued from such a long and arduous voyage.
He would have to be extra solicitous of her at the Johnson girl’s birthday party on Tuesday, which would be the next time he saw her.
He intended to leave Briarwood shortly after daybreak tomorrow.
He always spent Sunday afternoons in bed with his mistress, Cleo, the only woman he had ever come close to loving.
“Pity, though. Miss Cary’s missing a splendid good time.
” Robert belched loudly, reeling a little to the left.
“Too bad about the last dance she promised you, eh, Dominick? Heard all about it from Matthew, who hoped he’d be the one honored.
You’re not thinking of throwing a bid for her into the hat with all the younger boys, are you?
Good God, man, you could be her father!”
Dominick didn’t deem the slurred comment worthy of an answer, nor would he waste more of his time on this fat, babbling fool. If Camille had gone to bed, there was no point in remaining in this noisy ballroom.
Without even a nod of farewell, he disappeared into the dim, smoke-filled game room, his palms itching to once again pick up the cards.
Adam stood just outside the yellow spill of light from the ballroom’s high arched windows, the shadows of the humid summer night enveloping him, and watched grimly as Dominick closed the game room door in Robert Grymes’s face.
“Go on, you bastard,” he muttered, his fingers tightening around his snifter of brandy. “Murdering devil. Go gamble away what little money you have left. You’ll only make my revenge that much easier, and that much sweeter.”
He lifted the glass and drank deeply, the dark amber liquid burning his throat like the fiery hatred coursing through his body.
The intensity of his feeling echoed the jealous fury he had felt earlier when he had entered the ballroom to find Dominick dancing with Camille, smiling at her, conversing quietly with her, holding her hand.
His beautiful Camille! If not for her assurances that they would announce their betrothal in a few weeks’ time, he would have ended their secret courtship then and there by throwing that fiendish spawn of Satan right out the front door, along with the rest of her slathering suitors.
Drawing a deep, ragged breath, Adam’s gaze shot to the second-story window high above him, the soft candlelight that streaked the delicate lace curtains proof that she was still awake.
She had disappeared from the ballroom so suddenly while he had been dancing a gavotte with Celeste that he hadn’t had a chance to bid her good night.
He had left immediately thereafter himself, despite his partner’s pretty sulking.
He had been standing beneath Camille’s window for almost an hour now, hoping to catch a last glimpse of her before he, too, went to bed.
It was not to be. Suddenly the dim light was doused, her room falling dark.
“Damn.” Adam turned on his heel and strode toward the coach house, growing angry with himself.
He could have gone to her and inquired as to how she was feeling, if he hadn’t so readily agreed to sleep in his office.
Matthew had told him she had complained of a headache and fatigue, which told him that the commotion of the evening had been too much for her.
Now he would have to wait until morning to see her while someone else slept in his bed, in his room, only two doors away from his beloved.
He stopped, stunned, and glanced back at her darkened windows.
His beloved. Was that what Camille was becoming to him? He had never expected that he might fall in love with her, but it was happening, he admitted, and almost without his awareness of her evolution from the mere instrument of his revenge into the fascinating woman who was capturing his heart.
If anything, this long, frustrating day had driven home his powerful feelings with resounding force.
He didn’t want any other man near her. He didn’t want any other man touching her.
He didn’t want anyone sharing her beautiful smiles, her laughter, or her playful glances.
Dammit, then why had he agreed to continue their secret courtship?
Why had he agreed to play her deceptive little game, which would only draw more men to her like buzzing bees around the sweetest, most fragrant wildflower in the field?
Remembering the plea in her incredible green eyes, Adam shook his head as he resumed his stride. It was amazing what a man would do for the love of a woman.
He mounted the steps to his office and, once inside the moonlit room, sat down heavily on the bed.
One thing was perfectly clear to him. Camille might think their “little deception” as she called it, was going to be fun and romantic and slightly naughty, but he knew better.
For him, at least, the next few weeks would be pure hell.