The Duke of Brentmere? God, help me!
Camelia had heard many stories about him. His illegitimate child and his father’s wrath were quite the scandal for some time, but she was not one to indulge in the downfall of others.
“I’ll walk you in,” the Duke announced firmly as they pulled up to Lempster Estate.
“N-No, Your Grace. I am perfectly fine, there is no need to escort me any further,” Camelia said quickly.
He raised a sable eyebrow at her, but eventually nodded in agreement.
The carriage rattled to a stop before the looming house, just as the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold.
They will wake up soon.
Camelia’s heart pounded as she glanced at the Duke. His imposing figure filled the cramped space, and heat pulsed between her legs when she briefly remembered how he felt against her—hard against her yielding softness.
She pressed her thighs together and lowered her gaze, afraid that he might read the thoughts she barely understood.
Before she could calm her body and mind, he opened the carriage door and stepped out, offering a calloused hand. In her rush, she bumped her head against the door frame and heard a hairpin drop to the floor.
There’s no time to search for it.
She ignored the blossoming panic and the flutter in her chest when she placed her palm in his waiting hand.
“Are you quite all right, little flower?” he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
How dare he keep calling me that!
She shot him a glare, but despite her anger, her cheeks flushed at the endearment and the embarrassment of her own clumsiness.
“Yes, thank you,” she said curtly, her stomach twisting as she looked around, afraid her father or the servants might see their exchange. “I can manage from here, Your Grace.”
“I would hope so,” he replied dryly.
Camelia’s pulse quickened as he eyed her suspiciously. The familiar facade of her home, once a place of warmth, now loomed like a reminder of her family’s disgrace.
“I would appreciate it if this were kept between us,” she whispered tightly.
“Of course,” he replied simply.
“Well, goodbye then, Your Grace.”
Camelia curtsied, rising with deliberate slowness. Her gaze lowered, unwilling to endure his piercing eyes, which hinted at the deepest blue in the sunlight.
“Goodbye, little flower,” he murmured. His husky voice made her shiver.
Against her will, her gaze lifted, catching the shadow of concern across his features. But there was no time to dwell on what it might mean.
With weak resolve, she turned and walked away from the dark stranger who had saved her from her own ruin. Only when she heard the rumble of his departing carriage did she release a breath she had not realized she had been holding.
God help me?—
The front door suddenly swung open before she could finish her little prayer, revealing her maid. Camelia entered quietly, pressing a finger to her lips to silence Julia.
They walked into the corridor, but she stopped short when she recognized the back of Lord Montague sitting with her skittish father opposite him. Beside Lord Montague sat Margaret, who was sickeningly pale and silent.
What in heaven is going on? The day has not begun, and he is already here?
Dread filled her.
