Cam sampled his peas. This could be it, at last—Uncle Reggie’s apoplexy.
His uncle drained his wineglass for the third time since the peas had been served. “It pleases you to make jokes, I see. I wonder if you’ll be so pleased when Boney sends your cousin back to England without his legs. That is, if he returns at all!”
Ah. That’s what the fuss was about. Uncle Reggie knew Cam had agreed to purchase the commission for Julian. He couldn’t fathom how his uncle had discovered it so quickly, unless Julian had sent word from London.
If he had sent word, it might mean he’d decided to accept the commission. Cam’s heart froze at the thought, but he kept his face expressionless. He wouldn’t give his uncle the satisfaction of seeing his concern. “I have more faith in Julian than you do, I see. He’ll return, and in one piece.”
Uncle Reggie slammed his fist down next to his plate. His fork skittered to the floor and a footman leapt forward to retrieve it. “Just how would you know that?”
Because any other outcome is unthinkable.So Cam wouldn’t think it.
“He’ll come back because you deem it so?” Uncle Reggie gave a bitter laugh. “If the great Camden West with his spectacular fortune says it’s so, then it must be so.”
Cam looked down the table at his uncle with a mixture of disgust, frustration and a vague sense of pity. If Reggie could have kept Julian forever at Lindenhurst, wrapped in cotton wool, he’d have done it. He’d always doted on his son to such an extreme degree it was more mania than anything else.
It was a kind of love, Cam supposed. But a poor kind.
Spittle flew from his uncle’s mouth, and he was so sotted he was nearly face down in his plate. Watching him now, Cam understood more clearly than ever why Julian had to leave London. “Julian is an adult, and in full possession of his faculties. He’s made his choice. There’s naught for us to do now but trust it’s the right one.”
“You don’t want him to come back,” Uncle Reggie spat. “You see this as your chance to get rid of him, and you’ve taken it. You’ve always been jealous of him.”
Aunt Mary looked up, her face white. “Reginald! For pity’s sake.”
Enough.Cam placed his wineglass next to his plate. “Have a care, uncle.” He spoke in low tones that nevertheless carried to the other end of the table. “There is a limit to my tolerance.”
He was left to speculate whether or not his uncle would have been wise enough to heed this warning, for at that moment Eleanor half-rose from her seat and dropped her napkin on the table. “I beg you will excuse us. My sister—”
Lady Carlisle rose as well. “Charlotte?”
Cam took in Lady Charlotte’s pallor and motioned to one of the footmen. “Arthur, Lady Charlotte is ill. Escort her to her room, then send Winnie to attend her.”
Charlotte waved the footman off with a shaky hand. “It’s nothing. Just a sudden headache.”
“Nonsense.” Eleanor took Charlotte’s arm. “You look as if you’re about to swoon. Come along.”
The footman caught Charlotte’s other arm and he and Eleanor hurried from the dining room, supporting Charlotte between them. Lady Carlisle and Lily Sutherland followed behind them.
The room fell silent. Uncle Reggie had slipped into a sudden doze, exhausted by his fury and the better part of a bottle of wine. Aunt Mary touched a tentative hand to his arm, but Reggie only snorted and slumped further down in his chair.
Cam sighed, then gestured to the second footman. “George, attend my uncle, if you would.”
George darted forward, grasped Uncle Reggie under his arms, hauled him up from his chair, and dragged him from the room. Aunt Mary followed, her face red with shame.
“By gad,” Robyn murmured. “That was neatly done.”
“Handy thing to have about,” Lord Carlisle said. “An unusually large footman, I mean.”
Cam gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t wish to shock you, gentlemen, but that was not the first time George has been called upon to perform that service. Shall we have some port? I believe dinner is over.”
They sat in the dining room for another half hour, then his guests wandered off to pursue of game of chess in the drawing room, leaving Cam alone.
He rose, grabbed the bottle of port and made his way to the library. There was no point in sitting around like some besotted tragic hero. Eleanor wouldn’t come back downstairs tonight.
He sat in the dark and drank his port, running his finger over the top edge of his wineglass, thinking of how passionate she’d been with him in the kitchen last night. Her sighs and moans, the way she’d pressed herself against him—dear God, she’d driven him mad.
Did she know how much he wanted her? Had she understood he’d been one kiss away from snatching her into his arms and stealing away with her to his bedchamber? He’d dreamed about her, about laying her across his bed, pulling every pin from her hair, sliding those stockings from her long, long legs, and . . .
Damn it.This was becoming a habit, sitting alone in a dark library with a hard cock, drowning in fantasies about Eleanor.
