Chapter 4: : Part 1 – Chapter 3

“HONESTLY, HAVE YOU considered selling the gallery and moving to the country?” Lady Katherine Edwards asked, handing Camilla a glass of sherry. “Vexley would surely lose interest with time, especially if a buxom theater singer caught his fancy. Again.”

“Mm. If only I could be so lucky.”

Camilla sipped her drink as she warmed her slippered feet by the crackling fire in Lady Edwards’s finely appointed drawing room. A beautiful redhead with dark brown skin who didn’t believe in holding her tongue, but who could certainly hold her own in society, Katherine had been Camilla’s dearest friend since they both debuted ten years prior.

Katherine had been new to Waverly Green herself then, and she’d bonded with Camilla immediately over their both being outsiders of a sort. Even after she’d married, Katherine had kept their weekly dinner plans, becoming like a sister over the years, someone Camilla confided almost all her fears in.

With a few exceptions…

While Katherine might be Camilla’s dearest friend, even she didn’t know the full truth behind Vexley’s proposal.

“Well, if he’s hell-bent on courting you, why not consider his offer?” Katherine asked, settling back into her velvet chair as Camilla took a generous sip of her sherry to drown out the absurd idea. “He is the son of a viscount. Grandson to an earl.”

The door creaked open as a large gray-and-white feline nosed its way in.

“Bunny!” Camilla immediately brightened, and Katherine snorted.

“I had a carriage sent for her earlier. I know how lonely she gets when you’re working.”

“You’re looking as regal as ever,” Camilla said lovingly to her cat, who gave her a once-over, then sat and began washing her long, beautiful fur.

“Anyway,” Kitty said, “back to the matter at hand. Why not Vexley? He’s from good stock.”

“He is the son and a notorious scoundrel. Satire sheets have now dubbed him ‘the Golden-Tongued Deviant,’ for heaven’s sake, Kitty. Did you not see that last caricature of him?

would be too mild a term for it. It was so explicit I heard that three carriages collided outside the storefront where the illustration was displayed last week.”

“And heard that seven new lovers visited his bedchamber because of that very satire sheet,” Katherine volleyed back. “I also have it on good authority that the moniker is fitting. And it has nothing to do with his scintillating conversational skills or lack thereof.”

Outside, the light rain that had begun earlier turned into a menacing storm, the howling winds now whipping tree branches against the windows like great demonic beasts as the two women cozied up to the fire with their glasses of sherry.

Like clockwork, after dinner Lord Edwards had gone off to his gentlemen’s club, affording the women time to drink and laugh like they used to before he and Katherine married three Seasons prior. Rumor had it that he went often to stave off frustrations over not yet producing an heir.

It was a subject Kitty didn’t like to speak about, though Camilla knew why and kept her secret, just as Kitty had kept so many of Camilla’s.

“I cannot even fathom Vexley seriously considering marriage,” Camilla mused. “Seven new lovers in as many nights is appalling, even for Vexley.”

“Now, darling, I never said seven nights. Rumor has it he took part in his very own bacchanal and not one lady went away disappointed.”

“Of course.” Camilla exhaled loudly. “A gentleman ought to only indulge in vice when purchasing art—as to spend copious amounts of coin on it, most especially in gallery—and then be virtuous in his marriage. On that principle alone I’d never marry Vexley.”

Her friend snorted. “Oh, darling, no. There’s a reason people say reformed rakes make the very best husbands. You want a wicked man in the bedroom. The wickeder the better, in fact. If anything, you ought to thank Vexley for his recent escapades. At least you know he’s well seasoned and has stamina.”

“‘Well seasoned,’” Camilla repeated with a smile and a slight shake of her head. “It’s hard to tell whether you’re describing a man or the perfect cut of meat.”

“Some would argue that that’s precisely what rakes are. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself a prime piece of filet to sink your teeth into.”

Katherine pretended to take a big bite.

“Kitty!” Camilla laughed. “That’s horrid.”

“Teasing aside, if you recall, William had quite the reputation before we wed, and I have no complaints.”

She sipped her sherry, eyeing Camilla over the glass.

Camilla stayed mulishly silent.

“Vexley might be crass and vulgar, but I know several women who’ve complained that their husbands are selfish lovers, never concerned with ensuring that their wives are equally satisfied. Is that not a virtue?”

“Katherine,” Camilla sighed. “Be serious. Virtue and Vexley are as compatible as oil and water.”

“You just need to find yourself a virile man with questionable morals and bed him whenever the mood strikes you.”

As if anything could be that simple for a woman in this world.

“Since Vexley is clearly not to your liking,” Katherine finally continued, “have you come across any other potential prospects for a loyal companion?”

Camilla cringed.

was what Kitty insisted upon calling the object of her search for a discreet lover for Camilla, an endeavor Camilla heartily disapproved of.

Aside from a few heated kisses, some heavy petting, and a clandestine meeting with an infamous hunter that introduced her to her first orgasm, Camilla had little real-world experience, living off the details told to her by her married friend. After seeing the pain of her father’s heartbreak when her mother left, Camilla rejected the idea of marriage.

She’d never seriously considered Kitty’s idea, though she still desired a man’s touch. Katherine not only knew this but often tried to play matchmaker, much to Camilla’s amusement and horror. Once her mind was set, Katherine wouldn’t be deterred.

Had Katherine been in the gallery tonight, she would have thought Lord Synton would do just fine for Camilla’s thanks to the sheer dominance that seemed to radiate in the space around him. He was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it.

Synton had walked in and practically laid claim to the gallery with just one arrogant glance, owning everything, including Camilla’s good sense.

Irksome though that trait might have been during the day, Katherine would claim it was a desirable attribute at night in the bedchamber, especially if he’d made it his mission to own Camilla’s body with that same level of authority.

“Your silence leads me to believe you found someone interesting.”

“No,” Camilla lied. “Not at all.”

Unbidden, and not for the first time that evening, her thoughts turned to a mesmerizing pair of emerald eyes and a sensual mouth that had boasted a devilish grin earlier.

On the carriage ride to her friend’s house, while the rain lazily drummed its fingers over the roof, Camilla had rested her head against the cushioned wall, closed her eyes, and somehow found herself imagining Lord Synton sitting next to her on the bench, slowly tugging her close, his fingers drifting along her arms, exploring the tiny swath of skin exposed where her gloves and gown diverged as if it held the answer to each mystery in the universe.

He’d lock those emerald eyes on her, watching as he leaned in slowly, affording her time to stop his pursuit, before gently running his lips along the sensitive skin of her neck in a whisper-soft kiss. When her breath hitched from the sensation, he’d work his way along the curve of her shoulder, then down along her décolletage.

His mouth becoming bolder as each expert flicking of his tongue or gentle scrape of his teeth caused a bolt of heat to sear through her.

When she was practically panting, only then would his singular focus fix on her bodice, as he carefully pulled at each lace, undoing them with maddening precision. And then he’d discover one of the most scandalous secrets for a spinster: her love for lingerie, garments that made her feel beautiful, pieces that she acquired quietly from the modiste that were delicate and soft and feminine as they hugged her curves.

Camilla had trailed her own fingers from the bench to her lap, drawing her skirts up, the rustle of the silk its own forbidden music against the rumble of the carriage’s wheels. Slowly she’d begun stroking the sensitive skin above her lace-edged stocking, inching ever closer to the growing heat between her legs.

She had touched herself in the carriage while envisioning fingers between her thighs, working her body until the coachman rapped at the door, startling her back to her senses and—frustratingly enough—preventing her from achieving her release.

Lord ton indeed. He was just a rake she needed to stop fantasizing about.

after he requested the one thing she would never paint. Anyone interested in a hexed object was to be avoided at all costs. Both her mother and her father had warned her against them—it had been a rare time they’d both been insistent.

Hexed objects weren’t quite sentient, but they weren’t entirely without thought, either. Camilla knew that the witch who’d created them had done so out of hatred, and through dark magic, granting the objects leave to become more twisted and chaotic as the centuries went on.

According to her father’s stories, this meant they could even shift forms—what was once a throne might take on the appearance of a book, or a dagger, or a feather, allowing it to prick or sting or kill for amusement. It might even decide to take over a living creature, inhabiting their form until it grew bored and abandoned the shell of the host.

“Camilla?” Katherine’s concerned face came into view. “Darling, should we open a window? You look a bit flushed.”

“No, please. It’s that last sip of sherry, I think.”

Camilla internally cursed Lord Ashford Synton and his seductive, arrogant mouth for distracting her all over again. It was entirely infuriating to at once dislike a man and be attracted to him. She couldn’t believe she’d thought of him in that manner.

Though the same couldn’t be said about some men she despised. She’d never almost brought herself to climax in the back of a carriage while imagining Vexley.

And Camilla silently vowed never to think of Synton in that way again either.

“Vexley mentioned hosting a party, have you received an invitation?” she asked.

Katherine regarded her for another long moment before finally nodding.

“It was delivered right before you arrived. Please say you’re going,” she pleaded. “I cannot bear the thought of being there without you.”

If Vexley had sent an invitation, Camilla would need to say yes to avoid his ire, no matter how much she wished not to.

Though an idea was beginning to take shape.

If she went to Vexley’s home during what would certainly turn into a raucous event, she might be able to locate that first forgery.

Vexley had said he’d hidden it—which meant he was keeping it in a private room no guests would visit during the festivities, giving her an excellent starting point.

While the party was fully underway, Camilla would search until she located it, then set it in the nearest fire before Vex the Hex ever knew what she’d done, thus saving herself from any further attempts at blackmail.

It was risky, but should the plan work, the reward was too great for her to miss taking the opportunity.

There had been desperation in the troublesome lord’s words earlier, and Camilla knew that one day soon he’d find a way to force her hand.

“Of course I’ll attend.” Camilla held up her glass to her friend’s and clinked it against hers. “I cannot think of a better way to spend the evening.”

“Liar.” Katherine laughed and shook her head. “But I’m glad you’ll be there. You know how delightfully boisterous those affairs get, especially when Vexley’s been drinking.”

Camilla did know, and she prayed Vex the Hex wouldn’t let her down.

Katherine’s face brightened. “Speaking of interesting affairs, have you heard about that new lord who’s recently arrived? A Lord Ashford something. Everyone’s talking about him.”

Camilla swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

“Oh? I hadn’t heard. At least people aren’t still whispering about my mother.”

Katherine gave her a sad smile. She’d tried to shelter Camilla from the worst of the gossip over the last decade, especially as ruthless mammas did their best to ensure that their daughters married the best men of their Season.

“From what you’ve told me, Lady Fleur was never a shrinking violet, which is why they still speak of her ten years later,” Kitty said, sensing where Camilla’s mind wandered. “And she was right that all those doltish mothers just envied your talent. Do you remember what you told me she said?”

Camilla huffed a laugh. “They didn’t envy my talent, Kitty. They thought me odd and didn’t wish for their sons to court me.”

Kitty’s smile turned devious. “She said, ”

“You must have remembered that story wrong,” Camilla said, amused.

“Perhaps I might have embellished. But I think they were worried you’d paint unflattering but horridly accurate nude portraits of their flaccid noble cocks.”

Camilla covered her face with her hands, trying to get that imagery from her head.

Before she’d left, her mother—Fleur—used to smile mischievously and tell Camilla she’d send an army of fleas into the bedchambers of the nastiest nobles, ensuring that the insects bit their bottoms so they’d incessantly feel the need to scratch their rumps at the next ball.

The idea of the prim and proper lords and ladies struggling to maintain decorum with rashy backsides gave Camilla a perverse glee. For all her faults, Fleur knew how to make Camilla smile with her wicked sense of humor.

“Has she written?” Katherine asked, her voice quiet now.

Camilla shook her head.

“No. I imagine she’s exploring the world the way she always wished to.”

Katherine sipped her sherry, giving Camilla a private moment to collect her thoughts. She always felt conflicted when conversations turned to her mother, though it was easiest to recall the confusion and abandonment she’d felt when Fleur left.

Yet, when Camilla was a child, Fleur had been the one to start telling stories almost too fantastical to be real. She’d speak of shadow realms filled with curious creatures. Goddesses, demons, vampires, and shape-shifters. Seven demon princes, each wickeder than the last.

Camilla would curl up on the settee beside her, close her eyes, and dream.

Pierre had listened intently to each story too, and Camilla suspected it was the magical way her mother spoke that had inspired her painter father to turn his brush to the scenes she’d depicted.

At first, Fleur had been enchanted with his art, encouraging him not to worry about his title, to pursue his passion and open the gallery. But as he’d become obsessed with capturing the elusive fables she retold, he’d begun demanding more stories, more descriptions. Fleur grew annoyed, then bored, and then withdrawn.

Looking back, Camilla should have seen the signs. Fleur had become restless, leaving the house nearly every day, never settling when she finally was home.

She’d never told a soul, but her mother had left her one thing: a locket, one last secret she shared with her daughter.

Camilla didn’t want to dwell on the past. She felt the loneliness creeping back in, an ache that never fully went away, only quieted with the passage of time.

Nervously, she toyed with the locket, which she still wore every day.

Katherine noticed her friend’s familiar gesture. “You’re hiding something.”

“I met him earlier,” she said, drawing the conversation back to less treacherously emotional grounds. “The mysterious new lord.”

“You rotten bore!” Kitty’s eyes rounded. “Why wasn’t that the first bit of news you shared? Was he handsome? Or did his eyes look as if he could burn your soul from your body?”

“Who on earth do you speak to?”

“Live a little, darling. He’s either handsome or homely. Though beauty is rather subjective, isn’t it?”

Camilla lifted a shoulder casually, then dropped it, not committing to revealing anything.

“There’s not much to tell,” she said.

“Humor me, then. What were your first impressions?”

“You’re impossible,” Camilla said teasingly.

“Curious, not impossible. You do know how much I adore learning secrets first.”

“Very well. He’s tall, arrogant, and probably has a tiny member. I can’t imagine why else he’d behave so boorishly. You should have seen the way he walked in, demanding a commission. Men like him are abhorrent. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s convinced the sun rises and sets because he wills it to. Forget laws of nature. Lord Synton is God the Creator and don’t you dare forget it, peasant.”

Kitty’s eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth.

“I see there’s to tell at all. Except you’re going to fall madly in love with him. Or maybe he would be the perfect !”

Camilla was going to do no such thing and he would absolutely be her anything. She held her glass up when her friend offered a refill, keeping her convictions to herself.

With luck, the troublesome Lord Synton would never darken her doorstep again.