Indiscreet. Candace Camp

to be in his presence that long. She was quite sure they would have difficulty not getting into a roaring argument every few minutes. Mr. Benedict was, after all, the most irritating man she had ever met.

      No one would expect them to bill and coo, of course; that was not the sort of behavior encouraged by people of her station in life. Even engaged couples were usually chaperoned and stayed a chaste distance from each other. There was none of the public hand-holding or kisses such as Camilla had seen the parlor maid, Lizzie, and the butcher’s son engage in. No, if there were a kiss or embrace exchanged, it was usually done in secret.

      However, they would be expected to be together a lot of the time, and it would probably be thought odd if they did not take a few quiet walks alone together. She remembered the sort of warm glances that had been exchanged between her friend Henrietta and her fiancé, Malcolm. There had been something in Malcolm’s eyes when he looked at his future wife that even now, when she thought about it, made a faint flush rise in Camilla’s cheeks. He had not been crude, but seeing him, no one would have been mistaken as to his feelings for Henrietta. Even Camilla, the avowed opponent of marriage, had breathed a few wistful sighs over those looks.

      It was that sort of signal—the whispers with heads close together, the sighs, the looks across a roomful of people—that let everyone know that a couple was in love, and an engaged couple who never indulged in such behavior would look a trifle odd.

      Still, as long as the two of them maintained that they were engaged, who would have the nerve to dispute them? They might be labeled cold, and someone as suspicious as her aunt might wonder about them, but the sheer audacity of pretending to be engaged would be enough, she thought, to convince even that woman that they were telling the truth.

      Sedgewick’s scheme made sense…in an outlandish sort of way. Once he talked Benedict out of his stubborn refusal, surely Benedict would see the advantages of being paid money for nothing more difficult than living in a nice house and pretending not to dislike her for a few days. And surely she could endure Benedict’s presence for the same length of time, knowing that it would ease her grandfather’s mind…not to mention put Aunt Beryl’s nose out of joint.

      On that pleasurable reflection, she called in the maid, and the two of them tried to wash the mud out of her hair. It was no easy task to do in the parlor, with only a pitcher of water and a washbasin to work with. Camilla bent over the basin while the maid poured the pitcher of water carefully and slowly over her hair. It took four pitchers of water and much carrying and emptying of the basin before the water ran through it cleanly. Camilla did not even bother with trying to lather it with soap. She would take a good, soaking bath once she got home. For right now, all she needed was the semblance of cleanness. At least one could see that her hair was black now. So she wrung out her wet hair as soon as it was no longer caked with mud and knelt before the fire to brush out the tangles while the maid left the room to pour out the dirty water one last time.

      She thought nothing of it a few moments later when the door opened again, for she assumed it was the maid, who had scurried in and out of the parlor several times already as she helped Camilla to clean up. However, when she heard the thud of boots upon the wooden floor, she swung around with a low cry.

      It was Benedict who had entered the room, and he turned toward her now at the noise she made. For an instant they froze, staring at each other. Camilla was dressed in only her chemise and petticoats, not having wanted to get her dress wet while she washed and brushed out her hair. Her damp hair lay like a dark cloud over her shoulders and down her back, and her eyes were huge dark pools. Her skin was warmed by the golden glow of the firelight. Her breasts swelled up over the top of the chemise, and the lace-trimmed white cotton cupped the full globes. She made an entrancing picture there, curled in front of the fireplace, her ripe curves clothed in chaste white, her hair down like a child’s, thick and luxuriant, inviting his touch. She seemed at once innocent and sensual, a woman to stir desire.

      A blush surged up Camilla’s throat into her face, and she raised her hands to her shoulders, covering her luscious breasts. “Sir!”

      He stepped back, a little jerkily, as though pulling himself from a trance. “A thousand pardons, Miss Ferrand.” He made an elaborate bow, then added with great irony, “How fortunate that we are engaged, else your reputation would now be in shreds.”

      “Then…you have agreed?”

      “Yes, I have agreed to Sedgewick’s scheme, God help me.” He turned and strode to the door, where he looked back at her. “I am going up to Sedgewick’s room. He hopes to make me look the part of a gentleman. You had better lock this door if you don’t want any more unexpected guests.”

      As soon as he left, Camilla darted to the door and turned the heavy key, as he had suggested. She turned back to the room, pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks to cool them. She thought of the look in the man’s dark eyes, the way they had run rapidly down her figure, and she shivered, once again feeling that odd quiver deep in her abdomen. For a moment she wavered, wondering if she should cry off from their agreement. There was something about this man that seemed dangerous.

      But then she straightened her shoulders and marched across the room to the chair where her dress lay. She pulled it on and fastened the neat little row of buttons up the front. She would not let this ruffian scare her away from her purpose. She would pretend she was going to marry him, and she would do such an excellent job at it that no one would suspect the truth.

      She wrapped her still-damp hair into a knot at the base of her skull and pinned it securely, then pulled on her gloves and tied a chip-straw hat on her head. It would hide her wet hair, and the cape in the post chaise would cover the wrinkles in her dress that came from being packed in a trunk. That ought to do in the dim light of candles. As late as it was, she hoped that Aunt Beryl would not even be up to see her enter the house.

      She went to the door of the parlor and opened it. The public room beyond was empty now, except for Mr. Sedgewick, who turned and smiled at her. “Ah, splendid. Miss Ferrand.” He came forward to take her hand and raised it to her lips. “You are even lovelier than I had realized. It would be clear to anyone but your dragon of an aunt that if you are unmarried, it is entirely through your own choice.”

      “What a pretty compliment.” She gave him a little curtsy.

      “’Tis no less than the truth.” His gaze moved past her and fastened on the staircase beyond. “Here is your fiancé. And looking more the part, I must say.”

      Camilla turned toward the stairs. It was all she could do to keep her mouth from dropping open. Gone was the rough-clothed, muddy lout of earlier in the evening, and in his place was a man who was every inch a gentleman. He had obviously bathed and shaved. His dark locks, still damp, had been ruthlessly combed into order. He was clean-shaven, and his cravat was starched and snowy-white, tied in a simple yet elegant fall. Though his breeches and coat were plain black and his waistcoat a conservative dark-figured one, they were undeniably expensive and well cut, and his boots were polished until they held a mirror gleam.

      “Mr. Sedgewick,” Camilla breathed. “What have you wrought? But, surely, you cannot wish to give up your clothes.”

      Sedgewick cast a look at Benedict, his eyes twinkling, and said, “Don’t give it another thought, dear lady. I was happy to do so.”

      “I should think so,” Benedict put in sourly, effectively terminating any hope that he might have changed with his clothing, “considering that I—”

      Sedgewick cut in. “Yes, yes, I know—you earned them. So you told me earlier.” He turned back toward Camilla. “Do you think he will do, Miss Ferrand?”

      “Yes. Although I had not given anyone a hint that my fiancé had such a bearish personality.”

      “Ah, well, ’tis something it would be quite natural to hide.”

      “Let us go,” Benedict growled. “The man’s already taken down my portmanteau. Your portmanteau, I should say, Sedgewick.” He turned toward Camilla, hand out. “The money?”

      “What?”

      “I