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What had gotten into me? Was I sick in the head?
I waited in the Nichols’ drawing room, pacing from the fireplace to the window and back fourteen times before the door opened and Cameron stepped inside.
He faced me, his brows drawn together and his hands clasped behind his back. He was distant, but I did not blame him. I would be cold, too, if the situation were reversed.
“I came to apologize,” I said, my voice cracking. My cheeks bloomed and I glanced down, clearing my throat.
I looked to him again and he was still watching me from the doorway. I don’t know what I expected, but I had hoped he would say something.
I took a deep breath and let it all out. “I have a right to be upset, but it was wrong to say those horrible things. I do not...well, I do not despise you.” I glanced away, his piercing gaze causing me to rethink my being there. I had thought I would be bridging the gap and allowing us to part peacefully. This uncomfortable exchange felt anything but peaceful.
I clasped my hands in front of me and then unclasped them again. “Cameron, I grieve for your loss, and I know it was forward of me to come here, but I needed to apologize. I do not wish to add to your distress at this time.”
He seemed to be weighing something, his eyes flicking between me and the wall a few times before he said, “Wait here a moment?”
I nodded, and he left. Minutes passed and I found myself pacing again. I ran over the words I had said, trying to find what I was missing. But I could not place exactly what was bothering me. I was unsettled, and things between us were unfinished. By the time he returned carrying what looked like a stack of papers I had fully become a jittery mess.
He approached me directly, handing me the papers and stepping back.
I read the words written on the front page in his neat scrawl. “The Liable Lady?”
“My manuscript,” he explained. “The sequel. Though it is unfinished.”
I looked up to his clear brown eyes. “What am I meant to do with it?”
He shrugged. “Burn it? Read it? Toss it out the window for all I care.”
I fanned the pages. “But you’ve worked so hard on this.”
“I told you, I am done with that publisher. I refused to turn in this book and they are unwilling to work with me unless I write about society members.”
“But what will you do?”
“I will figure something out.”
He seemed so at ease with his decision. In fact, he seemed lighter in general. His dark hair was disheveled and bags under his eyes revealed undoubtedly sleepless nights, but he looked less bothered.
“You did not mention that The Green Door was my aunt’s idea.”
“Does it matter where the idea originated if I was the one who put ink to paper?”
I considered his words. It mattered a little, to me. It helped me believe that Cameron was not the orchestrator of so much painful gossip. He had written it, yes, and by such was not innocent. But, he was merely the wordsmith to Aunt Georgina’s cunning.
“Aunt Georgina does not have a green door,” I said, an afterthought.
“Have you never noticed the daisies painted on her drawing room door?”
“Oh,” I said, understanding. He had taken liberties with his use of the word “green.”
I stepped toward the low burning fire. “You keep the fire lit on warm days?”
“Just today,” he said, a delicious grin tilting his lips. Had he already been planning on burning the manuscript?
I dropped the papers into the flames and watched them ignite, burning quickly in a large, warm flame and then dying out rapidly. Mesmerized by the flames, I failed to notice Cameron come to stand behind me.
“I know I do not have the right to ask for your forgiveness,” he said softly into my ear. “But I will work diligently for the rest of my life to prove to you I am sincere in my affection. I will devote myself to you if you let me.”
I turned to him, the fire reflecting in his eyes and igniting my soul. I loved him, irrevocably, there was no denying it. I could not help but appreciate the hope displayed on his face, and stepped forward, unsure of what to say. Words failing me, I nodded slowly.
His grin widened before his arms came around me, crushing me to him, his lips finding mine swiftly. Reason fled, and I lost myself in the warmth that engulfed me. His kiss was earnest at first, as though he was starving and I was the manna, but slowly morphed into something achingly tender. When he pulled away, I felt the lack immediately, tempered slightly by his forehead resting upon mine.
“May I call on your father?”
“You are in mourning, sir,” I reminded him.
“Drat,” he muttered before leaning down to kiss me slowly, the sorrow in his eyes evidence of his grief. “I suppose we must wait an appropriate amount of time. Must you go to Kent?”
“Yes,” I answered, the pain in his eyes striking my heart. “I leave in the morning. But we can write.” I smiled, stepping out of his arms. “And if my plan works, I shall be back in town shortly.”