Page 96 of A Duke's Keeper
Camille grinned. “It will be a charitable institution.” She took her new partner’s hand firmly and shook to a like mind. “They’ll pay triple.”
Madam threw back her head and barked a laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The visit withher mother had shown Camille that Madam had done more than promised. Fresh-faced and weighing a healthy two stone heavier, her mother had greeted Camille with a nod of acknowledgement and an offer to ring for tea, an embarrassing display of affection coming from the woman. Camille had been unable to do anything but blink and sit before the tilting room proved she was conjuring the stranger’s image with her mother’s face. The conversation that followed was stunted but cordial and by far the nicest interaction she’d had with her mother. Ever.
Feeling emotionally drained, Camille stopped by the Camine Townhouse to rest before making the twelve-mile journey back to the country, only to find the duke was in residence and waiting for her in the library.
Camille leaned in the doorway and crossed her arms. “You rang, Your Grace?”
Hamish looked up from the book in his lap and teased, “You’re supposed to call me ‘Hamish.’”
“So informal, Your Grace. What would the neighbors think?”
“Let them think what they like. How did your visits go?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Having that awful man of yours follow me again?”
“Hardly. You told Charlotte, Charlotte told me, and here I am.”
“Why?”
He cocked a brow. “I thought your reunions may be difficult.”
Camille blinked. “You came all the way to town... to make sure I was all right?”
“Partially. I also came to offer you unsolicited advice.”
Camille smirked at the gleam in his eye. “Taking this brother thing a bit far, aren’t you?” Expecting another lecture on formal greetings or a discussion on what position she’d take now that the Duchess of Camine no longer needed a companion, she plopped down in the chair opposite and crossed her ankles. “Out with it, then.”
“You need to talk to Renard.”
She had not been expectingthat. “It’s not that simple.”
“When did love become simple?” Hamish looked around. “Do you have any idea the madness I went through with Charlotte to get her to the altar? And all that wasbeforeI realized she’d gone and won my heart.”
Like a knight of old. For some reason, imagining Charlotte, in her starched dresses and fine coiffures playing heroine to the formidable Duke of Camine, made the image bearable.
“It’s not the same. There are . . . circumstances—”
“Do you love Renard?”
Camille startled at his directness. “Love.” She scoffed. “You are the exception, theonlyexception to that fairytale lie. You saw what ‘love’ looks like for people like us, with parents like ours. Love is a joke, a well-spun story for children to believe they weren’t a line drawn on some ancient family registry. Any adult believing such notions is bound for tragedy.”
“Camille.” Hamish shook his head, his expression insufferable. “Family is important above all things. There is no place for treachery or disloyalty. Not in my future.”
Camille snorted, wondering if that self-righteous speech would change after discovering the connection between theirfamily and a calculating madam they both knew. “Marriage has made you an idealist.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I believe I’m the better for it.”
“Not everyone gets their happy ending, Hamish. Some people were meant to be alone.”
“I understand,” he said. “Lord knows I lived by that philosophy for too many years, but...” He sat forward in his chair, his words thoughtful. “Weare not our father. We are capable of genuine kindness and love, more than that entitled monster could ever dream up. The day I stopped believing I was anything like him was the day I took my life in my own hands andbelievedin myself. He had his hooks dug into me so deep while he was living, I refuse to let him hold me in death.”
The passion in his voice hit her square in the chest. Camille felt a thread deep inside fray apart, along with the knowledge her father had taken a hold of her as well.
She was not her father. She was not her mother. Every lie they’d told, every action they’d taken to belittle her, cage her, use her—the effect those actions had had on her had been of her own making. No one had a right to her mind or body, not without her unequivocal consent. And her heart, that was hers to give as well.
