Someone to Hold

Eight

It was chilly and blustery, but at least it was not raining. Camille set the direction and strode off toward the river, Mr. Cunningham—Joel—at her side. He was not talking, and she felt no inclination to carry on a conversation. She could not explain to herself why she had wanted him with her, but she was pleased with herself about one thing. She had never before suggested to a man that he take a walk with her. She had never called any man outside her family by his first name either. Not that she had called Mr. Cunningham by his yet.

“Joel,” she said, and was surprised to realize she had spoken out loud.

“Camille,” he answered.

And no man outside her family had ever called her by her first name—not even Viscount Uxbury after they were betrothed. But instead of feeling uncomfortable, she felt—freed. She was no longer bound by the old rules. She could set her own. She had wanted company, and she had got it by her own efforts.

They crossed the Pulteney Bridge and walked onward to the wide, stately stretch of Great Pulteney Street. She had no destination in mind, only the need to walk, to breathe in fresh air, to—

“I believe we are being rained upon again,” he said, interrupting her thoughts when they were less than halfway along the street.

And, bother, he was right. It was a very light drizzle, but the clouds did not look promising, Camille had to admit. Anyway, one could get just as wet in drizzle as in a steady rain if one remained out in it long enough.

She looked up and down both sides of the street, but it was residential. There was nowhere to shelter, and really only Sydney Gardens ahead of them, not a good place to head for in the rain. “I suppose we had better turn back,” she said.

But she did not want to go home yet. She ought to have known better than to change her place of abode on a Friday with a weekend looming ahead. The trouble was that she had no experience with being impulsive and spontaneous—or with making her own decisions. She was about to suggest Sally Lunn’s again for a cup of tea, though it was farther away than the orphanage, but she remembered that she had no money. Double bother! The drizzle was steady now.

“I live on this side of the bridge,” he said.

“You had better hurry home, then,” she said, “and I will do the same. It is not very far.”

At that moment the drizzle turned to rain. She would get soaked, Camille thought in dismay—and this would teach her to venture out without an umbrella. She was just not accustomed to going places on foot. He caught her by the hand before she could move and turned them back in the direction from which they had come.

“Hurry,” he said, and they half trotted, half galloped back along Great Pulteney Street. He was still holding her hand when he turned onto another street before they reached the bridge, and they dashed along that too, heads down, and . . . laughing helplessly.

They were both breathless when he stopped outside one of the houses and let go of her hand long enough to fumble in his pocket for a bunch of keys, with one of which he unlocked the door. He flung it open, grabbed her hand again, and hauled her inside in such a way that they collided in the doorway, shoulder to shoulder. He released her again in order to shut the door with a bang, plunging them into the semidarkness of an entry hall. They were still laughing—until they were not. It was not a particularly small hallway, but it seemed very secluded and very quiet in contrast to the outdoors, and being here felt very improper. Of course, she ought to have kept going straight when he turned the corner.

“It was closer than the orphanage,” he said, shrugging.

“This is where you live?” she asked—as though he would have the key to someone else’s house.

“On the top floor,” he said, indicating the rather steep staircase ahead of them.

He had not invited her up there in so many words, but they could not stand forever in the hall when it had not looked as if the rain would stop anytime soon. Camille climbed the stairs, and he came after her. It looked and sounded as though the house was deserted. How could silence be so loud? And so accusing?

“Does anyone else live here?” she asked.

“Two friends of mine,” he said. “Both single men, one on the ground floor and one on the first. I am closest to heaven, or so I console myself when I forget something and have to climb all the way back up to get it.”

Two men. Three altogether, counting him. This, Camille thought, was very improper indeed. Lady Camille Westcott would have had a fit of the vapors . . . except that she had never been the vaporish sort. And she would not have been out walking alone with him anyway to be caught in the rain, and even if she had been, she would not have allowed her hand to be grabbed and her person to be hauled at an inelegant dash along the street to be made into a public and vulgar spectacle for anyone who happened to witness it. The experience would certainly not have rendered her helpless with laughter.

But Lady Camille Westcott did not exist any longer. And, oh, the shared laughter had felt good.

She had to wait at the top of the stairs while he moved past her and unlocked another door. There was a narrower entry hall beyond it, no doubt just a simple corridor when the building had been all one house. Three doors opened off it, one on either side and one straight ahead. The one to her right was shut. The door straight ahead was open to show a spacious living room—she could see a sofa and chair in there and a big window that was letting in light despite the clouds and rain. The door to her left was also open, and Camille could see that it was a bedchamber. A largish bed, roughly made up, dominated the space and made her aware suddenly that his rooms were as deserted and as quiet as the rest of the house. She doubted he kept a manservant or housekeeper.