“No, no,” Camilla interrupted, looking anywhere but at the lord and his fierce arousal. “There’s no need to apologize or explain. I should have—”
“Hello? Who’s up there?”
Vexley. His voice came from what sounded like the top of the stairs.
Dread washed over Camilla, erasing all feelings of awkwardness.
“Oh, God, no. Hide! We mustn’t be seen together. Especially like this.” She pulled uselessly at the torn edges of her bodice, but the curve of her breast remained stubbornly free.
Indeed, Vexley sounded intoxicated enough to cause a scene. He stumbled along the corridor, cursing as he smacked into things, drawing slowly closer.
Synton, having restored his own cool, didn’t seem concerned. He merely straightened his jacket and arched a brow.
“Why?”
“Because I’ll be ruined!” Camilla tidied her hair and smoothed her skirts, but the gaping seam couldn’t be hidden. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is a nightmare.”
She glanced up at Synton, who, if anything, was growing more amused by her foul language.
“Why in the name of the Crown are you just standing there, my lord? Do you want us to be discovered?”
“I couldn’t care less if that inbreed found us.”
“You should!” She couldn’t help but drop her gaze. “If you cannot get
“That situation, Miss Antonius?” Synton’s voice was amused. “Have you never seen a situation before? I suppose propriety would have me offer to marry you immediately?”
She gave him a withering look. Her lack of virginity, such as it was, was none of his damned business.
“I’m not marrying.”
“Hullo?” Vexley called out from the room next door, his voice slurred. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! No fornicating up here, least not without me!”
“We could pretend,” Synton went on thoughtfully as if Vexley weren’t coming to destroy everything she’d worked so hard for over the last two years.
“Pretend?” She must be having a nightmare. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t see how that would be a terrible thing,” Synton said calmly. “He’d stop ogling you if he thought you were involved with someone else. Unless you actually enjoy his advances?”
Camilla shot him an incredulous look.
“It’s not just about Vexley finding us,” she hissed. “If I’m found in a compromising position, society will either demand we marry—not pretend, my lord, but actually marry—or I will be forever ruined. My gallery. My life. I’ll never be accepted again. Surely you know this!”
“Rules are made to be broken.”
“For you, perhaps. But women here do not get that same grace. You have a duty to do the honorable thing!”
Camilla ran to the window, looking down into the dark garden below. There were no guests or, worse, columnists lurking that she could tell, at least.
If only they weren’t two stories up, she’d toss herself out. She cast her eyes around the shadowy corners of the room, but wherever Vexley kept his wardrobe, it didn’t seem to be here, as each wall gleamed closet-free.
“The forgery!” she cried as her attention landed again above the bed.
“Forgery…”
Before Synton could say more about it, she rushed past him, leaping back up on the bed to snatch the painting off the wall.
But this time it didn’t move an inch, catching her off guard. How the hell had Vexley attached the thing? What had changed?
Camilla worked her fingers underneath the frame and heaved her weight away from the wall, doing her best to pry the painting free. But it didn’t have the common decency to even pretend to budge.
She stared at the cursed thing, wondering how on earth she’d managed to move it not ten minutes prior. She couldn’t have imagined she’d nudged it before Synton interrupted her. Could she?
“Helllooooo.”
The bedroom doorknob rattled, chilling her blood. Any second Vexley would charge into the room and find them alone, and disheveled. And knowing Vexley, he’d embellish the tale until they were both nude and caught midact. Or worse: Vexley would claim he’d ruined her dress and say Synton had found the two of them together. It would be his word against Synton’s, and Synton was a newcomer.
Camilla yanked at the painting one last time, swearing as it remained stubbornly fixed to the wall. Vexley pounded against the door violently now.
“I’m no longer amused. Open the damned door!”
The knob jangled again but held firm.
Softening her grip on the painting, Camilla looked back at Synton. He held up an ornate skeleton key that apparently locked any door as well as opened it, flashing a devious grin.
“That should slow him down for a moment. Maybe two,” he whispered, his voice enticingly smooth. “But we must hurry.”
He pocketed the unique key and moved to the window, scanning the garden below. Seeming satisfied, he pushed open the window, then held out his hand to Camilla.
“Are we making our grand escape, or not?”
Camilla glanced between the lord and the forgery. Freedom was so close she could taste it. How could she willingly leave it behind? Synton made an annoyed noise, drawing her attention back to him.
