After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(68)

Her hands slipped between her thighs. It wasn’t helping matters at all to think this way about him, to touch herself and imagine his fingers instead of her own, to bite back her own response.

She had told him that she wanted to earn love, not steal it. She had hoped he would see through her words, to understand that she wanted his adoration, his attention. She wanted it now.

It was madness to do what she was doing—imagining him pressing on top of her, his lips finding hers. She did it anyway. She shivered as she imagined him inside her, thick and hot, his hands tangled in her hair. She thought of him whispering that he wanted her, only her, for the rest of their lives. It was madness to feel this kind of desire, something that was so deep, her fingers could not palpate it.

She wanted him to want her. It was madness to wonder if he was in his room, feeling the things she did—that flutter of desire deep in her abdomen, flames fanning with every brush of her own fingers.

In her imagination, she could have him. She could dig her nails into his back, encouraging him to take everything from her and give it back.

It was too easy to imagine their joining. Too easy, and yet so impossible, when it was just her lonely hands bringing out her own response.

Even the orgasm that came felt imperfect. Unfulfilling. She could hear her own breath panting out in the night, the only sound present in the stillness.

She shut her eyes.

God, she was such a fool. He was asleep. He was grateful she’d called a halt to their activities earlier.

She wasn’t going to have his love. She’d take his gratitude, and it would be…

Not enough. It would never be enough.

She stood, washing herself off, wiping away the stupid tears that insisted on coming now that she was alone, demonstrably alone. Her skin felt hungry, almost desperately so, for another person’s touch. That tiny taste earlier had only whetted her appetite.

Camilla exhaled slowly and nodded at the darkness in front of her.

So be it. She’d built fantasies in her imagination before, and she’d survived the wreckage of them, when they crashed against the unforgiving shoals of reality. She was good at that—surviving the inevitable destruction of her hopes. She would do it again.

In the corridor, a board squeaked.

She straightened, turning. Her heart beat double time. It was him. He was coming. He was here; he cared. She waited, breathless, time drawing out until hope fell into discouragement.

There was nothing. She let out a long breath. That creak was merely the sort of sound that a house made at night.

She’d always been good at reconstructing shattered hopes. She did it now, building the truth out of the ruins of her desire.

He didn’t love her. She had survived not being loved this long; she would survive it longer.

He didn’t love her, but he did like her, and it was more than she’d been given in ages. He liked her, and he wanted well for her. It wasn’t enough—not forever—but that?

That would be enough for now. For giving her that much, she would give him anything he wanted. The thing he wanted was for her to shatter her own heart, true, but her heart had been broken before. Now she knew the truth of heartbreak—that morning would come, and she would stand up and move on.

She stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway until all sense of sound finally dissolved into the nothingness of sleep.



* * *



The train ride east to Surrey, then down to Lackwich, was one of awkward silences. Every time Camilla thought of how brazen she’d been the night before—seating herself on the arm of his chair, leaning in, practically taunting him until she was unsure of who had actually closed the gap between them— She felt herself coloring.

He hadn’t said anything about their tryst that morning. He’d only looked at her, and the way he’d looked… She had to hold herself back from hoping.

She had no space for hope, no space for worry, not when she had this final duty to perform.

He did not say anything as he had the telegram sent. He did not say anything as he walked with her halfway down the all-too-familiar road. He stopped a half-mile out, with the house where she had spent eighteen months on the horizon.

Don’t look back, she thought, but she finally could.

Her hands felt cold. He reached out and took hold of them. “Camilla,” he said.

It was a friendly gesture, she reminded herself, because they were friends. It was a gesture of comfort and…and maybe a little more, but Camilla had been desired before, and she wouldn’t let it change what she had to do.

She loved him, but it would end. She loved him, and she’d learned to pull her confidence about her like a cloak. She loved him, and he had brought her to Jane and Laney, her sisters in marriage annulment, and it was for them that she did this—for all the women who had been given no choice.

She patted his hand. “Don’t worry,” she said cheerily. “I won’t fail us.”

His fingers convulsed around hers. She made herself smile at him as brightly as she could, and he almost flinched at the sight.

She’d misjudged it, unfortunately. Too bright, then.

She pulled away and started off down the road.

Miles wasn’t there; he was the one who had made it all go to hell. Miles wasn’t there, and she had discovered that she was stronger than he’d thought. Miles wasn’t there, and…