Keating suggested, keeping his expression still. For God’s sake, he’d heard the poem; a chit’s censure could hardly injure him.
“Honesty,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Honesty. I am here because you told me precisely who you are. Don’t ever lie to me, Mr. Blackwood, or I shall decide that we actually do not have anything in common.”
He nodded, something dark and heavy breaking loose in his chest. What that sensation was, he would debate later. “I agree. As long as you do me the same courtesy.”
“Then we have an accord.”
Keating glanced at the park coming into view ahead of them. “Shall we shake hands, then?”
The redheaded lady made a sound behind them very like a snort. Let her laugh; it was thanks to Sophia White that Camille had joined him today. He felt rather kindly toward her at the moment.
Camille held out her right hand. Resisting the odd, abrupt urge to first wipe his own palm against his thigh, Keating gripped her warm fingers. As long as she never asked precisely why he’d returned to London, everything would proceed swimmingly. Of course he’d broken his word before, but at this moment, he hoped he wouldn’t have occasion to do so with Camille Pryce.
Chapter Five
Even though Sophia seemed to be of the opinion—erroneous though it was—that she was serving as a chaperone to her two companions, Camille kept dragging her up to Keating’s other side. They were three … friends, strolling through Green Park, and in her case, at least, hoping desperately that no one else noticed them.
She took a deep breath. While it had been over a year since she’d strolled Mayfair’s parks with a very different set of friends, it felt even longer ago than that. The sounds of London faded to the distance, replaced by the singing of birds and the dull rush of wind through the treetops. Peace. Slowly the tight muscles across her shoulders loosened, and she lifted her gaze above their immediate surroundings.
Beside her the much more lively Sophia was chatting with Mr. Blackwood about hats, of all things. For these few moments, at least, she could feel … untroubled. Her fingers brushed against Keating’s black coat, and she shook out the sudden warmth that tingled through them. If anyone had ever told her that one day she would be grateful to a confessed killer, she wouldn’t have believed it. And yet, standing there in the middle of Green Park with leaf-mottled sunlight making bright patches on her soft blue walking dress, she did feel grateful.
“How long has it been since you’ve been for a stroll?” Keating asked quietly.
Camille blushed. She hadn’t realized she was so transparent. “A year. That’s not what matters, though. It’s just very pretty today.”
“It is, indeed.”
She sent him a sharp glance, but his gaze was on a pair of squirrels bouncing from one tree to another. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Had she expected a compliment? Did she expect that he might have something nefarious in mind for her? The answer to both questions was a firm no, of course. “Do you go walking frequently?” she queried, attempting to be social.
“I grow wheat and have a number of cattle and sheep,” he returned easily. “I’m out of doors nearly every day.”
“You tend them yourself?”
“I prefer to.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’ve become a monk or some such. I do employ servants. And several men who also work out of doors with me, in addition to fellows who hire themselves out at harvest and calving time.”
“Not what I would have expected from someone who had a poem written about him.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I didn’t write the poem.”
“Cammy, steady,” Sophia said abruptly from just beyond him.
At the same moment Camille heard the telltale chatter of women approaching them. Before she could head in the opposite direction, five young ladies came into view around the hedgerow. “Earlier warning would have been nice,” she muttered at
“Honesty,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Honesty. I am here because you told me precisely who you are. Don’t ever lie to me, Mr. Blackwood, or I shall decide that we actually do not have anything in common.”
He nodded, something dark and heavy breaking loose in his chest. What that sensation was, he would debate later. “I agree. As long as you do me the same courtesy.”
“Then we have an accord.”
Keating glanced at the park coming into view ahead of them. “Shall we shake hands, then?”
The redheaded lady made a sound behind them very like a snort. Let her laugh; it was thanks to Sophia White that Camille had joined him today. He felt rather kindly toward her at the moment.
Camille held out her right hand. Resisting the odd, abrupt urge to first wipe his own palm against his thigh, Keating gripped her warm fingers. As long as she never asked precisely why he’d returned to London, everything would proceed swimmingly. Of course he’d broken his word before, but at this moment, he hoped he wouldn’t have occasion to do so with Camille Pryce.
Chapter Five
Even though Sophia seemed to be of the opinion—erroneous though it was—that she was serving as a chaperone to her two companions, Camille kept dragging her up to Keating’s other side. They were three … friends, strolling through Green Park, and in her case, at least, hoping desperately that no one else noticed them.
She took a deep breath. While it had been over a year since she’d strolled Mayfair’s parks with a very different set of friends, it felt even longer ago than that. The sounds of London faded to the distance, replaced by the singing of birds and the dull rush of wind through the treetops. Peace. Slowly the tight muscles across her shoulders loosened, and she lifted her gaze above their immediate surroundings.
Beside her the much more lively Sophia was chatting with Mr. Blackwood about hats, of all things. For these few moments, at least, she could feel … untroubled. Her fingers brushed against Keating’s black coat, and she shook out the sudden warmth that tingled through them. If anyone had ever told her that one day she would be grateful to a confessed killer, she wouldn’t have believed it. And yet, standing there in the middle of Green Park with leaf-mottled sunlight making bright patches on her soft blue walking dress, she did feel grateful.
“How long has it been since you’ve been for a stroll?” Keating asked quietly.
Camille blushed. She hadn’t realized she was so transparent. “A year. That’s not what matters, though. It’s just very pretty today.”
“It is, indeed.”
She sent him a sharp glance, but his gaze was on a pair of squirrels bouncing from one tree to another. Oh, for heaven’s sake. Had she expected a compliment? Did she expect that he might have something nefarious in mind for her? The answer to both questions was a firm no, of course. “Do you go walking frequently?” she queried, attempting to be social.
“I grow wheat and have a number of cattle and sheep,” he returned easily. “I’m out of doors nearly every day.”
“You tend them yourself?”
“I prefer to.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’ve become a monk or some such. I do employ servants. And several men who also work out of doors with me, in addition to fellows who hire themselves out at harvest and calving time.”
“Not what I would have expected from someone who had a poem written about him.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I didn’t write the poem.”
“Cammy, steady,” Sophia said abruptly from just beyond him.
At the same moment Camille heard the telltale chatter of women approaching them. Before she could head in the opposite direction, five young ladies came into view around the hedgerow. “Earlier warning would have been nice,” she muttered at
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