the only woman I’ve ever pictured as my wife. I decided as a boy that I’d marry you.” He straightened in his chair and bit out each word, before remembering that he came to woo, not browbeat her. “Our families expect me to make you my duchess.”
The regret in her smile did nothing to bolster his optimism. “I’m sorry, Cam. For once in your life, you’ll have to disappoint expectations.” Her gaze sharpened in a way that he didn’t completely understand. “I know you don’t love me.”
He flinched back as though she’d struck him. Damn, damn, damn. Love. He’d thought Pen too smart to fall prey to mawkish sentimentality. “I esteem you. I admire you. I enjoy your company. You know the Fentonwyck estate. You know me.”
“All very gratifying, I’m sure.” Her smile turned sour. “But I won’t marry without love.”
He surged to his feet. “We both have parents who married for love. As a result of love, my father descended into cruelty and obsession and my mother became a byword for promiscuity. Pardon me saying so, but your parents aren’t much better. Doesn’t that convince you that friendship and respect form a stronger basis for marriage than passing physical passion?”
“I doubt that either my parents or yours understood what love truly is.” Emotion thickened her voice and strengthened his premonition of failure. “Love means wanting the best for the beloved, whatever the cost. Love means sacrificing everything to achieve the beloved’s happiness.”
“You’re an idealist,” he said disdainfully.
“Yes, Cam, I am.” She rose with more circumspection—an adjective he’d never before associated with Pen Thorne—and regarded him with an unreadable expression. For a woman who confessed lack of control, she was remarkably controlled. “I believe love makes life worth living and nobody should marry without it. You’re too young to settle for second best.”
He placed a short rein on his temper. He was rarely angry, but right now, he wanted to fling one of the smug Ming dogs on the mantelpiece into the fire. “I’m twenty-seven.”
She released an impatient huff. “Well, I’m only nineteen. I’m definitely too young to settle for second best.”
“I hardly think becoming the Duchess of Sedgemoor counts as second best,” he said frigidly, wondering just where his childhood friend had gone.
Pen sighed as if she understood his turmoil. “It is when the duke offers only a lukewarm attachment.”
Resentment tightened his gut. He didn’t want to be understood. He hoped like hell she hadn’t noticed his bristling sexual awareness. Having Pen recognize his unwilling desire just as she sent him away with a flea in his ear seemed the final humiliation.
“Would you rather I lied?” he growled.
She winced as though he’d hit her. “Even if you lied, I wouldn’t believe you, Cam. I’ve known you too long. And you set your mind against love long ago.”
He struggled for a reasonable tone. Blustering would only make her dig her heels in. The encounter verged dangerously close to a quarrel. “Pen, think of the advantages.”
Her jaw set in an obstinate line. “Right now, aside from the obvious fact of your riches, I can’t see any.”
His appeal to her worldly interests disappointed her. Shame knotted his gut. With regret, he recalled the days when in her eyes, he could do no wrong. He drew himself up to his full height and glared.
“There’s no point going all ducal, Cam,” she said curtly, not, blast her, remotely cowed. “That look lost its power over me before you went to Eton.”
She shifted closer, stretching one hand toward the mantel. When he noticed how her fingers trembled, he faced the unpleasant truth that despite outward calm, this encounter upset her.
Of course it did. She felt things deeply. More than once, he’d caught Pen crying alone after her brothers’ teasing had struck a painful spot. She was proud, Penelope Thorne. Another desirable quality in a cracking duchess.
But clearly not his duchess. Pen didn’t have a monopoly on pride. Cam regarded her down his long nose and spoke as coldly as he’d speak to an overweening acquaintance. “I gather that you’re refusing me.”
The knuckles on the hand clutching the mantel turned white, although her voice remained steady. “Yes, I am.” She paused. “I appreciate your condescension.”
That was so obviously untrue that under other circumstances, he’d have laughed. But pique shredded his sense of humor. Through his outrage, he knew that he behaved badly. However unfairly, he blamed Pen for that unprecedented state of affairs too.
He bowed shortly and spoke in a clipped voice. “In that case, Miss Thorne, I’ll waste no more of your valuable time. I wish you well.”
Something that might have been pain flared in her dark eyes, but he was too angry and, much as he hated to admit it, wounded to pay heed. She stepped toward him. “Cam—”
“Good day, madam.”
He turned on his heel and stalked off.
Pen watched Cam march out of her father’s library, his back rigid with displeasure, and told herself that she’d done the right thing. The only thing she could in honor have done.
Right now she didn’t feel that way. She felt like she’d swallowed toads. She clung to the mantel to stay upright on legs likely to crumple beneath her.
Her anguish didn’t change merciless reality. Cam didn’t love her. Cam would never love her. Nothing in today’s awkward, painful encounter had convinced her otherwise.
As a foolish child, she’d dreamed of him tumbling head over heels in love with her. What girl brought up in close proximity to the magnificent Rothermere heir wouldn’t imagine a fairy-tale future? Especially when her mother encouraged her.
But that was before Pen had grown up and recognized the stark truth. A truth ruthlessly confirmed when she was sixteen. One summer at Fentonwyck, she’d overheard Cam talking to his best friend Richard Harmsworth about discouraging a local belle’s advances. When Richard had blamed the girl’s antics on love, Cam had responded with cutting contempt and said that was even more reason to steer clear of the unfortunate lady.
Romantic love has no place in my life now or ever, old chap. Let other fellows make asses of themselves. I’ve seen too much of the damage that poisonous emotion can wreak. It’s a trap and a deceit and a damned nuisance. I’ll never marry a woman who expects me to love her.
Pen felt sick to recall that self-assured pronouncement. Perhaps she might have dismissed his remarks as a young man’s bravado, except that in the three years since, everything she’d seen of Cam confirmed that he’d meant every word.
Even with those closest to him—Richard, his sister, Pen—he kept some element of himself apart, untouchable. Over the years that distance had only grown more marked.
Camden Rothermere was rich, handsome, clever, honorable, and brave. And completely self-sufficient.
Pen had prayed that Cam would ignore his late mother’s matchmaking,
