They thought she was oh so smart—and so had she—until she realized that in her cleverness she'd sacrificed all hope of ever mastering the ability to read. By then, it was too late.
But then her world again changed. The Countess of Sachse had taken to volunteering at the children's home to lessen the heartache she'd experienced after her son had died in America.
She'd liked Camilla. Camilla had liked her. And when she'd made the offer to take Camilla on as her companion when Camilla was fourteen, Camilla had seen an opportunity to better herself. Certainly, the countess had never required that she read. It was conversation that interested her, and so Camilla had learned how to speak like a lady, with a lady's intonations and an educated woman's choice of words. Words she couldn't spell, words she would never recognize when presented in print.
But speak well she could, fool the world she did. Then she became a countess and achieved the means—a secretary—to keep forever her most humiliating secret buried deeply where none would find it.
She walked to her dressing table and opened the large gold-inlaid box in which she kept her precious jewelry. She removed a tray, then the one beneath it. Carefully, she took out the remaining pieces of jewelry and set them aside. Then she slipped a fingernail into a spot between the side of the box and its apparent bottom. The slot was invisible to the most discerning eye. She worked free the covering that hid the false bottom.
She set Archie's letter on top of another she'd received and never read. As she lay dying, the countess had given it to Camilla.
"Show it to no one," she'd whispered. "And do not read this until my husband is dead and buried, because I never want him to look into your eyes and see the truth. Although I would find some satisfaction in knowing that I'd bested him—I would not have all that I've done undone until it is time. I trust you and you alone. I know that you will see that my wishes are carried out."
And Camilla would indeed see that they were carried out—if she only knew what they were. Countless times since Sachse had died, she'd considered taking this letter to Lillian and asking her to read it aloud, but the countess had written something she wanted no one else to know, and she'd trusted Camilla with whatever it was.
So she was left to wonder and unable to carry out the dear woman's final request. She couldn't even fake doing so, as she had no earthly idea what the countess might have asked of her. She'd provided nary a hint of what she wanted. Perhaps to spit on her husband's grave. Although Camilla had done that anyway. Twice. Once for herself and once for the previous countess on the off chance that it had indeed been her request She knew the old earl had been no kinder to his first wife than his second.
She'd assumed his first wife had wanted to exact some sort of revenge, but she had no idea what it might actually entail. Still, Camilla took satisfaction in knowing that regardless of what it was, she would have carried out the request to the best of her ability had she known what it was.
The knock on her door nearly had her leaping into her jewelry box. She swallowed hard to get her rapidly pounding heart lodged out of her throat and back into her chest. "One moment please."
She scrambled to reassemble everything and put all the items back where they belonged. She always felt so guilty about letting down the earl's first wife. The woman's ignorance concerning Camilla's inability to read was a testament to Camilla's success at convincing everyone that she was indeed well educated. She would have told her predecessor the truth, but it seemed a cruel thing to reveal when death had been hovering in the shadows. Camilla had determined it would be kinder to allow the countess to believe that her final wishes would be handled to her specifications.
Closing the lid on the jewelry box, she released a sigh before straightening and turning to face the door. "Enter."
Her lady's maid, Frannie, stepped into the room. "Lord Sachse has arrived for dinner."
"Lord Sachse?" Again, that irritating squeak. She really needed to stop letting thoughts of him affect her so.
"Yes, my lady. He indicated that you were expecting him."
"Of course I'm expecting him." Only she hadn't been. She'd forgotten that she'd invited him to dine with her this evening. Or perhaps she'd only hoped that he wouldn't come after the blistering kiss he'd delivered that afternoon. Perhaps that's what his letter had told her—that he would still come for dinner.
Damnation! He would expect that she'd read his missive and was well aware of what he'd written. Oh, the tangled web she'd woven was threatening to suffocate her.
"Assist me in changing for dinner."
She selected a cream-colored satin dress with deep purple vertical stripes. She'd discovered that vertical stripes made her appear taller, and tonight she had a need to appear not quite so small. The flounces were edged in purple and fringed. The square neckline stopped just short of revealing the barest hint of her bosom. She decided against wearing a false hairpiece to give buoyancy to her hair. She felt false enough. Around her throat she wore a length of purple velvet from which dangled an intricately carved silver medallion. On her wrist she placed a simple silver bracelet.
She considered but decided against more jewelry. This evening called for casual elegance. While Frannie assisted her, Camilla began mentally to prepare herself for the manipulation that would soon take place. She had to give the appearance that she knew exactly what was in the letter that she'd hidden away.
An apology, of course. She was fairly certain the gentleman in him would apologize for taking advantage that afternoon. But what else? There had been very little remaining space on the page, so he'd either apologized ridiculously profusely or had gone on to another subject entirely. Discerning the answer to that riddle would require that she remain vigilant and alert during the evening.
She studied her reflection in the looking glass. She hardly appeared to be a spy on the verge of uncovering information, but then she supposed that was the whole point. Someone ferreting out facts wasn't supposed to let on that she was doing exactly that.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She'd carried out this ruse with far more sophisticated men. But then she'd never cared about a single one of them, and she did care about Archie. He'd somehow managed to create a crevice within the ice surrounding her heart, then worked his way into it. She couldn't allow him to burrow any further. Tonight she would shove him out and repair the barriers.
But she would take no delight in doing so.
That, too, made the exercise much more daunting. As a general rule, she always enjoyed fooling people, getting the upper hand. She found no satisfaction where Archie was concerned.
She inhaled another deep breath. "Well, I suppose I am as ready as I shall ever be."
"You look lovely, my lady," Frannie said. "As always. Lord Sachse will no doubt be mesmerized."
That was the plan. If he were mesmerized, he could be manipulated more easily.
Ignoring the quivering of her nerves, she strolled out of the room, along the hallways, and down the stairs.
She found him in the library. It was her favorite room because she believed the smell and look of all the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves gave the impression of wisdom coupled with power. She'd always considered books intoxicating. She found pleasure in simply opening one, inhaling the musty scent, and looking at the letters printed on the page. She took special delight in books that had illustrations. A picture could often portray what words couldn't.
She watched as he turned back the cover on a book that was set on a high table. He looked particularly handsome this evening, in gray tailcoat and trousers, with a blue waistcoat, and a red silk cravat. She wondered if he'd gone to greater lengths than usual to impress her.
As though suddenly aware of her presence, he looked up and met her gaze. "Is this a new book?"
"Yes." She'd purchased it because she'd liked the way it looked.
"I didn't know you read French."
She didn't. She didn't read at all. And she certainly hadn't realize
d the blasted book was written in French. She hated continually lying to him, but she'd carried the deception too far and for too long to give up on it now. She finally responded. "Abit."
Taking a step toward her, he looked to be a man who suddenly found himself standing on the edge of a precipice, unable to decide whether or not he should jump. "I wasn't certain I would be welcomed."
"Of course, you would be welcomed. This is your home after all. I am not one to forget that I am here only out of the goodness of your heart."
"And if that were not the case, if I didn't technically own this residence, would you welcome me then?"
Always. Her throat knotted, preventing any words that might make her vulnerable from being uttered. She merely nodded.
"You received my letter?"
Another nod. Where had her quick-thinking mind run off to?
"And you read it?"
"That is the purpose of a letter is it not? To be read?" Ah, at last, some semblance of wit.
"Indeed it is. So you found my apology acceptable?"
So he had indeed written to ask for forgiveness. He'd certainly used a lot of ink to do it.
"Our encounter this afternoon is already forgotten," she assured him.
He seemed utterly disappointed, until a corner of his mouth curled up slightly, almost teasingly. "Not by me."
His gaze darkened and intensified as though he were remembering every sweep of their tongues and the hard press of her body against his. She would fight his heat with ice.
"As I assume you are here for dinner, I suggest we get it over with."
"Get it over with? That hardly sounds as though you're looking forward to it. If you'd rather I not be here—"
"No, of course, I welcome your presence. I simply meant that I see no point in continuing to discuss this afternoon or the letter."
He took a step toward her, and she moved quickly back.
The other corner of his mouth hiked up, so that he was bestowing upon her a warm smile. "I thought only to escort you into the dining room… as is my usual practice."
She gathered her courage around her, relaxed her hands, which had fisted at her sides, and placed one on his offered arm. "Of course."
"As I said in my letter, I understand my place in your life."
Oh, he'd said that, too, had he? And where exactly did he think his place was?
"You need never fear me," he continued.
Well, she did fear him. She couldn't help it. He terrified her. Even as she wanted him to move to the far ends of the earth, she wanted him to step closer to her.
"You don't frighten me."
"Can you say the same of the attraction that shimmers between us?"
"I wasn't aware of any attraction."
"And here, I'd always considered you to be an astute woman."
The challenge in his eyes infuriated her. Why couldn't he be as easy to manipulate as every other man in London?
"I believe you are delusional," she said, hoping to turn his observations away from her.
He chuckled, and she remembered that he favored having a woman who would make him laugh. This encounter was obviously not going in her favor.
"Am I delusional regarding your being astute or there being an attraction between us?" he asked.
She gave him a haughty look. "Well, as I am obviously astute, then it stands to reason—"
"That you would feel nothing if I kissed you again?"
Feel nothing when her lips had already begun to tingle in anticipation of his mouth against hers? "Please don't test me."
She thought she sounded pathetic and weak. She detested both impressions. They left the hardiest woman vulnerable.
He bowed his head slightly, lifted her hand to his mouth, and kissed the tips of her fingers. "As you wish."
She stared at him, unable to believe the ease with which he'd given up the pursuit—and a bit disappointed as well.
"I promise you that what happened this afternoon will never happen again," he said.
Had that been in his letter or was he just now adding it? How was she to respond? She finally decided to settle for, "I'm quite relieved."
"Are you?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Why are you trembling?"
Because you are near. Because it is foolish to want you when your occupation had once required you to determine who had mastered a lesson and who hadn't.
"I'm feeling faint because I've yet to dine," she said, instead of offering the truth.
"Then we'd best see to dinner."
"Yes, we had."
With a measure of relief, she allowed him to escort her into the dining room. She'd managed to keep the truth from him, but her success was bittersweet. She'd never regretted more that she had secrets to keep.
* * *
Chapter 4
She was hiding something. Arch was certain of it. She'd seemed uncomfortable, on edge when first meeting him in the library, and she'd not relaxed since coming in to dinner.
If she hadn't told him that she'd read his letter, he would have thought that she hadn't. He believed he'd been forthright in his apology as well as his explanation regarding what he expected future encounters between them to entail, but she was acting as though she wasn't quite certain of where she stood… or more precisely as though she was unsure how to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
He sat at one end of the long table, while she sat at the other, eating with precise, concise movements, never taking her eyes from her food as though she feared if she so much as blinked, it would dash off her plate. He was accustomed to her delighting him with silly gossip about one person or another. She seemed to care little for England's political affairs, but she knew a great deal about the personal politics and affairs that affected the aristocracy. Who was seen with whom. Who should be seen with whom. Which ladies had unblemished reputations, which had demonstrated questionable behavior and should be viewed with suspicion. Such as Lady Jane Myerson and her scandalous absence of gloves.
"I did not realize that Lady Jane Myerson had an interest in me," he said quietly, trying to bridge the river of silence separating them.
She set down her fork, signaled to the nearby footman for her plate to be removed, and dabbed delicately at each corner of her mouth. He truly wished she wouldn't draw attention to her lips. He so wanted to kiss her again.
"All the ladies have an interest in you," she finally responded. She pierced him with a glare. "That is one of the reasons that it is so very important for you to be measured for hunting attire. I received word from the tailor that you were not available to him once again."
"Shortly after you rushed out I went for a walk to gather my thoughts. I saw you standing on the knoll at a nearby park."
"I didn't see you."
"I was too far away. By the time I reached the spot, you'd left. You seemed very lonely up there."
"I wasn't lonely. I was watching the children."
"I would think that would be a painful undertaking."
"Why?"
He was wishing now that he'd simply told her that he'd gone for a walk. He'd not meant to traverse this uncomfortable ground. "I would think it would be difficult to look upon what you cannot have."
"As we've gone to the art museum twice, I assume you enjoy looking at paintings."
"Indeed, I do."
"But you cannot purchase them all."
He fought back his grin. "No, I cannot."
"Does that dim your enthusiasm for them?"
"No, rather it makes me appreciate them more."
"There you are." She signaled for more wine to be poured.
"You don't like pity, do you?"
"Not particularly, no. Nor do I like informing the tailor that you will be in your residence when you will not."
That again. The blasted clothing. "In the morning I shall go round to his shop to be measured," he assured her.
"I devoted a good many hours and went to great lengths to select the fabrics that w
ould complement your coloring. Many people do not realize that the shade of fabric can enhance one's appearance as much as the style of the clothing. I do not appreciate feeling as though my efforts were wasted."
"I assure you, Camilla, I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. I don't know how I would have managed without you." And then because he could no longer stand the distance separating them, he shoved back his chair, picked up his plate, utensils, and wineglass, and began walking toward her end of the table.
She looked positively terrified. "What are you doing?"
He set everything down at the place beside hers, pulled out the chair, and sat. "Joining you for dinner."
"It's improper."
"What does it matter when it is only the two of us? My father sat beside my mother every day of his life so when they spoke neither had cause to raise their voices. When I'm sitting at that end of the table, I feel as though you are upon a stage, and I am in the audience. This nearness is preferable, don't you think?"
"I think if you become lax, that you will fall into bad habits."
"It is a risk I think worth taking."
"If I am to educate you, I must educate you on all matters."
"Educate me on this then. Mr. Spellman left his documents on my desk, and I looked them over very carefully. They provided descriptions of the items purchased. I was surprised to discover how plain much of the clothing was."
She reached for her wineglass, her hand shaking. She took a longer swallow than usual, before saying, "I have occasion to wear plain clothing."
"And how do you explain the dolls?"
"My hobby. I collect them."
"I've never seen any here."
"I keep them in a room for my private enjoyment."
He studied her, trying to determine why she seemed so incredibly nervous, and what reason she could possibly have for lying to him. "I thought the purpose of a collection was to display it—"
As an Earl Desires Page 4