“Completely.”
“Then there shall not be a repeat of it.”
“You needn’t worry on that score. I have no intention of kissing you ever again.”
“See that you don’t.” She nodded, moved into her room and snapped the door sharply behind her.
Who did he think he was fooling? He had every intention of kissing her again. Over and over again, until she melted into a puddle at his feet. Or he melted into a puddle at hers.
It was past time to admit the truth, if only to himself. Gray had known from the moment he looked once more into her blue eyes that he wanted her as much now as he had eleven years ago. Nothing had changed.
Nothing had changed . . . but him. He was no longer that uncertain boy who had taken his broken heart and wounded pride and vanished from her life, determined to make something of himself. Eleven years of making his own way in the world and building his fortune had taught him much. He no longer took “no” for an answer. He had learned anything worth having in this world was worth fighting for. And he had learned to fight for what he wanted. And what he wanted now, what he’d always wanted was Camille. And she wanted him as well. She could deny all she wished, but she had kissed him back then and she had kissed him back tonight. And that told him all he needed to know.
He smiled and returned to his room. Win was right. He would have to win her friendship again before he could win her heart. Certainly, it would not be easy. Along with her friendship, he would have to earn her forgiveness. He had made a start of it, in the corridor, before he had kissed her. Afterward, well, she was an excellent actress. Regardless of what she had said, she had been as affected by that kiss as he had. And he had no doubt that she remembered their first kiss. Yes, indeed, it was a start.
The first thing he needed to do, as her friend, was save her from this prince, whom even her sister found suspicious. And save her from herself as well. He suspected she was already beginning to doubt her desire to marry Prince Perfect. Fanning that doubt would be tricky; he would have to be subtle, but surely it was not impossible. Especially if it became more and more difficult to carry off her farce. Oh, he wouldn’t do anything overt. However, throwing a twist into the proceedings now and then, just to muck things up the tiniest bit, was not a bad idea. Admittedly, given the peculiarities of her actors, it was entirely possible they could manage to mess up this production without any help from him. Still, he would take advantage of any opportunity that came his way.
Besides, what play didn’t benefit from a few unexpected twists?
Spice and heat and desire. Of course she remembered how he had tasted eleven years ago. She remembered everything.
Camille leaned back against her closed door and struggled to regain her composure. Struggled to breathe.
She remembered how his heart had beat against hers even through the layers of clothing between them. She remembered the heat of his body, the excitement of being enfolded in his arms. She remembered how her blood had pounded through her veins, how her knees had seemed too weak to support her. She remembered the yearning that filled her for more, for him. And she remembered how she had never wanted it to end.
But of course it had. Damnable man. She pushed away from the door and paced the floor.
Why did he have to dwell on that long-ago kiss? Why did he have to bring all that back up? Why did he have to go on and on about everything he remembered? Why did he have to make her feel again all that she had put behind her? Why did he have to come back into her life?
And why did he have to kiss her now?
He had taken her as much by surprise now as he had then. Certainly, that long-ago kiss hadn’t been her first. But it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She had felt that kiss down to her toes and into her soul. No, she hadn’t forgotten anything.
And tonight?
She blew a long breath. She was no longer an inexperienced nineteen-year-old girl. She was thirty years of age, a widow, a woman who managed her own life. A woman who made her own choices. A woman who knew what she wanted.
And yet, when he had kissed her tonight, it was every bit as wonderful as it had been that first time. Even more perhaps, because she’d waited to be kissed like that again for eleven years. Her husband, dear man that he was, had never made her toes curl or her knees weak. No man ever had. Blasted, blasted man!
Once again, Grayson had appeared right when she intended to marry another man. Of course he hadn’t said he loved her, but any fool could see it was entirely possible. It was, well, bothersome. It brought back all sorts of feelings she much preferred not to have. And only added to her doubt.
She’d been entirely too busy organizing her Christmas farce to pay any attention to the doubt nagging at the back of her mind about Nikolai. But tonight, when he had been right on the verge of declaring himself, she wanted nothing more than to stop him.
For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a prince with a kingdom and a castle. She’d wanted to be a princess. Nikolai was certainly handsome and dashing and charming and really, well, perfect. But while the girl she once was wanted a prince, the woman she was now was beginning to think perhaps one should look for more in the man one would spend the rest of one’s life with than the dreams spun from fairy stories. Besides, did one really want to spend the rest of one’s days with a man who smiled and nodded quite as much as he did?
As much as she hated to admit it, and would never tell her sister, but Beryl was right about . . . love. Not that she didn’t intend to love Nikolai one day. It hadn’t seemed at all important at the beginning, but now, well, she was thirty years of age and it might be wiser to marry a man she already loved as opposed to one she planned to love. As she was not getting younger, it seemed rather foolish to waste time waiting to fall in love. There was, as well, always the possibility she would never love him at all. And while she did like him, did she wish to spend the rest of her days merely in like? Aside from anything else, shouldn’t one feel more than a mere tickling when a man kissed her palm in a most seductive manner? Shouldn’t that make her ache and yearn for more?
Still, she should kiss him properly before making any decision, even if she suspected she already had. One never knew really. Why, a proper kiss could change everything.
Regardless, the very least she could do was give Nikolai the kind of Christmas he expected. There was surely no need to reveal the truth about her family to him. She wasn’t entirely sure she could trust him to keep it secret. It was a most amusing story, after all. But she certainly couldn’t marry a man she couldn’t trust.
She sucked in a sharp breath. Good Lord, she would be a laughingstock if this got out. She would never be able to hold her head up in society again. While Nikolai was a charming man, honorable and a decent sort, who knew what might happen if she rejected his advances or, worse, his proposal? Men who had been spurned were not the least bit rational and sought vengeance in all sorts of unpleasant ways. While much more like Beryl than Delilah in terms of propriety, she had made a considerable effort to make certain her reputation wasn’t nearly as colorful as her twin’s. But once it got out that she had orchestrated this massive deception—and then hadn’t married the prince, after all—why, no one would believe it was she who had turned him down. She would not only be a joke, but a pathetic joke at that. Even worse, escapades like this tended to become legendary. The Brighton Incident would pale in significance. She would be in her dotage and would still no doubt hear whispers behind her back about the extreme and futile measures poor Lady Lydingham took to snare a prince.
Not if she could help it. Determination surged through her. She had gotten herself into this and she would get herself out. Nikolai could never learn the truth. They would continue on precisely as originally planned. After Christmas a monetary crisis would call Nikolai home to the Kingdom of Whateveritwas. She would make some excuse as to why she couldn’t accompany him and then eventually write and gently tell him they would not suit. Of course, if he proposed, t
hings would be a little more awkward. And he had very nearly done so tonight. Still, as much as she had started out with the express purpose of extracting a proposal, it surely wouldn’t be all that difficult to keep him from proposing.
Dear Lord, she was an idiot. She did hope this Christmas served to remind her to think through her schemes thoroughly before setting them into motion. Perhaps now she might be able to see the amusement in the proceedings that Beryl and Grayson so obviously saw, but she doubted it.
As for Grayson, there was no need for him to know she was reconsidering her desire to marry Nikolai. No need to take him into her confidence in any manner whatsoever, since it was so clearly his fault. Perhaps someday she would feel more charitable toward him; but at this moment, if he wanted to be her friend, well, these were the boundaries of friendship.
And if his kiss made her long for something just out of reach, it was nothing more than memories of what might have been. She would not allow herself to be swept away by the kiss of the man who once broke her heart.
And she would never allow him to break it again.
December 22nd
Eleven
Camille surveyed the breakfast offerings arrayed on the sideboard in the dining room and wondered what it would take to entice Mrs. Fortesque to stay on with her. Camille’s cook was ready to retire from service; and while Mrs. Williams had been excellent in her day, her standards had slipped considerably in the last year or so. Not that Camille had the heart to tell her. She had been with Camille’s late husband’s family for most of her life.
Mrs. Fortesque’s cooking skills were nothing short of amazing. The woman obviously had a natural talent in the kitchen, as did the young woman who had been assisting her. Perhaps Camille should have a chat with them both—although Mr. Fortesque would certainly be part of any arrangement. And he did so love being an actor.
Grayson strolled into the room, looking annoyingly well rested. He approached the sideboard and studied the offerings. “Mrs. Fortesque does an excellent job of acting like a cook.”
“Thank God.” Mrs. Fortesque’s cooking was the only thing she needn’t worry about.
“Oh, you might be interested to know”—Grayson picked up a plate and continued to consider the breakfast offerings—“your footmen are in the upstairs gallery practicing sword fighting for the theater. From a book.”
“How delightful.” She grimaced. “I shall summon Fortesque to take care of it.”
“Fortesque was reading the book to the others.” He selected a few slices of bacon and put them on his plate.
She glared. “Why didn’t you do anything?”
Grayson glanced at her in surprise. “I offered them advice.”
“What? On how not to kill one another?”
He chuckled. “Exactly.”
“Grayson!”
“I was trying to be helpful. I thought it might be awkward to have dead actors, or dead footmen, for that matter, lying about the house.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She huffed. “I meant you should have stopped them.”
“It’s really not my place to do so. I am merely the distant cousin, a very minor role. Why, if this were a play of murder and treachery, I would no doubt be the first one done away with.”
“That can yet be arranged.”
He considered her for a moment. “It’s rather early in the day to be quite so cranky, isn’t it?”
“I am not cranky.” Indignation rang in her voice. “If anything, I am tired.”
“I see.” He nodded in a sage manner. “You didn’t sleep well.”
“I slept exceptionally well,” she lied.
“All that pining, no doubt.”
“Pining?” She stared at him, then uttered a short laugh. “You were right, Grayson, there is much about this situation that is amusing.” She moved to the table and sat down.
“I didn’t mean me,” he said wryly, and took the seat across the table from her. “But I am surprised to see you up and about so early. I didn’t expect to see anyone down yet.”
“I have a great deal to accomplish today,” she said in a prim manner. “As soon as Beryl makes an appearance, I intend to go up to the attic and find the ornaments for the tree.”
“If she doesn’t come down before you’re finished with breakfast, I could assist you with that,” he said casually.
“Would you?”
“I would be happy to.”
“Really?”
“You needn’t look so suspicious. I said last night that I intended to help you, and I meant it.” He stabbed a piece of bacon much more viciously than the bacon deserved. Apparently, he found her as annoying as she found him. Good.
“Very well, then.” Camille wasn’t at all sure if she wanted his help or not, but she did want to get as much as possible finished before Nikolai and her “family” made an appearance. She had no desire to leave them all to their own devices. God only knew what might happen without constant supervision. “I accept your offer. And I appreciate it,” she added reluctantly.
“Do try not to sound so gracious.”
“I am doing my best, Grayson.” She stared at him. “Even you must admit your presence is something I neither expected nor desired.”
“Because you hoped I was dead.” He selected a piece of toast from the rack and slathered it with marmalade.
“I didn’t hope.” She shrugged. “I simply assumed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes,” she snapped, then blew a long breath. “No, of course not. In spite of what I said last night, I wouldn’t have you dead.”
“That’s comforting to know.”
“But I wouldn’t have you here either.”
“And yet”—he grinned in a smug fashion—“here I am.”
“Indeed,” she said under her breath. “Here you are.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. One might have thought Grayson hadn’t eaten in years the way he devoured his food with the enthusiasm of one long deprived and the enjoyment of a connoisseur. He’d had a bit of everything offered on the sideboard: broiled kippers, deviled kidneys, stewed fruit, bacon, sausages and eggs. She couldn’t blame him, however. Mrs. Fortesque was a treasure.
“That was excellent.” He sighed with the satisfaction of a man well-fed. “Do you think Mrs. Fortesque would be interested in forgoing a life on the stage for one in the kitchen?”
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Camille said. “My cook will soon be leaving me and going to live with relatives somewhere in the country.” She glanced at him. “Why do you need a cook?”
“I believe I am going to stay in England.”
Although she’d never confirmed it, she’d long ago assumed he was out of the country. “I see.”
“And, as I will be needing a staff, a small one, I thought I would start with the cook.” He paused. “Admittedly, I didn’t come to that conclusion until I tasted Mrs. Fortesque’s food.”
“Well.” She moved her plate to one side, folded her hands together on the tablecloth and smiled. “I do hate to disappoint you, as much as you liked Mrs. Fortesque’s cooking. But if anyone hires the woman, it shall be me.”
He slowly moved his plate out of the way, then folded his hands and rested them on the table, his position a mirror image of hers. A tiny trickle of apprehension slid down her spine.
“If I wish to hire Mrs. Fortesque,” he said in a measured tone, “I shall do so.”
“Not if I hire her first.”
“Then I shall have to hire her last.” He smiled pleasantly. It was most unsettling.
Her smile matched his. “Don’t be absurd, you can’t pay her the salary I can.” His clothes were nice enough, but he couldn’t possibly be of more than modest income. If he had done well, in spite of her avoiding all talk of him, she surely would have heard something about it. That sort of information did not stay quiet for long, let alone years. “Whatever you offer her, I shall simply offer her more.”
&nbs
p; “Because you have a great deal of money and I obviously have none?”
“It’s so impolite to talk about money,” she said in a lofty manner. “But yes.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Salary aside, I would be willing to wager I can get the woman to come work for me.”
At once, she was swept back to the days of their youth and silly wagers over insignificant contests: how many times in a row who could beat whom at chess, or who would spot the first clouded yellow butterfly in June, or who could identify the most constellations. She hadn’t thought about their wagering in years. He had won more often than not. In hindsight she wasn’t sure if that was attributable to his luck and skill or her own reluctance to best him. Resolve swept through her. Those days were over.
“What an interesting idea.” She smiled. “I shall take that wager, Grayson.”
“I thought you would. And I know that as you are a fair woman, and as I don’t appear to have the same resources you do, you will agree that we do not use salary as a weapon. We both offer her precisely the same amount.”
“I certainly wouldn’t wager on my being fair, if I were you. You have no idea if I am a fair woman or not. Indeed, I rather prefer victory to being fair. However, I can agree to that.” For now. She raised a questioning brow. “The usual stakes?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded. “Shall we set a deadline?”
She thought for a moment. This would all be over the day after Christmas. “Let us say Christmas, shall we?”
“Christmas it is then.” He stood, leaned forward and extended his hand across the table.
She leaned toward him, accepted his hand and nodded. “Christmas it is.”
“I don’t intend to lose, you know.”
She laughed. “Goodness, Grayson, neither do I.”
“Excellent.” He grinned and his gaze caught hers. For a long moment, neither said a word. His hand still held hers across the table. Something nearly palpable wrapped around them. Something intense and unrelenting, pulling them closer. For one wild instant, an image flashed through her mind of his dragging her onto the table and ravishing her amidst the breakfast dishes and beneath the hundred-year-old chandelier commissioned for Millworth Manor by a long-forgotten ancestor. The two of them mad with passion and lost in desire. The chandelier above them quivered, and the table rocked and creaked, and—
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