Her mother was right. The past is never over and done with. It would be with her, with them, always. And hadn’t she admitted the truth to her family, even if she hadn’t quite accepted it yet herself?
She had always loved him, and she still did.
Twenty-one
It could have been worse—although, at the moment, Gray couldn’t imagine how. At the very least, they now understood all the other had gone through.
He exhaled a long breath. It was best he and Camille had not had this talk about the past when he had first arrived. These last days together had given him the chance to work his way back into her good graces and even possibly her heart. If they had rehashed all these feelings in the beginning, they might not be able to get past them. Even if now it seemed they had not cleared the air as much as muddied the waters. Still, it was a beginning.
God, he had been such a fool. Not merely eleven years ago, but every day since then. Even tonight, there were things he should have said. Oh, he certainly had said his feelings were unchanged and that he wanted to go forward with her. But he should have been clearer. He should have said he wanted to spend the rest of his days with her. He should have said he would spend each and every one of those days making amends for his mistakes. And he should have told her he loved her.
Then why hadn’t he?
He tossed back the rest of his brandy and started after her. Be the man he had become, she’d said. Tell her why you’re really here and what you really want, Beryl had told him. Stop being so nice. He had tread cautiously up to now, but Beryl was right. It was time to stop being Camille’s friend. He had said he wasn’t the same boy he was eleven years ago. Past time to prove it.
He reached her door and resisted the urge to slam his fist against it. It would be wise not to have everyone in the house know their business—although, with the exception of the actors and Pruzinsky, everyone, no doubt, did. Nor, at the moment, did he care. He pounded on the door.
“Go away!” Camille said from the other side of the door.
“No! Never again. I have no intention of going away. Nor do I have any intention of walking off in a huff.”
She paused. “I did not walk off in a huff.”
“It certainly seemed like a huff. It seemed, as well, like something a nineteen-year-old girl would do. Not a woman who claims to know—”
The door jerked open. “Come in, then, before you awaken everyone in the house.”
He stepped inside and she closed the door behind him; then rested her back against it. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you want?”
She had changed into that dreadfully practical nightgown, a high-necked garment with endless buttons running up the front. Buttons she had failed to close completely, revealing her neck and the shadow between her breasts.
“I said this was not over.”
“I was finished!”
“And I was just beginning.”
“I thought you had said quite enough!” Her breath quickened and her breasts rose and fell beneath the thin fabric with every breath she took.
He shook his head. “I didn’t say anywhere near enough.”
His stomach clenched and desire rose within him. There was indeed something to be said for the passion of argument, as well as the lure of sensible nightwear.
“Oh? Then do tell, Grayson.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts—her nipples had hardened beneath her gown—then back to her eyes. She noted his gaze but made no effort to close the neck of her gown. A flush washed up her face, and he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. As much as he had always wanted her.
“What was left to say?”
“For one thing.” He braced his hand on the door beside her head and leaned close to brush his lips across hers. “You lied to me.”
“Nonsense.” She pushed him aside and stepped away. “What on earth are you talking about?” The lamp by the side of her bed illuminated the shape of her body through the gauzy fabric and left little to the imagination.
“You remember the first time I kissed you.”
“Vaguely, perhaps.” She shrugged.
“And you remember the second time I kissed you.”
“Of course I remember. It was the night before last. I could scarcely forget it. Not that it was a particularly memorable kiss,” she added quickly.
“Oh, but it was.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his embrace. She stared up at him. “And you will remember this one as well.” He crushed his lips to hers. For no more than an instant, she hesitated; then her mouth opened to his and her arms slipped around his neck. And passion denied for eleven years erupted between them.
He slanted his mouth over hers; his tongue dueled with hers, demanding and insistent. She clung to him and tasted him and explored him in a clash of tongue and teeth and lips. Her breath mingled with his. Her body molded against his, and all he’d ever wanted was his for the taking and hers for the giving.
He wrenched his lips from hers and ran his mouth along the line of her jaw and down the side of her neck. Her flesh beneath his lips was warm and inviting. Her head fell back and she moaned, and desire flared within him. Her hands fisted in his coat and he tightened his arms around her.
She gasped. “You lied to me as well.”
“Never,” he murmured against her neck.
“You led me to believe you had no money.” She could barely get out the words.
“Ah yes, well, about that.” He flicked his tongue over the hollow at the base of her throat and he felt her shiver beneath his mouth. “I have indeed made a substantial fortune in railroads and shipping.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She pushed at his coat and he shrugged it off and let it fall to the floor. She yanked his cravat free, tugged open his shirt and let her hands roam over his chest. And he fairly lost his senses at the feel of her hands on his bare skin.
“You didn’t ask.” He grabbed the edges of her gown and ripped it open, buttons flying, exposing her breasts to his view. He cupped one breast and bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth.
“Oh, God, Gray!” Her nails dug into his skin and her back arched. “I . . . I . . . I assumed . . .”
He sucked and teased until her nipple was a hard knot beneath his onslaught. He shifted his attention to her other breast and continued until she was limp in his arms and his trousers tightened.
“Gray . . .” She drew a steadying breath and pushed weakly against him. “This isn’t . . .”
“What?” He held his breath.
She shook her head and took a step away. She struggled to catch her breath. “This isn’t fair.”
He stared at her. With her gown ripped open and her breathing labored, he’d never seen a more erotic sight. “If I recall correctly, you said you weren’t especially concerned with fair.”
“I’m not usually.” She glanced down at her ruined gown. “These are not usual circumstances.” She moved close, grabbed his shirt in both hands and ripped it open; then she smiled up at him. “There. That’s much better.”
He gasped in feigned horror. “You ruined my shirt.”
She shrugged. “You ruined my gown.”
“But this is a very nice shirt.”
“You can afford it. Beryl says you’re obscenely wealthy.”
He grinned. “Indeed, I am.”
“Did you think it would matter to me?”
“Ah, we are back to that fortune hunter nonsense.” He pulled away and stared into her eyes. Marriage for position and wealth was what was expected of Camille and her sisters or, indeed, any young woman in their position. Now that he knew her father was still alive, it made even more sense. The precarious nature of Lady Briston’s finances through the years was obviously why she had been determined to see her daughters marry well. And who could blame her? “No, but it did matter to me.”
“You are still a foolish man then.” She hooked her fingers in the waist of his trousers and tugged. “I would suggest, if you
don’t want these to meet the same fate as your shirt, you discard them.” She reached up and tugged at his lower lip with her teeth; his breath caught.
She smiled in a most inviting and completely wicked manner and sauntered toward the bed, allowing her ripped gown to slide off her shoulders and onto the floor behind her. Good Lord. He swallowed hard.
Gray had his clothes off before she reached the bed. He caught her in his arms and they tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of naked limbs and heated desire.
He had dreamed of this, of her. She was all he had known she would be, and he worshiped her with his mouth and hands, with touch and taste. He ran his hands down the length of her, along her sides, over the curve of her hip and along the long length of her leg. Her skin was warm silk beneath his hand.
Her hands explored him as eagerly as his explored her. Her fingers skimmed over his chest and drifted lower over his stomach. His muscles tensed beneath her touch and her hand moved lower, until her fingers wrapped around his cock, and she squeezed. He sucked in a sharp breath and moaned with the sheer pleasure of her touch. She stroked him, and he thought he would surely die with the joy of the feel of her hand. He buried his face in her neck and pushed her hand away. He would never last at this rate. And he wanted to take her to the edge of sanity. He wanted her moaning his name and writhing beneath him.
He grabbed her hands and pinned them over her head; then rained kisses on her neck and trailed his lips lower, between her breasts and over the flat plane of her stomach and lower still. He released her hands and she clutched at the bedclothes. He slipped his hand between her legs and caressed her. She moaned and arched upward, pressing against his hand. She was slick and hot and quivered against his touch. He stroked her again and again; she thrashed on the bed and gripped his shoulders and dug her fingers into him.
“Grayson.” The word was breathless with passion and need. She pushed his hand away, then hooked her leg over his and pulled him onto her. “Grayson . . .”
Slowly he pushed into her. She was tight around him and he pushed deeper. She moaned, angled her hips toward him and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in. She surrounded him, engulfed him, welcomed him. For a moment, he could do nothing more than savor the feeling of being inside her, one with her. She throbbed around him, and it was more than his wildest dreams.
“Camille,” he murmured; then started to stroke, forcing himself to a slow, steady pace. She rocked her hips against him, urging him on, faster, harder. He groaned and responded, losing himself in the feel of her. He thrust into her with a frenzied need and she responded in kind. The bed rocked beneath them, and she whimpered or moaned erotic murmurs, which only heightened his need. She met his thrusts with hers until, at last, she screamed softly and arched upward. Her body shuddered against him. Her release swept from her body into his. He groaned and thrust once more and exploded into her, shaking hard in an endless moment of pure sensation and joy. In his body and in his soul.
At long last, he was home.
For a moment, or an hour, or eternity, they lay together, hearts beating in rhythm, breath coming in tandem. As if they were still one. At last being with Grayson was so much more than she had imagined, so much more than she had thought possible.
“Good God.” Camille buried her head in his shoulder. “What have we done?”
He chuckled. “I think you know exactly what we’ve done.”
“Grayson, I am not my sister.”
“Thank God.”
She sat up, plumped the pillow behind her and pulled the covers up around her. She hadn’t felt the least bit embarrassed earlier when she was completely naked in front of him, but that was during the throes of passion. And dear Lord, she had never known such throes before. Harold had been a gentle and considerate lover, and making love with him had been most pleasant. But tonight with Grayson, well, she had never dreamed of the intensity and the sheer pleasure and the joy.
“Beryl has never had any difficulty bounding from one bed to another. At least, until recently. This is one area in which I have never given into impulse, never found anyone I wanted to . . . I have not—well, I have not, that’s all.”
“I’m glad.” He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow.
“I’ve only ever been with one other man.”
“Good,” he said firmly. “I would hate to think you were a tart as well as a fortune hunter.”
“Grayson!”
“And you’re not bounding from one bed to another now.” He grinned. “Although I would rather like to see you bound.”
She shivered at his words. “You are a wicked, wicked man, aren’t you?”
He grinned.
She narrowed her eyes. “I daresay, you have not been celibate these past eleven years.”
“Should I lie to you and tell you I have thought only of you?”
“I suppose not.”
“And yet it’s true.” He smiled into her eyes. “Of course I have been with other women, but no one has touched my heart the way you have.”
“I didn’t realize it was your heart that I was touching.”
He laughed, grabbed her hand and pulled it to his lips. “Among other things.”
“But this is not the sort of thing I do.” She sighed and pulled her hand away. “Why, I am practically engaged to another man.”
“And we can put an end to that nonsense right now.”
“That nonsense?” Still, he was right, it had been nonsense. And no one was more aware of that than she. “About Nikolai—”
“I thought you had come to your senses?”
“Why?” She stared at him. “Because you and I have—”
“Well, yes. No!” His brows drew together. “Are you mad?”
“Possibly.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I allowed you in my bed, didn’t I?”
He ignored her. “You’re not still considering marrying Pruzinsky?”
She drew a deep breath. “About that—”
“Well, I won’t allow it!”
“You won’t ‘allow’ it?” she said slowly.
“No!”
“I believe you forfeited all rights to tell me what I can and cannot do a very long time ago.” She stared at him. “I have managed my own life and made my own decisions for four years now, and I have done a fine job of it.”
“Have you?” Doubt shone in his eyes.
“Yes, I have.”
He shrugged. “Not according to what I’ve heard from Win through the years.”
“Oh, and what have you heard?” she said sharply.
He met her gaze directly. “Brighton.”
She sucked in a hard breath.
“Need I say more?”
“I think you’ve said quite enough.” She clenched her teeth. “I do not appreciate having my mistakes thrown back in my face.”
“And yet you’ve had no problem throwing mine back in my face.” He slid out of bed, found his trousers and started pulling them on.
“We’re not talking about a silly escapade whose end result would have been no more than scandal. Admittedly, my mistakes are the result of foolish impulse, of not thinking before I act. But in the scheme of things, they are relatively minor. Your mistake changed the entire course of our lives!”
“And I’ve admitted I was wrong.”
“It’s only taken you eleven years to do so!” Her voice rose. “Eleven years!”
“At least I learn from my mistakes.”
“Do you? Hah!”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“It’s no more than coincidence, Grayson. You can’t deny that.” She stared at him. “You left and you never came back. Not for me, anyway.”
“And that, too, was a mistake. But at least I don’t repeat my mistakes.” His eyes narrowed. “Whereas you are determined to again enter into a marriage for all the wrong reasons.”
“Then why don’t you tell me the right reasons.”
He stared at her for a lon
g moment. “I thought I had.”
With that, he yanked open the door and slammed it closed behind him.
Camille crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the door. What exactly had just happened?
Certainly, if he hadn’t been so sanctimonious, if he hadn’t used the word “allowed,” she probably would have told him she had decided against marrying the prince. And hadn’t she tried to do just that? But then he had brought up her mistakes, and she had countered with his and how hers paled in comparison. . . . Obviously, there remained much to resolve between them. Still . . .
The blasted man loved her. Hadn’t he said his feelings had never changed? And hadn’t she, at last, realized she loved him as well? Pity they couldn’t quite seem to find the right words. Or talk about the past without recrimination and accusation erupting between them.
She heaved a heartfelt sigh. But perhaps anger at last released was necessary to finally lay the past to rest. Grayson was a stubborn, arrogant creature; and while he might not know it at the moment, he was hers. This was no more than an argument, and, with any luck, the first of a lifetime of arguments. And making up as well.
But she did need to do something about Nikolai. Even if she had done nothing to encourage him in recent days, he had come to Millworth Manor with certain expectations. It didn’t seem quite honorable to publicly admit to her feelings for Grayson, while Nikolai still thought she would become his wife. No, she needed to finish this all as planned. Give Nikolai the Christmas he desired, send him back to the Kingdom of Whateveritwas and then write to him and tell him they did not suit. Of all her plans to date, this one seemed really rather sensible.
As for Grayson, tomorrow she would tell him how she felt and what she wanted. What she’d always wanted.
For this Christmas and every Christmas to come.
December 24th
Twenty-two
“I must say,” Win said the moment Grayson stepped into the library, “the actor playing the part of the butler is doing an excellent job of it. I wouldn’t have known he wasn’t a butler if I hadn’t known he wasn’t a butler.”
What Happens At Christmas Page 28