by Candace Camp
So she smiled up at him with sickening sweetness and batted her eyes, cooing, “Whatever you say, dearest.”
She found her reward in the flummoxed expression that stamped her aunt’s face—as well as in the involuntary twitch of Benedict’s lips that told her he wanted to laugh at her antics. He had such nice lips, too, she thought, firm and well cut, with just a hint of sensual fullness in his lower lip. She found herself looking at him for a moment longer than was necessary, and only the quizzical look in his eyes brought her back to her senses and made her turn away.
“Of course,” Aunt Beryl countered. “That is most understandable. I have put you and your husband in your old room, Camilla dear. I am sure you know the way.”
Camilla stiffened. “The same room?”
She stopped as she realized how idiotic her words sounded. Of course a husband and wife would have the same room. She looked at Lydia, hoping for a way out, but her aunt was mute, her eyes wide with horror.
“Uh, that is…I—I assumed that we would have two rooms. Connecting rooms.” A flush rose up her face.
“Newlyweds?” Aunt Beryl said and tittered, raising a hand to her mouth. “But, my dear, how odd.” Her eyes were avid with curiosity.
Camilla’s blush deepened. “Um, well, yes. I mean, ’tis not uncommon. There are…well…” She stumbled to a halt, casting a desperate look at Benedict.
Benedict took over smoothly. “What my wife is trying to say, is that there are special circumstances. Unusual ones, which make it far better if we have separate rooms.” There was a long pause, and then he went on, “In short, I am afraid that Camilla snores. It makes it very difficult for me to sleep.”
Camilla let out a strangled noise, and Benedict turned toward her blandly. “Yes, my dear?”
There was a muffled laugh from the direction of Kitty and Amanda, and Cousin Bertram seemed to have suddenly acquired a cough. Camilla thought with great delight of boxing Benedict’s ears. There was nothing she could do or say. She had wanted him to say something to get her out of the dreadful situation; she could hardly deny his words now.
“Oh, my.” Aunt Beryl looked from Benedict to Camilla, and Camilla could see a flash of triumph in her face as she went on, “But, dear girl, separate rooms are rather difficult right now. What with all the guests we have, there is so little space available. Why, to give you two connecting, or even adjoining, rooms, we would have to open up the west wing, and you know how your grandfather detests that. And it could not possibly be done tonight. The servants are all in bed.”
Camilla gritted her teeth. She could hardly insist, in the face of what Aunt Beryl had said. It was obvious that the woman did not believe this story of a marriage—and that was no wonder. It was all one lie built upon another, and each one more outrageous than the last. She thought about giving up and telling the truth, admitting to her aunt that it had all been a lie. It would be easier than trying to maintain this charade. But then she thought of her grandfather’s happiness when she had told him that she was engaged, and how he would react when he found out it had all been a tissue of lies. His disappointment in her would be hard enough to bear, but worse than that, his anger and distress might well be enough to call on one of his attacks.
So she clamped back the words that wanted to rise from her throat. Pulling her lips back into a smile, she said, “Of course. It isn’t that important. Benedict exaggerates sometimes, don’t you, darling?”
Bidding the others good-night, Camilla put her hand on Benedict’s arm, and they left the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHAT THE DEVIL is going on here?” Benedict growled at Camilla once they were safely out of earshot of the drawing room.
“I don’t know,” Camilla moaned. “Obviously Aunt Lydia must have told them I was married to Mr. Lassiter, but I cannot imagine why. What am I going to do?”
“Well, nothing at the moment, except try to act normal. Your aunt Beryl is already suspicious enough. Your carrying on about getting two rooms didn’t help any.”
“What did you expect me to do?” Camilla flared. “We can’t sleep in the same room!”
“No? Then what can we do? Do you want to go back in now and tell Mrs. Elliot that you have made the whole thing up? That I am not your husband? That you never even had a fiancé? That you lied to your grandfather? To her? That your other aunt lied to everyone, as well? Do you want her running in to spill that load of news to your grandfather?”
“What an awful muddle I’ve made of everything.”
“You have to make the best of it now,” he told her unsympathetically. “At the moment, I think that means being my loving little wife. We shall decide how to deal with the rest of it later.” He took a firm grip on her arm and propelled her across the hall, toward the stairs. “Where is your bedroom? Up here?”
Camilla nodded, irritation at his high-handed attitude rising in her. “Just a minute. What do you think you’re doing? You are not in charge here.”
“Obviously, neither are you,” he retorted, inexorably leading her up the stairs. “As for what I am doing, I am getting us up to a room where we can close the door and hash this out without worrying about servants or relatives hearing us.”
Camilla grimaced. She could hardly argue with his reasoning, but the way he was assuming command rankled.
“Camilla! Psst!”
Both of them turned to see Lydia at the bottom of the stairs, following them. She waved to Camilla to stop and hurried up after them. “Oh, my dear,” she cried softly as she neared Camilla, holding out her hands toward her. “My little love, can you ever forgive me? I am so, so sorry.”
Her big blue eyes sparkled with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Camilla took her hands and squeezed them.
“Of course I can forgive you. Anything. You know that.”
Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a “fribble,” and Camilla had often enough bemoaned her aunt’s vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart, and Camilla loved her dearly.
“Thank you. You don’t know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me.”
“I could never hate you.” Camilla took her arm and led her down the hall to her bedroom, Benedict following behind them. “But I don’t understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?”
They reached the door of Camilla’s bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and an oil lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.
“It was terribly bad of me.” Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking chagrined and absurdly youthful. She was only thirty-seven, and over the years had retained her good looks. “If I had only thought about it, I would have realized that it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is.”
“Well, I don’t,” Benedict put in bluntly. “My good woman, what are you talking about?”
“Why, the reason I said you were Camilla’s husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad—all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the first that it was all folderol, though how she could tell, I’m sure I don’t know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged. But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers— You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Camilla said, trying to bring her back on track. “But what happened this time?”
“She kept asking why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn’t sound natural, a bride-to-be not bubbling over with news of her trousseau and her dress. Well, that is true, but I can quite understand why you wouldn’t think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, si
nce you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and—”
“Mrs. Elliot…” Benedict reminded her flatly.
“Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn’t joking at all—you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right there in front of the Earl—I am positive she meant to do it that way—that she thought you didn’t mean to marry at all, because you hadn’t set a date. She didn’t go so far as to say that you had made the whole thing up, although I’m certain that’s what she wished to say, for she knows that the Earl won’t listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudolaughing way. But she said, with a false little titter, that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. ‘So unnatural in a gel that age.’” Lydia imitated her in-law’s drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.
Camilla had to chuckle. “So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married.”
“I didn’t mean to. But she was looking at me in that way, you know, and I opened my mouth and somehow it just came out. I told her I had gotten a letter from you, and that you and your Mr. Lassiter had gotten married two weeks ago.”
Camilla let out a low groan.
“I’m sorry, Camilla, but once I’d done it, what could I do? I didn’t think it would do any harm. It seemed no worse for you to pretend to be married than to pretend to be engaged. And it was so pleasant to see Beryl sitting there with her mouth opening and closing.” She paused, then added, a trifle resentfully, “I never dreamed you would actually bring a man with you. I thought you would arrive by yourself, with some excuse why Mr. Lassiter could not come. And since we would only be talking about him, what difference would it make whether he was your fiancé or your husband?”
“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “A mere trifle.”
Lydia smiled at him, pleased by his understanding, and said, “Exactly. I am so glad to hear you say so.” She turned to Camilla. “Where did you find him? I don’t understand how you managed to come up with him.”
“I paid him,” Camilla told her bluntly.
Lydia’s eyes widened. “You mean you can buy a husband?”
“Actually, she only bought a fiancé,” Benedict stuck in. “Now that I am a husband, perhaps I should charge more. What do you think, Camilla?”
“I think this is scarcely the time for humor.” She turned back to her aunt. “I didn’t mean that I purchased a husband, Aunt Lydia. I meant that I am paying him to pretend to be my fiancé.”
“How odd,” Lydia said thoughtfully.
“But that doesn’t matter now. What is important is the fact that Aunt Beryl thinks we are married—and she put us in the same bedroom!”
Lydia moaned. “This is terrible. Your reputation will be ruined! Whatever are we to do? Oh, drat my wretched tongue!”
“It’s all right, Lydia. Don’t worry about it. We will manage to scrape by.”
Lydia continued to look distressed. “But, Camilla, that just won’t do. You can’t— I mean— If anyone found out—”
“No, please, my lady,” Benedict said suddenly, coming forward and taking Lydia’s hand. “Don’t upset yourself. Camilla, you are taking this jest too far.” He smiled down into Lydia’s eyes, exerting a charm that Camilla had heretofore not witnessed. “Lady Marbridge, you must forgive Camilla. She is teasing you because she is a trifle peeved at your stealing her thunder.”
Lydia wrinkled her brow, looking confused.
“What are you talking about?” Camilla snapped. “Stealing my thunder?”
“Yes, dear. You see, my lady, Camilla was wanting to surprise you. She thought it would be such a good joke, after all this pretense about a fiancé, when she arrived here already married. All I can think is that you must have a sixth sense, my lady, to have thought of it. The fact is, Camilla and I really are married.”
Camilla gaped at him, momentarily bereft of speech. Lydia’s face, on the other hand, after an instant of confusion, lit up. “But how wonderful!”
She swung toward Camilla. “My dear, this is perfect! Everything is all right. I shan’t have to worry anymore. What a relief! And your reputation is safe now. This is the best news I could have had.”
In the face of Lydia’s delight, Camilla found that she could do nothing except give her a sickly smile. “Yes, isn’t it?”
“Do you think I really did sense it? I can’t remember that ever happening before—although, now that I think of it, there was that one time when Anthony had caught a cold, and even though I was in London, I was quite sure that there was something wrong with him. Then the next letter from Mrs. Blakely said that he had been ill, and it was almost exactly when I had been worrying about it.”
“Yes, I remember, but I don’t think—”
“But how—” Lydia went on, her mind drawn back to the entertaining topic of her niece’s marriage. “When—and why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Now, now, Aunt,” Benedict said smoothly. “I hope I may call you that now, for I quite feel as if I know you, I have heard Camilla talk about you so often and with such warmth—but may we save the questions for tomorrow? Camilla will love to sit down with you and tell you the whole story.”
“I am sure it must be dreadfully romantic,” Lydia hazarded.
“Yes, indeed. It is most romantic. But Camilla is very tired right now. It was a long and wearing trip, in truth.”
“Yes, of course. I won’t say another word.” Lydia gave her niece a roguish smile. “But I won’t be able to sleep a wink for wondering, you sly thing.” She hugged Camilla impulsively and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Till tomorrow, sweetheart.”
“Good night, Mr.—” Lydia paused, frowning. “But surely you are not really Mr. Lassiter?”
“No. But for the moment, no doubt, it would be better to pretend it is so.”
“Yes, of course.” Still beaming, Lydia gave them a playful waggle of her fingers and left the room.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Camilla swung toward Benedict. “What in the world do you think you are doing? Are you mad?”
“No. In fact, I am trying to bring a little order into this mad situation. You are going to have to make up a story for your aunt. I am certain that you can think of one that is suitably romantic. And I suppose you will have to have me die now. One cannot cry off from a marriage.”
“You think! You prefer! How can you presume to tell me what to do? Or to change my plans? My story? Mr.—Benedict.” Using his first name did not have quite the ring of authority over him that she wanted. However, she found it almost impossible to call him by the pretend surname she had given him. “I think you are forgetting that you are my employee.”
“How could I forget that?” he responded dryly. “You remind me of it constantly.”
“Well, you certainly do not act as if you are aware of it. I am the one who will make the decisions about what we do, not you. It is, after all, my plan.”
“Well, actually, it was Sedgewick’s. You and I, as I remember, merely drank the punch and listened.”
Camilla flushed and tried to remember how many cups of that punch she had drunk. Three? Four? To drink even one was unladylike behavior. The more she thought about it, the more she was inclined to believe that she had been under the influence of the drink when she’d agreed to this scheme. No wonder they called it demon rum.
“Yes, it was Mr. Sedgewick’s scheme, of course,” she said primly, “but it was my story to begin with, and I am the one who hired you. That means that you follow my orders, not tell me what to do.”
“If yo
u think that I am going to let a snip of a girl run my life, you are sadly mistaken,” Benedict retorted, dropping his teasing manner. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and looked straight down into her eyes, saying in a cold voice, “You may be paying me money, and it may be your idiotic little story that we are playing out here. But I am in this thing, like it or not, and as long as I am, I plan to make sure that it goes as smoothly and cleanly as possible. You and your aunt have obviously already created a tissue of lies that everyone, including Mrs. Elliot, could see through. I am sure that the only one who is convinced of the truth of it is your poor sick grandfather, who no doubt chooses to be deluded.”
Camilla drew in her breath sharply, but he put his hand over her lips.
“No. Hear me out. If you have any sense at all, which is something I rather doubt about your aunt Lydia, then you saw tonight that Mrs. Elliot did not believe your story. The girls look like ninnies, so perhaps they do. I am undecided about the dandy and the other two men—though I cannot believe that anyone could be quite as foolish as that poet fellow appears. The important thing is that your aunt does not believe you. And unless I am gravely in error, she would love nothing more than to prove to your grandfather that you are lying. So it is up to us to make sure that she does not have any opportunity to do so.”
“Of course. That is what I intend to do. It is why I hired you. But that has nothing to do with your suddenly acting as if you were in charge.”
Benedict released an exasperated sigh. “I don’t intend to be part of a botched operation. If we are going to do this, then we are going to do it right.”
“Are you saying that I cannot do it right?” Camilla inquired icily.
He ignored her tone, saying reasonably, “No, not that you can’t. But up until now you have not. I hope that you are capable of doing so, because if you are not, we’re doomed.”