He turned toward the shelves, then thought better of it. If Miss Murdock noticed he had gone to the library, after all, she might well follow him. No, he could return to the library in the morning for this.
A few minutes later, he was in his room—a room with a distinct lack of frills and fripperies obviously designed for a male inhabitant. A spacious four-poster bed dominated the space, accompanied by a large wardrobe, matching dresser and comfortable chairs positioned before the fireplace. It was directly across the hall from Camille’s room and well worth the money he had paid to a footman. After all, if he was going to help Camille, it would be wise to stay as close to her as possible.
His bag was sitting untouched on the bed. In a fully staffed household, it would have been unpacked and his clothing attended to, although someone had seen to the fire and he was grateful for that. He smiled and opened his bag. Fending for himself was a small price to pay for being at Millworth Manor. In truth, he hadn’t had a valet since he had left Fairborough Hall. But if he was to remain in England, a valet would be expected for a man in his position. As would an appropriate house in the country and a respectable place in town and . . .
When had he decided to stay in England? The thought pulled him up short. He had told his uncle he wasn’t sure if he had returned home for good. Indeed, he even had passage back to America. Now he had apparently decided. He unpacked his bag, including a copy of The Innocents Abroad, so appropriate for travel, and considered the matter. Why not stay? England was home and today he had realized how much he had missed it. Still, he was not a man used to making impulsive decisions.
But hadn’t Win said that his letters in recent years indicated he would at last be returning home? Perhaps this was a decision he had been coming to for some time. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed right.
He put his clothes away in the wardrobe and dresser and removed his jacket. For a man who prided himself on not acting on impulse, he had introduced himself as Camille’s cousin without a second thought. That, too, now seemed right.
He may not be a prince, but as her friend, he had her best interests at heart. And the best way to protect her was to spend Christmas, and every night until then, in her house.
Try as he might, he couldn’t get Beryl’s charge out of his head. How had he broken Camille’s heart? She had been the one to reject him. He was the one whose hopes and dreams had been crushed. He was the one with a broken heart. How could anyone think otherwise? How could she?
Camille refused to talk about the past. However, Beryl’s charge, coupled with Win’s reassessment of what had passed between him and Camille years ago, as well as the discovery that she was still angry at him—well, there was definitely much unfinished between them. There were things he needed to know, and no doubt things she needed to know as well, although she was probably too stubborn to admit it. It was past time they cleared the air between them. And perhaps when they did, he could finally put her out of his head once and for all. If indeed that was what he still wanted.
He stepped to his door, yanked it open and froze.
“Good evening, Cousin.”
Ten
“Finished so soon?” he said in a casual manner.
“Oh, I know my part, Cousin.” Miss Murdock smiled up at him in a wicked manner. “And I know yours.”
He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. Even if he was mistaken as to her intentions, it was far wiser to deal with her in the relative safety of the still-lit public corridor rather than his private bedroom. He didn’t know if the actors/servants had forgotten to extinguish the sconces or had not yet gotten around to it. Regardless, he was grateful. “I am nothing more than a distant cousin come for Christmas.”
“Very distant.”
There was no mistaking the look in her eyes. He was right: She was dangerous. Not that under other circumstances, he wouldn’t be tempted. There was much to be said for dangerous women.
“And yet . . .” She reached out a finger and ran it down the middle of his shirt. “Such an important role and you play it so well. I thought perhaps we could rehearse. Together. I’m certain we could both benefit.”
“Be that as it may.” He caught her hand against his chest and grinned down at her. She scarcely came up to his chin. “I don’t need rehearsal, remember?”
“Then perhaps you have a good book I might borrow.” She pressed closer against him, trapping their hands between them. “I do so love a good book before bed.”
“Yes, you mentioned that earlier. I am sorry.” He shook his head regretfully. “I doubt that I have a book that would interest you.”
“Certainly, you have something of interest in there. We needn’t read, you know. We could, oh, talk.”
“Miss Murdock—”
“Edwina.” She raised up on her toes and brushed her lips across his. “You should call me Edwina.”
“Ah, Miss Murdock, as flattered as I am, that wouldn’t be at all proper, now would it?”
“But we are family, aren’t we, Cousin Grayson?”
He chuckled. “Very well, then, Edwina.”
“I knew it when I first saw you. Even as handsome as you are, you’re not an actor, are you?”
“I am through Christmas.”
“And then?”
“Then I go back to being Mr. Grayson Elliott, who is not an actor.”
“What are you, then?”
“Nothing more than a man of business.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re one of those captains of industry, aren’t you?”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“You’re obviously a gentleman of quality.”
“Yes, well, I suppose one could say that.” He gazed down at her. “While it is most delightful to have you pressed against me like this, it might be best if we didn’t stand quite so close together.”
“Why?”
“Yes, Grayson, do tell, why?”
He raised his head. Camille stood in her doorway, arms folded over her chest, leaning against the doorjamb. She was obviously ready for bed, wearing a robe that, while eminently practical, was, nonetheless, surprisingly tantalizing. Beneath it, her nightwear buttoned nearly to her chin. In the back of his mind, he noted how the glorious redhead pressed against him triggered little more than amusement, but the sight of Camille in sensible nightwear sped up his heart.
Edwina heaved a frustrated sigh and stepped back. “Well, that’s that, then.”
On one hand, he would prefer not to be caught by Camille in what appeared to be a compromising position; on the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have her realize not every woman found him annoying. He smiled down at Edwina. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Camille said dryly.
“Frankly, Camille, if there was something to stop, we would be in my room rather than here. As we aren’t”—he smiled—“there’s nothing to stop.”
“Pity,” Edwina said under her breath.
“It’s none of my concern, really.” Camille shrugged. “I simply thought I heard something in the corridor, that’s all.”
“The prince, perhaps?”
Camille’s eyes narrowed. “That would be none of your concern.”
Edwina’s gaze slid from Gray to Camille and back. Even the young actress could no doubt sense the tension, which now hung in the air. “Well, if you don’t have a book to loan me, after all, Mr. Elliott, I believe I shall go to my room. Good evening.” She nodded a bow to Camille and hurried off down the hall.
“I do hope I didn’t ruin your evening.” Camille’s gaze followed Edwina.
“As I said, there was nothing to ruin.”
“Am I to assume that was by your choice? It’s obvious that was not what Miss Murdock had in mind.”
“You may assume whatever you wish. You will, anyway.” He chuckled. “But I have no interest in Miss Murdock.”
She stared for a moment, then laughed. “Oh, come now, Grayson. Miss M
urdock is not only attractive, but she is extraordinarily willing as well. Why, she practically exudes willingness around her like a fog of cheap perfume. That is not a combination most men can easily resist.”
“I didn’t say it was easy.”
“No doubt.” She paused. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“If you like red-haired vixens with the figures of goddesses, flawless skin and long lashes.”
“And do you?”
“A man would have to be dead not to.”
“I see. Not that it’s any of my business,” she added quickly. “Not really.”
He studied her curiously. She was not nearly as unconcerned as she would like him to think. “I believe you mentioned that.”
“I simply want to make certain you understand. You may certainly do as you wish regarding Miss Murdock. Or any woman, for that matter.”
“Thank you for granting me permission.”
She drew her brows together. “You are being deliberately annoying now, aren’t you?”
“Not deliberately.”
“Then it’s a natural gift of yours?”
He chuckled. “Apparently.”
“I know you find this all so amusing.”
“It’s hard not to.” He grinned. “Surely, even you can admit some of it has been most amusing.”
“Not in the least,” she said in a lofty manner.
“Come now, Camille.” He stepped closer. “You can’t tell me Mrs. Montgomery-Wells not being able to remember your mother’s given name isn’t amusing.”
“Not at all.”
“Or that Henderson’s unending and, for the most part, fabricated stories aren’t cause for at least a bit of a smile?”
“No. In fact, I find Mr. Henderson’s ability to completely dominate the conversation to be of great benefit,” she said firmly, but the corners of her lips twitched as if she were indeed holding back a smile.
“And certainly Miss Murdock’s unrelenting charm—”
“There is nothing about Miss Murdock I find the tiniest bit amusing.”
“Not even wondering how appalled the real and eminently proper Delilah would be at the actress’s version of her? At least according to the comments Win has written about her. Unless, of course, your younger sister has changed in that respect.”
“No, if anything, she is even more stuffy than she used to be. And, yes, admittedly, that thought is cause for a modicum of amusement.” Camille bit her lip, but laughter danced in her eyes. “Good God, Grayson, she would be apoplectic if she knew of Miss Murdock’s portrayal. I gave all the actors detailed information on the parts they were to play, you know. I can’t imagine how she came to the conclusion that Delilah is something of a tart.”
The tiniest twinge of guilt stabbed him. He ignored it and shook his head. “You know actors. They are a mysterious lot.”
“Yes, I suppose.” She paused. “In spite of the fact that you and Miss Murdock—”
“There is no me and Miss Murdock.”
“Regardless.” She waved off his comment. “While it is none of my concern, I would be most appreciative if you would refrain from any dalliances with her while you are here. It’s very important to me to have this family look as proper and respectable as possible.”
“Because you wish to marry the prince?”
She hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second, but it was enough. She nodded. “Yes, of course, that’s exactly what I want.”
“Then I shall do everything I can to assist you,” he said in as gallant a manner as he could muster.
She studied him for a moment. “You do realize that I still don’t trust you?”
“It’s completely understandable.” He nodded. “But I shall endeavor to earn your trust.”
“Thank you.” She paused. “I fear I owe you something of an apology as well.”
“Oh?”
“I have, perhaps, not been as gracious to you as I should have been. Your arrival took me by surprise. Well, it was a shock really.” She twisted her hands together in a nervous fashion. “I must confess you were the last person I expected. . . .”
“To be in your parlor?”
“To ever see again. There were things I had planned to say, and, well, I had thought . . . It scarcely matters now what I had thought.” She shrugged. “But we were friends once and I should have at least been polite.”
“No apology is necessary.” He smiled and took her hand. “I hope we still are . . . friends, that is.”
She met his gaze directly, but didn’t pull her hand from his. “Shall I be perfectly honest?”
“Aren’t you always?”
She grimaced. “Apparently not, as I am trying to pass off a house filled with less than accomplished actors as my family.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t know if we can be friends again, but perhaps we could try. I have, on rare occasions, missed being your friend.”
“Excellent.” It was a beginning and he couldn’t ask for more than that. Could he? “I have a confession to make as well.”
“Go on, then.”
“This afternoon, when you asked if I intended to kiss you . . .”
She started to pull her hand away, but he held firm.
“And I said no, it was the truth.”
“That’s scarcely much of a confession.”
“Now, however”—he stared into her blue eyes—“I do.”
“You do what?” Caution rang in her voice.
“Intend to kiss you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Now?”
He nodded. “Now would be a good time, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone is abed and we are alone.”
“No.” She huffed. “Why do you intend to kiss me?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Yes.”
“What man wouldn’t want to kiss you? You are more desirable and lovelier now than you were eleven years ago.”
“Flattery, Grayson, will not get you what you want.”
He smiled slowly. “What will?”
“Honesty, perhaps.” She studied him. “If I recall, we always had honesty between us. Or almost always.”
“Very well, then.” He pulled her into his arms and gazed down at her. “I kissed you once, and I should like to kiss you again, because I wish to know if a second kiss can live up to the memory of the first. I remember a great deal about that kiss.”
Her brows drew together. “And you wish to see if it’s the same?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s absurd.” She shrugged as best she could in his arms.
“You kissed me back.”
“Not that I recall,” she said coolly.
“Oh, but I remember. Quite clearly. I remember the softness of your lips beneath mine.” He brushed his lips across hers.
“I don’t recall that either.”
“Then perhaps you remember how your body melted against mine.” He pulled her tighter against him.
“No.” A vague breathlessness in her voice belied her words. “Not at all.”
“What a pity. Well, I know you won’t remember what else I can recall, because it is my memory and mine alone.” He shifted his head and kissed a spot on her neck right below her ear. She shivered and he smiled against her skin.
“I do remember you didn’t do that,” she said with a slight gasp.
“Unfortunately not,” he murmured against her skin. “I remember you tasted faintly of cinnamon and you smelled of violets. Did you know you taste of cinnamon?”
“Utter nonsense,” she said weakly.
“And I remember, when my lips pressed to yours, I wanted it to go on forever.”
“I don’t. . . .”
“Oh, but I do.” Before she could protest, he pressed his lips to hers. For a moment, there was no response; then her mouth opened to his. He angled his mouth over hers and deepened the kiss. The lightest scent of violets surrounded him and the past engulfed him. She
tasted as he remembered, the faintest hint of cinnamon, warm with a touch of brandy. And more, of chances lost and promises never made. Her arms slipped around him and she clung to him. And she tasted, as well, perhaps of hope and beginning anew. His heart beat faster and he knew everything he had denied was true.
And now, as then, she kissed him back.
At last he raised his head and smiled down at her. “Pity you don’t remember.”
For a long moment, she stared up at him, desire and uncertainty in her eyes. Finally she smiled apologetically. “I am sorry, but I don’t remember.”
Surprise and disbelief coursed through him. Surely, even she wasn’t as good an actress as that. “Are you certain?”
She nodded reluctantly. “My apologies, but I’m quite certain.”
He released her and took a step back. “I don’t believe you.”
“It was just a kiss, Grayson, nothing more than that.”
“Nothing?”
“Not that I can recall, which would seem to be an indication that it was not”—she winced—“significant.”
He studied her closely. “Not earth-shattering, then?”
“Apparently not.”
“Or life altering.”
“Don’t be silly.” She shrugged. “It was just a kiss, not unlike any other kiss.”
“Not something you will remember for the rest of your days?”
“Not the first or the second.”
He studied her for a long moment; then he blew a relieved breath. She wasn’t the only good actor here. “That is a relief.”
“ ‘A relief’?” She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I would feel dreadful if you had been pining for me all these years because of a mere kiss.”
“ ‘Pining’?” Camille scoffed. “I have certainly not pined. I haven’t given your kiss or you a second thought.”
“You did pale a bit when you first saw me.”
“Only because, as I had not heard from you for eleven years—eleven years—I thought surely you were dead. Understandably, I thought I was seeing a ghost.” Her eyes narrowed. “After all, when a man kisses you and makes the kind of declaration you made, then vanishes from your life without another word, one assumes he must be dead. Or perhaps”—her jaw tightened—“one simply hopes he is.”
What Happens At Christmas (Millworth Manor series Book 1) Page 13