Beryl considered her for a moment, then sighed. “Good Lord.”
“What?”
“Nothing. No indeed. Not a thing.” She shook her head. “Well, I should rescue Mother, or perhaps Nikolai—not that they look like they need rescuing. But it is my turn to flirt with the prince.” She squared her shoulders. “Not a bad way to spend the evening, really. He is most enjoyable to look at, and I do love his accent. All that smiling and nodding does tend to wear on one, however.”
Camille laughed. “Your sacrifice is most appreciated. And I shall begin making amends with our sister.”
“You’re such a better person than I am.”
“Someone has to be.”
Beryl took a step, then turned back to her sister. “Where did you get this idea? About Delilah, that is?”
“Grayson mentioned it,” she said in an offhand manner.
“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he?” Beryl said under her breath, smiled halfheartedly and crossed the room to join Nikolai and the ladies.
What on earth did she mean by that? Her gaze settled on Grayson and Delilah. One couldn’t fault him for being observant. Or for being a genuinely nice person. And he was truly trying to provide his assistance. Oh, certainly he had arranged for the influx of orphans, and that did lead one to wonder if he was trying to help or hinder her efforts. Regardless, it could have been nothing more than a stupid mistake on his part. Thinking orphans would add to the farce—how utterly absurd. But he hadn’t shirked responsibility when she had handed over the boys to him. In truth, he had behaved exactly as the doting uncle he was supposed to be. Indeed, if he hadn’t seemed to be enjoying the children quite so much, Camille would have considered him the best actor in the cast.
Except for Camille herself, of course. All evening she had walked a fine line with Nikolai between friendly flirtation and obvious avoidance. It was not at all easy and now her head ached from the effort. Once again, she sent silent thanks in Miss Murdock’s direction. The young actress did an excellent job of monopolizing Nikolai’s attentions.
Still, while she refused to let herself believe all was going well, there was nothing at all dangerous about counting the days until Christmas. In that, she was like the children asleep in the nursery.
It did seem that Christmas would never come.
All in all, it was an interesting evening and relatively uneventful, if one discounted the arrival of the real Ladies Briston and Hargate. Gray resisted the urge to chuckle. That was one development Camille had not counted on. Still, she handled it well enough—with his help, of course. He wasn’t about to let this farce of hers be her undoing.
He poured himself a brandy and watched Camille chat with her younger sister and her fraudulent family members. It looked as though she had taken his comments about Delilah to heart. In spite of his absence for all these years, the rift between the sisters was obvious. As well as a shame. His uncle had told him that he and Gray’s father had once suffered an estrangement of sorts, and he was eternally grateful they’d settled their differences before his brother’s death. It was a lesson that had stayed with Gray: One never knew how much time one had to make amends. His gaze lingered on Camille. Pity it had taken him so long to realize that lesson applied to him as well.
“There’s something not quite right about him, isn’t there?” Lady Briston said beside him. He wondered how long she’d been standing there.
“Who?”
“Camille’s prince, of course.”
Gray nodded. “You noticed that too?”
“My dear boy.” She gave him a pitying look. “I have encountered far too many displaced royals in my life not to be able to tell when one is less than genuine. It is fortunate, then . . .” She paused, apparently having thought better of what she was about to say.
“Yes?”
“Just a random thought. Of no real significance.” She sipped her brandy and studied Pruzinsky. “It is a pity, though.”
“Why?”
“Dear Lord, Grayson, have you looked at the man?” She had the look in her eyes of a gourmand who had just spotted a delectable morsel. “I’m not sure I have ever met a living, breathing man who looks as tasty as that one does.”
“I see.”
She slanted him a sharp glance. “You thought I was going to say it was a shame because I wish to have a prince in the family.”
He started to deny it, then thought better of it and nodded.
“I can’t deny the idea of being connected to royalty has a particular appeal, but my daughters are no longer children. They each married well the first time.” She slanted him a sharp glance. “As their mother, it was my duty to make certain they did so.”
“Of course,” he murmured.
“At this point in their lives, however, they are more than capable of making their own decisions. And I expect them to do so. I am not one of those mothers who interferes. My daughters are all intelligent, financially independent, and they are free to do exactly as they wish. Delilah is still trying to decide exactly what that is, of course, but she is still fairly young. Beryl’s second marriage has turned out not at all as she expected and she appears quite happy. As for Camille, aside from not yet having conquered her tendency toward impulse, she, too, is searching, I think.”
“Perhaps she has found what she is looking for.”
“Goodness, Grayson, if you really believed that, you wouldn’t be here.” She glanced at him. “Why are you here?”
“I am simply trying to lend my assistance to a friend.”
“Yes, that was my guess.” She paused. “We can’t allow her to marry him if he’s not what he says he is.”
“What happened to your daughters being more than capable of making their own decisions?”
“ ‘Capable’ and ‘correct’ are two entirely different things. Can I trust you to stop this?”
“Why me?”
“For two reasons, I suppose. One, it keeps me from being an interfering mother.”
He laughed. “Well, then, I have no choice.”
“Why have you not declared yourself?” she said in an offhand manner.
“What?” He stared at her.
“You heard me.” She sighed. “I am not a stupid woman, dear boy. Camille may not see it, but I do. I suspect Beryl does as well.” She paused. “Although she is obviously not pleased about it.”
“About what?” Caution edged his words.
“About reason number two. About the way you cannot take your eyes off Camille. About the look in your eyes when your gaze settles on her, or when her gaze meets yours. I doubt that anyone, besides Beryl and myself, has noticed. They do not forgive easily—my daughters, that is. Nor do I.” She sipped her brandy thoughtfully. “I suspect it is one of those things that is passed from mother to daughter, from generation to generation. Nonetheless, we expect forgiveness to be earned.”
“I am trying.”
“Yes, of course, by being her friend. And is that going well?”
“I was able to explain your appearance.”
“My, you are quick-witted. No doubt that explains how you made that lovely fortune of yours.” She paused for a long moment. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “I have encouraged my daughters, steered them in the proper direction, as it were, but I have never forced them to do anything. I daresay, I couldn’t have, even if I tried. Perhaps you never noticed, but they are all annoyingly strong-willed.” She smiled in a smug manner. “Yet something else apparently passed from mother to daughter.”
“I still have no idea what you are trying to say.”
“I am trying to say I did not force Camille to marry Harold. Had I known her affections were engaged elsewhere, I might, possibly, have tried to dissuade her.”
He stared in stunned silence.
“Do not misunderstand my words, Grayson. I thought Harold was the righ
t man for Camille at the time. Marrying for love has never seemed to me to be quite as sensible as marriage for more practical considerations. I lost any belief I might have had in true love and souls fated to be together, and all that sort of nonsense, longer ago than I can remember. However . . .” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “While you could not have provided for her the way he could, she would not have starved either. Your uncle, as I recall, had plans for your future. But it was not until long after she was wed that I had any idea about her feelings for you, as well as what passed between the two of you before her wedding.”
“Camille told you about that?”
She shook her head. “Camille never said a word. Beryl told me.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” he said slowly.
“Some things never change, apparently.” She cast him a pointed look. “One hopes you have changed in other ways. A better sense of timing, if nothing else. Still, as you have done well for yourself, one might expect that you would not be quite as willing to give up now, as you once were.”
“Are you giving me your approval?” He forced a casual note to his voice. “To pursue your daughter?”
“Don’t be absurd. You don’t need my approval or my permission. Nor does she. I do try not to interfere.”
“Of course not.”
“However, I am more than willing to offer advice.”
“And I am most willing to listen.” He paused. “Do you have some? Advice, that is?”
“Nothing you don’t already know. I would tell you not to be an idiot, to pursue what you want. But I cannot tell you how to win Camille’s hand, or heart, if you prefer, because I don’t really know how to do that. It is obviously something you must determine for yourself.” She thought for a moment. “There is one other thing. Not advice, exactly, but something you should know.”
“Yes?”
“If you are so lucky as to earn Camille’s forgiveness or Beryl’s or mine, for that matter, you should know one mistake might possibly be allowed. Another would be intolerable. Do keep that in mind, Grayson. And try not to muck up again.”
“Yes, Lady Briston.”
“Now, now, dear.” She sipped her brandy. “At the moment, you may call me ‘Mother.’ ”
Grayson smiled.
“It appears everyone is ready to retire.” Camille joined them. “I know I am. It has been an exceptionally long day.”
Lady Briston considered her daughter closely. “You look dreadfully tired, dear. A good night’s sleep will do you a world of good.”
“Yes, well . . .” Camille’s gaze caught Gray’s; then she quickly looked away. A firm note sounded in her voice. “That is my intention. A good night’s sleep. In my own bed. Alone.”
“I do hope that wasn’t for my benefit,” Lady Briston said.
Gray hoped it was for his. Nice to think that Camille wanted him to know she was not sharing a bed with Pruzinsky—even if Beryl had already told him as much. Still, Camille wanting him to know, as well, struck him as a very good sign. Was she coming to her senses about the man? And, more important, about Gray?
Camille ignored her. “Tomorrow shall be very nearly as busy as today. What with decorating the house, and the children, and all.”
“Who are these children everyone is talking about?” Lady Briston frowned in annoyance.
“Lovely little boys from the village. Here just for the night. You shall meet them tomorrow.” Camille smiled sweetly. “Their presence was Grayson’s doing.”
“But Winfield procured them,” he said quickly. “They’re the butcher’s children.”
“Goodness.” Her gaze shifted between Camille and Gray. “The two of you sound like children again. The butcher’s children, you say?”
Camille nodded, obviously aware of what was coming. Gray grinned.
“Mr. Carroll? Then we have Carrolls at Christmastime?” Lady Briston chuckled. “My, my, Grayson, how clever of you. And Winfield, of course.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Mother.”
Camille shot him a startled glance.
“Camille, darling, this just gets better and better.”
Camille sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a compliment, dear, simply an observation. Although . . .” She cast a considering glance at the rest of the gathering. “It does seem to be going well.”
Camille winced.
“You should be pleased,” Lady Briston continued. “Why, this is really quite a triumph, darling.”
“It’s not Christmas yet, Mother.”
And the day after, Camille intended to leave with Pruzinsky. She’d challenged Gray to be the man he had become, and he intended to do just that. One way or another, he’d keep Camille from making the worst mistake of her life and convince her to forgive him for the worst mistake of his.
The man he had become would not lose the love of his life. Not this time.
Not this Christmas.
December 23rd
Eighteen
“You there, boy number two,” Mother called to Simon, who was perched halfway up the main stairway. “Move that branch a bit to your right, if you please.” She sighed. “No, dear, your other right.”
Gray felt a tug on his pants and glanced down. Walter stared up at him. “Yes?”
“If she puts those branches and leaves and ribbons all over the banister, it wouldn’t be any good to anyone, you know.” Walter stared accusingly up at him.
The older boys were assisting in the decoration; the twins were in the kitchen being fed gingerbread and other Christmas treats. Fortesque had confided that his wife had been up much of the night making all sorts of Christmas delights. Gray had sampled the gingerbread, pronounced it excellent and had broached the subject of Mrs. Fortesque becoming his cook. With appropriate living quarters for the couple, of course, and the possibility of a small stipend for Mr. Fortesque, as well, so that he could continue to pursue his acting career. Something in the nature of artistic patronage, Gray had said, and Mr. Fortesque agreed to discuss it with his wife. After all, while Gray and Camille had agreed to offer Mrs. Fortesque the same salary, there was no prohibition against offering wages for her husband as well.
“I do so apologize, Walter, but the ladies apparently wish to decorate every spare surface.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.”
“Father says when a woman gets something into her head . . .” On Gray’s other side, Thomas shook his head in a forlorn manner. “There’s nothing a man can do but lend a hand or move out of the way.”
“Your father is a very wise man,” Gray said.
Walter snickered. “That’s not what Mother says. Mother says—”
“Perhaps it would be best if you kept that to yourself.” Gray chuckled.
“Boys number one and three,” Lady Briston commanded. Apparently, she was no better at names than Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, although she did remember her own. “Do be so good as to fetch those swags in the corner and bring them to me.”
Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh; then he and Walter scurried to do as she asked.
Lady Briston, the children and the maids were busy with the banister and stairway, while Beryl had Pruzinsky and the rest of the actors decorating the main parlor. Camille balanced on a ladder directing the footman hanging ribbon-bedecked garlands of holly from the gallery railing. Gray moved closer to steady the ladder.
Camille glanced down. “I do hope you are not looking at my ankles, Grayson Elliott.”
“But they are such lovely ankles, Camille.” As were, no doubt, the legs attached to them and all else beyond. His stomach tightened.
“Thank you,” she said in a prim manner, and descended the ladder. She reached the floor and stood so close to him that she was nearly in his arms. A challenge gleamed in her eyes. “Are you going to move, or do I have to shove you out of the way?”
He smiled into her eyes. “But I quite like where I am standing.”
Her breath caught. “Grayson, I don’t know what you are thinking, but this is . . . It’s most inappropriate, that’s what it is.”
He could smell the fresh scent of her hair, even over the scent of evergreen, which hung in the air. “I suspect you know exactly what I am thinking.”
“Well, I am not thinking the same thing,” she said in a firm tone, but made no effort to push past him.
He smiled. “I was simply wondering where you intend to put the mistletoe. We gathered quite a lot of it, you know.”
“I did notice that. Rather an excessive amount, don’t you think?”
“It is Christmas, after all.” His gaze locked with hers. “Where will you hang it?”
“Where?” For a long moment, she stared at him, a hint of confusion and even—dare he hope—a touch of longing in her eyes. At last she shook her head, as if to clear it, then stepped away. “Somewhere safe.”
“ ‘Safe’?”
“Yes, safe,” she said sharply. “Somewhere discreet. I don’t want it all over the house where the unsuspecting might encounter it every time they turn around and be compelled to kiss someone they would prefer not to kiss.”
“That is, however, the purpose of mistletoe.” He chuckled. “I must commend you, Camille. The house is beginning to look as it did at Christmas when we were young.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Her expression eased and she glanced around. “I always loved this house at Christmas, with the ivy and holly and ribbons everywhere.” She smiled. “I always thought it was very nearly perfect.”
“That is what you want. A perfect Christmas.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Indeed, it is.”
“Although I’m not sure ‘perfect’ can be achieved.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Well . . .”
“What is it now?”
“Perhaps you’re not aware, but this morning I found your mother rehearsing a scene from Romeo and Juliet with Mr. Henderson.”
“Good Lord.” She grimaced. “Was she . . .”
“Juliet.” He nodded.
“And Mr. Henderson?”
What Happens At Christmas (Millworth Manor series Book 1) Page 23