by Liz Carlyle
“Do you remember, Camille, that story you once told me? About being a kidnapped princess?”
She nodded. “A child’s fantasy. Lonely children have a great many, I fear.”
He set his hands lightly on her shoulders. “But if you think about it, Camille, this one turned out to be true,” said Kieran. “You really had been kidnapped by the evil Comte de Valigny. You really were stolen from your father. Perhaps…Perhaps something deep in your heart knew that all along? Perhaps you always knew that something was missing?”
Camille had never before thought of it in that way. It sounded tragic indeed. “Ah, but there is one difference between the fantasy and the reality,” she said, her face brightening. “In reality, it was not my kingly father who rescued me from the evil comte, but instead a dark and dashing prince—the Black Prince, I shall call him.”
“And you, my dear, are my Black Queen,” he answered, his gaze holding hers. “That, at least, is how I once thought of you. So dark. So aloof and so utterly regal in your disdain of me. Indeed, you made me feel like a lowly commoner by comparison.”
“Kieran, mon cœur, you will never be that,” she murmured, her eyes searching his face. “Every morning when I awake to find you beside me, I feel rich beyond measure. It occurred to me yet again today when Papa arrived unexpectedly. How very blessed I am to have the three of you in my life when, little more than a year ago, I had nothing. No, less than nothing.”
Her husband shook his head. “No, my dear,” he answered. “It is the three of us who are fortunate, for we have you, the center of our little universe. The thing around which we all revolve. The thing which gives us light and warmth.”
She looked away, a little embarrassed by the fervor in his voice. After more than a year of marriage, Kieran was still a serious man of few words, but from time to time…yes, he could say enough to set her to blushing.
“How very silly you are today, my dear,” she said, returning to her desk. “Now, do not let the time get away from you. Mr. Hayden-Worth is still expecting you for luncheon, n’es-ce pas?”
Kieran’s expression shifted to one which was far more serious. “Yes, we are to dine with the Anti-Slavery Society at one.” Swiftly, he glanced at the clock. “Mr. Buxton plans to bolster his push for abolition, and we want to see how we can help.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Camille stridently. “Why won’t Parliament simply act? Can anyone doubt the rightness of Buxton’s cause?”
Kieran shook his head, his eyes grim. “Whitehall is dragging its heels by continuing to negotiate with the colonial governments,” he said, beginning to sort mechanically through his post. “Hayden-Worth says it is time we built the fire a little hotter, and I am beginning to agree.”
Camille lifted her eyebrows. Indeed,” she murmured. “What sort of fire does Anthony have in mind, I wonder?”
“Buxton says we must take our case to the British public.” As if the post could not hold his attention, Kieran tossed it down and went to the window which looked out over the Pool of London. “Once the people understand what slavery is, Camille,” he said, staring out into the cold brilliance of the morning, “once our citizens see that simply stopping the slave trade was not enough, and that the horrors will go on until we have total abolition—then Parliament will have to act. The pressure will simply be too great.”
Camille joined him at the window and stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder. It was how they lived now. The very foundation of their marriage. Shoulder to shoulder.
She was so very proud of him, and of his many efforts—here, helping Xanthia at Neville’s. At home with the estate and all the other business interests which required his constant attention. But she was especially proud of his new association with Anthony Hayden-Worth, a politician who was still young enough and energetic enough to think all the world’s ills could be fixed if one simply worked hard enough. Perhaps he was right.
“With Anthony in the Commons, and you and Nash in the Lords…” she said musingly. “Well, the three of you will make a formidable force, I think, allied with Mr. Buxton.”
He turned to face her, his smile faint. “And speaking of that alliance, I suppose I’d best head back to Westminster.” He paused to embrace her again. “I shall just go and kiss Isabella, then see you both at home, shall I?”
“Kieran, wait,” she said, following him as he strode toward the door. “What am I to do with all these oranges?”
He regarded her a little sheepishly. “You know, I’ve a desperate wish for one of Obelienne’s orange sponge cakes,” he confessed. “After all, I am not precisely fat yet. And I thought—well, I thought if we mashed one of the oranges up with a little sugar, perhaps Isabella might think it a great treat?”
“Oh, Kieran, she is still far too young!” Camille laughed. “Besides, Isabella is not a pet, you know, to be fed wicked tidbits from your pockets. And speaking of wicked tidbits, did you by chance slip Chin-Chin one of those overspiced kippers this morning?”
Kieran’s expression went blank.
Camille shot him a warning look. “Oh, don’t come the innocent with me, my dear,” she said darkly. “They are perfectly indigestible, as Mr. Kemble says. Trammel found the resulting evidence next to the sideboard—and it stained the carpet, I might add.”
Kieran drew her back into his arms and kissed her again, this time more thoroughly. “Don’t scold,” he said when at last their lips parted. “I warned you, my dear, when you agreed to marry me.”
“What?” she demanded. “What, precisely, did you warn me of?”
“That I was a very wicked man,” he said. “And hopelessly unrepentant.”
“Well,” said Camille, her eyes twinkling, “that, at very least, will make Chin-Chin happy. After all, he actually approves of your bad habits.”