The Australian Heiress (7 page)

“Ah, so you two have met.” He looked down at his daughter, his face breaking into that beautiful smile. The love and tenderness in his expression quite threw Camille, who hadn’t the slightest wish to soften her opinion of him.

“I’m
so
sorry, Mr. Lombard.” Miss Larkins had followed them upstairs and now rushed into an apology. “I turned my back on Melissa for just a moment…”

“Aren’t you a wicked girl!” Nick Lombard looked unconcerned. He held out his arms, and Melissa ran into them delightedly.

He scooped her up and held her so protectively it
almost stopped Camille’s heart. “It’s all right, Miss Larkins,” he said casually. “I’ll tuck my daughter in. Miss Guilford can help me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Resentment flickered a moment and was gone. “I’ll say good-night, then. Pleasant dreams, Melissa. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You don’t need to. It’s Saturday, and Emmy is going to show me how to make brownies.”

Her father tut-tutted as he carried her to her room. “Do you think you can behave yourself for just ten minutes?”

Camille followed them, quietly observing.

Melissa buried her face in her father’s neck. “I love you, Daddy,” she said, her little face lit with intense feeling.

“You’d better!” He made as if to drop her.

“Camille doesn’t want to marry you, you know. She said so.”

“I knew that without being told,” he answered dryly. “Actually Camille doesn’t like me at all.”

“Oh, she does!” Melissa giggled as if her father had made a joke. “Clare said all the women are mad for you.”

“Except me,” Camille intervened tartly.

Melissa’s bedroom was enormous, the general impression one of splendor. It was a bedroom befitting a princess, but Camille could see how a little girl might find it overwhelming.

“See, Camille?” Melissa gestured with one arm.

“See what?” Her father set her down on the huge canopied four-poster that was magnificent if seen through the eyes of an adult. Nick Lombard tucked his
daughter’s feet in and drew up the covers, while the child gazed up into his face.

“I told Camille I didn’t like my room, Daddy.”

“I would never have guessed it.” He sounded genuinely surprised.

“I know, because I told you I
did.
”

“So you were just trying to please me? That was silly. If you don’t like it, we can change it. You know that. What is it you don’t like?”

The rich ambience suited
him
perfectly, but Camille decided to help out the hesitant Melissa. “Perhaps it’s too big,” she suggested. “It’s a very beautiful room. I’m sure Melissa is going to love it when she’s older, but for the time being it’s a little grand. Has perhaps too much atmosphere. Children have such imaginations.”

“Indeed.” He stood framed by the golden light, obviously considering. “And I bought the bed
specially.”

“It’s wonderful!” Camille moved closer, winding an appreciative arm around one of the beautifully carved posts. “But perhaps something a little smaller…without the canopy?”

“Is that all right, Daddy?” Melissa asked in an anxious voice.

“Of course it’s all right.” He stood staring at his daughter, then into Camille’s beautiful face. She was wearing some light sweet fragrance that drifted beguilingly.

“I like
painted
furniture,” Melissa said. She sounded like a different child. Happy, excited.

“I can see creams and sunshine yellow,” Camille offered, smiling.

“Oh, yes!” Melissa gave Camille a grateful glance. “Yellow is a lovely color. My best dress is yellow. Aunty Elizabeth sent it to me. She lives in Melbourne. She’s Lady Wyatt, you know.”

“My sister,” Nick Lombard explained unnecessarily. Camille knew of the connection, as did most people. Peter Wyatt, QC, had recently been appointed to the High Court.

“Why don’t you think about it, Melissa, while you doze off,” Camille suggested. “I’m sure there’s another bedroom in the house that would be perfect. You could paint it any color you like. Have pretty curtains and cushions, a matching quilted bedspread. New furniture and a desk. You’d want to do your reading and writing there.”

“That would be great!” Melissa came close to beaming. “It’s what I
want.”

“Well,” Nick said, “we
do
have a lot to thank Camille for.” He bent to kiss his daughter good-night.

“I’m so glad she came tonight!” Melissa declared.

“So am I. I only wish you’d mentioned that you didn’t like your room to me before.”

“Miss Larkins said I should never complain.”

“If you don’t like something, you must come to me,” her father said. “Miss Larkins is here to look after you, but
I’m
the boss.”

Melissa grinned. “I wish you’d sack her.”

“How many nannies would that make?”

“I try to like them, Daddy,” Melissa said, her eyes huge, serious. “Miss Larkins is the worst, if you ask me.”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

Melissa put up a hand and stroked her father’s face. “Can you stay here till I fall asleep, Daddy?”

“No, not tonight.” He tucked her arms under the covers. “It’s getting late and I’ve promised Camille dinner.”

“Camille is going to take me to get my hair cut,” Melissa announced brightly. “Aren’t you, Camille?”

Oh, no, Camille thought. How had she become so
involved?
The last thing she wanted was a shift in her evaluation of Nick Lombard. Being close to his daughter might ensure that. But she felt strangely drawn to the child. “If you’d like me to, Melissa. We might go one day after school together.”

“Tomorrow.” Childlike, Melissa tried to pin Camille down.

“I’m pretty busy the next few days, but we’ll certainly go as soon as I have a chance—if it’s all right with your father.”

Melissa flashed one of those smiles she “never” gave. “I can’t wait.”

“But surely she has
lovely
hair?” Nick Lombard said in obvious perplexity as he and Camille moved toward the door.

“Of course she has,” Camille agreed quickly, “but I think it would suit her short and framing her face. I know about these things. Trust me.”

He stopped and stared at her. “How long have you actually been in my house?”

Camille glanced at her watch. “A little over half an hour.”

He touched his head. “So many changes. I don’t think I can cope.”

“He’s fooling, Camille,” Melissa called, her face
now wreathed in smiles. “Daddy’s always fooling. You don’t need to worry.”

“That makes me feel much better. Good night now, Melissa. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.”

“But I’ve seen
you
a thousand times,” Melissa said.

“Have
you?” Camille’s startled glance moved from daughter to father.

“You’re the princess bride in the tapestry,” Melissa said. “Daddy thinks so, too. He said he was bringing the princess bride home to dinner. That’s why I found a place to hide. I was going to sneak in and surprise you. Only it was more
you
found me.”

“Fate must have wanted us to meet,” Camille said gently.

“Fate. I know what that means. It’s when strange things happen. Important things.” Melissa was already beginning to close her eyes. “Good night, Camille. Why don’t you talk to Daddy about changing my name? You don’t like Melissa, either. I could tell.”

Nick Lombard looked stunned for a moment, but he only bade his daughter good-night and left the room with Camille. “What was all that about?” he asked as they were walking down the stairs.

“Melissa doesn’t care for her name. She doesn’t think it suits her.”

“Maybe she’s right,” he acknowledged rather curtly. “It was a name her mother chose.”

“And she misses her mother dreadfully.”

“So it seems.”

Now it was Camille’s turn to stare. “What a very odd response.”

The handsome face seemed to close against her. “Words can become distorted. Melissa was only four when her mother died.”

“So you don’t think she remembers her?” Camille had the feeling there was a wealth of tension beneath his reserve.

“On the contrary, she remembers her very well. As do I.”

“I’m sorry.” Camille looked away.

They’d reached the main floor, and as they moved toward the dining room, Camille said, “However intrusive it may seem, I have to tell you that Miss Larkins isn’t the right nanny for Melissa.”

“You’ve formed that opinion already?”

She flushed at his tone. “Did you know she locks Melissa in her room whenever she’s naughty?”

He seemed to check a sudden anger. “I didn’t, and I certainly don’t approve of it.” He sighed. “I’m a busy man. I wish I could be with Melissa more, but I have so many demands on my time. In all fairness I have to point out that Miss Larkins has had more success controlling Melissa’s excesses than any other nanny. I realize she’s not Mrs. Doubtfire, but—”

“Certainly not much fun.”

“She’s a lot better than the rest. Though I deeply regret it, Melissa is a disturbed child. She’s had good professional people talking to her.” He glanced at Camille. “Though none has made quite the breakthrough you have.”

“Perhaps it’s because I understand exactly what she’s going through.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He stopped abruptly and loomed over her. “Believe me, I do everything in my power to be the stabilizing center of my daughter’s life. I give
her plenty of love and attention. But it’s not enough. I can’t be there for her all the time. A woman’s influence is terribly important.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Camille said tartly. “And as I said, you’d better start with a change of nanny.”

“My dear Camille, you can’t
know,
” he returned flatly.

“I am
not
your dear Camille.”

“Then you must be Camille Guilford, the eminent child psychologist?”

“Now you’re angry.” She laughed shortly. “That’s fine. I haven’t the slightest wish to be friends. I would like to help Melissa, however. I’m generous enough for that.”

T
HE
D
INING ROOM
had an assemblage of things to admire. The long triple-pedestal dining table was antique mahogany, but the comfortable chairs around it were modern in design and beautifully upholstered in the same golden brocade as the tassled drapes. In the center of the table sat a bowl of golden roses, spreading their fragrance. Camille, a rose fancier, recognized them as Sutter’s Gold.

The meal, with its three perfectly balanced courses, was predictably delicious. Camille ate sparingly. She’d come here for one thing only—to have proof Nick Lombard hadn’t lied. She had no intention of being seduced by so much richness and beauty. She’d had a privileged upbringing herself, after all.

“You’ve not eaten much,” Nick Lombard observed at one point.

“I think you’re forgetting why I’m here.”

He nodded. “Of course—the album. We’ll have coffee in the drawing room.”

Minutes later Camille sipped her dark roast coffee without even tasting it. Finally the album appeared. She sat on one of the impressive fringed sofas and fingered the dark green leather. It was an interesting-looking album. Very old with a gold-tooled crest on the cover—something vaguely imperial, a mythical creature with spread wings.

“This is very difficult for me,” she said.

“I’m sure you’ve guessed there are photographs of your mother here. You’ll have no difficulty recognizing her. You’re made in her image, though your personalities are different.”

Camille couldn’t and didn’t respond.

“Natalie was very gentle. A romantic.” The severity of his expression softened. “She expected to be dominated by a man and she was. At least for a time. The circumstances of your life and your nature, on the other hand, have made you spirited and independent. You would always fight against being controlled.”

“I can guarantee that, Mr. Lombard,” Camille said, clutching the album tighter.

“Can’t you make that Nick?”

She shook her head. “No. Who we
are
will always be there.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged. “Open the album. I’m hoping you’ll find comfort in it. We all have something to hide. Your father guarded his secrets jealously. But as they say, sooner or later the truth will, out.”

Camille gave a convulsive little swallow and turned back the leather cover.

“My family mostly,” he explained. “This is a family album. Our name was not Lombard. Originally it was something quite different. My grandfather turned his back on his family after the Second World War. He went to America first, then moved to Australia, which suited him so much he decided to settle here. It was he who changed our name to Lombard—after the region of Lombardy where he was born. It kept a grip on him all the days of his life, even though he returned home only once to another bitter battle with his grandfather. When the old count died, the situation eased dramatically. My own father returned to Italy many times. My grandfather’s family were wealthy Milanese bankers and merchants. The villa you see—” he pointed at one of the photos “—was built in the mid-seventeenth century. My grandmother lives there with my cousin Umberto and his family. Umberto is the present count.”

His story was quite a revelation, yet it didn’t surprise her. “You’re all very handsome,” she said dryly. “I’ve never forgotten my time in Italy. It was a magical six months. My fist year out of university. My first pilgrimage. Ever since then I’ve had a burning desire to go back. Six months are not nearly enough. It would take a lifetime to see and really appreciate Italy.”

“There’s the villa.” He nodded pridefully at the picture, and one elegant bronze hand moved across the page. The villa rose majestically above a lake. She could see high mountains, groves of chestnut and walnut, the ever-present cypress and olive.

“What
is
your family name,” she asked, “or is that a secret?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t be any the wiser.”

“And you gave up all this?” She gestured at the villa.

”
I
gave up nothing,” he said. “My grandfather made the decision to leave Italy. He prospered abundantly here—countless Italians have. But Italy is not a foreign country to me. It’s my roots, my second home. I live here, but I travel back and forth.”