What Happens At Christmas (11 page)

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Authors: Victoria Alexander

BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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“It scarcely matters now. Besides, you said you didn't want to speak about the past.” He paused thoughtfully. “Which is probably for the best, all things considered.”
“What things?”
“Your prince, for one, and your Christmas production, for another. You have a lot to contend with at the moment, Camille. You needn't concern yourself with the past.” He nodded at the others. “And it appears all is going quite well.”
“Thank you, but it is only the first day,” she said absently. How on earth did she break his heart? That wasn't at all how she remembered it. He was right about one thing though: She had neither the time nor the inclination to dwell on his charge at the moment, ridiculous as it was. She pushed it from her mind and blew a resigned breath. “Who knows what might happen tonight or tomorrow or on Christmas? It is far too soon to be anything but vigilant.”
“You may rest assured that I will do all within my power to assist you.”
“You've said that before,” she said in a sharper tone than she had intended. “Why, Grayson? Why do you wish to help me?”
“I'm not entirely sure yet,” he said so softly that she surely misunderstood.
“What?”
“We were friends once—”
“A very long time ago.”
“And it's in the interest of that friendship that I am lending you my assistance.” He bent closer and spoke softly, his breath warm against her ear. “I meant it when I said I want only your happiness. As your friend, no matter how long ago, it is my . . . my duty to help you.”
She stared at him, then snorted. “Hardly.”
“Admit it. With none of your family, your real family, here—”
“Beryl is here and her husband will be here in a few days as well.”
“A political type, isn't he?”
She nodded.
Grayson sipped his tea thoughtfully. “And from what I have heard, he's rather stiff and stodgy.”
“Not in the least,” she lied.
“Not really the sort to fling himself into this production with the wholehearted abandon it deserves.”
“Nonetheless—”
“And it seems to me, given the magnitude of this farce, that you need all the help you can get.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “You need me, Camille.”
“I most certainly do not.”
He cast her a skeptical look.
“I do not!”
He smiled in an annoyingly smug way, as if he knew something she did not, and sipped his tea.
Blasted man. She trusted him no more than she trusted his cousin. Still, they had been friends once, before . . . Broken his heart, indeed. How could she possibly have broken his heart? He had made a declaration of love out of the clear blue sky on the very day of her marriage to another man, and then he vanished like a frightened rabbit gone to ground, never to be heard from again until today. No, if anyone's heart had been broken, it had been hers.
Not that it mattered now. Not that it had mattered for a very long time. Not that it had ever mattered.
Still, a voice in the back of her head whispered,
But it did.
Eight
O
bserving the group at the dinner table, an uninformed spectator would think there was little out of the ordinary in the gathering. Certainly, the older lady had a tendency to make comments that made no sense whatsoever. The older gentleman monopolized much of the conversation with endless tales of travel and military service in Africa and India, peppered generously with quotes from Shakespeare. Whether his stories were true or not, Gray had no idea, but they were entertaining enough. The youngest lady, with the fiery red hair, said far more with her eyes and the inclination of her body than she actually put into words, but there was no doubt as to the flirtatious message she delivered. As for those members of the family who were not pretending to be someone they weren't, it was all Beryl could do to hide her amusement while Camille adopted a pleasant manner, although tension lingered in the set of her shoulders and the look in her eye. Still, Camille might well be the best actress in the room.
“. . . and I should love to hear more about your travels in the Alps,” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells said to the prince. “I have never seen an Alp, but I understand they are quite scenic.”
Camille had provided the real names of the actors, as Gray claimed it was awkward for him otherwise. After all, if one knew the real Lady Briston, calling the actress “Lady Briston” simply did not ring true if one was not a professional actor. And if Gray was to be part of the cast, he did want to play his role as well as possible.
“If you would be so kind, Your Highness,” the older woman continued.
Henderson cleared his throat. “Among family, remember, Constance?”
“Regina,” Beryl said sotto voce.
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells heaved an exasperated sigh and returned her attention to the prince. “If you would be so kind, Your Highness, dear.”
Camille winced. Gray bit back a grin. The prince, however, with his overly perfect face and his overly perfect manner—Camille's
perfect
prince—did exactly what a charming, perfect prince would do and acted as if it was not at all uncommon for him to be addressed as “Your Highness, dear.”
One might have attributed his response to a lack of understanding of the English language; and, indeed, he did spend much of the meal smiling and nodding, as if he were perpetually confused. Yet, there was a gleam of intelligence in his eyes; and Gray wagered he understood far more than he let on. Which did lead one to wonder why he would act otherwise. One more reason to mistrust the royal.
Add that to the fact that Pruzinsky watched Camille with a look that was part speculation and part possession. Studied her, really, as if he was trying to determine . . . what? How best to seduce her? If he hadn't already. Gray pushed the thought from his head. It was none of his concern, really. And why wouldn't the prince wish to seduce her? Why wouldn't any man?
Camille was as lovely now as she had been when he had last seen her. Certainly, the twins had always been pretty in that blond-haired, blue-eyed, classic-English-beauty way. But Camille had been a girl when they'd parted; now she was very much a woman. One could see that in the set of her chin and the look in her eye. There was a strength about her now; there was a confidence and grace that had come with the passage of years. This was not a woman who would marry a man because she was expected to do so. This was a woman who knew her own mind.
How could she not know she had broken his heart?
“The Alps meander through several countries, Lady Briston,” the prince said. “Are you speaking of the Italian Alps or the Swiss Alps or the German Alps?”
“A mountain's a mountain, I say.” Henderson nodded. “Unless you're speaking of the Himalayas. Why, I recall an expedition when I was . . .”
The actor was well worth whatever Camille was paying him. Once he launched into one of his tales, no one else could get a word in. Which meant no one could make a mistake. It was entirely possible Camille might be able to pull off her charade. Of course, as she herself had pointed out: it was only the first day.
When the final course was cleared, Mrs. Montgomery-Wells rose to her feet; the gentlemen following suit. “Now then,” she announced in what was obviously her best lady-of-the-manor voice. “The ladies shall retire to the parlor and leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars.”
“Excellent idea, Aunt
Bernadette,
” Gray said. If he could keep Henderson from monopolizing the conversation, he could use this opportunity to find out more about Pruzinsky. “We shall join you shortly.”
“Nonsense, Cousin,” Camille said quickly. “There's no need to be so formal. We are at home, after all. Why don't we all adjourn to the parlor? Besides,
Mother,
you haven't allowed cigars in the dining room since Father was alive.”
Confusion furrowed Mrs. Montgomery-Wells's forehead. “I haven't?”
“No, Mother.” Camille fixed her with a firm look. “The smell makes you sneeze.”
“I had no idea,” the older woman murmured.
“But brandy is permitted,” Henderson said in a hopeful tone.
“It always is, Uncle. My goodness, we are all so forgetful tonight.” Beryl took his arm and started to lead him away from the table. “Why don't we all gather around the piano and sing Christmas carols.”
“A delightful idea, Lady Dunwell. Lady Briston,” the prince said in a gallant manner and presented his arm. “Might I escort you into the parlor?”
Mrs. Montgomery-Wells giggled. “I should be delighted, Your Highness, dear.”
“Cousin?” Miss Murdock fluttered her lashes at Gray.
As much as he knew Miss Murdock was the type of woman who made every man feel as if she were interested in him, and him alone, Gray would have to be dead not to respond to her inviting manner. He grinned and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
“Indeed, we shall.” Camille took his other arm. “Delilah plays beautifully.”
Miss Murdock peered around Gray at Camille. “No, I don't.”
“You're supposed to,” Camille said through clenched teeth.
“I do,” Beryl said quickly, and the group moved into the parlor.
Beside him, he felt Camille huff in annoyance.
Beryl's suggestion was nothing short of inspired. In spite of her continued amusement, she was obviously sincerely trying to help her sister. The carols left little time for idle conversation as they slid from one traditional Christmas song to another: from “The Wassail Song” to “The First Nowell,” from “The Cherry Tree Carol” to “The Holly and the Ivy,” from “Silent Night” to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” Mrs. Montgomery-Wells and Henderson took seats while the others stood around the piano. Camille's false family proved to be far better singers than they were actors. The prince, too, had an excellent voice and joined in the singing with enthusiasm. This was one area in which he seemed to have no trouble with the language. Odd, but perhaps not surprising given his fascination with a traditional English Christmas. Even Camille's tension seemed to ease. It was a convivial group and a surprisingly pleasant evening.
“If you will forgive me,” the prince said after an hour or so. “I find I am somewhat weary after today's travel and should like to retire for the night.” He moved to the doorway, then turned. “Camille? If you have a moment.”
“Of course.” She smiled and joined him.
“Ladies, Colonel, Mr. Elliott. I bid you all a good night.” Pruzinsky nodded and stepped into the corridor, Camille at his side.
Gray excused himself, leaving the others to chat by the piano, and casually stepped to the table bearing the brandy decanter to refill his glass and get a better view of the couple outside the open doors. He couldn't hear the conversation, but at least he could be close at hand if Camille needed him. To do what? Protect her honor? She'd likely smack him if he dared to try. Regardless of whether Pruzinsky was legitimate or not, interference was one thing Camille would never tolerate.
Still, one could tell a great deal about a couple by simple observation. The way they might lean toward each other, or the casual touch of a hand, or the manner in which their eyes met. He didn't trust Pruzinsky one bit. But Camille was an intelligent woman and one couldn't help but wonder exactly what it would take to make certain she didn't trust the prince as well.
 
“What a lovely evening, Camille.” Nikolai gazed down at her. “Your family is delightful.”
“They can, as well, be a bit . . .” She searched for the right word. “Eccentric, perhaps.”
He chuckled. “No more so than mine. Your mother reminds me very much of an aunt of mine.” His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “She, too, has a tendency to forget her own name.”
“Oh, dear.” Camille winced. “You noticed that, did you?”
“Even with my inability to completely grasp the nuances of the English language, it was hard to miss. Although such things are to be expected in the elderly.”
Good Lord. If her mother knew she was being thought of as
elderly,
there would be hell to pay. With any luck, she would never know.
“I find those little quirks to be quite charming.”
“My mother is nothing if not charming.” Which was entirely true, regardless of whether she was speaking of the real Lady Briston or the actress playing her.
“Camille.” He gazed into her eyes, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”
“Do we,” she said lightly.
“Indeed, we do.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm in a manner that should have sent shivers up her spine. Yet, it did nothing more than tickle. Not at all what she expected. Surely, the last time he had kissed her hand, she had shivered. Hadn't she? “I must confess, I have given the question of the two of us much consideration.”
“Oh?”
“I have thought of little else since the moment we met.” He chuckled, then sobered. “I have long believed in fate. That our futures lie in the hands of forces more powerful than ourselves. And fate cannot be denied.” His gaze searched hers. “A beautiful woman fell into my arms and it seemed no less than fate. No less than what I had been waiting for all my life.”
For once, words failed her. She stared up at him.
“It is not often one meets one's dreams come true.”
“Goodness, Nikolai.” She laughed softly. “You shall quite turn my head with talk like that.”
“Excellent.” He lowered her hand but continued to keep it firmly clasped in his. “As it is such a lovely head.” He paused. “The addition of a crown would only make it lovelier.”
“And yet”—she raised a shoulder in a casual shrug—“I have no crown.”
“Perhaps that can be remedied.”
“Can it?” Surely, he wasn't going to propose? Now? It was what she'd wanted. What she had planned. The sole purpose of this entire Christmas charade. Why, this was going to be easier than she had thought.
“It would be difficult, you know. There are all sorts of matters to be resolved. Details to be sorted out, arrangements to be made, permissions to be sought.” He shook his head. “Yet, I think well worth it. You would make an exquisite princess. My exquisite princess.”
Still, now that a proposal seemed imminent, it seemed, as well, not quite . . . right. “Given your position, it is not a decision to be made lightly.”
“Nor would I make it lightly.” He squeezed her hand. “Dare I tell you how much I long to take you in my arms, to make you truly mine.”
“Oh, my.”
“Camille”—he bent closer and spoke softly into her ear—“I wish to feel the heat of your body next to mine, the beat of your heart in tandem with my own, your breath mingling with mine.” He straightened and his gaze bored into hers. “You feel the same. There is passion in you, Camille, simmering beneath the surface. Waiting only for the spark that will burst it into flames. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Can you?” she murmured.
This perfect man, her perfect prince, was gazing down at her with desire flaring in his eyes. She should be falling into his arms, into his bed, and all she could think about was that Grayson was in the bedroom across the hall from hers. Why, even now he was standing near the parlor door pouring himself a brandy. Annoying creature. This was his fault.
“As I said, we have a great deal to talk about.” His gaze locked with hers. “Let me come to you tonight.”
“Oh, but my family, Nikolai. They are all in the rooms next to mine. Should we be discovered . . .” She shook her head, in part to hide her relief. She wasn't her sister. They were entirely different when it came to this sort of thing. Beryl was much more adventurous. Camille had always considered herself rather discriminating. She had never fallen into bed with a man just because it might be, well, fun. “It would be most . . . improper.”

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