Read What Happens At Christmas Online
Authors: Victoria Alexander
What Happens At Christmas (15 page)
Dear Lord, she was an idiot. She did hope this Christmas served to remind her to think through her schemes thoroughly before setting them into motion. Perhaps now she might be able to see the amusement in the proceedings that Beryl and Grayson so obviously saw, but she doubted it.
As for Grayson, there was no need for him to know she was reconsidering her desire to marry Nikolai. No need to take him into her confidence in any manner whatsoever, since it was so clearly his fault. Perhaps someday she would feel more charitable toward him; but at this moment, if he wanted to be her friend, well, these were the boundaries of friendship.
And if his kiss made her long for something just out of reach, it was nothing more than memories of what might have been. She would not allow herself to be swept away by the kiss of the man who once broke her heart.
And she would never allow him to break it again.
December 22nd
Eleven
C
amille surveyed the breakfast offerings arrayed on the sideboard in the dining room and wondered what it would take to entice Mrs. Fortesque to stay on with her. Camille's cook was ready to retire from service; and while Mrs. Williams had been excellent in her day, her standards had slipped considerably in the last year or so. Not that Camille had the heart to tell her. She had been with Camille's late husband's family for most of her life.
amille surveyed the breakfast offerings arrayed on the sideboard in the dining room and wondered what it would take to entice Mrs. Fortesque to stay on with her. Camille's cook was ready to retire from service; and while Mrs. Williams had been excellent in her day, her standards had slipped considerably in the last year or so. Not that Camille had the heart to tell her. She had been with Camille's late husband's family for most of her life.
Mrs. Fortesque's cooking skills were nothing short of amazing. The woman obviously had a natural talent in the kitchen, as did the young woman who had been assisting her. Perhaps Camille should have a chat with them bothâalthough Mr. Fortesque would certainly be part of any arrangement. And he did so love being an actor.
Grayson strolled into the room, looking annoyingly well rested. He approached the sideboard and studied the offerings. “Mrs. Fortesque does an excellent job of acting like a cook.”
“Thank God.” Mrs. Fortesque's cooking was the only thing she needn't worry about.
“Oh, you might be interested to know”âGrayson picked up a plate and continued to consider the breakfast offeringsâ“your footmen are in the upstairs gallery practicing sword fighting for the theater. From a book.”
“How delightful.” She grimaced. “I shall summon Fortesque to take care of it.”
“Fortesque was reading the book to the others.” He selected a few slices of bacon and put them on his plate.
She glared. “Why didn't you do anything?”
Grayson glanced at her in surprise. “I offered them advice.”
“What? On how not to kill one another?”
He chuckled. “Exactly.”
“Grayson!”
“I was trying to be helpful. I thought it might be awkward to have dead actors, or dead footmen, for that matter, lying about the house.”
“That's not what I meant.” She huffed. “I meant you should have stopped them.”
“It's really not my place to do so. I am merely the distant cousin, a very minor role. Why, if this were a play of murder and treachery, I would no doubt be the first one done away with.”
“That can yet be arranged.”
He considered her for a moment. “It's rather early in the day to be quite so cranky, isn't it?”
“I am not cranky.” Indignation rang in her voice. “If anything, I am tired.”
“I see.” He nodded in a sage manner. “You didn't sleep well.”
“I slept exceptionally well,” she lied.
“All that pining, no doubt.”
“Pining?” She stared at him, then uttered a short laugh. “You were right, Grayson, there is much about this situation that is amusing.” She moved to the table and sat down.
“I didn't mean me,” he said wryly, and took the seat across the table from her. “But I am surprised to see you up and about so early. I didn't expect to see anyone down yet.”
“I have a great deal to accomplish today,” she said in a prim manner. “As soon as Beryl makes an appearance, I intend to go up to the attic and find the ornaments for the tree.”
“If she doesn't come down before you're finished with breakfast, I could assist you with that,” he said casually.
“Would you?”
“I would be happy to.”
“Really?”
“You needn't look so suspicious. I said last night that I intended to help you, and I meant it.” He stabbed a piece of bacon much more viciously than the bacon deserved. Apparently, he found her as annoying as she found him. Good.
“Very well, then.” Camille wasn't at all sure if she wanted his help or not, but she did want to get as much as possible finished before Nikolai and her “family” made an appearance. She had no desire to leave them all to their own devices. God only knew what might happen without constant supervision. “I accept your offer. And I appreciate it,” she added reluctantly.
“Do try not to sound so gracious.”
“I am doing my best, Grayson.” She stared at him. “Even you must admit your presence is something I neither expected nor desired.”
“Because you hoped I was dead.” He selected a piece of toast from the rack and slathered it with marmalade.
“I didn't hope.” She shrugged. “I simply assumed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Yes,” she snapped, then blew a long breath. “No, of course not. In spite of what I said last night, I wouldn't have you dead.”
“That's comforting to know.”
“But I wouldn't have you here either.”
“And yet”âhe grinned in a smug fashionâ“here I am.”
“Indeed,” she said under her breath. “Here you are.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. One might have thought Grayson hadn't eaten in years the way he devoured his food with the enthusiasm of one long deprived and the enjoyment of a connoisseur. He'd had a bit of everything offered on the sideboard: broiled kippers, deviled kidneys, stewed fruit, bacon, sausages and eggs. She couldn't blame him, however. Mrs. Fortesque was a treasure.
“That was excellent.” He sighed with the satisfaction of a man well-fed. “Do you think Mrs. Fortesque would be interested in forgoing a life on the stage for one in the kitchen?”
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Camille said. “My cook will soon be leaving me and going to live with relatives somewhere in the country.” She glanced at him. “Why do you need a cook?”
“I believe I am going to stay in England.”
Although she'd never confirmed it, she'd long ago assumed he was out of the country. “I see.”
“And, as I will be needing a staff, a small one, I thought I would start with the cook.” He paused. “Admittedly, I didn't come to that conclusion until I tasted Mrs. Fortesque's food.”
“Well.” She moved her plate to one side, folded her hands together on the tablecloth and smiled. “I do hate to disappoint you, as much as you liked Mrs. Fortesque's cooking. But if anyone hires the woman, it shall be me.”
He slowly moved his plate out of the way, then folded his hands and rested them on the table, his position a mirror image of hers. A tiny trickle of apprehension slid down her spine.
“If I wish to hire Mrs. Fortesque,” he said in a measured tone, “I shall do so.”
“Not if I hire her first.”
“Then I shall have to hire her last.” He smiled pleasantly. It was most unsettling.
Her smile matched his. “Don't be absurd, you can't pay her the salary I can.” His clothes were nice enough, but he couldn't possibly be of more than modest income. If he had done well, in spite of her avoiding all talk of him, she surely would have heard something about it. That sort of information did not stay quiet for long, let alone years. “Whatever you offer her, I shall simply offer her more.”
“Because you have a great deal of money and I obviously have none?”
“It's so impolite to talk about money,” she said in a lofty manner. “But yes.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Salary aside, I would be willing to wager I can get the woman to come work for me.”
At once, she was swept back to the days of their youth and silly wagers over insignificant contests: how many times in a row who could beat whom at chess, or who would spot the first clouded yellow butterfly in June, or who could identify the most constellations. She hadn't thought about their wagering in years. He had won more often than not. In hindsight she wasn't sure if that was attributable to his luck and skill or her own reluctance to best him. Resolve swept through her. Those days were over.
“What an interesting idea.” She smiled. “I shall take that wager, Grayson.”
“I thought you would. And I know that as you are a fair woman, and as I don't appear to have the same resources you do, you will agree that we do not use salary as a weapon. We both offer her precisely the same amount.”
“I certainly wouldn't wager on my being fair, if I were you. You have no idea if I am a fair woman or not. Indeed, I rather prefer victory to being fair. However, I can agree to that.”
For now.
She raised a questioning brow. “The usual stakes?”
For now.
She raised a questioning brow. “The usual stakes?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded. “Shall we set a deadline?”
She thought for a moment. This would all be over the day after Christmas. “Let us say Christmas, shall we?”
“Christmas it is then.” He stood, leaned forward and extended his hand across the table.
She leaned toward him, accepted his hand and nodded. “Christmas it is.”
“I don't intend to lose, you know.”
She laughed. “Goodness, Grayson, neither do I.”
“Excellent.” He grinned and his gaze caught hers. For a long moment, neither said a word. His hand still held hers across the table. Something nearly palpable wrapped around them. Something intense and unrelenting, pulling them closer. For one wild instant, an image flashed through her mind of his dragging her onto the table and ravishing her amidst the breakfast dishes and beneath the hundred-year-old chandelier commissioned for Millworth Manor by a long-forgotten ancestor. The two of them mad with passion and lost in desire. The chandelier above them quivered, and the table rocked and creaked, andâ
“Camille?”
Camille started and yanked her hand from his. “What?”
Concern shadowed his brown eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Quite. Of course.” She nodded vigorously. “Never better.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Every word.”
“Then after you.” He gestured toward the door.
“To . . .”
“The attic?” He studied her closely. “Are you sure you're all right? You had the oddest look on your face a minute ago.”
“Did I?” Without thinking she glanced at the chandelier. “It was the . . . something I ate, I think.”
“You do look a bit flushed. Perhaps you should restâ”
“Don't be silly, I'm fine.” She turned and started toward the stairs. He followed a half step behind.
Goodness, what was wrong with her? All that nonsense about ravishment and desire and passion. Whatever would have made her think such things? Why, she didn't even like the man. No doubt it was simply that last night he had brought back all sorts of memories and then he had kissed her. And kissed her quite thoroughly too. A kiss that worked its way into her dreams in those few moments last night when she'd managed to sleep at all. But she'd vanquished all dreams of his kiss years ago and she was not about to let one unguarded moment put it back in her head.
Nor was she about to let him snatch Mrs. Fortesque out from under her nose. She hadn't the least doubt she could win Mrs. Fortesque. But first, she had to win Mr. Fortesque. She had no worries about that either.
She led Grayson to the back stairway in the center section of the house. The manor was divided into three separate areas. The upper floors of the west wing, the oldest part of the house, were devoted mostly to bed chambers and was little used in the colder months, unless there were a great number of guests visiting. The top floors of the east wing housed the servants' quarters and the old nursery. The attic at the top of the main portion of the house was reserved for storage. They ran into no one on the stairsânot surprising, as the number of actors/servants she had hired was less than half the usual staff.
“I was wondering,” Grayson said on the stairs behind her as they approached the attic door, “why have Christmas here?”
She pushed open the door. “You mean at Millworth Manor?”
“Yes. Wouldn't it have been much easier to have staged this Christmas farce of yours at your own house? From what Win has written through the years, I understand you have a country estate, as well as a house in town.”
She sighed. “Has Winfield told you everything about my life these past years?”
“Not everything.” Grayson shrugged. “I can't imagine he knows everything.”
“And men say women like to gossip.” She moved into the attic. It was at once annoying and gratifying to know Grayson had followed the twists and turns of her lifeâespecially as she had gone to great pains
not
to follow his.
not
to follow his.
“In answer to your question, the manor is where we always spend Christmas. When we have spent it together,” she amended. “Which has been rare in recent years. But there is nowhere else I would rather be for Christmas. Certainly, after Father died, when Mother began filling the house with her odd assortment of lost souls, it grew a bit unusualâ”
He snorted.
Other books
The Last Refuge by Craig Robertson
Psycho Save Us by Huskins, Chad
Days of Winter by Cynthia Freeman
City of God (Penguin Classics) by Saint Augustine
Cowboy Command by Olivia Jaymes
Laguna Cove by Alyson Noël
Complete Stories And Poems Of Edgar Allan Poe by Poe, Edgar Allan
The Concubine's Daughter by null
Summit of the Wolf by Tera Shanley
Red Serpent: The Falsifier by Delson Armstrong