Authors: Victoria Alexander

What Happens At Christmas (16 page)

BOOK: What Happens At Christmas

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“But in many ways, all those people who had lost their homes, sharing our home at Christmas . . . Well”âshe shruggedâ“I may make disparaging comments about Mother's guests, and, indeed, there were any number of times when they could be quite bothersome to have around. Lord knows, little of it was especially proper, but, for the most part, they were usually very nice. And grateful to be here. They didn't always say it aloud, but one could tell. And no more so than at Christmas.” She thought for a moment. “When I think of Christmas, I can't imagine marking it anywhere but here. I realize it's overly sentimental of me, but there you have it.”

“It was never what one might call traditional.”

“But always interesting,” she said absently, surveying the attic. Even on a winter's day, there was enough light from the windows in the porticos to be able to see. Neatly stacked boxes, labeled and marked with their contents, crates and assorted trunks lined the short walls under the eaves. Miscellaneous, discarded furniture hidden under dust-covered cloths like ghostly guardians of the past clustered around the cut-stone columns, which supported the roof. The organized manner of the attic, thanks to industrious housekeepers, left a large empty space in the center of the room. She headed toward the far corner, where the Christmas ornaments had been kept for as long as she could remember.

“Funny to think of all your memories packed away up here,” he said behind her.

“Now who is being sentimental?”

“Blame it on the season.”

“Not just my memories, you know, or Beryl's and Delilah's and Mother's, but those generations that came before us. And not our family alone, mind you. Millworth Manor has changed hands any number of times since it was built. Everyone who has ever lived in this house has made his or her mark upon it. And judging from the endless boxes up here, each previous occupant left something behind as well.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Should you ever need a costume from another age, I daresay, you could find one here.”

He chuckled. “I shall keep that in mind.”

“Here they are.” She stopped before a stack of four boxes labeled
Christmas Tree
and picked one up. “They're not very heavy, but they are a little awkward. We shall have to make more than one trip.”

“You have changed, Camille. I never imagined you, of all people, carrying boxes for yourself.”

“Neither did I.” She sighed. “But one does what one must.”

“Don't be absurd. You pull the boxes out and I will ferry them down the stairs,” he said. “We can have your footmen bring them down to the first floor later.”

“I should hate to interrupt their swordplay.” She handed him the box.

He started for the stairs. “Sacrifices must be made. It is Christmas, after all.”

They made short work of getting the boxes out of the attic. Grayson carried the final box to the floor below them, then returned.

“Is that it?”

Camille nodded; her gaze circled the room. “I haven't been up here in years. I always fancied it was filled with hidden treasures.”

He grinned. “Pirate booty and the like.”

“I shall have to come up and have a good look around one day. I can't imagine what might be hidden in some of these boxes and crates.” She cast him a wry look. “It's entirely your fault, you know.”

He gasped. “Mine?”

“All that sentimental nonsense about memories packed away.”

“Perhaps,” he said casually, “it's time to unpack some of them.”

“Some memories are best left undisturbed,” she said firmly.

“And some memories should be cherished.” He fell silent for a long moment; then blew a resigned breath. “And we are here now.”

“It's tempting.” She looked around the vast space. “But I have a great deal to accomplish today.”

“Nonsense.” He scoffed. “It's been my observation that there hasn't been a moment since I arrived when you haven't been thinking about what to do next or worried about who might say what. Indeed, you can see the strain of all this on your face. Right here.” He reached out and placed his finger between her brows. “There is a small furrow here that appears when you are concerned or thoughtful or annoyed. If you do not take care, it will form a permanent wrinkle.”

“Don't be absurd.” She brushed his hand away, then rubbed the spot he had just touched. “It is still there? Still wrinkled?”

He laughed.

“I don't mean to be vain.” She frowned, then realized it would only make the furrow worse and composed her expression into something less likely to produce wrinkles. “But when one is getting older, one becomes more and more concerned about this sort of thing.”

“You have nothing to worry about.” He grabbed her shoulders, pulled her closer and planted a quick kiss on the spot between her brows. “The first moment I saw you again, I thought you were even lovelier than you were as a girl.”

She stared up at him. Perhaps she did like him a little, after all. Perhaps she'd never stopped liking him, which scarcely mattered at any rate. “Why did you do that?”

“I couldn't resist.” He kissed her forehead again, then released her.

“I shall slap you if you kiss me again,” she warned. “Hard!”

“No, you won't.” He sauntered away. “Besides, it's a risk I am willing to take. Where shall we start?”

“We shan't start anywhere. I don't have time for such nonsense.”

“Make time.”

“Grayson.” She hesitated. What could it hurt, really? It was more than likely that no one else was up yet, anyway. She sighed. “Very well, but only for a few minutes.” She glanced around, then nodded at a stack of trunks. “Why don't you see what's in one of those?”

“Even better, I'll open one and you open another.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I'd be willing to bet I find one that is more interesting than yours.”

“Honestly, Grayson.” She rolled her gaze toward the rafters. “You haven't grown up the least little bit.”

“I know,” he said mournfully. “It's a burden I fear I must bear.” He dropped to his knees before one of the trunks. “And yet, my trunk will still be much more interesting than yours.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Not if I can help it.” She scanned the attic, spotted a large trunk and started toward it. “That one's mine.”

“Are there any real stories of long-lost treasure in your family?” He raised the lid of his trunk, the hinges squeaking in protest.

“No, more's the pity.” She reached her trunk, knelt down in front of it and blew at the lid in a futile effort to clear away some of the dust. “One could always make use of long-lost treasure.”

She raised the lid and studied the contents, ignoring a twinge of disappointment. Not that she truly expected treasure but it would have been nice. Inside the trunk lay old silks and satins, ball gowns from another age. She pulled one free and held it out in front of her to examine. The colors, varying shades of blue, were still bright, but the style was one that hadn't been in fashion for a good sixty years or more. It was charming, but it was not worthy of winning a wager.

“Very nice,” Grayson said behind her.

She glanced at him. “What was in yours?”

“Mostly papers, letters, that sort of thing. Nothing of any real interest.” He shrugged in an offhand fashion.

She brightened. “Well, my trunk is more interesting than yours. And I win.”

“This time.” He smiled. “Chocolates, then?”

“Swiss, if you please.” It struck her that it was sweet of him to remember that her winnings were always chocolate. But then, if she had lost, she would have owed him Turkish delight. She hadn't thought about their penchant for silly wagers in years; yet she remembered the Turkish delight. And he remembered the chocolate.

“Who do you suppose might have worn that?” He gestured at the dress in her hands.

“Elizabeth Bennet,” she said without thinking.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Elizabeth Bennet a literary figure? A figment from the imagination of Jane Austen?”

“Yes, but this dress is from that time.” She turned it this way and that. “It might have been worn to a grand ball once, possibly hosted by the Prince Regent.”

“At a royal palace, perhaps?”

She bit back a smile. “Where else?”

“Where else, indeed. The lady who wore that, no doubt, attended any number of grand balls at royal palaces, where she would dance every dance with a handsome prince. Much like those in the fairy stories you used to read. I can see it now.” He waved in a grand gesture. “She, and we, are in a massive ballroom lit with a thousand candles glittering in a hundred chandeliers of crystal and gold.”

“Or she,
we,
could be in a dim, dusty attic.” She folded the gown and put it back in the trunk.

“Not anymore. Over there”âhe waved at a cluster of several pieces of tall, cloth-covered furnitureâ“is the orchestra. They're quite good, don't you think?” He winced. “Oh, dear. One of the violinists just hit a sour note.”

“I think you're quite mad.” But, admittedly, amusing.

He ignored her. “There are urns filled to overflowing with hothouse blooms. The ladies are wearing their finest jewels and their gowns are as colorful as the rubies and emeralds and sapphires around their necks.”

“And the gentlemen?”

“Handsome and dashing.”

She arched a brow. “All of them?”

“Well”âhe glanced from side to side as though concerned he might be overheardâ“all of them think they are.” He held out his hand to her.

She accepted it and rose to her feet. She studied him for a moment, then surrendered. Regardless of anything else, she preferred he not think of her as stiff and stodgy. She used to be great fun and still was, when she wasn't busy orchestrating a perfect Christmas with a hired family for the prince whom she probably no longer intended to marry.

“Even those like”âshe nodded discreetly toward a corner of the atticâ“Lord SuchandSuch. He passed portly some time ago and has only a few teeth.”

“He thinks it makes him look like a pasha.”

“And Mr. Whoeverheis?”

“The one who is so short that his nose practically rests in your bosom when you dance?”

She choked back a laugh. “Grayson!”

“Oh, he most certainly thinks he's dashing.” He peered around her as if looking past her through a crowd of guests. “And then, of course, there's the foreign prince.”

“There usually are at these things.” She shrugged.

“Handsome devil, though.”

“Always at balls of this sort.”

He nodded somberly. “Grand.”

“Imaginary.”

“So . . . the handsome prince, very blond, no taller than I.” He glanced at her for confirmation.

She nodded.

“Charming as well. Everything one could want in a prince. One might even say âperfect.' ”

Nikolai really was perfect, all in all. Such a pity. She sighed. “Indeed he is.”

“Well, then,” Grayson said after a long pause. He swept a theatrical bow. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Channing?”

“Grayson, Iâ”

“Perhaps you've forgotten, but it was at your first ball, very much like this one, that I had the honor of being your very first dance partner.”

“Of course I remember. I also remember it was only because your aunt made you.”

“Not at all,” he said indignantly. “My aunt made me attend dance lessons here with you and Beryl because your mother had hired a dance master. I'm not sure how Win ever learned to dance, as he was unfailingly absent.” He opened his arms. “Now, will you dance with me or not?”

She hesitated. Why not? “I should be delighted.” She took his hand and rested her free hand on his shoulder. “I do hope you are better at it now.”

“I would have to be.” He started to waltz her around the open center area of the attic. “Aside from that one note, they do play well, don't they?”

“I have always loved this waltz.”

“I remember.”

“You can't possibly know what waltz is in my head.”

“The âVienna Blood Waltz,' of course. It was always your favorite.”

“You do seem to remember a great deal.”

“Ah yes, a blessing and a curse.”

BOOK: What Happens At Christmas

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