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Authors: Victoria Alexander

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BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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“You're right, of course.” He nodded. “I shall try to think of something believable.” He paused. “Perhaps a monetary crisis . . .”
“Get out!”
He laughed. “I shall return in time for tea.”
“Oh, good, I was worried,” she muttered.
He opened the door, then turned back to her. “Camille?”
“What now?” she snapped.
“Why are you so angry with me?” he asked quietly.
“Why? Aside from the fact that you have claimed to be a relation and are preparing to move into my mother's house and make my life difficult? For Christmas?” She huffed. “I can't imagine why that would anger me.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You were angry with me before that.”
“Don't be absurd. I haven't seen you for . . .” She stared at him for a long moment; her gaze locked with his. “In truth, Grayson, I have been angry with you for a very long time.”
He started to say something, anything, then thought better of it. He nodded and left the parlor. What was there to say, anyway? Not that he hadn't given some thought through the years as to exactly what he would say when at last they met again.
He had planned to point out his wealth, how far he had risen in the world, but he hadn't so much as mentioned it. And while, in many ways, proving himself to her had been a driving force in his life, he was old enough now—and hopefully wise enough, and most certainly confident enough—to see that it was no longer of primary concern. Then, of course, he had been distracted by the Christmas charade Camille was orchestrating. How on earth did she ever think she could manage to pull it off?
He had said he would help her, and he would, but he couldn't ignore the nagging suspicion that there was something not quite right about her prince. Her
perfect
prince. Although, if there were something amiss, you would think Camille of all people would recognize it. After all, in her childhood, there was more often than not a minor disposed monarch or an exiled member of an obscure royal family or an overthrown foreign duke in residence at Millworth Manor. Lady Briston collected homeless foreign nobility like his uncle collected rare manuscripts.
What if the prince was exactly like those lost tribes of Lady Briston's? What if his travels through Europe were not accompanied by any vestige of royal trappings because he could no longer afford it? What if her prince was perfect because he knew perfection was exactly what might appeal to a wealthy widow? Camille was so taken with him she had no doubt scarcely looked behind his entirely too perfect smile and his entirely too perfect hair and the entirely too perfect sparkle in his entirely too perfect eyes. Bloody hell. What woman wouldn't be taken with him? Camille had her own fortune, but perhaps what she wanted was the title. Or, possibly, the man. He was handsome enough and charming. Gray blew a frustrated breath.
He was being absurd and he well knew it. Aside from the eccentricity of traveling incognito—unusual, perhaps, but he had heard of much stranger behavior from royals—there was no real reason to be suspicious of the prince. Even if Camille wasn't in love with the royal, she was definitely smitten, and the prince was obviously taken with her. Gray wouldn't trust any man who looked at Camille the way Pruzinsky did.
And therein lay the problem.
Gray had honestly thought he had put Camille in the past. It was obvious now he had merely put her out of his head. And even then, hadn't she always been there, somewhere in the back of his mind? Wasn't she there when he danced with another woman, or shared a kiss in the moonlight with someone who might be the start of something new? Or when he had stared at the stars on a lonely night, wasn't she there, even if he hadn't acknowledged it? A whisper, a hint, a barely discernible lingering presence that surfaced when he least expected and made him long for something always just out of reach. Unnamed and undefined until now. He was a fool not to have recognized it before. But then, he had always been a fool when it came to her.
He should have realized he loved her, long before it had been too late. He should have returned when she was widowed. He should have . . . So many things he should have done. What he shouldn't have done was agree to help her carry off her farce. A farce designed to impress the man she wished to marry.
Still, residing in her house opened up all sorts of possibilities, as well as opportunities. He simply had to decide where he wanted them to lead. If, of course, he hadn't already.
He was more than halfway back to Fairborough Hall when the thought struck him that Camille's anger might not be a problem to overcome. Indeed, the very fact that she was angry at all might well be an indication of feelings she was not ready to admit. A woman didn't stay angry for eleven years at a man she didn't care about for eleven years.
Ah yes, there were all sorts of possibilities and opportunities ahead. If he'd learned nothing else in the past eleven years, he'd learned one did not ignore opportunity when it presented itself.
And Camille's Christmas farce was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
 
Blasted, bloody beast of a man! Camille sank into the sofa and buried her face in her hands. How dare he insinuate himself back into her life after all these years?
Of course she was angry with him. Why wouldn't she be? She rose to her feet and paced the floor. Eleven years ago in this very room, he had declared that he loved her and then he had kissed her. It was a kiss that, in spite of her determination, had lingered in her mind, in her heart, ever since that moment. A kiss that had changed everything.
Next to Beryl, Grayson had been her dearest friend, and she had once thought he always would be. But then he had said he loved her. It was absurd, of course, and she had told him so. She'd told him the love he felt for her was that of one friend for another. He had argued that it was entirely different. That he hadn't realized the difference until he was about to lose her. Nonsense, she'd said. Why, she was about to be wed and he was being silly. He was simply trying to save her from marrying without the kind of love she'd always said she wanted. He'd then made an absurd charge that she would marry him if he were wealthy and titled. She'd snapped at that comment and said, as he wasn't, it was a moot point. She'd regretted it the moment the words were out of her mouth, but it was too late. It was as if she had slapped him, hard. She'd ignored the look in his eyes because she couldn't bear that she had hurt him and said she was quite fond of Harold and they would have a lovely life together. She still recalled how Grayson had stared at her for an endless moment and then nodded, wished her well and took his leave.
Camille had collapsed onto this very sofa then and noted the odd tremble in her hands and the lump in her throat and the shock that held her in its grip. And she admitted to herself for the first time that, of course, she loved him. She had always loved him. But he had never behaved toward her as anything other than a friend, treated her as a sister really. She had long before recognized and accepted that there could never be anything between them but friendship; even if she did, on occasion, wish it could be otherwise. And until he had put his feelings into words, she had not really recognized her own. But it was too late. She was to marry Harold. He was the type of man she'd been raised to marry and she had given her word, after all. Besides, he was a very nice man and she would not have hurt him for anything in the world.
But if a man truly loved a woman, would he give up so easily? Wouldn't he fight for her? Wouldn't he appear at the last possible moment and sweep her away? Like a prince in a fairy tale? And wouldn't another very nice man see the truth of it all and graciously step aside?
But Harold had done no such thing, because her prince had never appeared. And so she and Harold were wed, and she had put Grayson out of her head and her heart with a ruthless determination. And if, through the years, she would catch a glimpse of a man on a London street who resembled Grayson and her heart would leap, she would ignore it. And if, on occasion, late in the night, just before sleep, his smile would appear in her mind's eye and his laughter would ring in her ears, she ruthlessly pushed it aside. And if, now and again, she would dream of a single kiss, it had no place in the light of day.
Of course she was angry. He had claimed to love her, but then he had disappeared so completely from her life, it was as if he had never been there at all. When Harold had died and she was free, she had thought that perhaps . . . No, she had every right to be angry. Or maybe she had no right at all. She hadn't fought for him either. Nonetheless, the anger remained.
“If you continue to pace like that, you shall certainly create a trough in the floor.”
Camille stopped short. Beryl stood inside the door of the parlor, studying her sister.
“You didn't even hear me come in. Whatever is the matter?” She winced. “Not that I can't think of any number of things that might be wrong, given the nonsense we are all embroiled in. And have you spent more than a few minutes with Mr. Henderson? Although a few minutes was all that was necessary. My God, Camille, he's worse than Uncle Basil. The man tried to pinch my—”
“Grayson's back.”
Beryl's eyes widened. “Grayson Elliott?”
“Do you know another Grayson?”
Shock colored Beryl's face. She was the only person Camille had ever told about Grayson's ill-timed declaration; she was the only one who knew how it had crushed Camille's heart. “What do you mean Grayson's back?”
“Exactly what I said.” Camille drew a deep breath. “He's back from wherever it is he has been—”
“America,” Beryl murmured.
“He was here. He met the prince and he introduced himself as . . .” Camille could barely say the words aloud. “As our cousin.”
Beryl gasped. “Our what?”
“You heard me.” Camille groaned. “He said he was our cousin, come to join us for Christmas.”
“Good Lord.” Beryl stared. “Where is he now?”
“He left to fetch his bags.” Camille rubbed her forehead. When had her head started to ache? No doubt the same moment she had looked into the parlor and seen Grayson. It would have been so much easier had she simply been mad.
“He wouldn't want to miss tea.” The corners of Beryl's lips twitched.
“Go on, then,” Camille said sharply. “Say whatever it is you're thinking. I know you want to. You can barely restrain yourself.”
“I . . .” Beryl shook her head, then burst into laughter. Long, hard and totally inappropriate hilarity.
Camille folded her arms over her chest and glared at her twin.
“I am sorry.” Beryl could barely choke out the words through her laughter. Camille's jaw clenched. “But you must admit, the addition of your long-lost love—” “He most certainly is not!”
Beryl ignored her. “Grayson's involvement completes the cast in a manner that, well . . .” Again she shook with uncontrollable mirth.
“This is not amusing!”
“No.” Beryl sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Of course not.” She inhaled a steadying breath and made an obvious attempt to control herself. “So what do you intend to do about our cousin?”
“Nothing.” Camille shook her head. “There's nothing I can do, really. He has already introduced himself as our cousin.”
“How did this happen?”
“I'm not entirely sure. He met Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, who apparently does not know her first name. And then Miss Murdock thought he was another actor and confided everything. And one thing led to another. . . .” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “But he has promised to behave accordingly and to lend me his assistance as well.”
“Has he?”
“He seems quite sincere.”
“No doubt.”
Camille narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking now?”
“Nothing, darling, nothing at all. Except . . . perhaps . . .”
“Yes?”
Beryl grinned. “I'm just dying to see what the next act in your little Christmas pageant will reveal.”
“As am I, Beryl.” A grim note sounded in Camille's voice. “As am I.”
Six
“P
rescott,” Grayson called the moment he strode through the doors of Fairborough Hall.
“Yes, sir?” The butler appeared at once, seemingly from nowhere. Gray bit back a grin. Fortesque could take lessons from Prescott. “Have my bags been unpacked?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“In that case, please have one repacked.”
“Very well.” Prescott paused. “Are you leaving again so soon, sir?”
“Just for a few days. I'll be staying at Millworth Manor.”
“Ah yes, of course, sir,” the older man said in a sage manner. Odd, but then Prescott's comportment often implied vast wisdom, as if he knew everything. Admittedly, he usually did, at least when it pertained to the Elliott household.
“My cousin?”
“The library, sir.”
“Excellent.” Gray nodded and turned toward the library.
Win stood in the open doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. “What do you mean, you're staying at Millworth Manor?”
“I mean”—he waved his cousin into the library, joined him, then closed the door behind them—“that I am spending Christmas at Millworth Manor.”
“Well, well, are you now?” Win studied him for a moment. “I suspect I'll need something stronger than brandy for this.”
“Pour two.”
Win pulled a bottle of fine Scottish whisky from the bottom drawer of the desk where Uncle Roland had long kept it as Aunt Margaret, while known to indulge in wine and the occasional glass of brandy, did not approve of harder spirits. Nonetheless, she knew exactly where Uncle Roland kept his whisky, and he knew she knew.
“So”—Win filled two glasses—“I gather the baked goods were appreciated.”
Gray accepted a glass and sank down into one of the leather wing chairs facing the fireplace. “You might say that.”
“While Cook does make excellent scones, they have never elicited responses like this before. Which does indicate a welcoming Christmas basket has nothing to do with the matter at hand.” Win settled in the chair matching Gray's and considered his cousin. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Gray grinned.
“You know ‘well, what?' Are you going to tell me everything, or are you going to make me guess?” Win raised his glass to the other man. “Surely, you remember that I have a very fertile imagination.”
“Not this fertile. Even you could not conceive of this.”
“My, my, now I am intrigued.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Depends on the secret, I would think. My third fiancée used to say I was very good at keeping the best secrets and not good at all at keeping everyday sort of secrets.”
“Third fiancée?” Gray raised a brow. “You never wrote to me of a third fiancée.”
“But I do believe I mentioned in one of my letters that I had begun to think telling you I was to wed was somehow bad luck.” He sipped his whisky. “As it turns out, apparently not.”
Gray stared. “How many fiancées have you had?”
“Officially?” Win grinned.
“Whatever you prefer.”
“Just three.” He thought for a moment. “As far as I can recall, although you should not hold me to that.”
“I suspect you and I need to have a long talk about all those things that were omitted from your letters.”
“No doubt. But as you have returned for the foreseeable future, there will be time. Long evenings sitting by the fire with Father's good whisky and nothing to do but rehash the last eleven years.” Win shuddered. “Sounds entirely too domestic for my way of thinking. Still, I imagine your adventures are much more stimulating than mine have been.”
“I wouldn't wager on that.” Gray laughed. Lord, he had missed this man.
“And speaking of returning home . . .” Win eyed him curiously. “Why are you staying at Millworth Manor?”
Gray considered the question. On his return ride, he had tried to think of something believable to explain his stay at the manor. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. Nothing that made sense, that is. Still, if he trusted no one else in the world, he trusted Win. “I need your word that you will not repeat to anyone what I am about to tell you.”
“That good, is it?”
“Better.”
“Very well, then.” Curiosity sparked in Win's eyes. “I shall carry your secret to my grave.”
“It's not really my secret.”
“Even better.”
“Your word, then.”
“Such as it is.” Win shrugged. “You have it.”
“Well . . .” Gray sipped his whisky and thought for a moment. He wasn't sure where to begin. The whole thing was so preposterous. “Camille has set her cap for a prince.”
“That comes as no surprise.”
“She's not quite as shallow as you think.”
“She couldn't possibly be.” Win's opinion of Camille and her sisters was nothing new. Nor was Gray's defense of her.
“Beryl was always much shallower than her sister.”
“As they look exactly alike and, to my observation, behave in exactly the same manner, explain to me, yet again, why she isn't as shallow as her twin.”
“You don't know her the way I do.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the woman who broke your heart to marry someone with a title and fortune?”
“In hindsight . . .” Gray chose his words with care. “What should she have done? She was about to be married.”
“Even so—”
“She's still angry with me,” Gray said.
“
She
is angry with
you
?” Win said slowly.
Gray nodded. “Still.”
“After eleven years,
she
is still angry with
you
.” Win's brow rose. “How very interesting. I didn't know she had any right to be angry with you at all.” He studied his cousin for a long, thoughtful moment. “I thought you were the wounded party.”
“I was,” Gray said staunchly.
“I thought you and she were in love.” Win studied his cousin closely. “And that she chose someone else over you because he had money and you did not.”
“She did.”
Skepticism glittered in Win's eyes.
“I was in love with her.”
“And was she in love with you?”
“I thought so. No, I knew so.” Gray blew a long breath. “Admittedly, we had never spoken of love and she had no idea of my feelings until that very day.”
“She never said she loved you as well?”
“No, but—”
Astonishment widened Win's eyes. “You told this woman, who had long considered you her friend, that you loved her on the day before her wedding?”
“I told you all that at the time.”
“Not exactly.” Win shook his head. “You only told me that you loved her and she refused to marry you because you had no prospects.”
“That's what happened.” Perhaps he had not fully explained everything all those years ago.
“I thought there was more between you. The way you talked about her and your behavior, you led me to believe you and she had some sort of understanding.”
“I never said—”
“No wonder she's angry.” Win shook his head.
“Still.”
“I think it's a good sign,” Gray said.
“A sign of what?”
“Of her feelings.”
“It seems to me her feelings are those of anger.” He sipped his whisky. “Justifiable, I might add.”
Gray choked. “Justifiable? How can you say that?”
“Oh, let me see.” Sarcasm colored Win's words. “You sprang this on her without warning just as she was about to marry someone else. And then you left.”
“I thought it best.” Although at this moment, it did sound rather stupid.
“To leave her and your family and your country?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“After declaring your love, you made no effort to speak to her again that day or the next. Correct?”
“It seemed pointless.” A defensive note sounded in Gray's voice. He had recognized his foolishness years ago. It wasn't at all pleasant to have his cousin now point it out.
“Furthermore, you have made no effort to contact her for eleven years. Is that correct as well?”
“Yes.” Gray forced a cool note to his voice. “As I said, it seemed pointless.”
Win took another swallow and studied his cousin. “Has it never occurred to you that this abrupt declaration of yours might have been so unexpected as to leave her stunned? Speechless?”
“She did manage to get a few words out,” he snapped. “She did admit she would marry me if I had money.”
“Did she?”
“Not in those exact words, perhaps . . .” Indeed, as Gray thought back, he had been the one to say she would marry him if he had prospects. She had simply said, as he didn't, what was the point?
“So you asked her to marry you instead of Lord Lydingham?”
“No.” Gray resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. “But I intended to.”
“My dear cousin. It appears you have a great deal to make up for.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“So”—Win swirled the whisky in his glass—“now that you have seen her again, do you still say you have put her in the past?”
“I don't know.”
Win cast him a skeptical glance.
Gray shrugged. “Perhaps not.”
“I see.”
Gray frowned. “What do you see?”
“Why are you staying at Millworth Manor, and what does Camille wanting a prince have to do with it?”
Gray started to point out Win had changed the subject; then thought better of it. The subject of his feelings for Camille was best left alone for now. Still, he had known the moment he looked into Camille's blue eyes again that something still lingered between them. She could deny it as much now as she had then . . . but then she never really had, had she? She'd never told him she didn't love him. At once his mood lightened.
“Camille's prince is eager to experience an English Christmas the way it is portrayed in literature. He's quite a fan of Mr. Dickens. So she is determined to provide him with that proper English Christmas, as well as a proper English family to go along with it.”
“Where is she going to get one?”
Gray leaned forward in his chair and met his cousin's gaze. “She's hired one.”
Win stared. “She's what?”
“You were right, Lady Briston and Delilah are in Paris. So Camille has hired a group of actors to play the parts of her family, as well as all the other servants.”
Win gasped. “My God.”
Gray nodded. “That was my—”
“That's brilliant!”
“Brilliant?” Gray drew his brows together. “It's mad is what it is.”
“That too.” Win waved off the comment. “But no less brilliant for the insanity of it.”
“I suppose one could look at it that way,” Gray said wryly.
“And you will have a front-row seat at what will surely be the best farce of the season.” Win paused. “Which brings us back to how you have that seat.”
“It's quite simple, really.” Gray settled back in his chair and raised his glass. “I am to play the role of her cousin, visiting for Christmas.”
“Camille wants you to be a part of this?”
“Absolutely not. She's furious about it, but I convinced her I could be of help.”
“I still don't understand—”
“I'm not sure exactly, but somehow, when I was introduced to her prince, the words just came out of my mouth as if of their own accord.” Gray grinned. “It's the spirit of the theater, you know. When one forgets one's lines or has no lines to start with, one finds it necessary to improvise.” His grin widened. “I improvised and did a damn fine job of it, if I do say so myself.”
“Good Lord.” Laughter danced in Win's eyes. “May I be a cousin too?”
“No,” Gray said firmly. “One unexpected cousin is enough.”
“Then I could be her brother.” He set down his glass and jumped to his feet. “Her long-lost brother returning home at last for Christmas. Oh, the drama, the pathos. I would be excellent in the part.” He swept a bow to an imaginary audience. “I can hear the applause now.”
BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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