“But you had a question for me, Mr. Elliott.”
“I was just wondering why, given your comment about being with family at Christmas, you choose to spend Christmas here in England.”
“I have to confess, Christmas caught me unaware,” Pruzinsky said wryly. “I have been away from home, traveling the continent and, most recently, the British Isles for nearly a year. I simply lost track of the days. No doubt the direct result of meeting your cousin. I daresay, she could make anyone forget their own name.” He directed a warm smile toward Camille and she beamed back at him. “By the time I realized how close Christmas was, it was too late to make the journey home.”
“I see,” Gray said. “Forgive my ignorance, Count, but where exactly is your country?”
“No apology is necessary, Mr. Elliott.” Pruzinsky smiled in a benevolent manner. “We are a very small country and quite secluded, wedged between the Russian, Austrian and Germanic empires.”
“But from what you have said, it sounds quite lovely,” Camille said. “I should very much like to see it someday.”
“And I would very much enjoy showing it to you. There is nothing as beautiful as the view from the castle of the snow-covered mountains of Avalonia in December.” Pruzinsky sighed wistfully. “Unless, of course, it’s the green hills and valleys in the spring.”
“Of course,” Gray murmured. He was not well versed in the geography—or climate—of that part of Europe. Indeed, the map of that particular region seemed to change nearly every year. Still, like the prince’s accent, his explanation struck an odd chord as well. Although, admittedly, Gray might well be suspicious of anyone with whom Camille was this enamored. That realization was as surprising as his impulsive decision to stay and help her with this farce.
“But while I will not be joining my own family, I now have the pleasure of joining Lady Lydingham’s family for Christmas,” the prince said with a yet another fond look at Camille. No, there was more than fondness in that look. Gray’s stomach tightened. “The first of many such gatherings, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” Camille fluttered her lashes at him.
Good God! Why didn’t the woman fling herself into his bed right now? Gray ignored the thought that perhaps she already had and absolutely refused to consider why he found that idea annoying.
“Now then.” Pruzinsky smiled pleasantly. “It appears my bags have been misplaced. I was hoping your butler might know of their whereabouts.”
“Oh, dear, that is a problem.” Camille shook her head. “I am sorry, I’m afraid the staff here in the country is not quite as efficient as it should be. I shall find Fortesque immediately.” She stepped toward the door, paused, then extended her hand to the prince.
Pruzinsky took it at once, and brought it to his lips. Gray resisted the urge to groan. Camille sighed and slanted a pointed look at Gray. “I shall be no more than a moment.”
“Even a moment without your presence is too long,” Pruzinsky said gallantly. A bit overdone to Gray’s thinking, but then the man was a foreign prince and perhaps allowances should be made.
“I shall do my best to be as entertaining as possible until you return,” Gray said with a smirk.
“As only you know how.” She paused. “On second thought—”
“No, my dear, we shall be fine.” Pruzinsky met Gray’s gaze directly. “It’s obvious to me your cousin has some reservations about my presence in your home. He is your male relation, so it is, no doubt, to be expected.”
“Nonsense,” Camille said in a firm tone. “It’s just his manner. Think nothing of it. Everyone in the family has long said Grayson is entirely too suspicious.” Her jaw tightened. “It’s one of his more charming attributes.”
“Not at all,” the prince said smoothly. “I would feel entirely the same, were our positions reversed.”
“Grayson simply doesn’t understand I am no longer the girl he left behind.” Camille glared.
Pruzinsky’s considering gaze slipped from Camille to Gray and back.
Camille’s hands clenched at her side. “It has been eleven years since he left England, after all.”
Gray shrugged. “It seems like yesterday.”
“It wasn’t,” she said sharply; then obviously remembered she was trying to impress a prince and smiled. “Indeed, it feels like another lifetime altogether.”
“Eleven years.” The prince’s eyes widened with surprise. “Then I did interrupt a reunion. I do apologize.”
“Not necessary.” Camille blithely waved off the comment. “Grayson had said hello and was about to leave—”
“To fetch my bags.” He leaned toward the prince and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “I, too, have encountered a few baggage difficulties, especially at the train station.”
“I quite understand.” Pruzinsky nodded. “It is at once the benefit and misfortune of not traveling as a prince. No one treats you as a prince.” He flashed an amused grin. “And, as I am more than capable of finding a servant myself, I shall leave you to reminisce.” He nodded. “Mr. Elliott, Camille.” He looked as if he were about to grab her hand once again; then apparently thought better of it and took his leave.
“That’s the man you want to marry?” He turned toward her.
“What do you mean—my cousin come for Christmas?” she said at precisely the same time.
“I thought you could use some help in this convoluted plot of yours.”
“I don’t need your help, and, yes, that is the prince I intend to marry.” She glared.
“He’s not like any prince I’ve ever known.”
“Oh, really?” She raised a brow. “How many princes have you known?”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he said sharply. “Doesn’t his manner strike you as odd? All that traveling without the trappings of his position? Capable of finding the butler himself? He doesn’t act the least bit royal.”
“He’s traveling incognito,” she said in a lofty manner. “It’s quite progressive of him.”
“It’s odd, extremely odd.”
“I think it’s perfect.”
“Do you?” He narrowed his gaze. “You’ve never been one to forgo the accoutrements of wealth and position.”
“And, I daresay, in his own country, neither does Nikolai.” She paused. “Nor will we as a royal couple, of course.”
“I think it’s suspicious.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think.”
“I don’t trust him,” Gray said flatly.
“You scarcely met him.”
Gray shook his head. “He’s entirely too polished. He’s exactly what one would think a prince would be, aside from that nonsense about not traveling as a prince.”
“It’s a family tradition.” Camille’s jaw clenched.
“He’s entirely too”—Gray shrugged—“perfect. No man is that perfect.”
“He’s a prince and he is perfect.” She raised her chin. “And charming and dashing and handsome. He is everything any woman would ever want. Everything I have ever wanted.”
“I see.” He studied her closely. It had been a long time, but once he had known her as well as he knew himself. And right now, she was not being completely honest with him or perhaps with herself. Or, more than likely, both. “Well, then, Camille, if he is what you want—”
“He is,” she said staunchly.
“Then I shall do everything I can to assure your success.”
Suspicion sounded in her voice. “Why?”
“Because . . .” He blew a long breath. “All I have ever wanted was your happiness.”
She stared at him for a moment. “Come now, Grayson, if you truly meant that, you would leave.”
“Oh, I can’t possibly leave now.” He shook his head. “Your long-lost cousin leaving before Christmas? What would your prince think?”
“I shall tell him you were called away. Some sort of emergency.”
“A monetary crisis, no doubt.” A wry note sounded i
n his voice.
She ignored it. “Perhaps not, but something equally plausible.” Speculation flashed in her eyes. “Will you? Leave, that is?”
“Oh, I wish I could, but . . .” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I wouldn’t miss Christmas at Millworth Manor for anything in the world.”
“Imagine my surprise.” She studied him closely. “Do I have your word you won’t muck this up? That you will indeed help and not hinder my efforts? That you will act as a member of the family and behave accordingly?”
“Given the family members I have met thus far—”
“Grayson!”
“You have my word.” He nodded in a solemn manner.
“Regardless, I don’t trust you.”
He gasped. “I am nothing if not trustworthy.”
“Hah!” She heaved a resigned sigh. “I really have no choice in this, do I?”
He grinned. “None whatsoever.”
“Very well, then.” She smiled although the look in her eye was anything but welcoming. “Welcome home, Cousin.”
“Excellent.” He started toward the door. “I will fetch my bags and explain this interesting turn of events to Win and my uncle—”
“No!”
He turned back. “I have to say something to explain my absence.”
“But you can’t tell them the truth. Say anything but the truth.” Her gaze met his. “If you truly want to help me, start here. I cannot have the entire world knowing about this.”
“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 h
er 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.
What Happens At Christmas Page 7
