Lydia stepped to the side and pulled Cam forward. She ignored the unusually large inhalation of oxygen she took right before she introduced her husband. If she were nervous, she could certainly handle it. Besides, Cam could do this. He had charmed her, hadn’t he?
Hadn’t he?
She took one last breath and prayed to God this would work.
“Mrs. Hatfield, please allow me to introduce my husband. This is Cam McCray.”
Mrs. Hatfield began the same screeching noise in the back of her throat that she gave everyone upon greeting, but she suddenly stopped. The unusually large inhalation of oxygen Lydia had just taken whooshed out of her faster than air from a popped balloon.
“McCray, you said?” Mrs. Hatfield asked.
Lydia nodded, words having left her brain for the moment.
This could not happen. Cam could not have ruined everything when he hadn’t even been there. Well, he had been there, and that was what had ruined everything. But he had not known about Lydia’s troubles. He didn’t even know that she still existed or where she was or what she was doing or what she was eating even. How could this all fall apart because of one stupid mistake she had made so long ago?
She bit the inside of her cheek where no one could see. She was being irrational. She was being terribly irrational, and she scolded herself for it. She needed to stay in control right now. This was it. This was everything she had worked for, for so long. This one account could single-handedly lift Baxter’s into the upper echelons. It had what Baxter’s needed to become a household name. It had the power to finally prove to her father that she was serious about this little shop on Newbury Street and that she could do this.
Her stupid mistake just could not mess it up.
“I’m afraid so,” Cam answered, and even though it wasn’t directed at her, even Lydia felt a burn from his charm. “Cam McCray, and what a pleasure it is to meet you, little lassie. I do believe it’s you that I owe a nice tidy profit to.”
Again with that adjustable Scottish brogue. It had definitely just turned up a few notches. Her gaze burned into him, and she hoped he felt it.
“Oh, you are that Cam McCray,” Evelyn Hatfield said.
Oh God, this was it. This was when the earth would literally begin to crumble apart at her feet.
Mrs. Hatfield did something with her mouth that made Lydia’s upper lip curl. Figuratively, of course. Lydia would never actually allow her upper lip to curl.
Mrs. Hatfield’s eyes widened like little tea cup saucers being pulled at the edges while her mouth contracted, a small little dark O, the perfect black button at the base of her face. And then came her familiar greeting call. “Oh, Cam McCray!” she screeched and launched herself at him.
Lydia took a small step back to avoid getting knocked over in the fray. Mrs. Hatfield had flung her arms wide and now had them wrapped solidly around Cam’s middle. Mrs. Hatfield’s head only came to the middle of his chest, and next to Cam’s tall stature, the woman looked even smaller. But she kept her head where it was, and her butt began to do the oddest jiggle. Lydia could not help but watch it until a deep rumbling voice startled her out of her perverse fascination.
“And who is this that has my wife so enthralled?”
Lydia looked up to see a solid, older man, barrel chested with graying hair brushed back like he was in a wind tunnel. He wore an unremarkable tuxedo with the top button of his collar undone under his bow tie. His thick neck swelled over the edge of the collar, and Lydia could imagine why the button was that way.
Lydia boldly stepped up and extended her hand. She had never met Mr. Hatfield, but she had better make a good impression now. After all, it would be his signature on the check to Baxter’s.
If the check ever came.
“Lydia Baxter,” she said, “And this is my husband, Cam.”
She gestured vaguely towards her husband and purposely did not speak his given name. But it was at that moment that Mrs. Hatfield unstuck her head from Cam’s chest.
“Do you know how divine those flowers were? The most exquisite bouquet. Even that old bag hasn’t sent me flowers like that in years.”
Lydia had been firmly shaking Mr. Hatfield’s hand, but at this proclamation from his wife, he dropped her hand and stepped around Lydia to confront the man who so easily charmed his wife.
“Cam, you say?”
The older man’s voice was like gravel under the wheels of a semi, all rough edges and solid weight.
Cam offered his hand, and Lydia really did take a giant breath and held it. Her chest did not visibly rise, and she was sure no one suspected she was anything but calm. But still, holding her breath helped.
She thought it would also help if she could scream, but that wasn’t an option just then.
“Cam McCray,” Cam said, hand still hanging in the air.
It was then that Lydia had most expected everything to come crashing down. It had seemed somehow likely. A sick twist of fate. Karma even. Everything in her life hung in peril because of one rash thing she had done as a young woman. The air she was trying to keep in slowly leaked from her lungs. Warm air passed over her bottom lip, and she wanted to purse her lips together to keep it from escaping. But she couldn’t do that. People would see, and they would know. They would know that she was scared to death right then.
“How do you like Paris, Mr. McCray?” Hatfield said, but he extended his hand.
The air rushed faster over her bottom lip.
“I like it very much. Thank you, sir.”
The men shook hands, and Hatfield did not try to break Cam’s arm in the process.
“I hear it’s beautiful there this time of year.”
“It’s Paris. I’m not sure if it has a bad season,” Cam said.
The two men stood there, and a picture of dogs squaring off for a peeing match came into Lydia’s head. She wondered if the two men would take it outside and if people actually did that.
Hatfield laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so well played in the thirty years I’ve been doing this,” the older man said and barked another laugh. He slapped Cam on the shoulder. “Well played, man. Well played. Do you use that strategy a lot?”
Cam shrugged. “Now if I told you that, you might warn my other victims. And I can’t have that, can I?”
The brogue was almost gone now, and Lydia wanted to look around for that dimmer switch.
“I guess so. What is your interest in the London market?”
“My interest is keen, but the market is impenetrable,” Cam returned.
Lydia only had a vague notion of what they were speaking about and cautiously began to position herself closer to Mrs. Hatfield. Seeing as how the woman was on the other side of her husband, clutching Cam’s arm, in fact, it was making things difficult.
“I have a man scouting in Mayfair for me.”
“Mayfair. Impossible.”
Hatfield shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors.”
Cam straightened. Lydia had never seen such good posture on him in all the time she had known him. Which technically wasn’t really that much, but still. He looked almost…polished in that moment. He almost looked the gentlemanly part he was born into. Lydia paused in her surreptitious slide over to Mrs. Hatfield. She stood at Cam’s elbow, and suddenly, the urge to loop her arm through his washed over her. During their first stint as husband and wife, she had never felt compelled to touch him in public. If anything, she had tried to separate herself from him. He was just always so much unlike anything she had thought she would marry. He didn’t fit the role she had designed for her husband in her head.
So why had she married him in the first place?
Because he made you laugh.
“Rumors you can share?”
The brogue was back, but it was playful. Cam was enjoying himself, and Lydia wanted to smile. She hadn’t expected him to actually have fun through this whole charade.
“Perhaps,” Hatfield said, but Mrs. Hatfield broke in.
> “Lydia, I believe Rebecca and her beau are holing themselves up by the bar. I’m sure she would love to see you and meet Cam.”
Lydia took the interruption as the cue it was and also made it an excuse to loop her arm through her husband’s.
“Then I think we should make our way over there.” She put pressure on Cam’s arm to move.
“I’ll be in town for a while, Hatfield. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting. Discuss the market.”
Lydia saw the fireworks erupt in Mrs. Hatfield’s eyes.
“What do you mean you will be in town for a while, Mr. McCray? Do you not live with your wife?”
Lydia’s stomach dropped to the floor. She could imagine it pink and spongy and pooling in bodily fluids around her pretty shoes. She was sure she was imagining it all wrong. She only had health textbooks to go on and no personal experience to back it up. But she thought it would be spongy and lifeless. Just like her very existence at that moment.
“Ah, Mrs. Hatfield. I’m afraid it’s a mite more tragic than that. You see my business is based in London where as my Lydia has her shop here in Boston. It’s a long distance relationship we have. But as the line goes, distance makes the heart grow fonder.” Here he turned, took the hand Lydia had looped through his arm in both of his and stared into her eyes.
Lydia forgot all about her lifeless stomach squirming on the floor at her shoes. She forgot everything in fact. When Cam looked at her like that, it was easy to forget.
“And I’ve grown fonder of my wife everyday that we’ve been wed. And I expect I’ll grow fonder still.” He bent and pressed the most chaste of kisses against her parted lips.
He stepped back and put her arm back through his.
Lydia blinked. He hadn’t kissed her since that first day he’d been back when he’d kissed her far too much. Or maybe not enough. And to kiss her again in front of all of these people, these people who held her fate in their hands, was unfair. She admitted that last bit was a little over dramatic, but it was for the most part true. At least it felt true. Lydia tried to remember to breathe.
But Mrs. Hatfield did enough breathing for all of them when she let out a huge, romantic, sappy sigh. “That is the most exquisite and heart wrenching thing I have ever heard,” she said.
Lydia instantly thought of all the things that were by far worse, like lost puppies or dropped ice cream cones, but she did not mention them.
“I always thought Lydia must have a special man tucked away somewhere,” Mrs. Hatfield continued, and Lydia ruminated on just what tucked away meant. “But to be so far away from each other.” Mrs. Hatfield made a strangled tsking sound. “It must cause you so much grief. Whatever is so important that is keeping you two apart like that?”
Lydia looked at Cam, but she had not expected him to be looking at her. She did not have anything to say. She had not planned on such a question. She had planned for the obvious. What is his favorite food, how does he take his coffee, what is his favorite football team, and was that soccer or football? She hadn’t prepared for someone to question the foundation of their relationship, whatever foundation that was. Her stomach sank again, and she prayed that an answer would come to her.
But she needn’t have worried. Of course not. Cam was there, and he had every answer written down somewhere, the location of which he was not sharing.
“Nothing, Mrs. Hatfield.” He still gazed at Lydia with those soft brown eyes that made more than her stomach sink. “Nothing that is worth a damn, and I have a mind to fix it as soon as I can.”
Lydia blinked at that last part. He was joking surely. This was a part of his charming act. He wasn’t going to fix their situation. Their situation was just as she preferred it. She in Boston, and Cam in London where he could do the least harm.
Harm to what?
“I know you will, dear,” Mrs. Hatfield said.
Lydia finally looked at the other couple and found that they, too, had joined arms. Mrs. Hatfield so short and puffy and Mr. Hatfield so tall and solid. Neither one of them would be deemed beautiful or even elegant. Neither one of them really touted the guidelines of the socially accepted and wealthy. They just were who they were, and they did not care. What must it feel like to have that attitude? To not constantly wonder what other people were thinking about you?
“Now go along.” Mrs. Hatfield shooed at them with her one free hand. “I know Rebecca will want to see you.”
Cam bowed slightly, and Lydia thought Mrs. Hatfield was going to swoon. Did anyone carry smelling salts any more these days?
Mrs. Hatfield shooed them again.
“It was a pleasure to see you both.” Lydia began to force her husband in another direction. Any fucking direction. Any direction that led them away from the Hatfields.
They’d moved about ten feet into the throng when Lydia caught a passing waiter and grabbed a flute of champagne. She held it out to Cam, but he scoffed at her.
“Whiskey, please,” he said.
The waiter heard and nodded, moving off into the crowd.
Lydia drank most of the champagne in one gulp and did not care what commentary from her darling husband awaited her. She tipped her head back to get all but the last drop. She had to have something to carry around with her. She couldn’t just walk around with her hands free, and she didn’t think it was wise to give her another full glass of alcohol.
When she finally looked at Cam, he did not appear ready to speak. He gazed at her softly like he was prone to do, and she let herself swim in the attention. The noise of the room dropped away, and she watched him watch her.
“You shouldn’t be so nervous, Lydia.”
She shook her head. “What do you mean?” she said, and she knew her smile looked practiced.
Cam sighed. She felt the force of it from where she stood.
“I would like to beat the hell out of whoever it was that made you think you have to live up to some unholy standard.”
“What are you talking about?” she whispered, stepping closer to him.
This was not a conversation she wished to have in front of all of these people. Any people actually.
“That was what bothered me the most about you,” Cam said, and Lydia instantly thought of a million things about him that bothered her. But she didn’t know they were having this conversation right now, or she would have been prepared.
She had worried about other more common sensical things like what would people be saying about them, how would Cam behave, and what should she wear to appear the happy wife but not the complacent wife. Had she known they were going to be diving into her deep insecurities, she would have worn a different outfit. One that didn’t show the wrinkles if she were to haphazardly curl her fists into her skirt. Not that she would ever do that, but the thought had crossed her mind a time or two.
“You are always waiting for someone to tell you that you did the wrong thing. Even if you don’t know what that thing was or is. You’re perpetually waiting.”
Cam leaned his head down toward her, and the warmth of his breath crossed her cheek. She suddenly remembered the way his strong hands had felt when he had held her, kissing her, caressing her, just being there. And she suddenly wanted it again.
She backed up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are certain standards that everyone must uphold—”
“No.”
The word was so low, so guttural, Lydia almost did not hear it. Let alone realize it had come from Cam.
“Excuse me?” she said, because she honestly did not know what else to say.
“You heard me,” he said instead of clarifying. “Now where is this lad and lassie that we’re supposed to chat with?”
Lydia very much wanted to hold a hand against her throat, but she curled her fingers softly together and let them unfold at her side.
“Why do you do that?” she decided to ask and was perversely pleased when Cam gave her a confused look. “The brogue. You have a finite control on that. And the lad and lassie thing. Y
ou lay it on for effect.”
Cam smiled. “I like to give people what they expect when they hear a Scot is coming.”
It somehow fit Cam to put on such charm.
“Rebecca is tall and waif like. You should be able to see her above the crowd. Dark hair that she always keeps pulled to one side of her neck.”
Cam had straightened and scanned the room as she rattled out a description.
“Is her beau a rather watered down chap with wild brown hair and a penchant for colorful bow ties?”
The waiter approached with Cam’s whiskey and several more flutes of champagne. She grabbed the whiskey as the waiter came up as well as another flute of champagne, exchanging her mostly empty one for it.
“I suppose it is. I’ve never met him.”
Cam looked down at her as he accepted the whiskey. “You’ve never met him? Isn’t he helping to plan this wedding thing they’re embarking on?”
Lydia shook her head and took a sip of her drink. “I don’t usually see the gentlemen. They don’t really ever want much to do with bridal shops.”
Cam furrowed his brow but didn’t say anything.
It took them a few minutes to work their way through the crowd. Cam had taken her hand, so they wouldn’t get separated. Lydia watched their conjoined hands as they pressed between groups of people, ignoring the tingling feeling in her stomach. Her husband held her hand. It was not that big of a deal. Was it?
They finally broke free of the press on the other side of the room opposite the open doors. It was stuffier on this side but also quieter. Lydia saw Rebecca instantly, lounging against a cocktail table by the corridor to the restrooms. She was all soft and colorless, her long hair in a simple braid to the side of her neck, her dress a formless white sheath that draped across her willowy frame without substance. Rebecca was overall a rather drab girl, but Lydia was not there to judge that. She was there to make Rebecca feel like the most beautiful fucking bride that ever walked down the aisle, even if she didn’t actually look it.
“Miss Hatfield.” Lydia approached her.
When She Falls Page 6
