What Happens At Christmas (21 page)

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Authors: Victoria Alexander

BOOK: What Happens At Christmas
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“Yes, yes.” Beryl waved off the comment. “I know all that.”
“Looking back on it, one might see where that sort of dismissal might well wound—”
“He left you!” Beryl stared. “He could have come back that day or the next or interrupted your wedding.” Her eyes narrowed. “He certainly could have come back after Harold died, but he didn't!”
“No, he didn't! Nor did I expect him to!”
“But you wanted him to!”
“Yes, yes, I admit it.” Camille huffed. “I wanted him to! There, are you happy now?”
“Not really.” Beryl studied her closely. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Nothing. I don't know.” Camille rubbed a weary hand over her forehead. “He is the least of my problems.”
“Ah yes, that's right. You have a prince and a house filled with actors to attend to. Oh, and children as well.”
“Sarcasm, Beryl”—she aimed a pointed look at her sister—“does not help matters.”
“Has he proposed yet?”
“Nikolai?”
“Yes, Nikolai, your
prince.
Remember?”
“Of course I remember and no, he hasn't proposed.” She drew a deep breath. “And I'm beginning to think I don't want him to.”
Surprise mixed with relief in her sister's eyes. “I thought that was the whole purpose of this farce of yours?”
“Yes, well, once again I have leapt into something without thoroughly thinking it through,” Camille said sharply.
“And?”
“And I've decided you might well be right.”
“Aha!” Triumph rang in Beryl's voice then her brow furrowed. “About what?”
“About marrying a man one loves rather than marrying a man with the hopes of love one day.”
“I see,” Beryl said slowly. “Then are we to end this deception of yours?”
“Good Lord, no!” She resumed pacing. “We need to continue precisely as planned.”
Beryl shook her head. “I don't understand. If the purpose is no longer to prove the propriety of the family to Pruzinsky and give him a perfect Christmas—”
“For one thing, I could be wrong, and I do think I should kiss him—”
“You haven't kissed him?”
“The opportunity hasn't arisen.”
Beryl stared in disbelief.
“As I was saying, just to make certain, I should do that before making any decision, although I doubt it would make much difference.” Camille stopped in midstep and met her sister's gaze directly. “If Nikolai proposes and I turn him down, and he knows this was all a massive deception, who knows who he might tell? Men who have been rejected are not especially trustworthy. No one would ever believe I turned him down. Gossips would be positively giddy over this. Being a rather impressive gossip yourself—”
“I do try,” Beryl said modestly.
“You know full well the story of the measures Lady Lydingham went to in an effort to trap a prince, the
futile
measures, would be all over London—no, all over England in no time at all.”
“It is rather juicy,” Beryl said under her breath.
“The scandal would be enormous. I would be the subject of jokes for the rest of my life.” She pinned her sister with a pointed look. “And you and Lionel would be tarnished with the same brush.”
Beryl paled. “You're right. I hadn't thought of that.”
“No, to save us all, we have to carry on exactly as planned,” Camille said. “First the perfect Christmas. Then the day after, he shall be called back to his country—”
Beryl snorted.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Beryl said quickly. “Just thinking about the monetary crisis.”
“Are we agreed, then?”
“Absolutely.” Beryl nodded. “What can I do?”
“Nothing comes to mind.” Camille thought for a minute. “Although you could distract the prince for me.”
“Distract him how?” Suspicion sounded in Beryl's voice.
“I don't know. Keep him occupied. Flirt with him.”
“I should say not! I have given up flirting with men who are not my husband,” she said in a lofty manner. “Besides, I don't want to. And it wouldn't be at all proper, would it?”
“It wouldn't be especially improper if,” Camille said slowly, “he thought you were me.”
Beryl stared. “What?”
“I'm not suggesting you allow him to seduce you,” she said quickly. “Just pretend to be me. You can wear some of my clothes—”
“You do have some lovely things.”
“Why, you needn't even say anything specific. Goodness, Beryl, it's not as if the man will ask if you're you or you're me. Simply let him assume that you're me.”
“And what if he proposes to me?”
“Then you'll smile and say while you're quite flattered, he has apparently confused one sister with the other.” She cast her sister a pleading smile. “And then, at least, I shall be forewarned that a proposal is imminent and can take steps to avoid it.”
“I could, as well, discourage him,” Beryl said thoughtfully.
“Excellent.”
“I won't fling myself at him,” Beryl warned.
“Nor am I asking you to.”
“Although . . . there is someone who would.”
“Someone . . .” Camille shook her head, then gasped. “Miss Murdock?”
“I daresay, she can be quite distracting.” Beryl smiled wickedly. “Nor do I suspect she will need much encouragement, no more than opportunity, really. Miss Murdock strikes me as the sort of young woman who is looking more for a wealthy husband than success on the stage. And what girl doesn't want a prince?”
“No doubt the thought has occurred to her as well. She was nicely occupying his attention at the pond.” For a moment, the image of being a princess in a castle in the far-flung reaches of Whateverhiscountrywas shimmered in her mind; then faded with only the tiniest twinge of regret. Camille grinned. “That is brilliant, Beryl.”
“I am often brilliant.” She paused. “Now, about Grayson?”
“Grayson is of no consequence at the moment.”
“Let us hope it stays that way,” Beryl said.
A sharp knock sounded at the door and it opened an instant later. Fortesque poked his head in. “Lady Lydingham, I must insist we speak at once.”
“I'll arrange for the nursery to be prepared.” Beryl started for the door, then paused. “Oh, and I neither dislike children nor do they frighten me when taken in small doses. But a large number of them—and I do think five is a large number under these circumstances—acting much like a Russian invasion, well, even the most stalwart among us can be reduced to . . .”
“Fear? Panic?”
“Something like that. I am really quite fond of children on an individual basis.” She yanked the door open and nodded at Fortesque. The actor hurried into the room and closed the door behind him.
Camille sighed. “What is it now?”
“The others have returned and have retired to their rooms, to rest before dinner.”
“Very well.” She studied him for a moment. He had straightened his appearance, but he still had the air of a man deeply inconvenienced. “Is there something else?”
“My apologies, Lady Lydingham, but I feel I must draw the line somewhere.” Fortesque drew himself up. “When you engaged us, it was understood that the only additional guests would be His Highness and Lord and Lady Dunwell. Then your cousin joined the gathering, and one additional person was not a difficulty. But now, now there are
children.
” He said the word as if it were an obscenity. “Not that I am opposed to children in limited quantities. One, or perhaps two, or possibly even three, but”—his eyes widened in horror—“there are five. Five! Five unruly, ill-behaved, disorderly little boys. And have you seen the look in their eyes?” He shuddered. “What shall we do with them?”
“Oh, I imagine we'll think of something.”
“The theater, my lady, is no place for children!”
“This is not the theater, Fortesque.” She huffed. “This is my family home. And this is my production. And if I say there are to be children, there are to be children!” She closed her eyes for an instant and prayed for strength.
“Lady Lydingham, you should be aware that I have never left a play in the middle of a performance. I have never walked off a stage in a huff. Even when I have been surrounded by others who have not studied their craft and learned their lines and have indeed made me look like a fool standing on the stage waiting for . . .” He shook his head, obviously clearing out the unwanted memories of a bad performance. “However”—he stared down his nose at her—“given the circumstances—”
“Mr. Fortesque.” She met his gaze through narrowed eyes. “It seems we have come to a crossroads in which we have two choices. One, you may leave my employ at once—in which case, I shall consider our agreement nullified and you shall forfeit any and all wages due you and your troupe.”
He gasped. “That would be most—”
“Unfair? I should warn you, this is the second time today I have been accused of being unfair, and I am not certain if I am annoyed or quite pleased with myself. Do you understand?”
He nodded but held his tongue.
“Excellent. Our second choice is to carry on bravely and rise to the occasion. And, Mr. Fortesque”—she leaned closer and lowered her voice—“is that not the tradition of the theater? Didn't Shakespeare say, ‘The play's the thing'?”
He considered her for a moment, then squared his shoulders. “It's Fortesque, my lady. Do try to remember that.”
She resisted the urge to laugh. “Yes, of course.”
“Now, if you no longer require my services, I shall see to the arrangements”—he winced—“for the children.”
“Actually, Fortesque, I was wondering. Isn't it difficult to make a decent living on the stage?”
“Oh, my. Yes.” He shook his head forlornly. “Even if one's heart is in the theater, one's stomach does require sustenance.”
“I can imagine,” she said thoughtfully. “And Mrs. Fortesque? Is she as taken with the theater as you are?”
He grimaced. “Unfortunately, I am of an artistic nature and she is made of far more practical stuff.”
“I see. Then I would suspect, if she were offered a position with decent wages and living quarters, included for you both, of course,” she added quickly, “thus leaving you to pursue your theatrical ambitions, would you and she be at all inclined toward an arrangement of that nature?”
“It would indeed be something to consider.” Interest gleamed in his eyes.
“In which case, I have a proposal for you, Fortesque. . . .”
Camille smiled to herself. She could practically taste the chocolate now.
Fifteen
G
ray wasn't sure when, if ever, he'd been quite so exhausted. But then again, he hadn't romped with little boys since he'd been one himself. Still, he had to admit, he'd had rather a good time of it.
The boys themselves had been remarkably well behaved when they returned to the house. He didn't know if that was due to whatever Camille had said to them or if he had worn them out nearly as much as they had tired him. They scarcely did more than mutter cryptic comments and mild objections when the housekeeper and the maids drew baths for them all, although it was clear none of them saw the need for it.
Their eyes had grown wide when they'd first stepped foot in the freshly dusted nursery. Camille's staff might not be the best actors in the world, but they did do a fine job as servants. And that reminded him: He did need to speak to Fortesque and his wife. The three beds Camille and her sisters had used as children were supplemented with two additional mattresses, which Camille or, perhaps, Beryl had arranged for. The boys, however, insisted on pushing the three beds together, saying they were used to sharing. Thomas, Simon and Walter confided to him that they had never slept in a bed by themselves before; and while they might well like it, the little ones would never be able to sleep by themselves. Gray was fairly certain it wasn't just the twins who did not want to sleep alone.
The children had explored the nursery and pronounced it to their liking, although the shelves had too many dolls and child-size tea sets and books—nothing that boys liked—which they agreed was a great pity. They were remarkably pragmatic about it for children, noting they would only be here for one night, after all, and it would do. The housekeeper had volunteered to sleep in the old governess's room, should the boys need something in the night.
They had eaten their supper in the nursery, insisting their beloved Uncle Grayson join them. Camille had certainly turned the tables on him, not that it didn't serve him right. He had to admire her cleverness, although the company of the boys was not an unpleasant way to pass the time. He hadn't thought it when he'd read Win's note, but having the children here for only one night was for the best. As Camille had put him in the role of beloved uncle, and had obviously instructed the children to occupy his every moment, he couldn't keep an eye on her, as he and Beryl had agreed. Nor could he continue to work his way past her defenses, and hopefully into her heart. And time was growing short.
In spite of his agreement with Beryl not to tell Camille of Pruzinsky's deception, he would indeed tell her the truth if he thought it necessary. Gray would not let her go off with the man, although he suspected Pruzinsky had no intention of leaving without at least a betrothal. Gray suspected as well, should Pruzinsky have Camille's promise to marry, that he would be more than willing to abandon his claim on her for a tidy payment.
Still, he couldn't concern himself with Pruzinsky at the moment. Right now, he had five eager children, tucked under the blankets, waiting expectantly. Although, given the way their eyes were barely open, he doubted he would have to read for long.
“Cousin Camille promised you would read to us,” Thomas said, a frown of annoyance creasing his brow. “Will you?”
“I will indeed.” He pulled a chair up close to the bed, sat down and held up a well-used book. “Fortunately, there was a copy of ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas' on the nursery shelves. As Christmas is just a few days away, I thought it would be perfect for tonight. What do you think? Will it do?”
Silence greeted him.
“No?” His gaze slid from one cautious face to the next.
“We have already heard it, you see,” Simon said in as diplomatic a manner as possible.
“I imagine you hear it every year at Christmas.”
“No, we heard it tonight.” Walter sighed. “Cousin Beryl read it to us after our baths.”
“The skittish one? Are you sure it wasn't her sister?”
“Uncle Grayson, we can tell one sister from another.” Patience sounded in Thomas's voice, as if he were the adult. “We have twins of our own.”
“Yes, of course,” Gray murmured, rather nonplused by being put in his place by a ten-year-old. “Very well, then. We'll find something else.” He rose to his feet, strode across the room to the shelves and studied the offerings. “This will do, I think.” He plunked the book from its spot, paged through it, then returned to his chair. “This is a story by Mr. Dickens called ‘The Magic Fishbone.' It's about a princess who gets one wish for anything she wants.”
“I'd wish for a dog,” Thomas said.
“Two dogs.” Walter grinned.
“Three dogs,” George or Henry added. The other twin giggled. “Four dogs!”
“And what would you wish for, Simon?” Gray asked.
“It's only one wish you say?”
Gray nodded.
“Then I should have to think about it.” Simon considered the idea. “Can I wish for more wishes?”
“I am sorry.” Gray shook his head regretfully. “I suspect that's against the rules.”
“Not much of a wish if you can't wish for more wishes,” Thomas muttered.
“No, if I only have one, I should have to think for a long time. About what I really, truly want.” Simon's tone was solemn, as befit such an important decision. “Not that I don't want a dog,” he added quickly.
Gray nodded. “That goes without saying.”
Simon studied him for a moment. “What would you wish for?”
Camille's forgiveness. Her heart. Her hand.
“Why, I agree with you. Something of this magnitude must be given a great deal of thought. One would hate to squander a lone wish on something of no importance.”
“A dog is important.” Walter pointed out, and snuggled deeper under the covers.
“A dog most certainly is. Now shall we see how the princess uses her wish?” The boys nodded their agreement and Gray began: “ ‘There was once a King, and he had a Queen; and he was the manliest of his sex, and she was the loveliest of hers. The King was, in his private profession, Under Government. The Queen's father had been a medical man out of town. . . .' ”
No, he would not have to read long. He had scarcely gotten to the part where the king had arrived at his office, before the twins were asleep and the others were struggling against succumbing.
“ ‘There he wrote and wrote and wrote, till it was time to go home again. Then he politely invited the Princess Alicia, as the Fairy had directed him, to partake of the salmon. . . .' ”
By the time the doll, which was really a duchess, was introduced in the story, all five children were fast asleep. They looked much like Christmas angels, although—he chuckled to himself—they were simply Christmas Carrolls. He would have to thank Win for that bit of whimsy. He stood, blew out the lamp and quietly moved to the door, closing it gently behind him.
“How long have you been listening?” he said without turning around.
“I heard them tell you they had already been read to once tonight.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
He turned to face her. Camille stood far closer than expected, illuminated by the faint light of the gas sconces in the corridor. Close enough to kiss again, if he dared. “I thought Beryl didn't like children.”
“So did Beryl.” Camille laughed softly.
“And you? Do you like children?”
“I have always imagined I would like my children, although I suppose that isn't always true. And I like these children.” She studied him curiously. “Are you surprised?”
“That you like children?”
She nodded.
“I've never really thought about it,” he said. “I suppose, I thought, assumed as you don't have any—”
“Life does not always turn out as one expects, Grayson. I came to tell you, dinner is nearly ready. And I should hate to insult Mrs. Fortesque by any of us being late.” She started down the hall. “I do hope to have children, you know.”
He nodded. “Princes and princesses.”
“Goodness, Grayson, that is what one has when one marries a prince.”
A real prince.
“Quite right.”
She reached the stairs and glanced back at him. “You've been very kind to them—the children, that is.”
“Well”—he shrugged—“I am their beloved uncle.”
She smiled in an annoyingly satisfied manner. “And no one deserves that title more than you.”
“I have to confess, I was not at all pleased when you aimed them in my direction. And apparently it is my lot to keep them away from the others.”
“Who better than you?”
He chuckled. “But I must admit as well, I've quite enjoyed my day with them.”
“Excellent, as you are the beloved uncle tomorrow too.”
“I'm not sure I have the strength.”
“Nonsense.” Her gaze flicked over him. “You look to be in fine physical condition to me.”
He grinned. “Is that a compliment?”
“It's an observation.” She started down the stairs. “I saw how you skated and the speed with which you covered the ground from the pond to the stables and the house. I would say, you are well up to the herding of five little boys.”
“I do hope so. I should hate for my epitaph to be: ‘Small children were his undoing.' ”
She laughed. He'd never forgotten how much he'd liked her laugh. But then, he now appreciated the passion of her anger as well. He couldn't recall her ever being angry with him in their youth. They reached the first floor and she turned in the direction of the public rooms. He stayed a step behind her for a moment, enjoying the way her hips swayed beneath her bustle. With very little effort, he could reach out and pull her hips back against his. How much more passionate would she be when she was in the throes of desire? When she was naked and writhing beneath him? When his hand caressed the curves of her—
“It's almost a shame they are only here for one night.”
“What?” He stepped up beside her. “Who?”
“Pay attention, Grayson, we were talking about the boys.” She slanted him a curious glance. “What were you thinking?”
“Me? Oh. Nothing, really.”
Except picking you up in my arms, carrying you to the closest bed and making mad love to you until you begged for more and screamed my name and admitted that we belong together
. “Pity they fell asleep, though. I rather wanted to see how the story ended.”
“Oh no, it's better that they don't hear it.”
He drew his brows together. “Why not? Don't they live happily ever after?”
“The princess and her family do, but the magic fishbone, having lost its power, is swallowed by the nasty little pug dog that lived next door. How did Mr. Dickens put it?” She thought for a moment. “Ah yes, ‘he expired in convulsions.' ”
Grayson stared. “The dog dies?”
“He snapped at children.”
“Dickens killed the dog?”
“He was a very unpleasant little dog,” she said firmly.
“Nonetheless, with proper training . . .”
“It's nice to know you like dogs and children.”
“Why?”
“If you didn't, I would think you had changed beyond all recognition.”
“I haven't changed at all,” he said staunchly, knowing that wasn't entirely true, although he had
grown
more than
changed.
“I am very much the same person I was eleven years ago.”
“In some ways, perhaps.” She paused and studied him. “But there is a strength in you now, a determination that you did not have as a youth. You have, as well, a look of responsibility about you, and the air of a man who refuses to give up, who fights for what he wants.”
He grinned. “It's irresistible, isn't it?”
“For the most part, it's annoying.” She raised her shoulder in a casual shrug. “Although, I suppose, if you and I were to meet as strangers, it might well be the tiniest bit—oh, I don't know—intriguing.”
“Do I intrigue you?”
“No, Grayson. As I said, you annoy me.” She turned and continued on. “The others have gathered in the parlor to await dinner.”
“I would wager Miss Murdock finds me intriguing,” he said casually.
“I daresay, there are few handsome, charming men Miss Murdock does not find intriguing.”
“You think I'm handsome and charming?”
“Fishing for another compliment?”
“Always.”
“Admittedly, you can be most charming, when it suits you, and most would consider you attractive, even handsome. You always were. Of course your arrogance does tend to overshadow your finer qualities.”

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