What Happens At Christmas (2 page)

Read What Happens At Christmas Online

Authors: Victoria Alexander

“I have always thought ‘Princess Camille' has a lovely sound to it.”
“Even so, I can't . . .” Beryl's eyes widened. “Are you in love with him?”
“There is nothing about the man
not
to love,” Camille said in a cautious manner.
Still, she'd only been in love once, and that was when she was very young and quite foolish and hadn't quite realized she'd been in love until it was too late. She'd been extraordinarily fond of Harold and had loved him after a fashion, but she'd never been in love with him. She wasn't at all sure there was much use for true love in a practical world; although, admittedly, it would be nice.
“I suspect he may well be in love with me.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“We've never married for love in this family,” Camille pointed out. It wasn't entirely true. She had long suspected Mother had married for love, which was no doubt why she had raised her daughters to marry for other reasons. In this respect alone, Mother was a very practical woman.
“But do you—”
“Not at the moment. But I fully expect to,” she added quickly. “Indeed, I am quite confident in no time at all I shall love him with my whole heart and soul. There is nothing about him not to love.”
“You said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
“Yes, well, an immense fortune and a royal title does make it easier to love.” Beryl cast her sister a pleasant smile.
Camille wasn't fooled for a moment. The smile might well be pleasant, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.
“You're scarcely one to talk. You married your first husband, Charles, for precisely the same reasons I married Harold.”
“I was quite fond of Charles.”
“Yes, but you weren't in love with him. Nor were you in love with Lionel when you married him.”
“No.” Beryl drew the word out slowly. “But . . .”
Camille stared. “Good Lord, Beryl, don't tell me you're in love with your husband.”
“I might be.”
“Nonsense, no one is in love with their own husband.” Camille scoffed. “It simply isn't done. You certainly didn't marry him for love.”
“No, I married him because his ambitions matched my own. Now, however . . .” Beryl paused. “In recent months, since very nearly the start of the year, Lionel and I agreed to forgo our various amorous pursuits and restrict our attentions to one another.”
Camille stared. Her sister's and brother-in-law's extramarital escapades were very nearly legendary. “And?”
“And it's turning out far better than I would have imagined.” She shrugged. “As it happens, I might indeed be in love with my husband.” A bemused smile curved her sister's lips, as if she couldn't quite believe her own words. She looked, well, content, even happy. Camille wasn't sure she had seen a look like that on her sister's face before. But then she was fairly certain Beryl had never been in love before. The oddest twinge of jealousy stabbed Camille. She ignored it. If her twin was happy, she was happy for her.
“That's . . . wonderful.”
Beryl's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do. You know I wouldn't say it otherwise.” Camille nodded. “Lord and Lady Dunwell have always had a certain reputation for dalliances and lovers and that sort of thing. It's simply unexpected, that's all.”
“No one expected it less than I,” Beryl said under her breath.
“What will the gossips do without you?”
Beryl laughed. “They shall have to make do.”
“I am happy for you.”
“Then you should consider following in my footsteps.”
“What? Marrying a man who might run the country one day?”
“No.” Beryl's blue-eyed gaze met her sister's. It was, as always, like looking in a mirror. “Fall in love.”
Camille drew her brows together. “It's not at all like you to go on and on about love. I always thought you considered it rather silly.”
“That's before I was in love,” Beryl said simply, then paused. “You were in love once, if I recall.”
“That was a very long time ago,” Camille said quickly. It was not something she wished to be reminded of. She had turned her back on love then, although she'd really had no choice. And if, through the years, there had been a moment or two of regret, a chance thought as to what might have been, it was pointless. She had put him completely out of her head and her heart. She had never asked after him, and her sister was wise enough never to bring up his name. Such was the way of life, after all. One did hate to be reminded of mistakes one might have made. There was nothing to be done about it, and it was best left in the past where it belonged.
“Don't you want to know that again?”
“I scarcely knew it at all, but I shall,” Camille said firmly. “I fully intend to fall in love.” She picked up the teapot and refilled her cup, taking the time to sort her words.
Why she wished to marry Nikolai wasn't at all easy to explain without sounding quite mercenary and extremely shallow. And while she certainly had a few mercenary moments and was, on occasion, a bit shallow, she did not think herself to be mercenary and shallow, all in all. It wasn't the prince's fortune; she had more than enough money. It wasn't even his title, although “Princess Camille” did have a lovely ring to it. It was, perhaps, the adventure of it: the adventure of being swept away to a foreign land by a handsome prince and to live there happily the rest of her days; adventure that she scarcely knew existed; adventure that appealed to something deep inside her. Beryl was entirely too levelheaded to understand, but then she had always been the more sensible of the twins. It was the stuff fairy stories were made of, and what woman wouldn't want that? And want it, Camille did.
“It isn't as if I set out to catch a prince. I didn't even know he was a prince when we first met. He is traveling incognito, which he much prefers to do when he is in a foreign country. He says it's much easier to get to know the people of a country when he is not beleaguered by all the trappings of his royal position, when he is not treated as royalty but rather as an ordinary person.”
“What an . . . enlightened philosophy for a prince.”
“He is most enlightened and very modern. He takes his responsibilities quite seriously and says he wishes to be a prince for the people. It's quite admirable, even if I don't understand it entirely, but then he is foreign and therefore his minor eccentricities can be forgiven. Why, he even prefers that I don't address him by title, ‘Your Highness,' and that sort of thing. He says, until he ascends to the throne, he prefers, when traveling abroad, simply to be known by one of his lesser titles, Count Pruzinsky. In most respects, though, he is extremely proper. Why, he hasn't even kissed me. Although he has requested, begged really, that I call him by his given name. Not proper, of course, but so wonderfully intimate.”
“Not what one would expect in a prince.”
“I find it most charming. There is nothing at all like being in the confidence of royalty, you know.”
“I don't, but I shall take your word for it.” Beryl considered her curiously. “And how did you meet this unusual prince?”
“We crossed paths quite by accident. I was leaving a ball and he was just arriving. I stumbled on a pebble and he caught me.” She smiled at the memory. “It was quite romantic and, well, fate.”
“I see.”
“I like him a great deal.”
Beryl nodded. “You wouldn't marry him otherwise.”
“He might well be my last opportunity to marry and fall in love.”
“You might consider falling in love first and then marrying the man in question.”
“Odd advice coming from you. And how long shall I wait for that to happen, dear sister?” Camille wrinkled her nose. “We have, after all, passed our thirtieth year, and who knows how many more opportunities for . . .”
“Happiness?” Beryl offered.
“Exactly.” Camille nodded. “This may be my last chance. I have no doubt he will make me very happy, and I intend to be an excellent wife.”
“And princess.”
“I shall make a very good princess.” Camille grinned. “We shall have little princes and princesses and grow old together. And we shall be very, very happy.”
Beryl smiled. “Then you should let nothing stand in your way.”
“I don't intend to.” She drew a deep breath. “But I will need your assistance.”
“Oh?”
“I intend to go to Mother's house the day after tomorrow, and it certainly wouldn't be Christmas without my sister, my twin sister. . . .”
Beryl's eyes narrowed.
“So”—Camille's words came out in a rush—“I do hope you and Lionel will join us for Christmas in the country.”
“Us?”
Camille nodded.
“As in you, the prince and a troupe of actors pretending to be family?”
Camille sighed. “It sounds rather absurd when you say it that way.”
“There's no way to say it that it doesn't sound absurd.”
“You must understand, it's not simply that we are not especially traditional, but Nikolai seems to have some sort of odd passion for an English Christmas. Yet another eccentricity, but then foreigners can be so very . . .”
“Foreign?” Beryl offered.
“Exactly.” Camille nodded. “He has read all of Mr. Dickens's Christmas works. Oh,
The Cricket on the Hearth
and
The Chimes
and, of course,
A Christmas Carol.
And I want to give him a traditional English Christmas, with a proper sort of English family. It's what he longs for.” She forced a wistful note to her voice. “It seems so very little, really.”
“As well as convince him he would not be marrying into a family of questionable propriety.”
“Oh, well, yes. That too.” Camille waved off the comment.
Beryl thought for a moment. “This is not the sort of thing Lionel would favor.”
“But surely for a man who wishes to be prime minister, it cannot but be helpful to know a foreign head of state.”
“You do have a point there.”
Camille stifled a satisfied smile. “And you can make him see how important it is to me. Besides, it's been years since either of us spent Christmas at the country house. It will be like it was when we were children. We shall decorate and have a Yule log and sing carols and it shall be quite, quite wonderful.” A pleading note sounded in her voice. “Oh, please, Beryl, do this for me. I promise never to ask you to do anything involving actors for Christmas ever again.”
“Oh, well, as long as you promise, how could I possibly say no? Besides, darling sister”—Beryl's eyes twinkled with amusement—“I wouldn't miss this Christmas for anything in the world.”
December 21st
Two
“G
ood to have you home, Grayson.” Lord Fairborough studied his nephew with an assessing gaze. “You've been away far too long.”
“It hasn't been that long, sir.” Grayson Elliott's smile belied the truth in his uncle's words.
Uncle Roland raised a skeptical brow. “I would say eleven years is a very long time.”
“Perhaps.” Gray sipped his brandy and considered the older man. He looked far better than Gray had feared. In truth, the years had been kind to his uncle. His hair was a bit grayer; his face was a bit more lined; but, all in all, Uncle Roland wore his age well. Still, he couldn't help but think a few of the lines in his uncle's face might be attributed to Gray himself. He knew his uncle, as well as his aunt, had worried about him through these past eleven years. The only one who hadn't worried was his cousin, Winfield. But then, on more than one occasion, Win had admitted his envy of Gray's freedom to do as he wished and Win's own enjoyment, if vicariously, of his cousin's exploits. Gray would be the first to admit the regularity of his correspondence to his aunt and uncle had been haphazard at best. He had gone as long as half a year without sending a letter. He ignored a stab of guilt. “But it has passed quickly.”
“For you, perhaps, more than the rest of us.” Uncle Roland chuckled. “I suspect you have had quite an adventurous time of it.”
“It has certainly been that on occasion.” Gray grinned. There had indeed been adventures in the course of building his fortune, but it had by no means been easy. His efforts and subsequent investments in shipping and railroads and imports in America had been grueling through the years and had left little time for frivolities or the enjoyment of his success. But his hard work had paid off. He had the fortune now he had set out to make. “And I have you to thank for it.”
“Rubbish.” His uncle scoffed. “It was insignificant and you paid me back, with interest, more than two years ago.” He paused for a moment. “It wasn't necessary, you know. Your father was my only brother and I have always thought of you as a second son.”
“And for that I have always been grateful.”
Indeed, he had always known how lucky he was not to have been treated like an unwanted responsibility. He had been barely five years of age when his father and mother, an American, had died. His aunt and uncle had then taken him in to raise alongside their own six-year-old child. They had treated him no differently than they had their own son, but there was a difference. Win bore the honorary title of Viscount Stillwell and would one day be Earl of Fairborough. Gray would never be more than an untitled relation.
“It wasn't necessary, you know, to go out into the world as you have.” A gruff note sounded in his uncle's voice. “I have always planned to leave you well off, to divide my fortune and property as evenly as possible between you and Winfield. Certainly, he will inherit my title and Fairborough Park, but—”
“It was necessary, Uncle,” Gray said, his tone a bit sharper than he had intended. But then they'd had this same discussion when he had left Fairborough Hall and England to make his fortune. His tone softened. “There are some things one must do on one's own.”
“You always have been obstinate and independent. Some of which can certainly be blamed on that American blood of yours.” His uncle stared at him for a long moment; a wistful smile played on his lips. “But there is so much of my brother in you. More so now than when you left.” He raised his glass. “Welcome home, boy.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” Gray smiled. “It's good to be back.”
It was indeed good to be home at last. He hadn't realized until now how much he had missed England and his family—although in some ways, it was as if he had never left.
Everything in the country house was exactly as he remembered. He glanced around his uncle's library. The floor-to-ceiling shelves with their precisely arranged volumes were unchanged. If he looked closer, he would no doubt see not a single volume was out of place, exactly as his uncle preferred it. The comfortable leather chairs and sofa stood in the same places they always had and looked scarcely any worse for the wear of years. The massive mahogany desk, which had been Gray's grandfather's and his grandfather's before him, still occupied the same spot between two leaded-glass windows. The same family portraits hung in precisely the same arrangement as they had always hung, with the notable exception of the one over the fireplace.
When he had last been in this room, that place of honor had boasted a portrait of his grandfather. Now, in its place, two portraits hung side by side. Both were remarkably similar and yet not at all the same. Both were portraits of young boys and all four faces shared a similarity of features that bespoke of family. Aside from the difference in the artists' styles, the two portraits could have been of the same two boys. But the one on his left was of his father and his uncle when they were perhaps ten and twelve years of age. The one on the right was of Gray and Win, painted when they were ten or eleven. While the style of the older painting was a bit more formal, the artist had managed to capture the affection of the older brother for the younger. As for the other portrait, Gray distinctly remembered sitting for the artist and putting him through their own version of a ten-year-old's hell. Finally the beleaguered artist had threatened them with dire consequences if they did not behave. “Dire,” as Gray recalled, meant their behavior being brought not to the attention of Uncle Roland but of Aunt Margaret. It was Aunt Margaret who had wanted the boys' portrait painted, even if a photograph would have been easier and less painful for all concerned, and woe be it to anyone who thwarted her desires.
“Are you back for good, then? Or is it too soon to ask?”
“It is something to consider.” Gray didn't mean to be elusive, he simply wasn't sure how long he would stay in England. He wasn't certain if this was merely a visit or if his return was permanent. At the very least, he would stay as long as his uncle needed him, although he had taken the precaution of booking passage on a ship back to America the day after Christmas. The passage, however, could always be canceled.
“We shall discuss it later, then,” Uncle Roland said. “Your aunt will be delighted to see you as well.”
“Where is she? I expected to see her fly down the stairs the moment the servants brought news of my arrival.”
“If you had written of your intention to at last return home, she would have been here.” A chastising note sounded in his uncle's voice. “But as she had no idea, she has been in London for the last few days visiting with her sister's family, shopping for Christmas gifts and whatever else she deems necessary to insure the merriment and festivities of the season. She is expected back the day before Christmas.” He smiled. “You, however, are the best gift she could have asked for. She has missed you. As have we all.”
“As I have missed you.” He studied his uncle closely. “Uncle, how are you?”
“Well enough for a man of my age, I suppose.” Uncle Roland shrugged. “I take regular exercise. I am not able to eat everything I used to, which is to be expected but is nonetheless annoying. My bones creak a bit, but, all in all, I think I am holding up rather well against the vestiges of time.”
“You haven't been . . . ill?”
“Oh, I had a nasty bout with a head cold a few months ago.”
“That's all?”
“It was a very unpleasant cold,” Uncle Roland said firmly.
Gray chose his words with care. “Then you're not . . . dying?”
“Dying?” Uncle's Roland's eyes widened. “Do I look like I'm dying?”
“You do look in good health, but—”
“We're all dying, Cousin. Some of us sooner than others.” Win strode into the library, dressed in riding clothes, a broad grin on his face.
Gray rose to his feet and stared at his cousin. Irritation at Win's obvious lie mixed with delight at seeing once more the man he considered his brother. “You wrote he was dying.”
“He is.” Win shrugged. “We all die eventually. Can't escape it.”
Uncle Roland's forehead furrowed. “Winfield, what have you done?”
“What I have done, Father, is given you and Mother what you want most for Christmas, second only to my marrying and providing an heir, that is. And that shall have to wait for another Christmas.” Win cast his father the infectious smile that had been the downfall of more than one reluctant lady, the irresistible smile that very nearly always got him exactly what he wanted.
“Well.” He stepped to his cousin and met Gray's gaze straight on. The two were both tall, with no more than half an inch difference in their respective heights. They were of similar builds as well, both physically fit. “Do you want to admit that you were wrong? Confess that you should have come home years ago, and you are secretly pleased that I have at last forced you to do so? Or shall I take you out into the garden and thrash you thoroughly, as I used to do when we were young.” His grin widened. “You uncivilized American.”
“You couldn't then, and you can't now.” Gray's grin matched his cousin's. “You pompous English prig.”
Uncle Roland groaned.
Win clasped his cousin's shoulders. “Forgiven, then?”
Relief battled with annoyance, and affection won. Gray shrugged. “Well, after all, as it is Christmas. . . .”
Win laughed and embraced him. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back.” Even as he said the words, he knew the truth of them. He had been away far too long.
Uncle Roland cleared his throat and the cousins turned toward him. For a moment, the older man's eyes fogged and Gray knew Uncle Roland was thinking of himself and his beloved younger brother. There was no denying how much Win looked like a younger version of Uncle Roland, with his dark hair and blue eyes, and how Gray was a distinct replica of his father, with hair a shade darker than Win's and eyes a deep brown.
Uncle Roland fixed a firm eye on his son. “I cannot approve of deceit under normal circumstances. However, as it is Christmas, and your intentions were apparently noble . . .” He tried and failed to hide a pleased grin. “I suppose the occasional deception can be forgiven, in the spirit of Christmas and all.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Now, about that second matter . . .”
“Never fear, Father,” Win said, a confident smile on his face. “I have a plan in the works even as we speak. Why, I would be willing to wager I am wed by Christmas next.”
Uncle Roland studied him suspiciously; then snorted with disbelief and moved away to refill his glass.
Gray spoke low into his cousin's ear. “Do you have a plan?”
Win's smile flickered. “Not so much as an inkling.”
Gray bit back a grin. The room wasn't the only thing that hadn't changed.
“My lord.” Prescott, who had been the family's butler for as long as Gray could remember, appeared at the door. “You wished me to remind you when it was nearly one.”
“Yes, thank you, Prescott.” Uncle Roland cast a last look at his son and nephew. “Not approving, mind you, but it was not your worst idea.”
Win chuckled. “Thank you, Father.”
Uncle Roland started toward the door. “I do hope your plan regarding that other matter is as successful.”
“As do I, Father.”
Uncle Roland's doubtful response drifted into the library behind him. Gray thought it best that the words were undecipherable, even if the tone was unmistakable.
Gray chuckled. “I see the campaign to see you wed continues.”
“As it shall until the moment I chain myself to some poor, unsuspecting creature for the rest of my days.” Win strode across the room to the brandy decanter on Uncle Roland's desk and poured a glass. “It's your fault, you know.”
Gray laughed. “How is it my fault?”
“If you were here, Mother and Father would divide their efforts between the two of us instead of concentrating on me alone. While Father wants an heir, all Mother really wants is another female in the family.” Win aimed his glass at his cousin. “You can provide that, as well as I.”
“I suppose I can.”
“Therefore you owe me an apology.”
“Do I?” Gray raised a brow. “It seems to me, I am the one owed an apology.”
“Because I wrote you that Father was dying?”
Gray stared. “Don't you think that calls for an apology?”
“I don't know,” Win said thoughtfully, and propped his hip on a corner of the desk. “As I said before—we are all dying. The fact that Father isn't dying anytime soon is really insignificant.”
“I wouldn't call it ‘insignificant.' ”
“Regardless, it did what it was intended to do.” Win sipped his brandy and considered his cousin. “I should have thought of it years ago.”

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