What Happens At Christmas (25 page)

Read What Happens At Christmas Online

Authors: Victoria Alexander

“I still have no idea what you are trying to say.”
“I am trying to say I did not force Camille to marry Harold. Had I known her affections were engaged elsewhere, I might, possibly, have tried to dissuade her.”
He stared in stunned silence.
“Do not misunderstand my words, Grayson. I thought Harold was the right man for Camille at the time. Marrying for love has never seemed to me to be quite as sensible as marriage for more practical considerations. I lost any belief I might have had in true love and souls fated to be together, and all that sort of nonsense, longer ago than I can remember. However . . .” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “While you could not have provided for her the way he could, she would not have starved either. Your uncle, as I recall, had plans for your future. But it was not until long after she was wed that I had any idea about her feelings for you, as well as what passed between the two of you before her wedding.”
“Camille told you about that?”
She shook her head. “Camille never said a word. Beryl told me.”
“I'm not sure what to say,” he said slowly.
“Some things never change, apparently.” She cast him a pointed look. “One hopes you have changed in other ways. A better sense of timing, if nothing else. Still, as you have done well for yourself, one might expect that you would not be quite as willing to give up now, as you once were.”
“Are you giving me your approval?” He forced a casual note to his voice. “To pursue your daughter?”
“Don't be absurd. You don't need my approval or my permission. Nor does she. I do try not to interfere.”
“Of course not.”
“However, I am more than willing to offer advice.”
“And I am most willing to listen.” He paused. “Do you have some? Advice, that is?”
“Nothing you don't already know. I would tell you not to be an idiot, to pursue what you want. But I cannot tell you how to win Camille's hand, or heart, if you prefer, because I don't really know how to do that. It is obviously something you must determine for yourself.” She thought for a moment. “There is one other thing. Not advice, exactly, but something you should know.”
“Yes?”
“If you are so lucky as to earn Camille's forgiveness or Beryl's or mine, for that matter, you should know one mistake might possibly be allowed. Another would be intolerable. Do keep that in mind, Grayson. And try not to muck up again.”
“Yes, Lady Briston.”
“Now, now, dear.” She sipped her brandy. “At the moment, you may call me ‘Mother.' ”
Grayson smiled.
“It appears everyone is ready to retire.” Camille joined them. “I know I am. It has been an exceptionally long day.”
Lady Briston considered her daughter closely. “You look dreadfully tired, dear. A good night's sleep will do you a world of good.”
“Yes, well . . .” Camille's gaze caught Gray's; then she quickly looked away. A firm note sounded in her voice. “That is my intention. A good night's sleep. In my own bed. Alone.”
“I do hope that wasn't for my benefit,” Lady Briston said.
Gray hoped it was for his. Nice to think that Camille wanted him to know she was not sharing a bed with Pruzinsky—even if Beryl had already told him as much. Still, Camille wanting him to know, as well, struck him as a very good sign. Was she coming to her senses about the man? And, more important, about Gray?
Camille ignored her. “Tomorrow shall be very nearly as busy as today. What with decorating the house, and the children, and all.”
“Who are these children everyone is talking about?” Lady Briston frowned in annoyance.
“Lovely little boys from the village. Here just for the night. You shall meet them tomorrow.” Camille smiled sweetly. “Their presence was Grayson's doing.”
“But Winfield procured them,” he said quickly. “They're the butcher's children.”
“Goodness.” Her gaze shifted between Camille and Gray. “The two of you sound like children again. The butcher's children, you say?”
Camille nodded, obviously aware of what was coming. Gray grinned.
“Mr. Carroll? Then we have Carrolls at Christmastime?” Lady Briston chuckled. “My, my, Grayson, how clever of you. And Winfield, of course.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Mother.”
Camille shot him a startled glance.
“Camille, darling, this just gets better and better.”
Camille sighed. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Oh, it wasn't a compliment, dear, simply an observation. Although . . .” She cast a considering glance at the rest of the gathering. “It does seem to be going well.”
Camille winced.
“You should be pleased,” Lady Briston continued. “Why, this is really quite a triumph, darling.”
“It's not Christmas yet, Mother.”
And the day after, Camille intended to leave with Pruzinsky. She'd challenged Gray to be the man he had become, and he intended to do just that. One way or another, he'd keep Camille from making the worst mistake of her life and convince her to forgive him for the worst mistake of his.
The man he had become would not lose the love of his life. Not this time.
Not this Christmas.
December 23rd
Eighteen
“Y
ou there, boy number two,” Mother called to Simon, who was perched halfway up the main stairway. “Move that branch a bit to your right, if you please.” She sighed. “No, dear, your other right.”
Gray felt a tug on his pants and glanced down. Walter stared up at him. “Yes?”
“If she puts those branches and leaves and ribbons all over the banister, it wouldn't be any good to anyone, you know.” Walter stared accusingly up at him.
The older boys were assisting in the decoration; the twins were in the kitchen being fed gingerbread and other Christmas treats. Fortesque had confided that his wife had been up much of the night making all sorts of Christmas delights. Gray had sampled the gingerbread, pronounced it excellent and had broached the subject of Mrs. Fortesque becoming his cook. With appropriate living quarters for the couple, of course, and the possibility of a small stipend for Mr. Fortesque, as well, so that he could continue to pursue his acting career. Something in the nature of artistic patronage, Gray had said, and Mr. Fortesque agreed to discuss it with his wife. After all, while Gray and Camille had agreed to offer Mrs. Fortesque the same salary, there was no prohibition against offering wages for her husband as well.
“I do so apologize, Walter, but the ladies apparently wish to decorate every spare surface.” He shrugged. “There's nothing to be done about it, I'm afraid.”
“Father says when a woman gets something into her head . . .” On Gray's other side, Thomas shook his head in a forlorn manner. “There's nothing a man can do but lend a hand or move out of the way.”
“Your father is a very wise man,” Gray said.
Walter snickered. “That's not what Mother says. Mother says—”
“Perhaps it would be best if you kept that to yourself.” Gray chuckled.
“Boys number one and three,” Lady Briston commanded. Apparently, she was no better at names than Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, although she did remember her own. “Do be so good as to fetch those swags in the corner and bring them to me.”
Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh; then he and Walter scurried to do as she asked.
Lady Briston, the children and the maids were busy with the banister and stairway, while Beryl had Pruzinsky and the rest of the actors decorating the main parlor. Camille balanced on a ladder directing the footman hanging ribbon-bedecked garlands of holly from the gallery railing. Gray moved closer to steady the ladder.
Camille glanced down. “I do hope you are not looking at my ankles, Grayson Elliott.”
“But they are such lovely ankles, Camille.” As were, no doubt, the legs attached to them and all else beyond. His stomach tightened.
“Thank you,” she said in a prim manner, and descended the ladder. She reached the floor and stood so close to him that she was nearly in his arms. A challenge gleamed in her eyes. “Are you going to move, or do I have to shove you out of the way?”
He smiled into her eyes. “But I quite like where I am standing.”
Her breath caught. “Grayson, I don't know what you are thinking, but this is . . . It's most inappropriate, that's what it is.”
He could smell the fresh scent of her hair, even over the scent of evergreen, which hung in the air. “I suspect you know exactly what I am thinking.”
“Well, I am not thinking the same thing,” she said in a firm tone, but made no effort to push past him.
He smiled. “I was simply wondering where you intend to put the mistletoe. We gathered quite a lot of it, you know.”
“I did notice that. Rather an excessive amount, don't you think?”
“It is Christmas, after all.” His gaze locked with hers. “Where will you hang it?”
“Where?” For a long moment, she stared at him, a hint of confusion and even—dare he hope—a touch of longing in her eyes. At last she shook her head, as if to clear it, then stepped away. “Somewhere safe.”
“ ‘Safe'?”
“Yes,
safe,
” she said sharply. “Somewhere discreet. I don't want it all over the house where the unsuspecting might encounter it every time they turn around and be compelled to kiss someone they would prefer not to kiss.”
“That is, however, the purpose of mistletoe.” He chuckled. “I must commend you, Camille. The house is beginning to look as it did at Christmas when we were young.”
“It is, isn't it?” Her expression eased and she glanced around. “I always loved this house at Christmas, with the ivy and holly and ribbons everywhere.” She smiled. “I always thought it was very nearly perfect.”
“That is what you want. A perfect Christmas.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Indeed, it is.”
“Although I'm not sure ‘perfect' can be achieved.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Well . . .”
“What is it now?”
“Perhaps you're not aware, but this morning I found your mother rehearsing a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
with Mr. Henderson.”
“Good Lord.” She grimaced. “Was she . . .”
“Juliet.” He nodded.
“And Mr. Henderson?”
“Romeo, of course.” He grinned. “They were really quite good. It was rather impressive, all in all.”
“I gather you did not find it necessary to stop them?”
He gasped in feigned dismay. “I would never dare to tell your mother what she may or may not do in her own home.”
Camille bit back a smile. “It might be unwise, at that.”
“ ‘Unwise'?” He scoffed. “It would be nothing short of fatal.”
“And as you have only a minor role—”
“I could be done away with at any moment,” he said in a somber manner. “Which would no doubt make your life easier,” he added casually.
“Yes, it would.” She nodded and studied him. “Although, at this point in our production, your role seems to have taken on greater significance. Why, the audience would be most annoyed were you to breathe your last.”
“And would you?” He held his breath.
“I . . .” She caught sight of the footman struggling with a garland and sighed. “No, no, that's not at all right. It should be higher. Here I'll show you.” She started up the stairs, then turned back toward him. “Do be so good as to make yourself useful, Grayson. There is still a great deal to be done.”
“Your wish is my command.” He grinned. “Cousin.”
“Hmph.” She huffed and continued up the stairs.
He'd be more than happy to make himself useful, and the mistletoe was the perfect place to start. Somewhere safe and discreet, indeed. Safe and discreet were not in the spirit of the season. Besides, mistletoe provided opportunities he did not intend to pass up. He crossed to the pile of greenery. Someone had gathered the mistletoe into bunches tied with ribbons. He bent down and gathered the bunches together.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Elliott,” Fortesque said in a quiet voice behind him.
“Yes?” Gray stood up.
Fortesque glanced at Camille, then her mother, and leaned close in a confidential manner. “We have yet another new arrival. I put him in the library, and I thought perhaps it might be best if you were to handle this one, as I'm not sure Lady Lydingham is up to—”
“Yes, of course.” He thrust the bunches of mistletoe at the actor. “See to it that these are hung throughout the house.”
Fortesque took the greenery reluctantly. “But I was under the impression Lady Lydingham did not want—”
“Lady Lydingham wants everything to be perfect, and what is more perfect at Christmas than mistletoe?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but—”
“Should she complain, you have my permission to place the blame entirely on me, although it might be wise to avoid her catching you in the act, as it were. So do try to be inconspicuous.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“And, Fortesque, there might be a little something extra in your Christmas stocking if you manage this.”
“Yes, sir.” Fortesque nodded. “I shall do my best, sir.”
“I knew you would.” Gray grinned and headed toward the library. Camille couldn't possibly complain about a kiss from him under the mistletoe. Of course, this also gave Pruzinsky increased opportunity; but as both Gray and Beryl would be watching, Pruzinsky's advantage would be minimal.
He stepped into the library and pulled up short. Colonel Channing stood there, gazing out the window. But the way the man held himself seemed different from the man he remembered. Certainly, it had been a long time, but there was a tension in the line of his body that didn't seem right. Perhaps it was what Gray had learned yesterday that still lingered in the back of his mind, or possibly it was instinct. And there was every chance he was wrong.
“Lord Briston?”
“Yes?” The gentleman turned toward him.
It had been years since he had seen Colonel Channing. Still . . .
“I'm certain you don't remember me, sir,” Gray began. “I am Grayson Elliott.”
“Ah yes, Lord Fairborough's nephew.” The older man nodded. “I hear you have done quite well for yourself.”
Gray nodded slowly and studied the other man, certainty growing within him. “You're not Colonel Channing, are you?”
The gentleman's eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because, for as long as I knew Colonel Channing, he never allowed himself to be called ‘Lord Briston' out of deference to his brother.” He paused. “His dead brother.”
“Ah yes.” The man waved off the comment. “Things change, you know, boy.”
“Not this. Beyond that . . .” He drew a deep breath. “When Camille and I were looking for ornaments in the attic, I uncovered some letters. Letters from her dead father, dated long after his supposed death.”
“I see.” Lord Briston's eyes narrowed. “What do you intend to do about this discovery of yours?”
“Whatever you wish me to do, sir.” He shook his head. “This is your home and your family. I would say the next step is yours. However, you should know”—he met the man's gaze directly—“I will do whatever I think best to keep Camille from being hurt.”
“So that's how it is, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And does my daughter feel the same about you?”
“I hope so, but I'm not sure she has realized it yet.”
“This sounds rather complicated.”
“You have no idea,” Gray muttered.
“Then I suspect explanations are in order.” He blew a long breath. “From both of us.” He glanced around. “Is the whisky still kept where it always was?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Pour us each a glass, a large glass, and come sit down.” He moved to one of the chairs before the fireplace and settled into it. “This will take a while. It's a long story.”
“It would have to be.” Gray moved to the cabinet where the whisky and brandy and various spirits had long been kept, poured two glasses and joined Camille's father. He handed him a glass, then sat in the matching chair. “Might I ask, sir, why you are here? After all this time?”
“It's Christmas,” Lord Briston said simply, and sipped his drink.
“Forgive me for saying, sir, but haven't nearly twenty Christmases passed since you . . .”
“Died?”
Gray nodded.
“That wasn't entirely by choice. Nonetheless, the fault is mine. But I have regretted every Christmas that I did not have the courage to return.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “I said it was a long story—one I've never really told before. However as I am here, and as you are determined to protect Camille . . .” He shrugged.
“Go on, then, sir.”
“I should start from the beginning, I suppose.” He paused, obviously to pull his thoughts together. “Bernadette and I married very young, Mr. Elliott. Too young, really. We were both filled with the passion of youth. Both of us had, as well, what one might call volatile temperaments. We were both quick to anger. When we fought, which was frequently . . .” He smiled a sort of private smile and then cleared his throat. “Let us just say, it could not be ignored by anyone within hearing.
“At any rate, I inherited my title and the responsibilities that went along with it. Before I knew it, I had not only a wife but three daughters as well. Through the years, I found myself resenting all that had fallen upon my shoulders because I happened to be born a few minutes before my brother.”

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