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“You are a most kind and well-mannered man—there is where you will need to work on your role. Mr. Lassiter would never dream of pummeling a coachman or wrestling a poor defenseless woman to the ground.”
“Sounds like a dull dog to me.”
“He is not! He is a superior gentleman.”
“Well, your description makes me wonder why any woman would want to marry him.”
“You obviously have no understanding of women.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Mr. Lassiter respects women, and he believes that women are as intelligent and as capable as men.”
Benedict cast her a sardonic look. “Doing it rather too brown, aren’t you? Don’t you think he is a little too perfect to be believable—intelligent, gentlemanly, a man who prefers a woman to be a bluestocking?”
“No. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise. He will be perfectly believable, as long as you act that way.”
“You may be stretching the limits of my acting ability.”
“You are stretching the limits of my patience. Now, will you kindly pay attention and do what you are supposed to?”
“I shall try my humble best,” he promised sardonically. “Pray go on. Tell me about my most excellent qualities.”
They spent the remaining minutes of the journey in conversation about the fictitious Mr. Lassiter, with Camilla trying to remember everything she had written her grandfather about the man.
Finally, just as they passed through the gates to Chevington Park, Benedict thought to ask, “Do I look like him?”
An odd look crossed Camilla’s face. “What?”
“Do I resemble this chap physically? Surely you must have described him.”
“Well…I certainly did not picture him looking like you,” Camilla admitted. “He would not be so large and so…physical.” Her brow wrinkled. “But I’m not sure I said anything to Grandpapa about his size. I might have said he was of average height.”
She looked at him doubtfully. Benedict’s six feet would hardly be called average. But at least she had not mentioned whether his shoulders were wide or whether his long legs filled out his breeches to perfection. She tried to remember exactly how she had pictured her imaginary fiancé, but she had some difficulty. She had not really thought that much about his looks, only about his characteristics, and besides, the actual man sitting in front of her kept intruding on the image she tried to conjure up in her brain. He had an irritating habit, she was finding out, of dominating whatever scene he happened to be in.
“I said his hair was brown.” Camilla looked at Benedict’s short, thick black locks. “That should be close enough.” She paused. “However, I think I said his eyes were gray.” There was no possibility that anyone could have mistaken this man’s gleaming dark eyes for gray. “Well, he probably won’t remember, anyway.”
“Hopefully.”
At that moment the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the house. Camilla pushed open the door before the lantern boy could get to it to open it, and stepped out. Benedict followed her. Camilla looked up at the venerable old house, warm affection on her face. Benedict followed her gaze. It was a graceful house, built in the shape of the letter E, and the white of its native stone gave it a warmth that was enhanced by the lights that blazed beside the massive front doors and poured out the windows.
“Oh, dear.” Camilla belatedly noticed the multitude of lights. She had been hoping that her family would have given up on her and already gone to bed, so that she and Benedict would not have to face all of them now. Obviously that was not the case.
As if to emphasize that fact, the double front doors were opened wide and held by two liveried footmen, and a rotund man dressed in sober black came rushing down the wide stone steps toward them, a grin stretching across his face.
“Miss Camilla!” he cried. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“Purdle!” Camilla flew forward and gave him a hug. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”
“As if I could go on to bed, not knowing where you were, and leave you here to be greeted by the footmen?” The beaming man looked affronted by the idea.
“No,” Camilla agreed. “I can see that you could not.” She turned toward Benedict. “Dear? Do come here and meet Purdle. He is the butler, and has been running all our lives for years. Purdle, this is Mr. Lassiter. He—”
“Yes, yes, I know!” He grinned broadly at Camilla’s companion. “The Viscountess has told us all about him. Congratulations, sir. Much happiness, miss. ’Tis a wonderful thing. And, I must say, His Lordship is very happy. The news has picked him right up. He’s looking forward to seeing you, too, though I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you, miss. He wanted to stay up to greet you himself when you came in, but the draft the doctor gave him put him right to sleep after supper. The doctor said it was too much excitement for him. ’Course, the Earl will be mad as hops tomorrow morning, when he wakes up and finds out he missed your arrival.”
Benedict eyed the butler in fascination as he ushered them up the steps and into the house, talking without ceasing. He had never seen a butler quite like this one, beaming and chattering like a magpie. Of course, he reminded himself, he might have known that nothing and no one connected with this girl would be normal.
“It looks as though everyone else is still up,” Camilla said, a little questioningly, as Purdle swept them through the wide front hall.
“Oh, yes, the whole family,” he agreed, not noticing the way Camilla’s face fell. “Well, except the young master, of course.”
“Anthony?” Camilla named her cousin, who at eighteen, was the old Earl’s heir and the closest to her of anyone in her family. When her parents died, his mother, Lydia, had raised Camilla, and the two of them had grown up like brother and sister.
“Yes. He retired early this evening.”
“Anthony?” Camilla repeated in disbelief. Her cousin was the liveliest of souls, always getting into some mischief or the other. He would be the last person she could imagine going to bed before everyone else, especially when she was expected tonight. “Is he sick?”
“Oh, no, miss. He’s, well, he’s been retiring earlier the past few months. Since, um, Mrs. Elliot came to visit.”
“Ah.” It was clear to her now. Anthony abhorred Aunt Beryl, perhaps even more than Camilla did. She always seized every opportunity to lecture him about his duties as the future Earl and to opine about the fact that her own husband had been the second son and therefore Anthony would inherit instead of her own sons, who were, by implication, much more worthy of the honor and position than Anthony.
“Precisely. No doubt you will see him soon enough.”
“Yes. I am sure I will.” She was certain that Anthony was not asleep; she would slip down the hall to his room once the others were in bed.
“Here we are.” Purdle stopped before a double set of doors that stood open, leading into the blue drawing room, a large, formal room that was rarely used by her grandfather. Camilla was sure it was by Lady Elliot’s command that it was being used now. Though Lydia was higher in rank, being the dowager Viscountess and the mother of the future Earl, Camilla had no doubt that she had let Aunt Beryl take the reins of the household. Lydia was intimidated by the older woman’s poisonous tongue, and, moreover, she had little liking for running things, anyway. Aunt Beryl, on the other hand, lived to command.
Purdle stepped inside the room, addressing Aunt Lydia. “My lady, Miss Camilla has arrived.”
He stepped aside for them the enter. Camilla drew a deep breath and looked up into Benedict’s face. He smiled down at her, transforming the harsh lines of his face into handsomeness and startling her so that for an instant she could not move. Then she realized that he was assuming a loverlike expression for their charade. She tried to adjust her face into the same sort of look as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
They stepped inside the room and stopped abruptly. It seemed as if the room were filled with people, and every eye was on them. For a moment the faces were an unrecognizable blur. Everyone in the room froze where they were, staring at Camilla and Benedict.
Then the multitude of faces resolved into several distinct people. The two young women were Aunt Beryl’s daughters, Amanda and Kitty. They had fair, painfully curled blond hair and vague-colored eyes that seemed about to pop out of their heads. Kitty was plump, and Amanda was as thin as a stick, but both were incessant gossips and gigglers, and Camilla was usually bored to death by their company within five minutes. Aunt Beryl, with the same pop eyes and fair hair, though starting to go gray, as her daughters, was seated in one of the wingback chairs near the fire, a shawl thrown around her shoulders to ward off the chill to which the low neckline of her evening dress exposed her.
The other older woman—though it took a second, longer look to realize that she did not belong to the same generation as Aunt Beryl’s daughters—was Aunt Lydia. Lydia was possessed of a creamy complexion upon which much care and many unguents were lavished, and her figure was as slender as if she had never borne a child. With her Titian red hair and vivid blue eyes, she was still one of the reigning beauties of London, and no one who did not know her would have guessed that she could have a son who was eighteen years old. She was staring at Camilla and Benedict as if she had never seen Camilla before.
These four women Camilla had expected to find at Chevington Park, though she had hoped that Aunt Beryl and her daughters would have gone on to bed by the time she arrived. What she had not expected to find here were the three men: her cousin Bertram, Aunt Beryl’s oldest son and one of the leading dandies of London, as well as two young men whom she had never seen before in her life.
“Aunt Lydia,” Camilla said, smiling and starting toward her aunt with outstretched arms.
“Dear girl,” Lydia murmured, rising to her feet and reaching out to enfold her niece in a graceful hug, all the while staring at Benedict with a peculiar look on her face.
“Camilla.” Aunt Beryl rose ponderously, though she did not extend her arms for a similar hug.
Camilla curtsied to her politely, exchanging greetings with her aunt and cousins. Her gaze flickered curiously toward the two strangers, but she hurried on, eager now to get her lying over with. She turned toward Benedict, holding out her hand toward him. To her relief, he started toward her with alacrity. She realized with amazement that he looked every inch the gentleman…and quite handsome, too. Amanda and Kitty were gazing at him with their mouths open.
Camilla drew breath to introduce Benedict, but before she could speak, Aunt Lydia flashed one of her sparkling smiles at Benedict and walked past Camilla, saying brightly, “No, you’ve no need to tell us, Camilla. We all know that this must be your husband.”
Her aunt’s words were followed by a complete silence. Camilla gaped at Lydia. Aunt Beryl’s shrewd eyes flickered from Camilla’s stupefied face to Benedict’s.
“How do you do, Mr. Lassiter?” Lydia went on, as if she had said nothing out of the ordinary. “I am Viscountess Marbridge. Camilla’s aunt.”
Benedict recovered well, smiling at the Viscountess and giving her an excellent bow. “How do you do, my lady? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He turned toward Camilla, and a look of pure fury flashed from his eyes. He was certain that she had played him for a fool, had for some strange reason maneuvered him into this situation.
Lydia, too, looked at Camilla. “Oh, dear,” she said, pouting prettily. “I hope I haven’t completely spoiled your surprise.”
“Oh. No, of course not,” Camilla responded faintly.
Lydia started across the room away from them. Benedict, smiling warmly down at Camilla, curled his hand around Camilla’s wrist and squeezed it in a most unloverlike grip. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Whatever you hope to trap me into, I promise you, it won’t work.”
Camilla could not control the irritation that flashed over her features. “I have no idea what’s going on,” she whispered back, baring her teeth in what she hoped would pass for a smile. “I know nothing about this.”
Benedict’s eyes told her that he would like to pursue the point further, but by that time Aunt Lydia was upon them. She took Camilla’s hands in hers, squeezing them significantly. “I know you wanted me to keep the news a secret, but I was simply so elated when I received your letter that I could not resist telling everyone the news. Please say you will forgive me.”
“Yes. Certainly.” Camilla had recovered her poise and her senses well enough to know that she had no choice but to play along with her aunt’s outrageous statements.
“So unexpected,” Aunt Beryl put in, and Camilla could feel Aunt Beryl’s eyes boring into her.
She forced herself to meet her other aunt’s gaze, hoping that she looked adequately calm and in control. “Yes, wasn’t it?”
Lydia went on, “I am sure you must be very tired after your journey.” Squinting at Camilla, she leaned closer to her and whispered, “My dear, is that mud on your neck?”
Camilla put a hand to her neck. “Yes, I am rather tired,” she agreed, seizing on the opportunity to get out of this room and be alone with her aunt. “My—our coachman got lost.”
“How dreadful. You must go up to your room and rest.” Lydia took her arm, starting toward the door, but Aunt Beryl’s voice stopped her.
“Now, now, Lydia,” Aunt Beryl said in a jovial tone. “We won’t allow you to steal Camilla away like that. Will we, girls? We are simply agog to hear all the details of the wedding. It isn’t often that something so…unexpected happens. And you must meet Mr. Oglesby and Mr. Thorne.”
“What? Who?” Lydia asked vaguely, then turned toward the two young men whom Camilla did not recognize. “Oh, yes, of course.” She led Camilla and Benedict toward the mantel, where Cousin Bertram and the two young men stood.
Camilla followed her reluctantly. She had no desire to have to make polite chitchat with strangers. All she wanted was to get her featherbrained aunt alone and find out why she had pushed this outrageous pretense on Camilla.
But Aunt Lydia was rushing on, saying, “Camilla, Mr. Lassiter, this is Edmund Thorne, a, ah, friend of mine from London. He has been so kind as to visit us the past few weeks.”
Mr. Thorne was a stocky young man with a starched cravat so high that he looked as if it might choke him at any moment. His brown hair was arranged in seemingly careless curls that Camilla suspected he had spent hours getting just so.
He bowed deeply over her hand, saying, “Fair Diana—for Aphrodite, you see, can be no other than Her Ladyship.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“But no.” He put out a hand dramatically, as if to stop something. His other hand went to his brow. “Ah, yes, I see it. But of course—the fair Persephone. I feel the muse upon me. Lady Marbridge is Demeter, so filled with joy at seeing her daughter again at last—though, of course, no one could believe that Her Ladyship is old enough to be your mother. More a sister.”
Beside her, Benedict made an odd strangling noise, which he turned into a cough. Cousin Bertram raised his quizzing glass and studied Mr. Thorne.
“Really, Mr. Thorne,” Bertram said dryly. “They would hardly be Demeter and Persephone then, would they?”
“But such a nice thought, Mr. Thorne,” Lydia assured him kindly. Turning to Camilla and Benedict, she added, “Mr. Thorne is a poet, you see.”
“Ah.” Benedict nodded. “No doubt that explains it.”
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Terence Oglesby,” Cousin Bertram began, clearly dismissing the boring subject of Edmund Thorne.
Cousin Bertram was a dandy, and it showed. From the top of his hair, coiffed in a style known as Windswept, down to his tasseled boots, rumored to be polished in a special blend of champagne and bootblack, he was the very picture of the man of high fashion. While he did not indulge in the most excessive of styles, such as enormous boutonnieres in his lapel or coats so padded at the shoulders and so nipped in at the waist that his silhouette resembled that of a wasp more than a man’s, it was obvious that he considered his clothes as his art. It took him almost two hours in the morning to dress, for he often used as many as ten fresh cravats before he had one arranged to his liking, and the fit of his coats was so nice that it took his valet, as well as his butler, to ease him into it. Indeed, it was said about one of his coats that his valet had to slit it partway up the back to get him out and sew him back up in it when he put it on.
His companion was dressed in similar finery. However, Terence Oglesby obviously had no need of fine accoutrements in order to be noticed. He was, quite simply, the handsomest man that Camilla had ever seen. Everything about him was golden—his skin, his hair, even the pale sherry-brown of his eyes—and his broad-shouldered, slim-hipped figure required no enhancement from his clothes. He smiled now at Camilla and bowed over her hand, and Camilla had little doubt that he had entrée into many of the best houses of London.
“Have you been here long?” Camilla inquired politely.
Oglesby merely smiled and turned toward Cousin Bertram, who answered, “Oh, a few weeks now. London’s gotten dreadfully boring, full of hungry mamas pushing their daughters on the Marriage Mart. So Terence and I decided to rusticate for a while.”
Knowing that Bertram lived to be seen, and thrived in the social scene of London, Camilla had grave doubts about the truthfulness of his explanation. The truth more probably was that his notoriously tightfisted father had cut off his allowance after he plunged too deep at cards or got himself far in debt to the moneylenders.
Accurately reading the speculation in Camilla’s eyes, Cousin Bertram sent her a wink, as though to confirm her suspicions.
“Now, stop monopolizing your cousin, Bertie,” Aunt Beryl scolded playfully, her mouth stretching in the grimace that she employed as a smile. “Come over here, Camilla. And bring Mr. Lassiter. We want to hear all the details of the wedding. Don’t we, girls?”
Camilla hesitated, her heart sinking. There was a glint in her aunt’s eyes that told Camilla the woman did not believe that she was married. She could understand why. She knew that she must have looked as if she had been slapped in the face when Lydia called Benedict her husband. What had Lydia been thinking of? Now Aunt Beryl was going to quiz her for all the details of a wedding that she knew nothing about, and Camilla could not imagine how she was going to invent them without tripping herself up.
Much to her surprise and relief, Benedict reached out an imperious hand and took her arm, stopping her. “No, my dear. I am afraid I must exercise a husband’s right and not allow you to indulge in a cozy gossip with your cousins this evening. You are much too tired.”
Camilla turned to him, gaping. He had spoken in the tone of one used to command, and there was on his face a haughty look that brooked no denial. He appeared for all the world as if he were the one born to generations of Earls, rather than she. He turned toward Aunt Beryl with an expression of hauteur and faint condescension that was precisely the attitude that would impress and quell her, no matter how much it might make her bristle with indignation.
“Mrs. Elliot, I look forward to talking with you tomorrow. But right now I must insist that we retire. Poor Camilla has had a very tiring day, I’m afraid—the exigencies of traveling, you know—and I fear that her constitution is far more delicate than she would like us to believe. No doubt she would, if left to her own devices, weary herself in satisfying your curiosity. Fortunately, she now has a husband to take care of her. And I must insist that she retire for the night.”
He smiled benignly at Camilla, and she shot him back a look that should have wounded. Instead, it only made a small light of suppressed amusement flicker in his dark eyes. She would have liked to tell him what he could do with his “husbandly rights” and his talk of her “delicate constitution,” but right now it suited her own wishes too well to be taken away from Aunt Beryl.
So she smiled up at him with sickening sweetness and batted her eyes, cooing, “Whatever you say, dearest.”
She found her reward in the flummoxed expression that stamped her aunt’s face—as well as in the involuntary twitch of Benedict’s lips that told her he wanted to laugh at her antics. He had such nice lips, too, she thought, firm and well cut, with just a hint of sensual fullness in his lower lip. She found herself looking at him for a moment longer than was necessary, and only the quizzical look in his eyes brought her back to her senses and made her turn away.
“Of course,” Aunt Beryl countered. “That is most understandable. I have put you and your husband in your old room, Camilla dear. I am sure you know the way.”
Camilla stiffened. “The same room?”
She stopped as she realized how idiotic her words sounded. Of course a husband and wife would have the same room. She looked at Lydia, hoping for a way out, but her aunt was mute, her eyes wide with horror.
“Uh, that is…I—I assumed that we would have two rooms. Connecting rooms.” A flush rose up her face.
“Newlyweds?” Aunt Beryl said and tittered, raising a hand to her mouth. “But, my dear, how odd.” Her eyes were avid with curiosity.
Camilla’s blush deepened. “Um, well, yes. I mean, ’tis not uncommon. There are…well…” She stumbled to a halt, casting a desperate look at Benedict.
Benedict took over smoothly. “What my wife is trying to say, is that there are special circumstances. Unusual ones, which make it far better if we have separate rooms.” There was a long pause, and then he went on, “In short, I am afraid that Camilla snores. It makes it very difficult for me to sleep.”
Camilla let out a strangled noise, and Benedict turned toward her blandly. “Yes, my dear?”
