Page 37 of Ravishing Camille
Work?“I did. But I’m ready for my meetings.”
“Lucky you.” She went back to her columns.
He went back to his scrutiny of his attraction to her. She’d not said a word of reproach since the night of their kiss. Not looked guilty or sad. Just friendly.
He snorted.
That’s what he had come to. Old and more than randy and not quite wise enough to contain his desire to become more than just her friend.
Dear God.
He opened his leather briefcase.
That’s what he was and would only be. Her friend. Heroldfriend.
* * *
The house on Piccadilly was a grand old thing that Camille’s step-father Killian had purchased from the original owner over five years ago. Her mother had redesigned much of the living spaces upstairs and improved the downstairs accommodations for the staff. Since Killian preferred to live in Brighton and use the London house for business during Parliament and the holidays, they kept a skeleton staff there at all times.
The new head of the London household staff was Reginald Brisbane.
That man had sent the family town coach to Victoria Station to fetch the four of them and the ride home was quick if hot in the August weather.
“I’d forgotten London in the heat,” Pierce said, his finger to his collar as the coach came to a stop.
“I prefer the summer breezes, too,” she said. “But upstairs you’ll catch the cooler winds up from Dover.”
The flurry of Brisbane and two footmen meeting them took over the activity. Soon they were up and out, inside and going up to their accommodations. Ivy, upstairs to the fourth floor maids’ rooms. James, to the small valet’s bedroom connected to Pierce’s. Pierce to his suite and Camille to hers, opposite.
“I’ll see you downstairs, will I?” she asked, chipper as she stood in her bedroom doorway. Staff had laid out a small luncheon for them in the apple green drawing room.
“In a few minutes, yes.”
She closed the door and sank against it. He was worried. She couldn’t tell if that meant he was angry with her or himself. Or if he anticipated all sorts of antics from her now that they were alone.
She had no magic up her sleeve. She would never trick him. If he ever came to her as a lover, she wanted him fully committed. To her. She’d seen other girls lay traps for men they desired. Seen their mamas do it too. The result initially might have been what they thought they wanted, but in the end, many paid for their subterfuge. Two of her friends were now quite miserable. One endured a lonely life upon the moors of Yorkshire, badgered by a meddling mother-in-law and two brothers-in-law with salacious intentions upon her. Another lived apart from her husband. Having given him his heir and spare, she was now shunted aside as he took his interests to a mistress of very expensive tastes. Camille could never live like that.
She wanted a man who wanted her.
And no other.
Chapter 10
No. 110 Piccadilly
London, England
If he anticipated that the two of them living together would bring him problems, Pierce was very wrong about the nature of temptation. Camille was easy to enjoy.
She arose early. A wonder, that. Few in the family had ever beat him to the table, even before he’d gone to China and learned the value of morning awareness. Keeping to his practice of meditation here, he was up early even though he had not slept well. He needed to continue with his own routine. His serenity depended on it. Pondering how close she was to him at night, feet away across the hall… dressed in next to nothing. Ah, serenity was elusive.
They breakfasted together the first and second mornings, or at the least, had coffee or tea while the other finished. She’d appear, as ever well turned out in one gauzy summery gown or another—and decidedly cheery. He, having tossed and turned with worry over his work and his attraction to her, was not as delightful a companion as she.
The third morning, she’d teased him about that.
“You look tired. Do you need more exercise?” she’d inquired after he grumbled behind his morning newspaper. “You didn’t get much on that steamer, I’d say.”
He’d peered over the edge, aware of the exact type of exertion he’d prefer and in which he could not indulge. “I didn’t and I don’t.”
