Indiscreet

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?”

There was a muffled laugh from the direction of Kitty and Amanda, and Cousin Bertram seemed to have suddenly acquired a cough. Camilla thought with great delight of boxing Benedict’s ears. There was nothing she could do or say. She had wanted him to say something to get her out of the dreadful situation; she could hardly deny his words now.

“Oh, my.” Aunt Beryl looked from Benedict to Camilla, and Camilla could see a flash of triumph in her face as she went on, “But, dear girl, separate rooms are rather difficult right now. What with all the guests we have, there is so little space available. Why, to give you two connecting, or even adjoining, rooms, we would have to open up the west wing, and you know how your grandfather detests that. And it could not possibly be done tonight. The servants are all in bed.”

Camilla gritted her teeth. She could hardly insist, in the face of what Aunt Beryl had said. It was obvious that the woman did not believe this story of a marriage—and that was no wonder. It was all one lie built upon another, and each one more outrageous than the last. She thought about giving up and telling the truth, admitting to her aunt that it had all been a lie. It would be easier than trying to maintain this charade. But then she thought of her grandfather’s happiness when she had told him that she was engaged, and how he would react when he found out it had all been a tissue of lies. His disappointment in her would be hard enough to bear, but worse than that, his anger and distress might well be enough to call on one of his attacks.

So she clamped back the words that wanted to rise from her throat. Pulling her lips back into a smile, she said, “Of course. It isn’t that important. Benedict exaggerates sometimes, don’t you, darling?”

Bidding the others good-night, Camilla put her hand on Benedict’s arm, and they left the room.

CHAPTER FIVE

“WHAT THE DEVIL is going on here?” Benedict growled at Camilla once they were safely out of earshot of the drawing room.

“I don’t know,” Camilla moaned. “Obviously Aunt Lydia must have told them I was married to Mr. Lassiter, but I cannot imagine why. What am I going to do?”

“Well, nothing at the moment, except try to act normal. Your aunt Beryl is already suspicious enough. Your carrying on about getting two rooms didn’t help any.”

“What did you expect me to do?” Camilla flared. “We can’t sleep in the same room!”

“No? Then what can we do? Do you want to go back in now and tell Mrs. Elliot that you have made the whole thing up? That I am not your husband? That you never even had a fiancé? That you lied to your grandfather? To her? That your other aunt lied to everyone, as well? Do you want her running in to spill that load of news to your grandfather?”

“What an awful muddle I’ve made of everything.”

“You have to make the best of it now,” he told her unsympathetically. “At the moment, I think that means being my loving little wife. We shall decide how to deal with the rest of it later.” He took a firm grip on her arm and propelled her across the hall, toward the stairs. “Where is your bedroom? Up here?”

Camilla nodded, irritation at his high-handed attitude rising in her. “Just a minute. What do you think you’re doing? You are not in charge here.”

“Obviously, neither are you,” he retorted, inexorably leading her up the stairs. “As for what I am doing, I am getting us up to a room where we can close the door and hash this out without worrying about servants or relatives hearing us.”

Camilla grimaced. She could hardly argue with his reasoning, but the way he was assuming command rankled.

“Camilla! Psst!”

Both of them turned to see Lydia at the bottom of the stairs, following them. She waved to Camilla to stop and hurried up after them. “Oh, my dear,” she cried softly as she neared Camilla, holding out her hands toward her. “My little love, can you ever forgive me? I am so, so sorry.”

Her big blue eyes sparkled with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Camilla took her hands and squeezed them.

“Of course I can forgive you. Anything. You know that.”

Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a “fribble,” and Camilla had often enough bemoaned her aunt’s vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart, and Camilla loved her dearly.

“Thank you. You don’t know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” Camilla took her arm and led her down the hall to her bedroom, Benedict following behind them. “But I don’t understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?”

They reached the door of Camilla’s bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and an oil lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.

“It was terribly bad of me.” Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking chagrined and absurdly youthful. She was only thirty-seven, and over the years had retained her good looks. “If I had only thought about it, I would have realized that it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is.”

“Well, I don’t,” Benedict put in bluntly. “My good woman, what are you talking about?”

“Why, the reason I said you were Camilla’s husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad—all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the first that it was all folderol, though how she could tell, I’m sure I don’t know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged. But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers— You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Camilla said, trying to bring her back on track. “But what happened this time?”

“She kept asking why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn’t sound natural, a bride-to-be not bubbling over with news of her trousseau and her dress. Well, that is true, but I can quite understand why you wouldn’t think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, since you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and—”

“Mrs. Elliot…” Benedict reminded her flatly.

“Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn’t joking at all—you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right there in front of the Earl—I am positive she meant to do it that way—that she thought you didn’t mean to marry at all, because you hadn’t set a date. She didn’t go so far as to say that you had made the whole thing up, although I’m certain that’s what she wished to say, for she knows that the Earl won’t listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudolaughing way. But she said, with a false little titter, that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. ‘So unnatural in a gel that age.’” Lydia imitated her in-law’s drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.

Camilla had to chuckle. “So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married.”

“I didn’t mean to. But she was looking at me in that way, you know, and I opened my mouth and somehow it just came out. I told her I had gotten a letter from you, and that you and your Mr. Lassiter had gotten married two weeks ago.”

Camilla let out a low groan.

“I’m sorry, Camilla, but once I’d done it, what could I do? I didn’t think it would do any harm. It seemed no worse for you to pretend to be married than to pretend to be engaged. And it was so pleasant to see Beryl sitting there with her mouth opening and closing.” She paused, then added, a trifle resentfully, “I never dreamed you would actually bring a man with you. I thought you would arrive by yourself, with some excuse why Mr. Lassiter could not come. And since we would only be talking about him, what difference would it make whether he was your fiancé or your husband?”

“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “A mere trifle.”

Lydia smiled at him, pleased by his understanding, and said, “Exactly. I am so glad to hear you say so.” She turned to Camilla. “Where did you find him? I don’t understand how you managed to come up with him.”

“I paid him,” Camilla told her bluntly.

Lydia’s eyes widened. “You mean you can buy a husband?”

“Actually, she only bought a fiancé,” Benedict stuck in. “Now that I am a husband, perhaps I should charge more. What do you think, Camilla?”

“I think this is scarcely the time for humor.” She turned back to her aunt. “I didn’t mean that I purchased a husband, Aunt Lydia. I meant that I am paying him to pretend to be my fiancé.”

“How odd,” Lydia said thoughtfully.

“But that doesn’t matter now. What is important is the fact that Aunt Beryl thinks we are married—and she put us in the same bedroom!”

Lydia moaned. “This is terrible. Your reputation will be ruined! Whatever are we to do? Oh, drat my wretched tongue!”

“It’s all right, Lydia. Don’t worry about it. We will manage to scrape by.”

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