“Would you like me to accompany you to visit them?”
She turned to look at him for a long moment. A faint flush spread across her cheeks.
He wondered what she was thinking. Then he wondered what he was thinking. Her sister was a marchioness. The woman he was thinking of as simply ‘Camilla’ was the daughter of an earl. And yes; his mother had been the daughter of a duke.
That only meant that he knew the set. He knew his own uncle, refusing to acknowledge his nephews, not even speaking his own sister’s name in polite company, no matter how he professed his love in private.
He’d met Camilla after she’d been out of that milieu for years.
They’d been in his domain these last weeks. He hadn’t forgotten the reality of the matter; he never let himself forget reality. But he was used to the notion of Camilla not having a family.
“Never mind.” He looked away. “I only just now realized how that would look.”
“I was just trying to imagine how I would introduce you,” she told him. “‘Judith, this is Mr. Adrian Hunter; we used to be married.’”
“It does sound absurd.”
“‘Now,’” Camilla said, “‘we are friends.’”
He looked over at her.
“That is what I would say,” Camilla said. “Maybe I would add something like this: ‘There are very few people I trust in the world; he is one of them.’ I do not know what she would say to that.”
Adrian looked over at her. He licked his lips. “Cam. You do realize that I’m black?”
“I had noticed.” She swallowed and looked at him. “I cannot pretend I know how my sister will react. I have not spoken with her once in the last nine years. I do know that she…” Her voice faltered. “I know that the last time we talked, she told me that I’d made my choice. That I deserved to never be loved, if I was willing to give it up for the chance at pretty gowns.”
“Camilla.”
Camilla looked away. “And you told me I deserved it. That I deserved to be chosen. That someone would love me for who I was. I do not know what my sister will say, but I won’t stand for her telling me that you don’t deserve love. She is clearly not an expert in who is deserving.” Camilla shook her head.
They were sitting so close and yet so far away. The space between them seemed like a vast cavern. Her skirts were eight inches from his shoes. Adrian leaned forward a little, and—he didn’t know if it was the movement of the train, or the sway of her body—but she mirrored him, coming closer.
“If we can’t get an annulment, Cam…”
He could see the smooth column of her throat contract.
He wanted to give her freedom first. “I wouldn’t impose on you, Cam. We could live separately. I wouldn’t have expectations. It wouldn’t be fair under the circumstances.”
Her cheeks flushed even pinker. Her eyes dipped to the floor, but only for a second. Then she looked up, her eyes liquid.
“You could…” Her voice trailed off. She bit her lip and inhaled. “You could expect, if you wanted.”
“Could I?” He leaned in another inch, lowered his voice. “What could I expect?”
That flush painted her cheeks a dark red. “Must I say it? I’d give you anything you wanted, Adrian. You would just have to want it. The more you wanted from me, the happier I would be.”
He could not help himself. He reached out and took hold of her hands.
Her breath hissed out, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she ran one fingertip around the edge of his glove, brushing his wrist. Her eyes, when she looked at him, glowed like stars.
“And if I already wanted?” he asked.
She didn’t say anything. Her fingers traced a circle around his wrist. She bent her head, just enough to press a kiss into his palm.
He leaned forward, even further, reaching—
“Adrian,” she said in a soft voice. “We shouldn’t. If we’re seen like this, you know what they’ll say. We have one chance to obtain an annulment. We mustn’t ruin it.”
Mustn’t we? He didn’t say that aloud, and she didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, she shut her eyes, turned his hand over, and pressed a kiss to the top of his wrist.
“Well.” He didn’t pull away. “Let’s talk about what our ruin should look like when we know what our options are.”
* * *
Let’s talk about what our ruin should look like.
Camilla could not get his words out of her mind, not as he brought her to a home on a side-street near their destination, not after he introduced her to the housekeeper who had aired the sheets and removed the covers from the furniture in preparation for their arrival.
A maid showed Camilla to her room.
Let’s talk about what our ruin should look like. She could still feel the warmth of his wrist against her fingertips even though they were no longer touching.
She washed and changed, then came down to find Adrian sitting before a plate of cold cheeses and meats.
“Make yourself at home,” Adrian said. “The place is my mother’s. I believe she inherited it from a great-aunt. It was leased for years, but the tenants went back to America, and we haven’t found new ones yet.”
Camilla nodded.
“There’s no point delaying,” Adrian said. “I’m going to bring our evidence to my uncle. I’m going to hold him to his promise—that he would help us with the annulment once I found evidence incriminating Lassiter.”
She looked over at him.
His eyes met hers. “It’s precisely as I said. Once we know that we can make a choice, we can decide what the choice will be. Annulment or…”
There was an or. He was considering an or. Her heart beat too swiftly in her chest and she could not contain her joy.
But he didn’t specify what that or would be. He left to go speak to his uncle.
She was left in the house with nothing to do but wander the rooms and imagine the or that might await.
The space here had none of the warmth of his cottage back in Harvil; there were fancy carpets underfoot and elegant tables of stained mahogany. The plates were matched china—no amusing mistakes here. Her stomach knotted in nervous tension.
She had never met Adrian’s uncle; she couldn’t even imagine what the room they would meet in would look like. For his sake, she wanted it to go well.
And for hers.
She wanted. She wanted—not the annulment, but him. She wanted to be chosen. She wanted someone to want her. She wanted—
The sound of the front door opening interrupted her reverie. She almost dropped the book she’d unthinkingly taken from the library shelf. It took a moment to set it on the table with unsure hands. Another moment to take a deep breath.
Her nerves mounted to a flutter in her belly. She reached for her composure and did her level best to walk to him, rather than run.
She failed.
She came to a skidding halt in the front room. A man stood there, handing off his coat and hat to the housekeeper with a, “Thanks, Genevieve.”
He was black like Adrian. He was maybe a few inches taller than her not-really husband. His hair was in short curls; he wore spectacles. He was adjusting his cuffs as she came skittering into the room.
He looked over at her.
Camilla felt her heart hammering in her chest, nerves and tension reasserting themselves as she stopped short in front of him.
He didn’t seem surprised to see her, and the housekeeper seemed to recognize him, too. He took a step closer.
“Miss Camilla Worth, I take it?”
It had been years since she had been called by that name. It brought back memories—strange, tangled memories. Laughing with Judith and trying on bracelets far beyond their ages. Judith saying, if you don’t want to be loved, we don’t want to love you.
Her breath stopped, then skipped, then stopped again.
“Yes?” Her heart seemed to not function properly. Her head felt far too light.
The corner of his mouth
ticked up. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I’m Captain Grayson Hunter.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Adrian’s brother. Of course she had to meet him under these dreadful circumstances, when she was nervous and scared and full of hope.
She struggled and somehow found the power of speech. “Mr. Hunter,” she managed. “How…nice to meet you. I am…” No, what was she doing, introducing herself? He already knew who she was. He’d said it.
“Ah, that’s right.” He considered her. “I shouldn’t have called you Worth, should I? It’s Camilla Hunter, now. Welcome to the family.” He wasn’t exactly asking a question.
“No,” she heard herself say. “Adrian has been most insistent on that point. If we are to get an annulment, we must not hold ourselves out as married.”
“Ah.” He touched his fingers together. “How interesting. So you’re getting an annulment, then?”
“It is generally considered the accepted practice when one is forced to marry at gunpoint.”
His eyes flashed, but all he said was: “Is it, then? I hadn’t realized that gunpoint weddings were an accepted practice.”
“They’re a rare enough occurrence that they are not usually covered in the etiquette books.” Camilla’s hands fluttered uselessly by her side.
“Well, by all means. Amend the etiquette books.” He looked around. “Is my little brother around, by any chance?”
“He’s gone—” She gestured, her hand waving in the direction of the cathedral. “To, um… Speak. With his uncle. Your uncle, I mean. About the annulment and other things.”
Captain Hunter looked heavenward, as if beseeching some unknown power.
“So. Let me guess. Adrian found himself married at gunpoint—God, I have no idea how that happens to a man—and rather than tell his older brother about it, which would involve admitting that he was wrong, he asked Denmore for help. Denmore, of course, didn’t give two sweeps of a broom about what had happened, and demanded some sort of quid pro quo. Have I got that right?”
Camilla bit her lip.
“That goddamned man. I told him so—but never mind. Here I am, forgetting my manners, and this is in the etiquette books. I’m Adrian’s brother, and captain of The Pursuit. I was informed that my brother had wed, and suspected it was part and parcel of this entire mess, which meant he’d come back to Denmore eventually.”
He must have heard about it from…someone at Harvil? No, not that. He’d called her Camilla Worth. “But how did you know my real name?”
“Ah!” His face cleared. “As to that. I’ve something for you.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “Here.” He held it out.
She took it. It was sealed with a bit of wax, stamped with the initials TLW.
TLW? She had no idea who…
The wax snapped under her trembling fingers. She unfolded the paper.
Dear Camilla, the note read. This is your sister, Theresa.
Theresa. Good God. She almost dropped the letter. She’d just allowed herself to hope that her family might receive her if she tried one last time, but she’d only considered Judith—no one else. The last time she had seen Theresa, she had been a little girl tracing her ABCs.
Obviously time had passed, but Camilla had no image of her youngest sister at all.
We—and by “we”, I mean Benedict and I, but also Judith and Christian—Christian is Judith’s husband; you may remember him from the time he had our father convicted of treason—which is probably not the best introduction—and bother, I’ve used too many dashes and I have no idea where this sentence is going.
Dash it all!
A little punctuation humor to lighten the moment. Ha ha.
Camilla stared at the page. Oh, dear. The first thing she had learned about her youngest sister in almost a decade was that she had a dreadful sense of humor.
We have been looking for you. Judith misses you dreadfully. She wants nothing more than for you to come join us.
Camilla felt her vision blurring. No, she couldn’t cry—it mustn’t mean what it said, it couldn’t.
The next paragraph was taken over by a different handwriting—the letters darker and less blocky.
Benedict here. That sentence seems to imply that Theresa and I are indifferent. We are not indifferent. I have little memory of you, but I have heard stories. You would be a ripping great addition to the family, thank you.
Theresa had apparently wrestled the paper back to add:
You did grow up with Judith and, quite frankly, we need someone to commiserate with us.
She is an absolute tyrant and I do not doubt you were right to stay away for so long.
The handwriting for the next line changed once again.
Theresa has no call to refer to anyone as a tyrant. The only hope the world has is that she is a girl and girls are very rarely allowed to take over everything. Judith is not a tyrant.
She is by far the least tyrannical of the two sisters I am acquainted with.
The letter resumed in Theresa’s handwriting.
Since I must be honest: Judith is a perfectly good sister who would be improved only by being a little less perfect, but also, she favors Benedict over me and I refuse to turn a blind eye to injustice. You have been gone so long that she will no doubt favor you above us both, which will finally put us younger ones on equal footing.
Camilla felt overwhelmed in the best way possible.
Benedict took over again.
Please do not listen to Theresa. She will give you an ill opinion of us all, and you should only have one of her.
Back to Theresa’s writing again:
We have become distracted from our mission, and I refuse to get distracted for longer than five minutes. It is Judith’s birthday very, very soon, and we had hoped you might be willing to come for a visit.
Our direction is…
Camilla read this all in absolute bafflement. The last she’d seen Benedict, he’d been a child. When he was a toddler, she had used to carry him around the house and call him her sweet boy.
Theresa had been bossy even at six, but Camilla knew very little of her. She’d gone to China with their father while she was practically an infant, and most of what Camilla remembered was her absence, and then her return.
She had used to throw tantrums back then—loud, angry ones, ones that wouldn’t stop until Anthony wrapped her up in his arms and held her so tightly she couldn’t move. Theresa had liked that.
Of course, Theresa had grown out of the tantrums—children often did. It should have been impossible to imagine the friendly, familial bickering that the two engaged in, but…
She remembered it.
Not from Theresa and Benedict; they’d been too young to bicker properly. But Judith and Anthony had done it, and reading it now… Her heart ached.
She read the letter again.
She had no idea what Theresa and Benedict sounded like; the childish voices she could dimly recall no longer fit these two people who used words like ‘tyrannical’ and ‘injustice.’ But between the taunts, there was something there that made her yearn.
It hurt, to imagine being so comfortable in another person’s presence that you could call them a tyrant to their face and not fear being tossed out. It hurt, and it felt good, and…
Camilla had been sent all over England. She had tried to make herself into half of what she could be just so she’d have the barest chance of acceptance. And all the while, they’d stayed together. They loved each other, just as Judith had said they would.
Camilla had given up this for gowns. She’d given up this.
She read the letter a third time. Judith misses you dreadfully. How? How could Judith miss her? How could it be that anyone remembered her enough to miss her? And if she missed her, why hadn’t she written?
Camilla had spent her entire life hoping that one person would care for her. It was too much to discover that someone already did.
She burst into tears. Her whole heart hurt in th
e best possible way. She didn’t have room in her soul to understand how this could have happened, but it was here.
“Oh, God,” Captain Grayson said. “You’re crying.” He said it the way another man might have said, “Oh, God, I’m being eaten by wolves.”
“I’m sorry.” Camilla sniffled and tried to hold back her tears. “I hate crying, and I cry so easily. I haven’t seen my sisters in years. I thought they didn’t want me. I could barely even let myself think of their existence. This is…”
A gift, she wanted to say. But if she said those words, she’d start sobbing in earnest. “It’s been a while since I saw my siblings. I have no idea what they’re doing. You can’t imagine.”
The captain sighed. “I can imagine discovering that my brother was married because two hellions showed up in my office waving a duplicate from the General Register Office.”
Camilla sniffled. “Very well. You win the competition. Have a biscuit.”
“You’re right. That was an unnecessary comment. You’re here in our family home; I should endeavor to be polite. Have a handkerchief.” He removed a square of beige linen from his pocket and held it out.
She took it. “I’m here in your family home. I should be the one who endeavors to be polite.”
“That’s true,” he said. “Well, then. Don’t get tears on the family carpets. Those could stain, and I would have to throw you out to defend the family honor.”
She looked up at him. There wasn’t so much as a single telltale flicker of amusement on his face to suggest that he was joking. If he were Adrian, he’d have been smiling at that remark.
Camilla blew her nose messily on the handkerchief he had given her and then looked up. “Oh dear. I hope that wasn’t a family handkerchief.”
“Yes.” His voice was very dry. “It was. Non-Hunters who use it perish.”
She looked over at him.
He held up his hands. “Adrian is going to kill me. I’m bad with tears. And comforting. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to comfort you. Why isn’t Adrian here?”