After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(13)

“Does Kitty get your wire brooch, then?”

He recalled their conversation. He’d paid attention to her. She felt another burst of warmth.

No. She couldn’t give in. Memory, she scolded herself, was not affection. She was not going to fall in love, not again. She was going to be good.

But he had remembered. Camilla exhaled and looked over her shoulder, at the servants’ beds laid out in a row. Kitty was already under the covers. Cook would be up shortly.

“No.” Camilla shook her head. “I am a jealous corpse. If she took it, I’d rise from the grave and do hateful things to her.”

He smiled as if she’d made a joke. Probably because she had.

“Well.” He nodded to the room behind him. “Rest in peace, then. I’m glad I got to meet you before you passed away.” He tapped her arm, ever so slightly.

It was just a friendly gesture, but still her heart leapt. God. She wanted so much more than the brush of a finger. She felt absolutely starved for touch.

But Camilla knew how these things went, these little flirtations. One went from trading witticisms and smiles to trading…more. She was Half-Price Camilla because of that more.

She didn’t fool herself, either.

She wasn’t good; she never would be. But if she pretended hard enough, maybe she’d eventually fool everyone else.

She bit her cheeks to hide her smile.

“Good night,” he said.

And because she wasn’t good, she could feel her heart thump in reply. “Sleep well,” she offered tentatively.

His eyes met hers one last time, and she thought of all that sleep entailed—beds and removal of clothing and vulnerability…

Her cold covers awaited her, and for a moment, a thread of unadulterated loneliness rose up inside her, twining cold tendrils around her heart. “Sleep well,” she said again, and retreated as best she could.





Chapter Four





Thankfully, Camilla didn’t encounter him the next morning. She made plans—good plans, sober plans—to maintain a reasonable distance with no swearing or flirting or talk of shambling corpses at all.

Still, she felt sore and raw all day. That haunting feeling of loneliness from last night had not abandoned her; she was more aware than ever that her heart ached.

Maybe it was because she’d spent all yesterday tearing up and down stairs, carrying sheets and polishing silver until her arms ached. Maybe it was because of the way Mr. Hunter had looked at her the prior evening—with pity, as if he could see through Camilla’s attempts to be good, and knew how little chance she had of succeeding.

For whatever reason, she felt particularly low when she slunk into the rector’s study that afternoon with the tea things.

“There are rumors that Shoreham is stepping down,” the bishop was saying, “and you’ve positioned yourself perfectly to…”

The conversation stopped as the plates on her tray clinked, drawing the men’s attention. They looked up at her as if irritated at the intrusion.

Camilla bowed her head and laid everything in place as quickly and silently as possible—toast points, tea, milk, sugar, lemon tarts. Her fingers lingered a second on the dish of tarts. She had loved lemon tarts once. No. She wasn’t going to look back at a time when she’d had them regularly herself. She didn’t think she could eat one any longer.

“Miss Winters,” said the bishop.

Camilla jumped, yanking her hand away. “My apologies, my most abject apologies.”

One moment. One moment, one little lapse of judgment, and there she was—straying into dangerous territory. Dreaming. Remembering.

His frown deepened at this. “What are you apologizing for?”

“For—taking so long?”

He blinked. “Well. Don’t do that, then. I’ve been told that you are not, in fact, Miss Camilla Winters.”

Camilla swallowed.

“That your name is Miss Camilla Worth.”

It was, to be technical, Lady Camilla Worth, but after all that had happened to her, insisting on her title would do more harm than good. She couldn’t get above herself. She didn’t dare reveal the truth. She didn’t answer this query with anything more than a nod. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.

“That’s an interesting family name.”

She would not say a word.

“It’s the family name of the late Earl of Linney,” he said, examining his fingernails. “The one who was executed for treason a handful of years ago.”

Nine years ago, it had been. Camilla tried not to think of the date, but she remembered it too perfectly. Almost half of Camilla’s life—if that barely remembered past really belonged to her. Her father was dead and a traitor; her brother was dead and transported. Next to them, Camilla’s sins were merely banal.

Camilla knew she should hate her father for what he had done—to her, to her family, to the country. But the very thought of him—her brothers, her sisters—opened up that cavern of loneliness in her heart. She’d never been good at hating anyone.

No. Don’t look back.

“Is that right?” She glanced at the rector who was watching her. “How very unfortunate that I should share a family name with them, then.”

“So there’s no relation?”