After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(8)

Don’t tell me so yet, he finally wrote. Not until all is said and done. It will all turn out beautifully, I’m sure.

He wished he felt as sure as he pretended. He provided no return direction. He didn’t want Grayson to know what he was doing, after all.

To Mr. Alabi at Harvil Industries, he sent another letter: Another business matter has arisen. You all have never needed me anyway. We’ll finalize designs when I arrive in two weeks. There won’t be a moment to spare. Thanks for your understanding.

And that was how it started for Adrian, the week before the wedding—with a mistake and a promise.





Chapter Three





For Camilla, it started three days before the wedding—on a Monday, with another mistake.

It was already half-two, and it would have been nice if someone had told the household staff that guests would be arriving that day. Warning given a week ago would have been preferable; even notice provided yesterday would have been acceptable. For God’s sake, a hint this morning at breakfast would have been better than what had actually happened, which was that the carriage pulled up outside just as Camilla was serving pudding at lunch.

Rector Miles had jumped up from the table. “Right!” He’d smiled broadly. “Bishop Lassiter is here now. Is everything in readiness?”

Nothing had been in readiness.

The sheets in the spare room had not been aired; no particular plans had been laid for supper except a course of roast chicken and rolls. The household had erupted into chaos, and Camilla had not had a moment to think in the time that followed.

“Camilla,” Kitty was saying as Camilla dashed up the stairs, staggering under her load of linen. “Camilla, why are the extra servants’ beds not made up yet? I asked you three hours ago.”

Kitty was not the housekeeper. She was just another maid-of-all-work like Camilla. But she had been around longer than Camilla, and so took it upon herself to order Camilla about when she had the chance.

“Because they’re not,” Camilla answered shortly. “But they will be.”

“See that they are. Then come help me polish the silver. It’ll be needed for tonight. Think how it will reflect on us if so much as a single fork has spots.”

“It won’t.”

“Pardon?”

“It won’t.” Camilla popped the door to the male servants’ room open with her hip. “It won’t reflect. If there’s spots? There will be no reflection?”

No response. Thank God Kitty had not heard that dubious attempt at humor.

Camilla shook out a sheet and wrangled it into place with a practiced air. When she’d been young and in an entirely different situation, she’d dreamed of marrying well and running a household far larger than this one. That had obviously not happened, and there was no point looking back to bemoan could-have-beens. But she could put on a square sheet, tight and perfect, in forty seconds flat. It wasn’t much to be proud of, but then, Camilla found her pride where she could. It was nice to be good at something.

She reached for the second sheet.

“Camilla!” Cook’s call drifted up the servants’ stairs. “Camilla, you’re needed now. Someone must bring the tea in for the bishop, and you’re the only one with the manners for it.”

“One minute!” She shook out her sheet.

“No minutes! Now!”

Sheets. Silver. Serving. All of which had to be done now, because the rector hadn’t had the decency to inform his staff of an impending visit.

Camilla slammed the sheets down and growled. “I don’t have time for this shite.”

“Who does?”

It was an amused voice behind her, an unfamiliar voice. A man’s voice—and since this was the male servants’ room, perhaps she should not have been so surprised. Still, she jumped, startled.

The man who stood in the doorway was utterly striking. He was tall and dressed in dark blue with contrasting crisp white linen. He was African—or, no, probably not that, Camilla amended, thinking of his voice.

He’d sounded very British. Just two words, and she could hear a hint of West Country in his accent. Those vowels reminded her of the years she’d spent in Bath when she was fifteen. The other girls had laughed at her then, saying Camilla was putting on airs with her language. She had tried to sound like them. When Camilla had been dragged to the other side of the country after that, her new compatriots had laughed at her and told her she sounded like a country bumpkin.

This man just sounded friendly. He was watching her with a smile.

Funny, how much more striking that contrast of crisp linen was with his brown skin than it would have been for a white man. He made everyone else seem utterly pallid by comparison.

She’d seen black people before—servants and sailors and speakers. She’d never cursed in front of one until now. Camilla had always blushed easily; she felt her cheeks flame. How utterly uncouth he must think her.

“I—” She swallowed. “Just now, you may have heard, ah—”

He looked visibly amused. “I’m absolutely positive that I heard you say, ‘I don’t have time for this trite…’” He trailed off, gesturing.

She couldn’t help herself. It was just a little kindness, to pretend he hadn’t heard her, but little kindnesses were still kindness. She couldn’t help herself; she smiled. “Oh, is that what I said? Of course. I don’t have time for this trite… But now I’m confused. That’s not a complete sentence. This trite what?”