After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(9)

“You didn’t say.” Maybe it was because his eyes sparkled. Maybe it was because Camilla had always bloomed under any sort of attention. Maybe it was because she’d been working furiously without so much as a half-second to breathe for the last hour. But she found herself blushing. Again.

“That doesn’t sound much like me.” She met his eyes, aware that speaking like this was a bit too forward. She was too tired to care. “I’ll have you know that I usually end my sentences with nouns when it’s called for. You must think me entirely ungrammatical. We can’t have that.”

“Ah.” He shrugged. “I assume you would have finished what you were saying had I not interrupted you. The fault is all mine.”

“If you had not interrupted me,” Camilla continued, “you would have heard me say, ‘I don’t have time for this trite bullshit.’”

Uncouth, forward, impatient—everyone always counseled Camilla to hide what she was. She’d never been able to do it properly. If this man hated her, best he discover it quickly—before her imagination caught fire and she let herself get hurt with her own expectations.

But instead of backing away, he actually laughed at this, his eyes crinkling up in a way that made her smile back at him.

“If you haven’t guessed from Cook’s shouting,” she said, “I’m Camilla. That’s Miss…” Worth, she did not say. It had been more than a year since she introduced herself by her real name. She couldn’t be Camilla Worth anymore; Camilla Worth would be an embarrassment to her family. “…Winters,” she finished. “Miss Winters to you.”

“Mister…” He paused, imitating the way Camilla had drawn out her fake name. “Hunter, His Grace’s valet.”

A valet. To a bishop. Well above her current station, she reminded herself, and she had best remember not to be foolish. She really needed to get away before Mr. Hunter made her smile again.

But—“I look forward to speaking with you,” he said, and he sounded as if he meant it.

Camilla always got carried away with herself. It was her worst flaw in what was undoubtedly an unending sea of unmendable flaws. She wanted so badly to be wanted. She’d been told again and again to stop, to have some decorum, and she rarely managed it. Likely she never would.

There was nothing particularly appreciative about the glances Mr. Hunter gave her; she should not allow herself to imagine that his gaze actually lingered on her. For heaven’s sake, she was the only thing in the room. What else was he to look at?

Still, he smiled at her one last time, and she couldn’t help but smile back. He was a valet to a bishop. That put him far above her station, and he was too handsome for her anyway. Besides, how long would he stay? Days, at best.

It was foolish to imagine that a little conversation was akin to flirtation. But Camilla had been foolish before.

Her glance, she knew, was possibly a little too familiar. “Unlikely. We’ll never speak again. I will perish from overwork before we have a chance to exchange another word.”

There it was again. She was flirting.

“I’ll be back to finish the sheets,” she said, because talking of beds would definitely make the situation better. “When I die, make sure that Kitty gets my wire brooch. She’s admired it so.”

“I’ll make up the beds.”

“You’re too kind. I’ll—”

“No,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “you don’t understand. If you perish, I’ll have to get the bishop’s formal blacks ready for the funeral. It’s far less work to just finish the sheets.”

He wasn’t flirting, she reminded herself firmly. That sparkle in his eyes didn’t mean anything.

“In that case,” she said, “I’ll leave you to it, and maybe we can have that word later.”

He smiled. “Maybe we can.”

God, Camilla was an idiot.

She had a moment to look up, dazedly, into his eyes. They were brown, flecked with gold, and when he smiled, it felt as if the whole world was smiling with him. Idiocy.

It took a particular sort of perverse obstinacy to fall in love at first sight. It took absolute pig-headedness to do it again and again and again. To imagine affection from nothing and then hope for it repeatedly.

It was, in short, Camilla’s usual rebelliousness—to believe, after all this time, that someone would like her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been taken with someone simply because he was kind and handsome and a stranger.

None of the people familiar with her liked her at all. It would have to be a stranger who decided she was worth something, if it were ever to happen. And it had been so long, her chance had to come up— “Camilla! Tea! Now!”

The shriek up the stairs jolted her out of her state of daydreaming. Camilla jumped and ducked her head. “I’m—that is—”

“Goodbye, Miss…Winters,” he said softly.

She shouldn’t. She really should not. “Au revoir, Mr…Hunter.” She could not help her hopeful smile, the lift in her heart. She could not help grinning as she ran down the stairs.

He was only going to be here for a short time. Then he’d leave. Besides, if he was employed by a bishop, he had to have an impeccable character.

She was flighty, flirty, and terribly good at fooling herself. Camilla knew this about herself. She’d learned it all too well. But a few hours, maybe a few days.