Veiled Promises

by Tracy MacNish

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Not since Kathleen E. Woodiwiss's masterful The Flame and the Flower has a romance dared to delve so deeply into a woman's vulnerability--and the healing power of love. . . Dashing Irish sea captain Patrick Mullen knows women like he knows the sea, but he is completely unprepared for the sight of lovely Camille Bradburn, the only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Eton. Cultured, wealthy, innocent, and impossibly beautiful, she is nothing he could ever hope to have, and everything he has ever desired. . . Raised with unimaginable wealth and a servant for every task, Camille seems to live a fairy tale life that is the envy of every girl in England. But her privilege comes with a terrible, secret price. And when she spies Patrick beneath her balcony, she understands for the first time that freedom and passion may be possible after all. . . Their love is swift and soul-deep but also exceedingly dangerous, for others would do anything to keep them apart. But Camille won't be taken without a fight, not when she stands to lose a love worth more than all her family's riches. . .

Release date: November 29, 2012

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Beauport, 1743

Did the devil dwell inside her? The whispers had returned in spite of her efforts in self-discipline. The longings she had been told were pure evil seethed in her veins and through her mind, until they became her past and her future, her present and her every thought. The compulsion from within that couldn’t be beaten out, that wouldn’t be punished away.

Perhaps her mother did know the truth of the matter.

And it frightened Camille. She didn’t want to contemplate her own depraved longings. She didn’t want to feel the hatred that spawned the thing that whispered words of survival. Words of escape.

So she thought of something else, something to distract her. While her eyes stayed fixed in a look of practiced attention, her mind roved the property that had served her as home since the day of her birth.

Spring had finally come. The once-naked trees around Beauport now wore a frosting of tiny leaves, promising summer’s dense, verdant foliage. The morning sun glistened on the springy new grass and, with warm persuasion, seduced the tightly furled shoots of wildflowers and bulbs alike to expose their inner beauty and wantonly flaunt their heady scents. Behind her the brick mansion stood like a proud English soldier, just as clipped in mannerism and overdressed. Its columns glared stark white in the sunlight, contrasting the lush greenery surrounding it as nature rejoiced, celebrating the rebirth from winter’s killing grip.

But the voices filtered back into her mind. The voice of her yearnings competed with the stern tones of her mother, who sat in the shady confines of the carriage, rapping out orders and issuing warnings. Her mother, Amelia Mary Bradburn, ninth Duchess of Eton and mistress of Beauport, paused in her sentence and peered at her daughter. With pale blue eyes as watchful as those of any predator, she assessed Camille’s expression.

“Were you listening, child?”

“I was. I am.”

“What did I say?”

“I am to manage the staff in your absence. I am to practice the clavichord daily. I am to see to the final fittings on my new gowns. I am not permitted more than an hour to ride each day, chaperoned. I am not permitted to leave the grounds or to go into town, unless accompanied by Father or Eric.”

“Excellent,” Amelia said softly, “but you forgot one thing.”

Camille resisted the urge to fidget or look away. As she answered, the breath broke in her throat. “I will be watched.”

“Yes.” Amelia’s lips narrowed into a thin red line. “I do not deny I am hesitant to leave you without a maid to oversee your every moment. However, I hope that at twenty years of age you will exhibit the self-control of a young woman who no longer requires constant supervision.”

The driver of the carriage approached, slapping his thighs with his gloves and whistling a tune Camille didn’t recognize. He hoisted his large frame onto the narrow driver’s bench and tugged on his gloves. The carriage bounced and then settled as it took his weight. The matched team of horses pricked their ears in collective excitement, feeling the slight ripple through the reins as they were lifted and held. A gelding stamped his feet and snorted, startling a flock of starlings from a tree. Camille watched as they darted first to the east before abruptly changing direction, heading to the west with flapping wings and loud cries.

Momentarily mesmerized, Camille watched them fly away until they were nothing more than flecks of pepper winging freely over the tangle of trees that began the woods. The woods that beckoned Camille to come and relax in its gentle green light, beneath the knotty limbs that stretched above her head like knuckled fingers.

She dragged her eyes back to her mother’s, knowing that if her gaze rested too long on what lay outside her boundaries, she would be punished for her flagitious longings.

“I will obey.”

“Honor thy father and mother, child. It is the Lord’s word. Not mine.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“One day you will appreciate me. One day, when your husband speaks of his wife with pride, and your children bear the prestige and privilege of their birth, you will thank me for the attention I paid to your upbringing.”

Camille bowed her head, unable to force out any more words of obedience.

“When I return, I will expect a good report.” Amelia reached up and rapped on the roof of the carriage, signaling her readiness to depart. Before the footman could close the door, she issued her final warning. “Remember, child, one will reap what one has sown. Obedience will bring the rewards of future privileges. Disobedience will bear the harshest of consequences.”

The door was shut, and Camille stepped back a few paces, out of the way of the dust kicked up by the convoy of carriages bearing her mother and her retinue of maids, men, and guards as they rumbled down the winding drive of crushed stone. She watched until they disappeared from sight, and only then did relief begin to seep through her body, warm and relaxing like a few sips of wine.

Then she recalled what her mother had said. She looked around, wondering who watched her. Wondering if they were watching her now.

Camille turned on her heel and headed into the shade of the manor, up the wide marble steps and through the heavy, carved front doorways. Her mother made two trips to London each year, one in spring and one in fall, to visit the house she had had built when Camille was a small girl. Amelia preferred London to the country home, never ceasing in her resentment at not being permitted by her husband to reside there yearlong. She held the time she spent there in the utmost importance, claiming that only through her personal holidays there could she endure her familial tribulations. Those absences Amelia insisted on had been some of the happiest times in Camille’s life, shadowed only with the knowledge that her mother would return.

Was it wrong to hope for the demise of one’s own mother? To fantasize that what would begin as a simple heist on the roadside would turn into something more than just a robbery for jewels and coin. To picture in great detail the greed and madness in the corrupt light of the gunman’s eyes. To envision her mother spread out in a pool of silk skirts and flowing blood, silenced forever.

With some effort Camille pushed those thoughts from her mind, knowing them to be evil and that enjoying them so greatly showed evidence of wickedness.

The house still held the cool of the night. Everywhere one looked the eye rested on something of beauty, whether it be the curving, ornate stairway or the intricate marble foyer, where the family crest had been inlaid in fifteen colors of shiny stone. Camille turned left and headed into the parlor, where the clavichord she despised stood awaiting her practice session with its black-and-white toothy grin.

Her father started at the sound of her footsteps, pulling away from the young servant girl and dismissing her with the flick of his finely boned wrist. She scampered from the room at a near run without looking at Camille, closing the French doors behind her round bottom. Kenley sighed and sank into a plump wing chair.

Camille felt the heat rise in her neck and creep into her cheeks. “I can come back later, Father.”

“No, no need. I was merely instructing Molly as to how I like the starch in my shirts.”

“Molly is kitchen help, Father.” Camille felt some satisfaction as the deepening color on Kenley’s face matched her own.

“Don’t you have studies today?”

“I concluded the last of my studies seven months ago.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Right. Well, then.”

“I am to practice my music.” Camille gave him the way out, wanting the end to the uncomfortable situation as much as he did. But Kenley glanced to the French doors longingly, and Camille had a better idea.

“I am permitted to ride for an hour. Perhaps I’ll do that now and practice my music later.”

“Fine idea. A beautiful morning. Perhaps you’ll see Eric. I believe I left him in the stables less than an hour ago.”

“I thought my brother said he had business today? Something about him selling the house and land Grandfather left to him?”

A frown of disapproval flitted across Kenley’s distinguished features. “Listening in while men are speaking of financial matters is not appropriate for a woman. Repeating what you heard later is even less so.”

“Eric discussed his intentions with me, Father. He went so far as to ask my opinion.”

Kenley arched a brow. “I shall not mention this to your mother. ’Twould only upset her.”

Camille understood perfectly. The entire exchange had never happened, including her walking in on her father with his hands in the bodice of the kitchen help. “If you will excuse me, I’ll take my ride now.”

Kenley bid farewell with a slight inclination of his head. “And if you happen to pass her, please send Molly back in. I have a matter that requires her expertise.”

Camille kept her expression neutral and left the room, heading through the mansion toward the back, where the rich scents of bread mingled with the musty smells of jarred vegetables and fragrant boughs of dried herbs. She entered the interior kitchen where food was prepared prior to and after being cooked in the out-kitchen. A smile curved her lips as she felt the familiar surge of happiness upon seeing Flanna, who had been on the staff even before her father had been born.

Flanna worked industriously, her every movement an economy of motion. She hadn’t changed much in all the years Camille had been coming to the kitchens to visit her. The gray hair streaked with reddish strands remained in the same neat bun. Her eyes, blue as a robin’s egg, still held the sparkle of a young woman, and could see more than what a person showed. Camille sometimes thought those Irish eyes could see into her very soul.

When Camille had been a young girl, she used to wish that Flanna had been her mother. She would lie in her bed and wonder what it would be like to have those kind hands smooth her hair from her forehead, or to have those sweet lips press a kiss on the tip of her nose. She would create lifetimes with Flanna, a history of shared feelings and understanding, of tea and toasted bread when she felt ill, and encouraging pats on her arm when she recited a history lesson perfectly.

But she was not a child anymore. Her parentage remained as unchangeable as the rise and set of the sun and the moon. She knew that. She accepted that. And she hated it.

“Good mornin’, dearie. I hear your mother’s off to the city?”

“She is,” Camille confirmed, looking over her shoulder out of habit before she stole a small piece of cheese from the chopping block where Flanna toiled.

“An’ what will you be doin’ to occupy your time, Miss? I also hear you’re to be goin’ about your days unfettered, what with you bein’ fully grown.”

Camille grinned a little, a small smile full of wicked longing that was just enough to communicate to Flanna exactly what Camille wanted to do with her free time.

Flanna rolled her eyes. “Ah, dearie, will you never learn?”

“’Tis a necessary evil.”

“I hate seein’ you hurt. Canna you content yourself? Canna you find a way to be happy wi’out it all?”

Camille didn’t reply, because she didn’t have the answer.

Flanna lay down her knife and leaned forward, looking directly into the vivid green beauty of Camille’s eyes. “If you go, somehow she’ll know. Is what you’re doin’ worth it?”

Camille considered her questions. She had thought about all of it many times, especially after she had been caught and punished. She had never been asked to explain it, though. Speak out loud so her ears would have to hear her mouth voice feelings and compulsion.

“I pretend I am free,” she began softly, remembering clearly how it had felt in the past to sneak away and savor her stolen moments of liberty. “My station is not so different from yours. ’Tis just as predestined, and I am prisoner as much to my family as to my gender. But for a space of time I am bound to no one. I am not lectured for my obstinacy or punished for my truculence. I am free, Flanna. Not in reality, I know. But in my own mind, to pursue who I am and not who I am ordered to be. It is beyond price, that freedom. However false it may be, it is worth the cost.”

Flanna saw the light in the verdant eyes of her young mistress, somehow savage and innocent at the same time. Even after all her years of servitude, she realized her own desires for that very same freedom had not completely diminished. The borrowed light illuminated Flanna’s dark, forsaken desires, until both women felt overwhelmed with the need and the ache for it.

“Aye,” Flanna whispered, “I know of what you speak.”

Camille took Flanna’s hand in her own, squeezing the chapped skin and feeling the strength there. The quiet strength of a woman who had served others all her life, but had still not lost herself. And the found understanding with another woman filled a space in her. She gave Flanna’s hand another squeeze. “I need to know who watches me, Flanna. Can you find that out for me?”

Flanna didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already been askin’ about.”

“Thank you.”

“Aye, you go, dearie. I have work I must do if anyone will be eatin’ lunch.”

Camille glanced to the window at the beckoning spring day. “I will walk to the stables and ask Dyson to saddle my mount. ’Tis too glorious a day to send someone after my bidding.”

The two women exchanged a smile and Camille waved goodbye as she stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Just then she remembered she had forgotten to find Molly and send her back into the parlor. She shrugged away the order, deciding to let her father pursue his lust without her help.

The stables stood in the distance, a mammoth brick building that housed nearly a hundred horses. Like his father before him, Kenley loved to breed horseflesh and had taken it to an art form. He sold and showed some of the finest steeds in all of England. Camille had always been interested, wanting to learn about breeding. But that had been deemed a male pursuit, and denied her. Camille had listened, though, and absorbed as much as she could. She had even somewhat impressed her brothers and her father with a few quiet comments.

One day a foal had been born that her father had considered a mistake, with eyes too small and wide set, and markings he described as ugly. He had ordered it put down and Camille had thrown a fit, going so far as to hurl herself between the baby and the pistol. She had cried and begged and bargained, and Kenley had relented and allowed the foal to live. It had been the one concession Camille could ever remember that either of her parents had made for her.

Kenley had also commented the foal was living proof Camille had no stomach for breeding.

Nevertheless, Camille loved her horse. She had hand-fed her grains and watched her grow from filly to mare. She wandered through the stables with her skirts held up to keep them from getting soiled, heading to the stall where her mare was kept.

As she approached, she heard the familiar deep voice of her brother. A smile curved her lips at the pride in his tone. She could hear him telling the story of the huge stallion he had just purchased, the purity of his lineage, the elegant length of his legs, the mare he would breed him with in the summer.

Camille cleared her throat lightly as she drew near, and two men swung around at the unmistakable sound of a lady’s approach. Camille stopped and dropped her handfuls of satin, forgetting everything from the hay that would cling to the bottom of her skirts to the dust on the wide, rough planks of the stable floor.

“This is my sister, Camille,” Eric said, his voice still rich with that same note of pride. “Camille, this is Patrick Mullen.”

Patrick took her fingers, his thumb a quick caress that felt too brief as he let go. “My pleasure, my lady.”

But Camille scarcely heard him. She must have said something appropriate, because both men smiled. It then occurred to her they might be laughing at the color in her cheeks or the fact that her eyes had not left his face. And yet, she didn’t quite care.

He was fascinating. In the dim light of the stables, where the masculine scents of leather and horses mingled with fresh hay and dry grain, he looked perfectly at ease. Tall and ruggedly built, he had a face out of a Celtic fable, with eyes the color of the ocean during a storm. When he smiled his teeth flashed in the dusky light, a wild grin that had her heart thumping.

He had said something, and she had missed it. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you like horses, my lady.”

And a voice as mellow as brandy.

“Indeed, I do. I love riding.”

“Your brother has been giving me a tour of your family’s stables. It’s been quite impressive and informative.”

Camille didn’t know what to say. She smiled.

Patrick grinned at her again, knowing she was uncomfortable, but not ready for the conversation to be over. “Do you have a horse of your own?”

“I do.”

Patrick offered his arm. “Introduce me, would you?”

Camille hesitated, hearing Amelia’s voice in her head warring with her own desires. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Camille placed her hand tentatively on Patrick’s arm, feeling his warmth, his strength under her fingers. “Certainly.”

Eric watched them wander away, looking at each other instead of where they were going and completely forgetting his presence.

Camille swallowed hard, and then again. Her mouth felt too dry and her hands shook. But he didn’t seem to notice, as he chatted with her about nothing in particular. Camille stopped at a narrow stall.

“This is my mare.”

He could hear the fondness in her voice. “What’s her name?”

“Indue.”

“Indue?” Patrick mentally searched his extensive knowledge of language and couldn’t find a meaning. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

Camille’s lips curved upward in a shy smile. “Indue. Indue time she’ll be a pretty horse.”

Patrick laughed. He rubbed his hand over the velvet nose of the mare, who searched for a carrot in his outstretched palm. “She’s very sweet.”

“I love her,” Camille said simply.

“Lucky horse.”

Camille blushed again, hating the flood of heat that gave away her nervousness. Patrick didn’t seem to notice. He murmured to Indue, chuckling as she nuzzled his palm again and snorted. “She’s hungry?”

“She’s always hungry.”

“Like Tate,” he said, more to himself.

“Tate?”

“My boy.”

“Oh,” Camille whispered. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

Patrick didn’t laugh at her artlessly blurted comment. “I’m not. My cabin boy. Tate is sort of my adopted son. He lives on my ship with me.”

“Oh,” Camille said again. “You live on a ship?”

“Most of the year, aye.”

“A home on a ship,” Camille said aloud, thinking of what that must be like. “This is your profession?”

“Aye. I am a merchant, like my father.” He spoke quietly, watching her mind turn over what he said. Her face hadn’t turned aside with snobbery at the revelation of his common birth, but instead she seemed to be mulling over his words behind those amazing eyes.

“It must grow lonely.”

Sad eyes, he thought. She said “lonely” as if she understood the concept well. “It can, if you let it get to you. I keep busy, twelve-hour shifts and I read on my off hours, when Tate isn’t pestering for a game of chess.”

“You have seen the world, then.”

“I have seen most of the ports the world has to offer. Incredibly little of the actual world, though.”

“Do you care for what you do?”

He gave her question careful consideration. “I do, though probably not how you mean. I care for the way it pleases my da.”

Camille said nothing, but Patrick didn’t miss the ironic smirk that crossed her face for the briefest second. “Perhaps you think that is a less than admirable reason to choose one’s means of life?”

Camille’s eyes flew up to his. For a reason completely unknown to her, she felt compelled to tell the exact truth of what she had been thinking. “I only wondered what it must be like to please one’s father.”

His eyes searched hers thoroughly. He said nothing, only reached out to lightly tug on a stray curl that had fallen to rest on her shoulder. He grinned down at her and she felt her insides tighten. Indue nickered and nuzzled Patrick’s arm.

Camille laughed. “She is quite demanding of affection. It appears she has deemed you friend, not foe.”

“She is too sweet to have foes.” Patrick resumed his stroking as he spoke.

“Temperament aside, she is not my father’s favorite.”

“Do you ride her often?”

“I am permitted an hour a day.”

“Permitted?”

“Yes.”

The way she answered definitively, he understood. “Well, perhaps one day you’ll reserve that hour for me, and you can teach me how to ride.”

Her brows shot up. “You can’t ride a horse?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“No.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Camille thought about that for a moment. “And you’d have me teach you?”

“Why not?”

She couldn’t believe he’d ask such a plain question. Surely he was teasing her. But he looked at her patiently, waiting for her reply, without a trace of irony. “I am a woman.”

“Indeed.”

The word was like a warm caress, a benediction. It ran through her, heating places in her body that made her suddenly aware of her innocence. Many men had called upon her; never had any single one of them made her feel this way.

“I would love to show you.”

“Excellent. Tomorrow?”

Camille’s face fell. She tried to hide it, but he was watching closely.

“No?”

“I doubt I could get permission for such a thing. It would be highly inappropriate.”

“I see.”

Patrick was still rubbing Indue’s nose, along her long face, around her pricked ears. His touch looked soft, gentle, methodical. Indue stood perfectly still, as if hypnotized by the stroking. Camille watched his large hand move over her, tracing her markings, sweeping around her eyes. Camille’s skin tingled as if he were touching her, responding to just the suggestion of his caress.

“You didn’t say she is ugly,” Camille said, her voice sounding small and soft.

“Who is ugly?”

“Indue.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No, I think she is beautiful. But most—rather, no one else—seems able to see beyond her physical attributes.”

“But you do?”

“I always have.”

“Do people see beyond your physical attributes?”

Camille looked up at him once again to see if he were teasing. “Pardon me?”

“You’re beautiful. Do most people see past that?”

Camille realized he was serious. His hand had stopped its stroking, and his eyes were fixed on hers, the most incredible color she had ever seen. She felt a little dizzy, a touch queasy. Had he just said he thought she was beautiful? “Most people don’t see me at all, and when they do, I doubt they see past my facade.”

“Good.”

“You think that’s good?”

“No, I think it’s good that you realize it.”

Camille just looked at him. Looked into those eyes while her heart fell at his feet. And she wondered if he knew it. She forced some normalcy into her demeanor, relying on years of training and etiquette to save her from making a complete fool of herself. “Are you going to stay for the evening? If so, I will let the staff know to set an extra place.”

“First invite me to lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Aye, it’s scarcely noon.”

“Right. Lunch. Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“I’d love to,” Patrick said softly. “Now invite me to go for a ride with you. We’ll ask your brother to chaperone. I’ll probably kill myself, but I’ll die happy.”

He let his hand run down her arm as he said it, ending at her hand with the word “happy.” He held on, his fingers entwining with hers, sending frissons of heat running through her, like tiny bolts of lightning in her blood. She wondered if he felt it.

“I never would have guessed I’d be so glad I accepted your brother’s invitation to come see the stables.”

Camille knew exactly what he meant. “I was supposed to be practicing the clavichord. I don’t usually come to the stables this time of day.”

“Fortuitous.”

“Yes,” she whispered, nearly undone by the feel of his hand on hers.

“The ride?”

Camille glanced down at her gown of pink satin, its simple lines, square neckline, and seed pearls completely inappropriate for riding. “I will need to change.”

“Fine. May I walk with you to the house?”

Again, Camille laid her hand on his arm and let him lead her through the dim and narrow labyrinth of the stables, and then finally out into the beaming sunlight of late morning. Eric stood in the narrow strip of shade just outside the wide doors, leaning against the brick and smirking the way only an older brother can.

“What did you think of my sister’s mount? A real beauty, isn’t she?”

“She is.” Patrick hadn’t taken his eyes from Camille, though. “But it seems there is more to her than that.”

Eric straightened and began to meander toward the manor. “True enough, I suppose.”

Camille tore her eyes away from Patrick and spoke nervously to her brother. “Will you come riding with Mister Mullen and me? Perhaps he has informed you he has yet to sit a horse.”

Eric shrugged carelessly under his tailored jacket, his demeanor as suddenly distant as his mind. “A ride sounds fine.”

Camille let out a breath she hadn’t realized she held. She cast a sidelong glance up at Patrick, seeing the crinkles of a smile around his eyes as he flashed a grin at her. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, his breath a warm tingle she felt to her toes. “Call me Patrick.”

“Patrick,” she said softly, the only word she could summon to her lips as her breath caught.

“Aye, I like that much better.”

The walk to the mansion seemed too short, and before Camille knew it she was flying into her rooms, frantically calling for Brigid to help her change. She yanked a riding gown out of her armoire, struggling to pluck open the laces on the back of her gown while kicking off her silk slippers. Brigid scudded into her rooms as she always did, moving at her own pace, her dour expression firmly entrenched in the deep grooves around her eyes and lips. Without a word she helped her mistress change into her riding habit of ecru linen, lacing her tightly. A few passes with the brush over Camille’s black hair restored it to a neat twist. A straw hat with a wide brim was placed on top to shield her skin from the sun. Camille slipped into her riding boots and gave herself a final appraising glimpse in the mirror. She saw a girl whose color ran high in her cheeks, an unfamiliar sparkle in her green eyes.

Her fingers reached out to touch the girl in the looking glass, whose silvery reflection looked so different from the image she usually saw. Gone was the shadowed, serious expression. Instead her face bloomed with the colors of spring itself, shades of pinks and creams and green.

Male laughter drifted up to her rooms, an unfamiliar sound in the Bradburn home. Camille knew it could be only Patrick who brought levity into those rooms where austerity usually reigned. The glass felt cool under her fingertips as she rested them on the reflection of her cheek.

He had changed so much, already.

As Camille descended the stairs and approached the parlor, she saw Patrick, his back to her, unaware of her presence as he stood facing the painting that Camille loved best. He stood tall and broad shouldered, with the lean strength that came from daily hard work. Dark auburn hair hung in waves away from his sun-burnished skin, and Camille noticed with interest that he shunned the English fashions and wore his hair unbound and unpowdered. It added to his rugged appearance, she thought, as did his finely tailored clothes that weren’t fussy, but had been cut for fit and function.

Patrick looked away from his study of the portrait hanging above the mantel as Camille entered. He gestured to the likeness of the blond woman in the picture. “Your mother?”

“My grandmother, Elizabeth. She was my father’s mother.”

Patrick looked from Camille to the painting, and then back. “You favor her, somewhat. Not in coloring or feature, but there is a resemblance just the same.”

“Then the painter was indeed talented. He must have captured what my mother says is in our nature.”

“What’s that, then?”

“Rebellion.” Camille said the word on a sigh, as if she tired of hearing it even from her own lips.

He thought about that for a moment, looking again to the portrait before looking back to Camille, his expression appraising and curious. “Is that what you think? You are rebellious?”

Camille stared at him levelly, wondering if he realized that in the space of an hour he had asked for her thoughts and opinions more times than she had been asked in the whole of her life.

“I suppose I struggle with it.”

“What is it you don’t have that you think you want?”

He didn’t ask her snidely or with disdain, as some might, given the obvious wealth surrounding her and the prestige of her family name. Instead, he looked as though he understood something she didn?