Page 5 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
“And you do now,” Camille murmured around a smile. “Have an idea of what to do.”
He tipped the bottle her way. “Care to find out, Princess?”
The split-second pause, barely perceptible if he weren’t searching for it, made his heart, unbelievably, soar. “No,” she whispered, “I wouldn’t.”
But as he watched her walk away, he could only cheerfully think,by God,I don’t believe you.
CHAPTER2
WHERE A KISS KILLS
Camille startled with every sound, every creak, tick, or shift when the conservatory was her safe place. Her peaceful domicile. She frowned and brushed her hand across her cheek, glad, yes,gladshe’d worn her oldest dress and smashed straw bonnet, misshapen after her maid, Annabelle, sat on it last week. She didn’t want Tristan Tierney of all people to think anything about this meeting, even if they’d flirted,mildlyflirted, the evening before. He’d been foxed, and she bored, or rather, frustrated. With Ridley.
Which was becoming a common occurrence.
Morning, the duke had said.I’ll meet you in the morning. When morning meant anything from eight o’clock to two in the afternoon. Camille enjoyed rising early, unlike most of society. She couldn’t imagine Tristan waking before noon.
She was not getting involved with him beyond this conference, she pledged right there with her hand buried in fresh, flaky peat. Even if he’d told her shockingly private things in her aunt’s enchanting garden the evening prior, brought images from his mind of loneliness and death and destruction—and placed them firmly in hers.
Evenif.
She exhaled and wedged her hip against the wooden bench housing her pots and jars and vases. Tools, sacks of seed. Warped shelves lined with plants and cuttings. A sunlit shimmer danced through the greenhouse wall to dust her face. She closed her eyes and drew a loamy breath into her lungs, the smell of moss and freshly-turned earth settling her as it always did.
The Duke of Mercer, more than any man alive, was her weakness. It didn’t matter why or how, but she’d been utterly, irretrievably in love with him since, well, she couldn’t remember when shehadn’tbeen in love with him.
So, it had been forever.
Forever, when he’d treated her like a child. Because she’dbeena child. The mere mention of his name enough to send a dizzyingly twist through her belly when she’d never been a foolish female. Unless he was involved.
When she experienced nothing like that with Ridley. Pleasant, accommodating Ridley, whom shelikedbut didn’t love.
Which she was as pleased about as she was her choice of bland gardening attire.
Her matrimonial selection had been made in opposition to her fascination with a beguiling man far from reach. Simpler to say, she wanted to be the one who lovedless. The control in that decision felt marvelous. She would be a very proper, most agreeable wife, aside from her botany fixation.
Which was acceptable, as she suspected Ridley didn’t love her, either.
But her fiancé’s gaze warmed when he looked at her, a hunger she could appease. A reliable business arrangement, his funds for her ability to provide a family to continue his line. It happened every day in society. Why she felt hesitation about the union was nothing short of ridiculous. She’d known she would someday commit to someone, and the bill collectors had decided it must be soon.
Another minute passed, maybe two, when a demanding footfall sounded on the gravel path leading to the conservatory. Camille smoothed her dress, tugged the flattened bonnet from her head, then, with a sigh, tossed it aside and made herself focus on pruning her potted plumeria.
But she couldn’t keep herself from tilting her head and watching the Duke of Mercer saunter into her space as if he owned it. Casually dressed this morning in a cambric shirt, cravat loose, shirt open at the neck, he looked approachable, relaxed. Buckskin breeches clinging with each flex of his muscular thighs. And tall. Had he always been so tall he had to duck when he entered rooms?
Vexed, she squeezed the pruning shears in her fist. Oh, devil take it! Why fight whatwas? He was gorgeous. And witty. Intelligent and occasionally vulgar. Vulnerable, as he’d been the night before. Arrogant. Impatient.
Good and bad.
The hopelessness was, she loved the entire package.
Tristan glanced around as he traveled the row leading to her, a curious gaze, an interested one. Pausing by a tree, he circled his broad palm around a plum and plucked it free. Tossing her a jaunty look, he dusted the pink-red fruit on the sleeve of his shirt and noisily bit into it, a masculine show of bravado that made her toes curl inside her scuffed boots. “Damn,” he whispered, raising it to his mouth for a second bite, “what is this?”
His tongue slid out to catch a drop of nectar, and she knew she was in dire trouble. She shouldn’t want to close the short distance between them and kiss the juice off his lips, not when her experience equaled exactly two forgettable tryouts with her fiancé. She shouldn’t know what she was missing, but somehow, she did. “A plum. This particular variety was discovered in a Sussex garden last year and is just entering the nursery trade. Not even officially named yet. By spring, it will be so laden with fruit, I’ll have to prop up the branches.”
He hummed softly beneath his breath, moving in until he stood close enough for her to see a stubbled spot on his jaw his valet had missed. Close enough to catch the scent of sandalwood and soap clinging to his skin. Chewing thoughtfully, he circled a sketch on the bench into his view. “Am I to receive the grand tour, then?”
She released the shears and stepped back, giving herself breathing room to assess his mood. Playful, the dark slashes beneath his eyes lighter than they’d been the night before; he’d gotten decent sleep for the first time in days, it seemed. “If you want one.”
His gaze settled on her, this morning a mottled mix of light and dark green. He swallowed and took a deep bite of the plum. “I want one.”