Indiscreet. Candace Camp
are…well…” She stumbled to a halt, casting a desperate look at Benedict.
Benedict took over smoothly. “What my wife is trying to say, is that there are special circumstances. Unusual ones, which make it far better if we have separate rooms.” There was a long pause, and then he went on, “In short, I am afraid that Camilla snores. It makes it very difficult for me to sleep.”
Camilla let out a strangled noise, and Benedict turned toward her blandly. “Yes, my dear?”
There was a muffled laugh from the direction of Kitty and Amanda, and Cousin Bertram seemed to have suddenly acquired a cough. Camilla thought with great delight of boxing Benedict’s ears. There was nothing she could do or say. She had wanted him to say something to get her out of the dreadful situation; she could hardly deny his words now.
“Oh, my.” Aunt Beryl looked from Benedict to Camilla, and Camilla could see a flash of triumph in her face as she went on, “But, dear girl, separate rooms are rather difficult right now. What with all the guests we have, there is so little space available. Why, to give you two connecting, or even adjoining, rooms, we would have to open up the west wing, and you know how your grandfather detests that. And it could not possibly be done tonight. The servants are all in bed.”
Camilla gritted her teeth. She could hardly insist, in the face of what Aunt Beryl had said. It was obvious that the woman did not believe this story of a marriage—and that was no wonder. It was all one lie built upon another, and each one more outrageous than the last. She thought about giving up and telling the truth, admitting to her aunt that it had all been a lie. It would be easier than trying to maintain this charade. But then she thought of her grandfather’s happiness when she had told him that she was engaged, and how he would react when he found out it had all been a tissue of lies. His disappointment in her would be hard enough to bear, but worse than that, his anger and distress might well be enough to call on one of his attacks.
So she clamped back the words that wanted to rise from her throat. Pulling her lips back into a smile, she said, “Of course. It isn’t that important. Benedict exaggerates sometimes, don’t you, darling?”
Bidding the others good-night, Camilla put her hand on Benedict’s arm, and they left the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHAT THE DEVIL is going on here?” Benedict growled at Camilla once they were safely out of earshot of the drawing room.
“I don’t know,” Camilla moaned. “Obviously Aunt Lydia must have told them I was married to Mr. Lassiter, but I cannot imagine why. What am I going to do?”
“Well, nothing at the moment, except try to act normal. Your aunt Beryl is already suspicious enough. Your carrying on about getting two rooms didn’t help any.”
“What did you expect me to do?” Camilla flared. “We can’t sleep in the same room!”
“No? Then what can we do? Do you want to go back in now and tell Mrs. Elliot that you have made the whole thing up? That I am not your husband? That you never even had a fiancé? That you lied to your grandfather? To her? That your other aunt lied to everyone, as well? Do you want her running in to spill that load of news to your grandfather?”
“What an awful muddle I’ve made of everything.”
“You have to make the best of it now,” he told her unsympathetically. “At the moment, I think that means being my loving little wife. We shall decide how to deal with the rest of it later.” He took a firm grip on her arm and propelled her across the hall, toward the stairs. “Where is your bedroom? Up here?”
Camilla nodded, irritation at his high-handed attitude rising in her. “Just a minute. What do you think you’re doing? You are not in charge here.”
“Obviously, neither are you,” he retorted, inexorably leading her up the stairs. “As for what I am doing, I am getting us up to a room where we can close the door and hash this out without worrying about servants or relatives hearing us.”
Camilla grimaced. She could hardly argue with his reasoning, but the way he was assuming command rankled.
“Camilla! Psst!”
Both of them turned to see Lydia at the bottom of the stairs, following them. She waved to Camilla to stop and hurried up after them. “Oh, my dear,” she cried softly as she neared Camilla, holding out her hands toward her. “My little love, can you ever forgive me? I am so, so sorry.”
Her big blue eyes sparkled with tears, and her flushed face bespoke her agitation. Camilla took her hands and squeezed them.
“Of course I can forgive you. Anything. You know that.”
Others, such as Aunt Beryl, called Lydia a “fribble,” and Camilla had often enough bemoaned her aunt’s vague, haphazard ways, but there was no one with a warmer heart, and Camilla loved her dearly.
“Thank you. You don’t know how that relieves me. I was worried that you would hate me.”
“I could never hate you.” Camilla took her arm and led her down the hall to her bedroom, Benedict following behind them. “But I don’t understand what is going on. Why did you say he was my husband?”
They reached the door of Camilla’s bedroom and walked inside. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and an oil lamp was lit, giving the room a soft golden glow.
“It was terribly bad of me.” Lydia caught her lower lip between her teeth, looking chagrined and absurdly youthful. She was only thirty-seven, and over the years had retained her good looks. “If I had only thought about it, I would have realized that it might cause trouble. But I simply could not stand it anymore. You know how Beryl is.”
“Well, I don’t,” Benedict put in bluntly. “My good woman, what are you talking about?”
“Why, the reason I said you were Camilla’s husband. It was because of Beryl. She was driving me quite mad—all those sly digs and innuendos. She was convinced from the first that it was all folderol, though how she could tell, I’m sure I don’t know. Your letters sounded so convincing that sometimes even I thought that you really had gotten engaged. But she would make remarks in that insinuating voice of hers— You know what I mean. So vastly irritating. Your uncle Varian always used to say he wanted to pinch her lips shut whenever she began to talk that way.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Camilla said, trying to bring her back on track. “But what happened this time?”
“She kept asking why you were so vague about your wedding plans. She said it didn’t sound natural, a bride-to-be not bubbling over with news of her trousseau and her dress. Well, that is true, but I can quite understand why you wouldn’t think of putting things like that in your letters, my love, since you have no interest in marrying. I should have thought of it, for that is exactly how I was when Varian and I were engaged, always talking about my dress and flowers and—”
“Mrs. Elliot…” Benedict reminded her flatly.
“Oh. Well, one day she said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn’t joking at all—you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right there in front of the Earl—I am positive she meant to do it that way—that she thought you didn’t mean to marry at all, because you hadn’t set a date. She didn’t go so far as to say that you had made the whole thing up, although I’m certain that’s what she wished to say, for she knows that the Earl won’t listen to her speak an ill word about you. That is why she always couches her statements in that pseudolaughing way. But she said, with a false little titter, that she thought you must be getting cold feet, and she reminded him how you had always been so set against marriage. ‘So unnatural in a gel that age.’” Lydia imitated her in-law’s drawn-out vowels and nasal tone to perfection, even adding the way Aunt Beryl had of lifting her chin and stroking down her throat.
Camilla had to chuckle. “So you, of course, decided to tell her that I had already married.”
“I