“This is ridiculous,” she murmured but hummed along with him, nonetheless. Within moments they were flying over the rough wood floor of the attic. She wasn’t sure if she hummed as much as she laughed, and wondered how long it had been since she’d been quite this silly. They danced well together, but then they had learned together. They whirled around the attic until they reached the music’s crescendo, humming it in a manner no one the least bit familiar with the “Vienna Blood Waltz” would have recognized.

Grayson finished the waltz with a musical flourish, which was as theatrical as anything Fortesque might have come up with.

He grinned down at her. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Channing.”

She could scarcely catch her breath. “My pleasure, Mr. Elliott.”

He stared into her eyes for a long moment. Surely, he didn’t intend to kiss her again? She had been quite serious when she’d threatened to slap him. Still, that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t kiss him back. She raised her head and leaned forward slightly.

“Well.” He released her without warning and stepped back. “I don’t want to keep you any longer. I know how busy you are today. We should be getting back downstairs.”

Shock washed through her, as if she had indeed been slapped. Apparently, he had no intention of kissing her. Not that she wanted him to. Still, there were, well, procedures for this sort of thing. Steps that led logically from one point to another. Gazing into her eyes, not releasing her from his embrace and then . . . nothing?

Well, what could she expect from a man who declared his love, then abandoned her? Grayson never did know how to do things properly.

“Extremely busy.” She marched toward the stairs, a brusque note in her voice. “I haven’t time for this sort of nonsense.” She turned on her heel and aimed a pointed finger at him. “Or for foolish memories.” She nodded, turned and continued for the stairs.

“My apologies,” he said softly.

“For what?” she snapped.

“Everything?”

“It’s not that easy, Grayson.”

“I didn’t think it would be.” He sighed.

No, it wasn’t that easy to waltz back into her life. She would not allow it. Not allow him to pick up where he had left off. It wasn’t easy at all.

For either of them.

Twelve

Twelve

Of all the things he remembered about Camille, Gray didn’t remember her being quite so confusing. Certainly, she’d been obstinate as a girl, and she had all too often leapt headfirst long before she looked. She was, as well, unbecomingly competitive on occasion—although she rarely bested him—but she was never especially confusing. No, if memory served him right, she had been as easy to read as an open book in those days.