If anything, the level of noise from the boys increased at her words.

Grayson stared at her, then smiled. “Well played, Camille. Very good.”

“Thank you.” She smiled in a modest manner.

“That was inspired.” Beryl studied her sister as if she had never seen her before. “By God, all those years of dealing with the results of impulse have certainly borne fruit.”

“Now, then boys.” A brisk note sounded in Grayson’s voice. “Let me get a look at you.” He crouched down in front of them. “You have me at a disadvantage, as you know my name, but I . . .”

“Lady Lydingham!” Urgency sounded in Fortesque’s voice. “I must speak with you at once.”

“Yes, of course,” she said absently. There was something about seeing a man, a good man, surrounded by small children. . . .

“What are you thinking?” Suspicion sounded in Beryl’s voice.

“I was just . . .” She couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from Grayson and the boys. He glanced up, met her gaze and smiled. The strangest feeling of what might have been, or perhaps of what could be, swept through her; and with it an odd sort of ache. Ridiculous really. She ignored it. “I was thinking we can put the children in the old nursery in the east wing.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll show one of the maids where it is. But first, you need to come with me.” She grabbed her sister’s hand and fairly pulled her up the stairs.

“What are you doing?” Camille huffed.

“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” Beryl pushed Camille into the nearest parlor and shut the door behind them. “What are you doing?”

“I am trying to adjust to the addition of five children to the . . . the cast!” Irritation sounded in her voice. She really didn’t have time for this.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I saw the way you looked at him.”

“Oh.” Camille shrugged. “That was . . . nothing.”

“You’ve never been good at lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’re lying to someone, me or yourself. Probably both.” Beryl’s eyes narrowed. “Have you forgotten that he broke your heart? That your closest friend, next to me, declared his love—something you had longed for, for years—on the day before your wedding, then vanished from your life?”

“No, of course not.”

“Have you forgiven him?”

Camille hesitated. Had she? “I may never forgive him, but . . .”

“But?”

“I may not be as angry with him as I once was.” She paused. “He claims I broke his heart.”

“He is an idiot.”

“No, he’s not,” she snapped, then pulled a calming breath. “But it is something that had never occurred to me, that I might have hurt him.”

“You were about to be married. What did he expect you to do?”