The older boys were assisting in the decoration; the twins were in the kitchen being fed gingerbread and other Christmas treats. Fortesque had confided that his wife had been up much of the night making all sorts of Christmas delights. Gray had sampled the gingerbread, pronounced it excellent and had broached the subject of Mrs. Fortesque becoming his cook. With appropriate living quarters for the couple, of course, and the possibility of a small stipend for Mr. Fortesque, as well, so that he could continue to pursue his acting career. Something in the nature of artistic patronage, Gray had said, and Mr. Fortesque agreed to discuss it with his wife. After all, while Gray and Camille had agreed to offer Mrs. Fortesque the same salary, there was no prohibition against offering wages for her husband as well.

“I do so apologize, Walter, but the ladies apparently wish to decorate every spare surface.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid.”

“Father says when a woman gets something into her head . . .” On Gray’s other side, Thomas shook his head in a forlorn manner. “There’s nothing a man can do but lend a hand or move out of the way.”

“Your father is a very wise man,” Gray said.

Walter snickered. “That’s not what Mother says. Mother says—”

“Perhaps it would be best if you kept that to yourself.” Gray chuckled.

“Boys number one and three,” Lady Briston commanded. Apparently, she was no better at names than Mrs. Montgomery-Wells, although she did remember her own. “Do be so good as to fetch those swags in the corner and bring them to me.”

Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh; then he and Walter scurried to do as she asked.

Lady Briston, the children and the maids were busy with the banister and stairway, while Beryl had Pruzinsky and the rest of the actors decorating the main parlor. Camille balanced on a ladder directing the footman hanging ribbon-bedecked garlands of holly from the gallery railing. Gray moved closer to steady the ladder.

Camille glanced down. “I do hope you are not looking at my ankles, Grayson Elliott.”

“But they are such lovely ankles, Camille.” As were, no doubt, the legs attached to them and all else beyond. His stomach tightened.

“Thank you,” she said in a prim manner, and descended the ladder. She reached the floor and stood so close to him that she was nearly in his arms. A challenge gleamed in her eyes. “Are you going to move, or do I have to shove you out of the way?”

He smiled into her eyes. “But I quite like where I am standing.”

Her breath caught. “Grayson, I don’t know what you are thinking, but this is . . . It’s most inappropriate, that’s what it is.”