“It wasn’t,” she said sharply; then obviously remembered she was trying to impress a prince and smiled. “Indeed, it feels like another lifetime altogether.”

“Eleven years.” The prince’s eyes widened with surprise. “Then I did interrupt a reunion. I do apologize.”

“Not necessary.” Camille blithely waved off the comment. “Grayson had said hello and was about to leave—”

“To fetch my bags.” He leaned toward the prince and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “I, too, have encountered a few baggage difficulties, especially at the train station.”

“I quite understand.” Pruzinsky nodded. “It is at once the benefit and misfortune of not traveling as a prince. No one treats you as a prince.” He flashed an amused grin. “And, as I am more than capable of finding a servant myself, I shall leave you to reminisce.” He nodded. “Mr. Elliott, Camille.” He looked as if he were about to grab her hand once again; then apparently thought better of it and took his leave.

“That’s the man you want to marry?” He turned toward her.

“What do you mean—my cousin come for Christmas?” she said at precisely the same time.

“I thought you could use some help in this convoluted plot of yours.”

“I don’t need your help, and, yes, that is the prince I intend to marry.” She glared.

“He’s not like any prince I’ve ever known.”

“Oh, really?” She raised a brow. “How many princes have you known?”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he said sharply. “Doesn’t his manner strike you as odd? All that traveling without the trappings of his position? Capable of finding the butler himself? He doesn’t act the least bit royal.”

“He’s traveling incognito,” she said in a lofty manner. “It’s quite progressive of him.”

“It’s odd, extremely odd.”

“I think it’s perfect.”

“Do you?” He narrowed his gaze. “You’ve never been one to forgo the accoutrements of wealth and position.”

“And, I daresay, in his own country, neither does Nikolai.” She paused. “Nor will we as a royal couple, of course.”

“I think it’s suspicious.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think.”

“I don’t trust him,” Gray said flatly.

“You scarcely met him.”

Gray shook his head. “He’s entirely too polished. He’s exactly what one would think a prince would be, aside from that nonsense about not traveling as a prince.”

“It’s a family tradition.” Camille’s jaw clenched.

“He’s entirely too”—Gray shrugged—“perfect. No man is that perfect.”

“He’s a prince and he is perfect.” She raised her chin. “And charming and dashing and handsome. He is everything any woman would ever want. Everything I have ever wanted.”