“Don’t be absurd. I haven’t seen you for . . .” She stared at him for a long moment; her gaze locked with his. “In truth, Grayson, I have been angry with you for a very long time.”

He started to say something, anything, then thought better of it. He nodded and left the parlor. What was there to say, anyway? Not that he hadn’t given some thought through the years as to exactly what he would say when at last they met again.

He had planned to point out his wealth, how far he had risen in the world, but he hadn’t so much as mentioned it. And while, in many ways, proving himself to her had been a driving force in his life, he was old enough now—and hopefully wise enough, and most certainly confident enough—to see that it was no longer of primary concern. Then, of course, he had been distracted by the Christmas charade Camille was orchestrating. How on earth did she ever think she could manage to pull it off?

He had said he would help her, and he would, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging suspicion that there was something not quite right about her prince. Her perfect prince. Although, if there were something amiss, you would think Camille of all people would recognize it. After all, in her childhood, there was more often than not a minor disposed monarch or an exiled member of an obscure royal family or an overthrown foreign duke in residence at Millworth Manor. Lady Briston collected homeless foreign nobility like his uncle collected rare manuscripts.

What if the prince was exactly like those lost tribes of Lady Briston’s? What if his travels through Europe were not accompanied by any vestige of royal trappings because he could no longer afford it? What if her prince was perfect because he knew perfection was exactly what might appeal to a wealthy widow? Camille was so taken with him she had no doubt scarcely looked behind his entirely too perfect smile and his entirely too perfect hair and the entirely too perfect sparkle in his entirely too perfect eyes. Bloody hell. What woman wouldn’t be taken with him? Camille had her own fortune, but perhaps what she wanted was the title. Or, possibly, the man. He was handsome enough and charming. Gray blew a frustrated breath.

He was being absurd and he well knew it. Aside from the eccentricity of traveling incognito—unusual, perhaps, but he had heard of much stranger behavior from royals—there was no real reason to be suspicious of the prince. Even if Camille wasn’t in love with the royal, she was definitely smitten, and the prince was obviously taken with her. Gray wouldn’t trust any man who looked at Camille the way Pruzinsky did.

And therein lay the problem.