But Harold had done no such thing, because her prince had never appeared. And so she and Harold were wed, and she had put Grayson out of her head and her heart with a ruthless determination. And if, through the years, she would catch a glimpse of a man on a London street who resembled Grayson and her heart would leap, she would ignore it. And if, on occasion, late in the night, just before sleep, his smile would appear in her mind’s eye and his laughter would ring in her ears, she ruthlessly pushed it aside. And if, now and again, she would dream of a single kiss, it had no place in the light of day.

Of course she was angry. He had claimed to love her, but then he had disappeared so completely from her life, it was as if he had never been there at all. When Harold had died and she was free, she had thought that perhaps . . . No, she had every right to be angry. Or maybe she had no right at all. She hadn’t fought for him either. Nonetheless, the anger remained.

“If you continue to pace like that, you shall certainly create a trough in the floor.”

Camille stopped short. Beryl stood inside the door of the parlor, studying her sister.

“You didn’t even hear me come in. Whatever is the matter?” She winced. “Not that I can’t think of any number of things that might be wrong, given the nonsense we are all embroiled in. And have you spent more than a few minutes with Mr. Henderson? Although a few minutes was all that was necessary. My God, Camille, he’s worse than Uncle Basil. The man tried to pinch my—”

“Grayson’s back.”

Beryl’s eyes widened. “Grayson Elliott?”

“Do you know another Grayson?”

Shock colored Beryl’s face. She was the only person Camille had ever told about Grayson’s ill-timed declaration; she was the only one who knew how it had crushed Camille’s heart. “What do you mean Grayson’s back?”

“Exactly what I said.” Camille drew a deep breath. “He’s back from wherever it is he has been—”

“America,” Beryl murmured.

“He was here. He met the prince and he introduced himself as . . .” Camille could barely say the words aloud. “As our cousin.”

Beryl gasped. “Our what?”

“You heard me.” Camille groaned. “He said he was our cousin, come to join us for Christmas.”

“Good Lord.” Beryl stared. “Where is he now?”

“He left to fetch his bags.” Camille rubbed her forehead. When had her head started to ache? No doubt the same moment she had looked into the parlor and seen Grayson. It would have been so much easier had she simply been mad.

“He wouldn’t want to miss tea.” The corners of Beryl’s lips twitched.