“I have given this a great deal of thought.” Indeed, she’d had so much to accomplish she hadn’t thought of anything else.

“I can’t believe you are going to all this trouble.” Beryl narrowed her eyes and considered her sister. “It’s not for his money. Harold left you with more than you can possibly spend in a lifetime, certainly more than enough to buy your own castle, should you wish to do so. Is it for his title?”

“I have always thought ‘Princess Camille’ has a lovely sound to it.”

“Even so, I can’t . . .” Beryl’s eyes widened. “Are you in love with him?”

“There is nothing about the man not to love,” Camille said in a cautious manner.

Still, she’d only been in love once, and that was when she was very young and quite foolish and hadn’t quite realized she’d been in love until it was too late. She’d been extraordinarily fond of Harold and had loved him after a fashion, but she’d never been in love with him. She wasn’t at all sure there was much use for true love in a practical world; although, admittedly, it would be nice.

“I suspect he may well be in love with me.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“We’ve never married for love in this family,” Camille pointed out. It wasn’t entirely true. She had long suspected Mother had married for love, which was no doubt why she had raised her daughters to marry for other reasons. In this respect alone, Mother was a very practical woman.

“But do you—”

“Not at the moment. But I fully expect to,” she added quickly. “Indeed, I am quite confident in no time at all I shall love him with my whole heart and soul. There is nothing about him not to love.”

“You said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

“Yes, well, an immense fortune and a royal title does make it easier to love.” Beryl cast her sister a pleasant smile.

Camille wasn’t fooled for a moment. The smile might well be pleasant, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.

“You’re scarcely one to talk. You married your first husband, Charles, for precisely the same reasons I married Harold.”

“I was quite fond of Charles.”

“Yes, but you weren’t in love with him. Nor were you in love with Lionel when you married him.”

“No.” Beryl drew the word out slowly. “But . . .”

Camille stared. “Good Lord, Beryl, don’t tell me you’re in love with your husband.”

“I might be.”

“Nonsense, no one is in love with their own husband.” Camille scoffed. “It simply isn’t done. You certainly didn’t marry him for love.”

“No, I married him because his ambitions matched my own. Now, however . . .” Beryl paused. “In recent months, since very nearly the start of the year, Lionel and I agreed to forgo our various amorous pursuits and restrict our attentions to one another.”