And now she wanted a prince, even if she was no longer sure why. Damn Grayson, anyway. He was the one who had put doubts into her head. Nikolai was not at all like the monkey or the lost treasure or the llamas. This was not an impulse on her part. She had always wanted a prince; and when a prince unexpectedly walks into one’s life, and one seized that opportunity, it’s not impulse. No, it’s fate. Certainly, she hadn’t known Nikolai for long, but they would have the rest of their lives to better know each other. Wasn’t that what marriage was for? Besides, knowing someone well—as well as one person could know another, really, or thought one did—did not ensure there would be no startling revelations—revelations that one was not prepared for. Did not expect. Had never dared to dream of . . .

Nonsense. Grayson’s abrupt appearance had simply muddled her mind. Confused her as to what she wanted in life. There was nothing more significant to the odd thoughts that kept popping up in her mind than that. And if he was determined to become part of her effort to give Nikolai the perfect Christmas with the perfect family, well, it was the least he could do to make amends.

For saying he loved her or for not doing anything about loving her? She ignored the unwanted question.

“Psst.”

A soft hissing sound caught her attention and she glanced toward the doorway. Fortesque stood just outside the open parlor doors, beckoning to her. She mumbled an excuse and rose to her feet. A moment later, she closed the parlor doors behind her and glared at her alleged butler.

She kept her voice low. “You do realize real butlers are not supposed to go ‘psst’?”

“Forgive me, Lady Lydingham, but I didn’t know how else to attract your attention.” He leaned closer in a confidential manner. “The gentleman who was here earlier, Mr. Elliott, has returned. And he has”—Fortesque closed his eyes for a moment as if praying for strength—“luggage.”

“Blast it all, I was hoping he’d change his mind.” She huffed. “There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose.”

“Who is he?”

“He is a bloody nuisance, that’s who he is. However, for the moment”—she struggled for calm—“he is to play the role of my cousin.”

“Lady Lydingham.” Fortesque squared his shoulders and raised his chin, making him seem substantially taller, if possible. “If you had need of yet another player, I would certainly have been able to provide you with someone well suited to the role.”

“Like Mrs. Montgomery-Wells?”

“She is a well-seasoned actress.”

“She may be well seasoned, but her goose overcooked years ago!”

He frowned down at her. “I did tell you she was a fine actress in her day.”

“When exactly was her day?” Camille snapped.