Indiscreet. Candace Camp

I care that you are a supposed lady, or that your family is respected? You know nothing about me, least of all my character. You were a fool to agree to this.”

      “Then perhaps I should end it right now!” Camilla’s cheeks flamed with color. “Why don’t we stop, and you can get out and walk back to the inn?”

      “Oh, no, my lady, we made a bargain, and I intend to see it through to the bitter end. Are you planning to renege on it?”

      Camilla drew herself up proudly. “I never go back on my word. But don’t get the idea that you can claim any fiancé’s rights. I am paying you good money, and if that is not enough for you, then I suggest you leave right now. For you are not going to get anything else.” Her fierce gaze would have melted iron.

      Her words seemed to amuse him, more than anything else, for he only smiled faintly and murmured, “You don’t scare easily, do you?”

      “Is that what you were trying to do? Frighten me?” She gazed at him in perplexity. “To what purpose?”

      “’Tis better not to go into a situation blind.”

      “So you were testing me?” Her mouth twisted with exasperation. “Well, I can promise you, Mr…. whatever your name is…that if there is a weak link in this plan, it is not I.” She looked at him pointedly. He returned her gaze without expression, and after a moment, she drew herself up in her most prim, governess-like manner and said, “I believe it would be best if, instead of indulging in juvenile tests, we settled down to make certain of our story. Now, your last name is Lassiter, as you have said. I think that we could use your own name, Benedict, as your first name. That way, if I slip and say it, it won’t seem odd. I have never spoken of you as anything but Mr. Lassiter in my letters home, so they don’t know what your given name is.”

      He nodded agreement. “Tell me, where do I live? How do I spend my time?”

      “You live in Bath. Your parents have a small estate in the Cotswolds. You are a gentleman of leisure, and you write.”

      “I what?” His expression turned pained. “I hope you don’t mean poetry.”

      “Oh, no. You are a very scholarly gentleman. You are interested in ancient history, particularly the Romans. You have written several articles, and are working on a book.”

      “Good Gad, you mean I will be expected to converse on the subject?”

      “Oh, no,” she assured him airily. “Grandpapa generally dislikes scholarly subjects. I just thought it sounded like an admirable thing to be interested in.”

      He grimaced and went on, “All right. Now, what else should I know about this paragon?”

      “You are a most kind and well-mannered man—there is where you will need to work on your role. Mr. Lassiter would never dream of pummeling a coachman or wrestling a poor defenseless woman to the ground.”

      “Sounds like a dull dog to me.”

      “He is not! He is a superior gentleman.”

      “Well, your description makes me wonder why any woman would want to marry him.”

      “You obviously have no understanding of women.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      “Mr. Lassiter respects women, and he believes that women are as intelligent and as capable as men.”

      Benedict cast her a sardonic look. “Doing it rather too brown, aren’t you? Don’t you think he is a little too perfect to be believable—intelligent, gentlemanly, a man who prefers a woman to be a bluestocking?”

      “No. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise. He will be perfectly believable, as long as you act that way.”

      “You may be stretching the limits of my acting ability.”

      “You are stretching the limits of my patience. Now, will you kindly pay attention and do what you are supposed to?”

      “I shall try my humble best,” he promised sardonically. “Pray go on. Tell me about my most excellent qualities.”

      They spent the remaining minutes of the journey in conversation about the fictitious Mr. Lassiter, with Camilla trying to remember everything she had written her grandfather about the man.

      Finally, just as they passed through the gates to Chevington Park, Benedict thought to ask, “Do I look like him?”

      An odd look crossed Camilla’s face. “What?”

      “Do I resemble this chap physically? Surely you must have described him.”

      “Well…I certainly did not picture him looking like you,” Camilla admitted. “He would not be so large and so…physical.” Her brow wrinkled. “But I’m not sure I said anything to Grandpapa about his size. I might have said he was of average height.”

      She looked at him doubtfully. Benedict’s six feet would hardly be called average. But at least she had not mentioned whether his shoulders were wide or whether his long legs filled out his breeches to perfection. She tried to remember exactly how she had pictured her imaginary fiancé, but she had some difficulty. She had not really thought that much about his looks, only about his characteristics, and besides, the actual man sitting in front of her kept intruding on the image she tried to conjure up in her brain. He had an irritating habit, she was finding out, of dominating whatever scene he happened to be in.

      “I said his hair was brown.” Camilla looked at Benedict’s short, thick black locks. “That should be close enough.” She paused. “However, I think I said his eyes were gray.” There was no possibility that anyone could have mistaken this man’s gleaming dark eyes for gray. “Well, he probably won’t remember, anyway.”

      “Hopefully.”

      At that moment the carriage pulled to a halt in front of the house. Camilla pushed open the door before the lantern boy could get to it to open it, and stepped out. Benedict followed her. Camilla looked up at the venerable old house, warm affection on her face. Benedict followed her gaze. It was a graceful house, built in the shape of the letter E, and the white of its native stone gave it a warmth that was enhanced by the lights that blazed beside the massive front doors and poured out the windows.

      “Oh, dear.” Camilla belatedly noticed the multitude of lights. She had been hoping that her family would have given up on her and already gone to bed, so that she and Benedict would not have to face all of them now. Obviously that was not the case.

      As if to emphasize that fact, the double front doors were opened wide and held by two liveried footmen, and a rotund man dressed in sober black came rushing down the wide stone steps toward them, a grin stretching across his face.

      “Miss Camilla!” he cried. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

      “Purdle!” Camilla flew forward and gave him a hug. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”

      “As if I could go on to bed, not knowing where you were, and leave you here to be greeted by the footmen?” The beaming man looked affronted by the idea.

      “No,” Camilla agreed. “I can see that you could not.” She turned toward Benedict. “Dear? Do come here and meet Purdle. He is the butler, and has been running all our lives for years. Purdle, this is Mr. Lassiter. He—”

      “Yes, yes, I know!” He grinned broadly at Camilla’s companion. “The Viscountess has told us all about him. Congratulations, sir. Much happiness, miss. ’Tis a wonderful thing. And, I must say, His Lordship is very happy. The news has picked him right up. He’s looking forward to seeing you, too, though I’m sure that comes as no surprise to you, miss. He wanted to stay up to greet you himself when you came in, but the draft the doctor gave him put him right to sleep after supper. The doctor said it was too much excitement for him. ’Course, the Earl will be mad as hops tomorrow morning, when he wakes up and finds out he missed your arrival.”

      Benedict