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Miss Winters didn’t look at him again during the meal. She didn’t look at him so assiduously that he twice saw her on the brink of looking and coloring, before turning away again.
He shouldn’t care.
But as he finished his potato, he wondered how long it took to crush a woman’s spirit, and if there was anything to be done about it.
At the end of the meal, when she was standing up and clearing the table, he offered to help gather the plates.
She turned toward him, head down, hands full with the bread basket.
“You’re kind.” It sounded like an accusation when she spoke. She shook her head, as if dispelling a dream. “You’re very kind,” she said again, “and I don’t need it. But thank you.”
* * *
The day had been long, and Camilla had tried so hard to be good.
She had not flirted over dinner, not even when Mr. Hunter had almost made her laugh four times.
It was unfair that she should run into him on the stairs after she’d finished the dishes and banked the fires for the night. Entirely unfair—and since he had undoubtedly dressed the bishop for the evening, extremely understandable.
“Miss Winters.” He nodded at her.
It was an open stairway. She was a maid-of-all-work. There was nothing wrong with wishing him a good night. She did so to the other male servants all the time.
Nothing, except she’d have to look him in the eyes, and no matter what her single, overworked angel told her, she still liked him. She could feel the beat of her pulse in her wrist just because she stood close to him. She kept her head down, nodded in his direction, and turned to go into the room shared by the female servants.
“Oh, no,” he said softly behind her. “It happened.”
Before she could think, she turned to him.
Oh. A terrible idea, that. He was still handsome and a stranger, and with only the one guttering oil lamp standing at the head of the stairs, he seemed mysterious and enticing to boot. Golden shadows glittered across his skin. Camilla set one hand over her belly to quiet a sudden riot of butterflies.
“What happened?”
He smiled at her. “You perished after all.”
It took her a moment to remember their earlier conversation, the one where she’d…flirted with him by claiming death? Oh, excellent work, Camilla.
She had only felt dead earlier; she came to life under his perusal, as if she were a parched plant drinking the first rain after a drought.
“I did,” Camilla said slowly. “I am a walking corpse, shambling about the countryside.”
Damn, damn, damn. She was doing it again. She was flirting—awkwardly, with talk of walking corpses—but no matter how badly she was doing it, she was still flirting.
“Does Kitty get your wire brooch, then?”
He recalled their conversation. He’d paid attention to her. She felt another burst of warmth.
No. She couldn’t give in. Memory, she scolded herself, was not affection. She was not going to fall in love, not again. She was going to be good.
But he had remembered. Camilla exhaled and looked over her shoulder, at the servants’ beds laid out in a row. Kitty was already under the covers. Cook would be up shortly.
“No.” Camilla shook her head. “I am a jealous corpse. If she took it, I’d rise from the grave and do hateful things to her.”
He smiled as if she’d made a joke. Probably because she had.
“Well.” He nodded to the room behind him. “Rest in peace, then. I’m glad I got to meet you before you passed away.” He tapped her arm, ever so slightly.
It was just a friendly gesture, but still her heart leapt. God. She wanted so much more than the brush of a finger. She felt absolutely starved for touch.
But Camilla knew how these things went, these little flirtations. One went from trading witticisms and smiles to trading…more. She was Half-Price Camilla because of that more.
She didn’t fool herself, either.
She wasn’t good; she never would be. But if she pretended hard enough, maybe she’d eventually fool everyone else.
She bit her cheeks to hide her smile.
“Good night,” he said.
And because she wasn’t good, she could feel her heart thump in reply. “Sleep well,” she offered tentatively.
His eyes met hers one last time, and she thought of all that sleep entailed—beds and removal of clothing and vulnerability…
Her cold covers awaited her, and for a moment, a thread of unadulterated loneliness rose up inside her, twining cold tendrils around her heart. “Sleep well,” she said again, and retreated as best she could.
Chapter Four
Thankfully, Camilla didn’t encounter him the next morning. She made plans—good plans, sober plans—to maintain a reasonable distance with no swearing or flirting or talk of shambling corpses at all.
Still, she felt sore and raw all day. That haunting feeling of loneliness from last night had not abandoned her; she was more aware than ever that her heart ached.
Maybe it was because she’d spent all yesterday tearing up and down stairs, carrying sheets and polishing silver until her arms ached. Maybe it was because of the way Mr. Hunter had looked at her the prior evening—with pity, as if he could see through Camilla’s attempts to be good, and knew how little chance she had of succeeding.
For whatever reason, she felt particularly low when she slunk into the rector’s study that afternoon with the tea things.
“There are rumors that Shoreham is stepping down,” the bishop was saying, “and you’ve positioned yourself perfectly to…”
The conversation stopped as the plates on her tray clinked, drawing the men’s attention. They looked up at her as if irritated at the intrusion.
Camilla bowed her head and laid everything in place as quickly and silently as possible—toast points, tea, milk, sugar, lemon tarts. Her fingers lingered a sec
ond on the dish of tarts. She had loved lemon tarts once. No. She wasn’t going to look back at a time when she’d had them regularly herself. She didn’t think she could eat one any longer.
“Miss Winters,” said the bishop.
Camilla jumped, yanking her hand away. “My apologies, my most abject apologies.”
One moment. One moment, one little lapse of judgment, and there she was—straying into dangerous territory. Dreaming. Remembering.
His frown deepened at this. “What are you apologizing for?”
“For—taking so long?”
He blinked. “Well. Don’t do that, then. I’ve been told that you are not, in fact, Miss Camilla Winters.”
Camilla swallowed.
“That your name is Miss Camilla Worth.”
It was, to be technical, Lady Camilla Worth, but after all that had happened to her, insisting on her title would do more harm than good. She couldn’t get above herself. She didn’t dare reveal the truth. She didn’t answer this query with anything more than a nod. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest.
“That’s an interesting family name.”
She would not say a word.
“It’s the family name of the late Earl of Linney,” he said, examining his fingernails. “The one who was executed for treason a handful of years ago.”
Nine years ago, it had been. Camilla tried not to think of the date, but she remembered it too perfectly. Almost half of Camilla’s life—if that barely remembered past really belonged to her. Her father was dead and a traitor; her brother was dead and transported. Next to them, Camilla’s sins were merely banal.
Camilla knew she should hate her father for what he had done—to her, to her family, to the country. But the very thought of him—her brothers, her sisters—opened up that cavern of loneliness in her heart. She’d never been good at hating anyone.
No. Don’t look back.
“Is that right?” She glanced at the rector who was watching her. “How very unfortunate that I should share a family name with them, then.”
