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“Before you leave to your ownbedchamber,” I say to Louis, “can you direct me to the toilet?”
He points out a door inside the bedroom a couple of meters to the right of the bed. “You have private facilities en suite.”
Darting to the door, I open it to a separate loo and a bathroom with a very chic Italian shower and an oversize bathtub standing on lion’s paws.
Impressed, I give a whistle.
Jacques shoots a horrified look at his wife. No psychology degree required to decode its meaning:Thatcreature, withthosemanners, our futureduchess? God help us all!
Louis remains unconcerned. “Is the room to your liking?”
“It’s bigger than my trailer.”
“Hmm…” He sizes it up. “True.”
“My lord, I have some papers for you to sign,” Angie says to Louis.
“What papers?” he asks.
“From your accountant. She had them couriered early this morning while you were working out in the hotel’s fitness center.”
Aha, so she’s a live-in secretary.That makes sense, I guess.
He motions her to the exit, before turning to me. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything, two doors down the corridor. My grandfather wants to see us in an hour. Dress formally. I’ll pick you up.”
He swaggers to his office. Angie dashes behind him, a folder pressed to her chest and her ponytail wagging with delight.
CHAPTER7
LOUIS
Twenty minutes after leaving Camille in her room, I send Angie away with the signed paperwork. I take a quick shower, shave, and put on a suit.
When I knock on Camille’s door, she opens at once.
That. Outfit.
I’d feared she wouldn’t own anything properly formal. Briefly, I’d considered asking if she’d like to borrow something from Serafina or Angie. Not from Mother, of course, because Mother would say no. But I didn’t dare make that suggestion, knowing that Camille thinks I’m an arrogant ass. Revealing my assumption about her wardrobe would’ve done nothing to improve her opinion of me.
In hindsight, I should’ve asked.
She’s changed from a red sweater into a faded black sweater, as shabby and sack-like as everything she wears. As if the sweater wasn’t bad enough, she’s layered it over an ugly nylon shirt.
“This is the most formal outfit I have,” she says.
“Don’t you have a skirt?” I point at her bottoms. “Or pants that aren’t this baggy? Or at least, baggy pants that don’t have holes in them?”
“Nope.”
“You’re going clothes shopping tomorrow.” I offer her my arm.
She takes it without leaning on it and exits the room. We head in the direction of the Portrait Hall, where Grandpa has summoned family members and handpicked staff.
“The duke is quite a character,” I tell her as we advance down the hallway. “Most people find him intimidating, including my parents.”
“You don’t?”
“He’s always been kinder to me than to my father.”
