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He had to have her as more than his project manager, more even than his best friend. But how to tell her? He couldn’t ask Fernsby for the right words. That was too much. He’d just have to tell her the unvarnished truth, that he wanted her, that he cared about her, that they’d be good together, that they could make a relationship work. No over-the-top declarations like he’d die if he didn’t make her his. Nothing that would send her running straight back to the airport.
He’d tone everything down, tread lightly. Be calm, cool, and collected. Yeah.
Even if he felt like he’d go stark raving mad if he didn’t make her his right this moment.
* * *
He’d gotten them to Bradford Park. Fernsby felt like doing another jig. Of course he wouldn’t, not with his patron and the lovely Camille standing before him.
“I will leave you both now,” he said formally. “I must go forth and battle for top dog over that person who shall remain unnamed.” Digbert might be butler for the inestimable Mr. Westerbourne, but Fernsby would still wipe the kitchen floor with him.
She knew exactly of whom he spoke as a battle light glowed in Camille’s eyes. “I can’t believe he made it into this round too. You’re going to trounce him.”
She was a feisty one, always ready to go to war for the ones she loved.
Fernsby drawled in his most unaffected voice, “Rest assured, Camille, I’ve got him. You can count on that.” He stretched his lips as if they might want to smile.
“Digbert is going down,” she said, pounding her fist into her palm. Then her eyes widened, and she put a hand over her mouth. “Oops. I said the unmentionable name.”
Fernsby nodded his forgiveness. He was sure the only reason his nemesis, Clyde Westerbourne’s ignominious butler, had entered the contest was because he knew how badly Fernsby wanted to win. Digbert was that kind of dastardly villain.
Dane appeared to stifle a laugh. “He certainly doesn’t bake as well as you do.”
Fernsby almost snorted, refraining only at the last moment. “That’s never been a question.”
“And you’re much more congenial than he is,” Camille added.
Fernsby was well aware he didn’t have a congenial bone in his body. That was part of his charm. “Have no fear, dear lady, I will win.” He would fight to his dying breath to make sure Digbert didn’t best him.
But there was so much more on the line than Digbert, more even than winning a baking contest. There was Camille and Dane’s happiness. He had it all set up—the best champagne, the most delicious food, all Dane’s and Camille’s favorites, and beautiful flowers gracing the table. He’d turned the house into a romantic getaway for two.
Dane wanted this despite any fears he might have. Sadly, they were two people who couldn’t see what was right in front of their faces, let alone written in the stars. So this was up to Fernsby. And with the romantic stage he’d set, they would have to succumb.
He knew it in his gut just as strongly as he knew Digbert hadn’t a prayer of beating him.
Getting these two together was truly his life’s work.
Suitcase in hand, he stood in the flagstone entrance hall and said severely, “Please don’t forget to feed the dog while I’m gone.” Then he left them to it.
He was right that Dane and Camille were meant to be. Because he was Fernsby. And he was right about everything.
* * *
Cammie wasn’t tired, since she’d slept well during the flight. But she was starving after the drive to the manor. “Fernsby said he left food. What do you think it is?”
“Let’s check out the dining room.” Dane held out his hand. “Shall I escort you, my dear?” he asked in a fair imitation of Fernsby.
As her stomach rumbled, she couldn’t resist. Especially when Dane laughed. His laughter was like sweet wine in her blood.
Champagne chilled in a silver bucket, and flowers bloomed in a magnificent centerpiece. The sideboard was laid with an array of delicacies—tender slices of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with gravy, roasted vegetables and perfectly crisped potatoes. And, of course, there was an English trifle for dessert, topped with a mountain of whipped cream.
“Oh my God, my favorite,” she gasped. “I missed the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at the signing party, and I haven’t had it since last year. How did he do all this?” Awe dripped from her voice. “He was on the plane with us the whole time.”
Dane was already popping the champagne cork and expertly pouring two flutes. “He must have made calls with very explicit instructions on exactly what he wanted and how it was to be prepared.”
Handing her a glass, he raised his own in a toast. “To us.”
It hit her then. “This smacks of romance.” She put a hand on her hip. “Did you put Fernsby up to this, Lord Badboy?”
