3
Camilla White
E very time yesterday’s phone call replays in my head, I cringe.
Aunt Lizzie’s attorney called me to request my presence today for her will reading, and I couldn’t believe it. The man laughed out loud when I bluntly told him to read it again because I was the housekeeper and not a family member.
He was a sweetheart, not taking my shock personally, and apparently, it wasn’t a mistake. I am needed there.
Saying I was—and still am—shocked is an understatement.
Why would I even be required there? I am simply the housekeeper. Does this mean I am not needed anymore? Will I be fired?
Oh my, if that happens, I need to find a place to live, but…where? That manor has been my only home, even if it isn’t my house. The simple thought of leaving it behind, the only thing I have left, is…
“Okay, Camilla,” I whisper to myself after a deep breath. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ll find out soon.”
Sometimes, a pep talk is all one needs. Right?
Right!
I look around for the first time since entering the huge, tall building. It is modern, sleek, and spacious with little to no decoration. It’s also bright since the outside is made of glass walls. What a clever way to save money on electricity.
The double glass doors of the entrance have already been closed by the doorman, and I finally take a step to the building’s reception.
“Good morning, can I help you?” The receptionist gives me a warm smile from behind the huge white marble counter.
“Good morning. I have an appointment with Dr Harry Langford.”
“Let me check,” the receptionist says, typing on her keyboard. “Ms White?” she questions, and I nod. “You’re early.” She smiles. “But he is ready, so you can go up. It’s on the tenth floor. Go ahead.”
I thank her and smile before heading to the elevators on the far left-hand side of the reception counter. Pressing the button, I awkwardly stand before the metal doors, waiting for it to arrive.
My eyes move up to check the little screen, watching the numbers descend when something changes.
The hairs on my neck raise, and the air I inhale feels warm. This unwelcome jittery sensation settles in my bones, only getting worse when I feel a hovering presence behind me.
“I must confess…” I shiver when his body heat oozes towards my back, right before a puff of hot air hits the top of my head, ruffling part of my hair. “It’s quite intriguing to have you here. Why would my aunt want you present for the reading of her will?”
Low and husky, his voice penetrates every pore in my skin, finding a home under it. Vincent Hawthorne.
Though the suspicion in his voice is clear, his tone is not accusatory. At all.
My body refuses to move, and so does his, burning one side of my back with his body heat. He’s not touching me, but it sure does feel like it.
“I- I-”
My eyes slide to the corner in a stupid attempt to see him when my body fails to cooperate.
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
The way each word comes out slowly and self-assured unnerves me even further. Long gone is the teenager with kind eyes and unlimited patience; behind me stands an imposing and intimidating man.
When the short-circuit finally ends a million years later, and my brain finally regains its full cognitive cells, I start bowing, “Your Gra-”
“Don’t,” Vincent hisses, quickly pulling me up by the arm.
Then he quickly looks around to see if someone noticed. I mimic him, only to find the receptionist’s hair behind the counter and the doorman at the entrance with his back towards us.
Knowing no one is paying attention, I take advantage of the fact he’s still inspecting his surroundings to look at him.
Just like at the memorial, he looks pristine. Hair pulled back in a classic gentlemanly style and an ironed-to-perfection suit. The only difference is the absence of the short stubble he had then. Still, he’s breathtaking.
I hear a loud exhale, and from the hold his hand has on my elbow, I feel him slightly relax.
But then his eyes lock on mine, and this time around, the one tensing is me. In fact, even my breath hitches as the hazel irises shine under the bright sunlight coming in from the glass walls.
“Not many people know I am here, so please,” he comments lowly. “Don’t do that. I hate it,” he confesses. “It will only bring unwanted attention.”
“O-of course,” I stammer.
His hold on my elbow isn’t loosening, burning through it and affecting my ability to talk properly.
Rachel, my college mate and best friend, would never let me live this down, that’s for sure. That leaves me a mental note to video call her as soon as possible. I miss her.
The silence stretches, and I wonder where the hell is that damned lift. When my eyes lower back to my elbow one more time, the duke seems to realise he’s still holding me and lets go.
“Sorry,” he mumbles at the same time the lift pings, warning us of its arrival.
A large group of people comes into view, preparing to leave the metal box, and we both step aside to let them exit.
I don’t step away enough because one of the bulkiest guys coming out in a clad suit bumps his muscly arm into my skinny shoulder, knocking me off. I lose my balance and almost fall on my side until a solid pair of arms catches me just in time.
Strong but tender hands splay around my waist, and the pad of a finger brushes a small part of my exposed skin, sending electricity through me and heating my body from there.
Vincent’s breath hitches the moment my back hits his chest, and his scent fills my nostrils. It’s a leathery and wood combination with a slight hint of benzoin, an extract from a plant found in many eastern countries. It’s very similar to vanilla.
My mother was half-Indonesian. So, this is an aroma I am quite acquainted with because she used it as a fragrance at the manor. The duchess loved it, and so did I. It reminds me of family. Home.
The familiarity of his perfume makes me close my eyes and sink into him slightly. But then his hold tightens on me for a second while his ragged breath hits the spot just below my ear, and a shiver wakes me up from my reverie.
I gasp, flying out of his touch as if I have just been burnt. “Your Grace, oh my god. I am so sorry!”
He clears his throat and straightens his back before saying, “It’s alright.” He displays a tight-lipped smile while slightly dusting his suit.
Is it because he touched me?
I hang my head in shame. Aunt Lizzie taught me better, and this is not the way to act around someone of his standard.
“Let’s go,” he says, and I gasp again when his hand touches the small of my back, guiding me forward. “Before the lift decides to leave without us.”
If he felt the need to clean my touch off of him, why is he touching me again?
Why am I even dwelling on this? He’s a duke. I’m a commoner, working as a housekeeper. If that doesn’t scream two different worlds, I don’t know what does.
But all of that isn’t enough to override the pull that draws me closer to him. There’s this energy surrounding him that makes everyone want to have a taste, and I am certainly not immune to it.
To try and make this awkward moment of just the both of us inside this metal container less intense, I break the silence, answering his rhetorical question.
“I have been wondering the same thing, Your Grace. I shouldn’t be here…The only thing I hope is to keep my job,” I confess.
“Why would you lose your job?” He frowns.
“Why would I be able to keep it? I am sure the person getting the house won’t want a stranger they don’t trust, knowing of their personal life and taking care of their new house. Especially when I am so used to doing things the way the duchess wanted.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he looks down at me, and I sigh.
“I am not judging, Your Grace. I’m just taking into account a possible outcome,” I answer, my voice thickening with each word. I quickly clear it, not letting the emotion get the best of me.
His face locks in an empty glare, facing the floor with his jaw tensing. What is he thinking? Did I offend him?
This man is so hard to read…
There’s a heavy tension irradiating off of him, and the lift suddenly feels suffocating. The silence only adds to this straining moment.
It’s not hot inside, yet it feels scorching, with my body sweating in all possible and impossible areas.
When the lift pings, letting us know we have finally arrived, I let out a breath of relief. My legs take on a life of their own, moving fast towards the second reception.
“Good morning,” I greet the pretty blonde girl behind the desk.
She gives me a bored look that suddenly changes when I feel a presence hover behind me. Her eyes widen, cheeks blush, and her expression morphs into a seductive smirk.
“Hello, Tisha.” His voice sounds melodic, confident, strong, and slightly smoky. “Harry is waiting for us. We have a meeting.”
She nods eagerly and stands up, preparing to show us the way.
I jump forward when, once again, an unexpected hand finds the small of my back, guiding me through the corridor.
“Your Grace, I am honoured to have you here.” A short and skinny man greets us by one of the doors. When he looks at me, he smiles kindly and lightly bows his head. Weird. “And I assume you are Camilla White. What a pleasure.”
I return the same kind greeting, and soon, he hurries us inside his office, locking the door behind us. I will my body to move, only to stop short upon watching the duke pull back one of the chairs, looking at me expectantly.
“Here.” He tuts, his eyes pointedly looking between me and the chair.
With shaky legs, I do what’s expected of me, lowering onto that damned chair while he gently pulls it forward.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” I express my gratitude, not daring to look him in the eye.
The duke doesn’t answer, but he does sit right by my side while the attorney takes his place opposite us, on the other side of his desk.
“Let’s get started then,” Dr Harry declares, picking up a sealed envelope and opening it up in front of us.
The attorney’s monotone voice rings in my ears, telling me of the duchess’ information that I know like the back of my own hand.
Every time I took her to a doctor’s appointment or anything of importance, I had to recite her name, age, birthdate, and birthplace. This time around, not only that but also the reciting of who she was married to, of the fact she had no direct offspring, and thus the decision to leave all of her belongings, properties, and titles to that specific person.
Hearing all these things makes my eyes sting and blink frantically, trying to get rid of the tears threatening to run down my face. She is gone.
For many, this may sound stupid because she wasn’t my real family. She was not my blood, but I don’t expect everyone else to understand how she was all I had left.
I’d give everything so as not to let this happen and have her here with me.
It’s only when Henry’s words reach the naming of the heir that my attention comes back to the present time.
“I hereby appoint my nephew, Vincent Hawthorne, the Duke of Hawthorne, and second in line to the throne, the sole heir to all of my belongings, properties, and titles,” he states, and neither one of us reacts. I expected as much.
As Henry trails about the duchess’ many estates, properties, and other belongings, my mind trails off again.
If Vincent Hawthorne had been rich before this, he might be close to being one of the wealthiest in the world now. His worth is not only related to royalty but to the company that his father built from the ground. He’ll be the centre of all tabloid’s attention from now on. Whether for business magazines, society or gossip ones.
And it still doesn’t explain why I am even here...
“However, there are two conditions that must be strictly followed for this will to be executed. If my nephew fails to do so, it’ll be null, and everything will be divided through the charities mentioned in Article no 55.”
Those last words make me snap my eyes up to the unknowing twist that Mrs Hawthrone has left in this document.
“First, my dear housekeeper, Camilla White, is to be kept as such until she decides otherwise. She cannot be fired in any way or form if it isn’t per her own request. Even if so, she’ll have the right to keep her bedroom in the manor house until she desires it no longer, even if she doesn’t work there anymore.” Henry stops to look at me.
There’s a warmth in his eyes I haven’t seen in a while. And this shows he knows how much this means to me; how much Mrs Elizabeth knew…
“She made sure I could stay home,” I can’t help but blurt, my hands flying to my mouth, covering it right away.
Stealing a glance to my side, I notice the duke’s face twisted in a frown. “Why would I even fire her? I need someone to maintain it. It’s not like I’ll have much use for it. At least someone who will not let it crumble to the ground.”
“Ahm, Your Grace,” Henry gingerly chimes in. “There’s another condition.”
What?
Just like my face must be showing, the duke’s expression shows how much he’s questioning what’s coming next. Still, in a second, he gets a grasp of his composure and nods for Dr Henry to continue.
“Second, my nephew, Vincent Hawthorne, the Duke of Hawthorne and second in line to the Throne, is to use the Manor house as his private residence. Meaning, he needs to move and live there permanently, effectively immediately. Being the only accepted exception—if it happens—the situation in which he is Crowned king and compelled to move to the royal residence, the palace.”