He resisted, and found Henry in the dining room with a newspaper and coffee. He didn’t look like he’d slept much better.
Perhaps that’s why he was here at nine in the morning. He’d given up.
“You’re up early. For a long night, I mean.”
Henry flipped the edge of his paper down and shot to his feet. His lips twitched. “You look adorably bedraggled this morning.”
Cameron shoved a hand through his hair, flattening it.
Henry laughed. “Sit. I’ll bring you coffee.”
Henry paused as he passed him, knuckles dragging over Cameron’s own. Their gazes met and every bit of tiredness fled.
“Did you discover anything interesting?”
“What?” Cameron asked.
“Playing Poirot in my room?”
He heated. “How did you know?”
“My copy stuck out of the shelf, my clothes hung differently.”
“Oh crap, I’m sorry.”
Henry took it good-naturedly. “Sleuthing’s an art. Practice will do it.” He paused and lowered his voice. “I liked—”
“Morning boys.” Mr. Tilney entered the room with his own paper and steaming mug. Henry smoothly turned away, greeting his dad as he left the room. “Good party, was it?”
Cameron seated himself awkwardly across from Henry’s spot at the dining table. Mr. Tilney sat at the head. “I hope we didn’t keep you up.”
“I chose my bedroom wisely. I did pop in briefly, but you were busy dancing with my daughter.” He smiled.
Exhaustion returned, like he’d stepped into muddy swamp. Cameron wanted to grab Henry’s coffee and knock it back.
Henry returned and set his cup down. “A splash of oat milk.”
They spent the next ten minutes in strained silence and small talk, and Mr. Tilney left when Georgie and Fred joined them.
Isabella fluttered in minutes after, looking like perfection. She’d ditched the choker and the belt, and she’d knotted her hair high.
Fred pulled out a chair for her and she sat, shaking her head. “I thought we were doing a picnic?”
Georgie gestured toward the silver-drizzled windows. “Not the best weather for it.”
“We could do it indoors,” Fred said. “There’s the attic. Or the old chapel.”
“Sounds perfect.” Isabella stood. “Who’s coming?”
Fred, carrying a picnic basket, led a squealing Isabella through the rain. From the porch, Cameron watched them disappear. Neither Georgie nor Henry were interested in trekking through the rain, so it was just the two of them. His stomach clenched. He should probably follow, but all Cameron wanted was to steal a moment alone with Henry.
Henry touched the small of his back and Cameron softly shivered. Mr. Tilney had just driven out the gates. They were only among friends now.
He drew in a cool, fresh breath of air, and faced Henry, lips quirked, waiting to be kissed.
“How should we spend our morning?” Henry said, voice rumbling.
Cameron slid his hand up Henry’s arm, shoulder, neck. He squeezed gently.
Henry’s gaze flickered over Cameron’s shoulder toward the open gates. “Good God.”
He rushed to the steps, leaving Cameron dizzy, air whooshing around him.
Someone had stepped out of a taxi—long boots, jeans, parka—face obscured by a blue umbrella. Suitcase dragging behind, the figure moved comfortably through the gates.
The moist breath of the air clung to Cameron, wet and uncomfortable.
Henry dashed through the rain. “Alicia!”
She angled her umbrella. The smile Cameron had seen in photos dazzled under her blond-and-green-streaked pixie cut.
Henry swooped her into his arms and twirled her around. They shared words Cameron only half caught. Unexpected. Surprise.
A joyous scream startled Cameron, and Georgie rolled toward the ramp. “’Licia?”
Alicia hugged Henry again, bopped him on the nose and mimed for him to take her suitcase. She left him with her umbrella and raced up to hug Georgie.
Cameron fought to find a polite smile.
“You must be Cameron.”
“Heard a lot about you, Alicia.”
They sized each other up. She smiled, cheek twitching, and cocked her head. Did she not think he was a competitor? Wait a few days and he’d be gone?
His stomach turned on coffee and toast, and he wished he’d never eaten.
“Right,” Henry said. “Let’s move your things to the east wing.”
Alicia pouted. “I’m not in my usual room?”
“Cameron’s in there.”
Nausea rose in Cameron’s throat. He visualized Alicia in his four-poster bed, the connecting door opening, Henry sneaking in to make love to her.
“Let me take that umbrella. The way you used it was hopeless. Look at you, all wet.” Laughing, she ran her hands through his wet hair. She pulled him into another hug. “I can’t believe you’re right here.”
“Not a ghost. I think you’ve proven he’s corporeal.”
Cameron’s words had unwittingly escaped him. He wished he could claw them back.
Henry smiled kindly, swept Alicia’s belongings inside, and Georgie rolled in after them.
Cameron stared at the shoes he’d slipped on, unlaced. His stomach had sunk to his knees.
“Coming?” Henry called.
He couldn’t.
He kept his voice light. “Heading to the chapel. Isabella begged me to come.”
Cameron felt naked and transparent under Henry’s knowing gaze. Henry’s intelligent, kind warmth raced through him. Henry reading him ached.
Cameron twisted and jogged down the steps.