“Angie can help me.”
“Angie has taken a day off. She’ll be buying Christmas gifts for her parents and taking a breather from her ugly boss.”
Aww, it’s so cute when hot dudes call themselvesugly!... said nobody, ever.
The question is, does he know that “ugly” is the last thing Angie finds him to be? I’ve now spent four days around them, and there’s no mistaking the way she looks at him. Are they having sex? It’s hard to tell. Louis keeps a professional distance. When he looks at her, his gaze is friendly but indifferent. It never lingers. Besides, from the bits of a telephone conversation I overheard yesterday, he seems to be into a woman called Magdalena. I doubt it’stheMagdalena from the movie posters. But you never know with dukes.
Something he said earlier jumps back at me.
“What do you mean when you say I can’t be trusted to pick befitting attire?” I ask him. “Just because I prefer my body warm and well covered doesn’t mean I have poor taste.”
“Of course not,” he agrees quickly. “It’swhatyou’ve worn so far to keep your body warm and well covered that testifies to your poor taste.”
Ouch, that stung!
So much for coming here to apologize. I don’t know if I can last a year with this guy. While cheating won’t be a problem, not on my end at any rate, something else will be. Having to talk to him.
If only I could hibernate until summer!Or, better still, until next Christmas when I can finally be rid of him.
CHAPTER9
CAMILLE
Cinnamon. Pine. Lights. Carols.
Everywhere.
In the festively decorated streets of Gruyac, food trucks sell mulled wine, hot chocolate, and Christmas tea. Amateur choirs brave the snow to sing carols on every square with a Christmas tree.
Christmas is a big deal in Mount Evor. But here in the duchy of Arrago and its seat Gruyac, it’s huge.
Even in the boutiques and department stores where Louis and I are shopping for my new wardrobe, we encounter the same combination of smells, colors and sounds. Hidden loudspeakers play carols on a loop. The smells of cinnamon and pine permeate the air. A big Christmas tree stands in a corner on every floor, not to mention the small ones on tables and countertops. As if that weren’t enough, wreaths of varied sizes and degrees of adornment liven up all available vertical surfaces.
Our shopping method consists of me letting Louis pick the most expensive cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, cotton shirts and fine wool pants for me. All I have to do is try them on and give him a yay or nay.
My typical verdict is, “It’ll do, just in a size bigger.”
“Why?” he typically asks. “It’ll be too big.”
“I like to have wiggle room in my clothes,” I typically respond. “And air between my layers. It keeps me warm.”
To his dubious expression, I typically add, “It’s a scientific fact! No material insulates better than air trapped between layers.”
Incidentally, I find it scandalous how he buys so many insanely expensive things without ever looking at the price tag. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve drowned him in snarky commentary. But today, my hands are tied. The bastard made sure of it.
This morning, I spent an hour with the hotshot designer, haggling over the shape, length and neckline of my anointment gown. After she left, Serafina showed me around the château and the grounds. Her gruff husband went with us some of the time. It’s obvious that he despises me with all his heart. If it weren’t for his lifelong worship of the duke, I’m sure he would’ve launched a petition to dissuade the old man from making his heir marry the Trailer Witch.
At lunchtime, Greta ignored me as usual. Hubert was too drunk to string two words together. The old duke was polite but distant. Louis, on the other hand, sat next to me so we could talk. And it’s what he said that explains why I’m so biddable now, letting him choose clothes for me. He made me a promise. He said that if I’m on my best behavior while we’re in town, he’ll have a surprise for me that I’ll love.
We exit our fifth or sixth boutique. Louis hands the bags with the latest purchases to Rudy who takes them to the car. The pair of us push onward, climbing the hillside. Surrounded by farms and vineyards at its base, Gruyac spirals upward to a market square that hasn’t changed much since the Middle Ages, according to the guidebook I found in the château’s library. The guidebook was so tattered you’d think it was medieval itself. But I saw the farms and vineyards as we drove up here, so I’m assuming the info was good.
At this point, we commence the second segment of our Gruyac visit at the farmers market.
Louis turns to me as we enter it. “Kudos, you did great in the boutiques!”
“The staff were too busy with the gift shoppers to recognize and harass me.”
He doesn’t respond, appearing displeased. I know he’s convinced it’s his aura that protects me. He isn’t entirely wrong. But I’ve been censoring myself for the last two hours. The acerbic buildup inside my head was becoming a health hazard. I had to let some of it out.