Southhampton Docks, England
July 31, 1888“T
his time will be different.” Camille Bereston vowed as she watched Pierce Hanniford stride down the gangplank of the newest of the Hanniford family steamers, the Manchu Empress. Her rebellious heart hammered, silly thing. Her strapping step-brother was just a friend. Always had been. “We won’t torment each other any longer.”
Her step-father Killian Hanniford, who stood beside her, lifted a distinct black brow at her declaration. “The two of you have always understood each other far better than many people ever do. If you change, how will we know that you still care?”
Smiling, she tipped her head and viewed her dashing step-father. Pierce was the younger version of his sire, quick and decisive. Both men knew her too well. And she had always been eager to cover her attraction to Pierce. Today, she’d do it with a nod toward reason. “We’re older, Papa. We should know better than to tease each other to hissy fits.”
“Is that what you did?” He tossed away her observation, seemingly unconcerned as he examined his oldest child who returned from China this morning after two years.
How long Pierce would remain in England was the routine question. But this time, he’d written to his father that he intended to stay longer than he usually did. He had many problems to solve, he declared, with his partners in Europe. Running part of his father’s shipping company operating in the Pacific plus his own world-wide empire was a huge challenge. Plus for the past six years, he also owned half of the import-export company originally begun by his brother-in-law, Lord Victor Cole. Killian had mentioned at dinner last night to Camille and to her mother, who was his second wife, that he was pleased Pierce questioned his perpetual journeys around the world. Perhaps he’d even find a woman he loved and begin a family of his own. “At thirty-seven, he’s more than old enough.”
“And wealthy enough,” added her mother. “I doubt he need travel so often. He’s built his staff carefully for years. You have taught him well, my darling.”
Camille clasped her hands together and, much as she wished not to show it, she bristled with anticipation. As a young girl of fifteen, she had become infatuated with her older, debonair step-brother Pierce. She sighed, knowing she would admire him now anew.
Why not? Pierce Hanniford had always displayed ambition equal to his accomplished father’s and today his wealth equalled it. His education had come, not at colleges, but in the rough and tumble of the world of business and finance. And with his father’s advice he had built his own empire. He owned copper and iron plants worldwide. His steel mills produced hundreds of tons, bought by governments and private companies. Ships, railroads and towering new buildings were made of Hanniford girders, pipes and electrical wiring. He was quoted in board rooms and newspapers. He was shrewd, accomplished, careful—and a millionaire. That he was also a bachelor meant he was a worthy catch for any ambitious woman.
Camille knew a few Englishwomen who’d read headlines of his arrival and planned to enchant him. Naive creatures. Pierce was not easily enamored. A man with such worldly experience did not tolerate simpering debutants or bold demimondes. He preferred a more refined approach. Usually his own toward a lady. Never the other way round. And Camille loved that about him. Erudite, sophisticated Pierce.
He waved to them, his smile broad, his silver gaze sweeping from his father to her…and holding.
She gulped…and waved back.
He was quite irresistible. As ever. Damn her soul to admit it. But she saw the ladies on the wharf who noticed him and whispered. His Black Irish good looks had always drawn more eyes to him than hers alone. He merited the regard, too. What woman would not swoon at his ink-black hair that blew in the breeze or his bronze complexion and ruddy cheeks that spoke of his robust health?
To say nothing of his wealth that shown like a beacon in the midday sun. In the precisely cut pearl grey suit, the aquamarine satin waistcoat, the straw bowler he carried in his hands, he was the epitome of a man of the world. Even if his walk were not one that said he bestrode the earth like Goliath, even if his shoulders were not broad as heaven, nor his height regal, or his hair a thick shock of glistening ebony, he could intimidate any man in his path. He was a quiet, deliberate man. Never prone to impulse. All those qualities caused most women to gape at his masculine savoir faire while his smile could lure them like lemmings to lust.
But not me.
No longer me.
He grinned at her, proving her point. Her knees did not go weak. Her blood did not rush. If her entire body swayed toward him, swooping her up like iron fragments to a magnet, she dared not admit it.
This time will be different.
Pierce took the last few yards of the gangway and rushed to embrace both his father and her at once. His arm crushed her close. Her broad-brimmed hat tipped and destroyed her carefully arranged chignon. Her breasts tingled at his embrace. Her fingers clutched his lapels. And her heart picked up a primitive tattoo. And in the next second, he kissed her cheek. His lips were firm, as ever before, warm as always. Yet his affection held a chill that two years away had created.
Surprise crept up her spine. She soothed it with logic that he was not for her, never had been. Plus she had suitors now. If she were so inclined to encourage them.
“Sir!” Pierce beamed at his father. “I am so happy to see you so well!”
“And you!” Killian clapped him on the back.
“And look at you!” Pierce tipped up her chin with two fingers. His examination with those silver eyes destroyed her firm resolve. “My God. You grow more stunning every year.”
Then to her expectation and silly disappointment, he pecked her on both cheeks and pushed her to arms’ length. Slowly he inspected her with the brotherly admiration that proved his usual approach to his little step-sister.
She set her jaw and flashed her eyes at him, determined to show him her independence from his charms. “And you, dear sir, breathe every inch the accomplished man of the world.”
After all, she had no intentions of shilly-shallying. She needed their relationship to develop differently from the past. At twenty-four, she was considered past her prime, on the shelf, too. But she didn’t care for others’ definition of her. No. She wanted things. Things she could not buy with her small but satisfying income. She wanted to make a difference in the world, for women especially. Women who had no wealthy family, no education, no hope of a life that was not drudgery from dawn to dusk. And for. herself? Yes, she had ambitions too. She wanted affection, a man of her own, a husband at the most, a faithful and inventive lover at the least.
That she had wanted that from this man from age fifteen was a fantasy, nourished by her irrepressible romantic illusions and her penchant for happy endings. Even her family experience with all of her relatives in marriages founded on love and devotion conspired against her hope that Pierce might one day be hers. Still, even today, as old and wise as she was, she stood here under his spell, absorbing his approval, his praise, as if she were that young girl. Yes, she still wanted him. Elusive as he was. Savagely masculine as no other. Fiercely independent as only a Hanniford male could be.
“Hmm,” he said with a twinkle in those magnificent iridescent eyes of his. “And you, my dear, look like the successful author in your finery and your devil-may-care appeal.”
“Ah. Do not flatter me too much, Hanniford.” She pressed the flat of her hand to his chest where she was intrigued to feel his heart beat quickly. “We don’t want the world to think you’d be taken in by ruffles and lace.”
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to his side. But he glanced at his father. “I see while I’ve been gone you’ve taught her no diplomacy.”
“Aye, we try!” Killian sighed, an Irish rogue’s twinkle in his eyes, his brogue heavy in his words. “Our girl is too headstrong to be swayed by appeals to the ordinary.”
Camille stepped away from Pierce’s hold and shot open her parasol. “You two must learn to be more kind to a poor spinster who must make her way in the world.”
The two men feigned horror.
Pierce curled her arm in his. “Give over, my sweet, you are too delicious to leave alone.”
I dare not believe that. She’d rid herself of that delusion years ago. Ba! To him, she was a pest, worthy of teasing and easily left alone! “We’ll see how long you have that view of me, sir.”
He patted her hand. “I’ll have a long time, this time.”
She had to ask, had to know how long he’d remain in her sights, disrupting her life and fooling with her intentions. “How long do you stay?”
He scanned the horizon. “I haven’t decided yet.”
That made her wary. She had plans for her life that did not include focusing on him each day.
“I might just stay put this time.”
“In London?” Hope warred with sanity that he might remain close. Little good his proximity would do her, god help her.
He inhaled and pursed his magnificent lips. “There. Paris. New York. I’ve not been seen in any of those offices for more than three years. I must. I should.” Examining him, she found only mirth and good intentions.
Relief swept through her. She hated that it did. He had to leave. Would leave. He always did. Besides, she could count two probable suitors she could prefer and for good reasons, too. Both were stable, endearing. Neither liked to travel farther than Paris or Biarritz.
Killian scanned the dock. “Pierce, have you no valet?”
“No, sir. He became ill as we docked in Hong Kong and I left him there to recover. He’ll return home to Shanghai. I got on well enough without him. We trained the ship’s staff well in such services. I was fine.”
“So then your luggage, Pierce? How many pieces have you?”
“Four,” he told his father.
“Give me the tickets and I’ll arrange it.”
Pierce took them from his inside coat pocket and handed them over. “Two trunks in the hold. Two suitcases in my stateroom.”
Killian hailed a porter and gave him the tickets. “We are the silver grey coach marked with an H in the far alley. Bring them all to us.”
As Killian paid the porter, Pierce faced her with a dour expression. “I’m really very happy to see you, Camille. Glad you came. Very glad. I want so much to resume our friendship.”
Ah, yes. Friends. That was only what they were. “Unique wasn’t it?”
“Always.” He lifted a hand as if he meant to touch her face. But he paused midway. When they’d first met, he’d made a habit of tapping the end of her nose.
She arched her brows and lured him. “Go on!”
He laughed. “You’re older.”
“As are you. But do it!” She egged him on. “You won’t be happy until you do!”
“You’re quite smashing and my dear friend!” he said and touched her.
Like old brandy, this sparring between them filled her with happiness and a longing for more. She had to divert herself with some gay foolishness.
“Dear sir,” she teased him, “I am the official welcoming party and I’m thrilled to be here.” She tugged at her gloves, ignoring her urge to push up on her toes, kiss him and demonstrate how this more mature woman did not define friendship.
But Pierce leaned down, one of his hands on her shoulder. A foot taller than she, he’d always seemed enormous to her. Enormously protective. Excessively brotherly. Impossibly indifferent. “You look like a wise old owl to me.”
She shivered in a dramatic rejection. “Wise and old. Hmmm. Yes. Next year, by society’s rules, I shall officially become a spinster. But I am not decrepit yet!”
“God help us, a spinster? Aren’t we done with that idea yet?”
“You have not been away that long, my brother. We’re not even done with royal debuts and dowries, either.”
“A disaster,” he mourned.
“Tell me!”
“I hope you never lose your insights into society’s foibles.”
“Never. It’s fodder for my novels.” She wrote romances that scared and seared and delighted her female readership. “My readers exclaim over my heroines. How hard they must fight to keep their integrity.” And their lovers.
“And your heroes?”
“Ah!” She lifted a finger in the air. “How devilish, how reclusive. How secretive.”
He threw back his head to chuckle over that. “Dear God. Do you paint them all like that?”
She grinned at him. You are my every brooding hero. “Each and every one.”
“Oh Camille!” He hugged her to his side again and her body burned wherever his touched. “I was right to come home. I needed to laugh with you. With all of you,” Pierce added as Killian made his way toward them, his work ordering luggage done.
So there it was. Pierce’s assessment of her. The inherent insult sparked her disappointment.
After all, she was worth more to anyone than simply someone to laugh with. Much more.