Star's Crossing

18: The Girl and the Wolf

"Well done, Ms. Atwood." Camden inclined his head politely, hands behind his back.

Luckily, Mare had not yet been accosted by the half-dozen or so people she caught ambling toward her in her periphery. She stepped from the pavilion stairs and onto the lawn, slipping her booklet of Shakespeare's sonnets—the twenty-ninth marked by her thumb for another read momentarily—beneath her arm. She lifted a brow and did not bow back.

"Do you think so?" She asked. Her hackles were still raised after his less-than-warm greeting before the reading. "Or are you addressing someone else entirely?" In a bit of theatrics, Mare cast a pointed glance over each shoulder, internally pleased to turn back and find an amused smile upon Camden's lips.

"I am addressing you, Mare Atwood. Make no mistake." Now when he spoke her name it was as though his voice were flint, and her heart steel. That little spark caught, and she'd swear it began, at last, to burn. "I'm aware our introduction this morning was cold."

"Have you an explanation? Or, God forbid, an apology?"

"Both, as it were." Camden revealed his hands, and upon one balanced an overfull picnic basket, a bottle of fine champagne peeking beneath the lid. "But first, as is tradition: a proposal." That word, breath to her flame, and he knew it. His smile twisted, and a shadow appeared in his handsome black eyes. "Will you share this picnic with me, Red?"

Mare lifted both brows now, leery of her mother and sister creeping in from the lawn. "Red?"

"Indeed." Camden offered his arm, apparently in need of no assurance Mare would take it. She hesitated only a moment before doing so. "You see," said Camden, leading Mare toward the sprawl of set tables and spread blankets upon the lawn, "I have decided I prefer you more as a girl than a wolf."

Mare laughed, somewhat offended. "Is that so, Mr. Doores?"

"Well, one can hardly invite the other to dinner, can they? Or," he lowered his voice, "introduce them to one's mother."

Mare's cheeks went hot, and she was grateful when Camden directed her wobbling knees toward a table. He drew back the chair and guided Mare into it, taking the other opposite. Dozens of tables, Mare noted, all set for two.

"Well," she said softly, smoothing her dress over her knees and gazing at her naked plate. "You seem to have considered our...affairs more closely."

Camden smiled at Mare, and this time she sensed none of the acid that often accompanied his amusement. He began emptying the basket of its contents: brie, strawberries, a single crisp, long baguette. "I've had several days to think. And seek...council."

"Indeed?" Mare's stomach knotted, and she wound her fingers together beneath the table to alleviate her nerves. Little good it did. What she needed was a strong storm and a fast run beneath its torrents. "And whose council might you have sought, Mr. Doores?"

"Does it matter?" He examined the gilded label of the champagne. "How exactly am I meant to open this? Have they brought the help?" He glanced around, furrow between his black brows.

"Here." Mare reached for the bottle, pleased to have something with which to occupy her hands. "Jenelle taught me. My father hosted a client from New York City two years ago. The man's father was French." Mare raised her eyes from the bottle. "Old money," she said, remembering it was the phrase her father used. "The man's valet said he'd drink nothing but French champagne, Scottish whiskey, and German beer." Mare twisted the wire, feeling for the give of the cork beneath her palm.