Private Arrangements by Sherry Thomas Page A

perfunctory protest that he must not impose too much on his kind hostesses.
    He loved talking to Gigi. Her view of the world was as jaundiced and unromantic as his own. They agreed that, at the moment, neither of them amounted to anything, as he was no more responsible for his bloodline than she was for her million-pound inheritance.
    And yet for an inveterate cynic, she was as easy to please as a puppy. The inadequate bouquets he scavenged from Twelve Pillars' dilapidated greenhouse incited such euphoric responses that Julius Caesar on his triumphant return to Rome after the conquest of Gaul could not have been more madly thrilled. The rather modest engagement ring he bought her, with funds he'd saved for his passage to America and his first workshop, to be modeled after that of Herr Benz, brought her nearly to tears.
    The day before the wedding, he drove to her house and sent for her to meet him in front. No gloomy blue cape this time; she arrived like a column of flame, in a mantle of rich strawberry red, with rosy cheeks and wine-colored lips to match.
    He grinned, as he always did now when he met her. He was an ass, to be sure, but a happy ass. “I have something for you,” he said.
    She laughed giddily when she opened the small wrapped package to reveal a still-warm pork bun. “Now I truly have seen everything. Dare I guess you pillaged every last flower from your greenhouse yesterday?”
    She glanced about them in the mischievous way she had, signaling to him that she was about to come forward and kiss him, the public nature of her front lawn be damned. He stopped her, holding her forearms with his hands, so that she couldn't get any closer.
    “I have something else for you.”
    “I know what you have for me,” she said saucily. “You wouldn't let me touch it yesterday.”
    “You can touch it today,” he whispered.
    “What?!” She was still a virgin, after all. “Out here, where everyone can see us?”
    “Oh, yes.” He laughed at her expression of shock and mortified interest.
    “No!”
    “All right, then, I'll take the puppy and go home.”
    “A puppy?” she squealed, like the nineteen-year-old she was. “A puppy! Where is it? Where is it?”
    He lifted the basket out of the carriage, but swung it away from her eager hands just as she reached for it. “I understand you don't wish to touch it in public.”
    She grabbed the other end of the basket. “Oh, give me, give me! Pleeeease. I'll do anything.”
    He laughed and relented. She fumbled open the lid of the basket and out poked the brown-and-white head of a corgi puppy, wearing behind its neck a slightly lopsided blue bow made from ribbons Camden had pilfered from Claudia. Gigi squealed again and lifted the puppy. It regarded her with serious, intelligent eyes, not quite as thrilled as she was at their meeting but pleased and well-behaved nevertheless.
    “Is it a boy or a girl?” she inquired breathlessly, offering it pieces of the pork bun. “How old is it? Does it have a name?”
    Camden cast a glance at the puppy's rather obvious testicles. Perhaps she wasn't as knowledgeable as he'd thought. “He's a boy. Ten weeks old. And I've decided to call him Croesus in honor of you.”
    “Croesus, my love.” She touched her cheek to the puppy's nose. “I shall get you a grand gilded water bowl, Croesus. And we will be the best of friends forever and ever.”
    At last she looked back at Camden. “But how did you know I've always wanted a puppy?”
    “Your mother told me. She said she preferred cats and you pined for a dog.”
    “When?”
    “The day we met. After dinner. You were there. Don't you remember?”
    She shook her head. “No, I don't.”
    “No doubt you were too busy looking at me.”
    Her hand came up to her mouth. But then a slow smile spread across her face. “You noticed?”
    He was tempted to tell her that not even at a memorably farcical soirée in St. Petersburg, during which both the hostess and the host attempted to seduce