Free The Australian Heiress by Margaret Way Page A

with a delicate timber-and-wrought-iron staircase leading up to the gallery.
    Some little movement, a scurrying sound, startledher. Camille glanced around quickly, her pupils dilating.
    A little girl in a long nightgown was crouched like a small animal on the bottom step of the staircase. Her thin arms were folded tightly across her chest. Her head was lowered defensively, but thrust forward, giving an impression of high tension. A single thick braid hung over one slight shoulder, and her eyes were huge and watchful.
    “Why, hello!” Camille’s heart swelled with relief. “I hope I didn’t frighten you. I’m Camille.”
    “I know who you are,” the child replied with a mixture of curiosity and aggression.
    “Good, then won’t you tell me your name?” Camille didn’t move.
    “No, I won’t!” The little girl’s face was very pale, the skin sallow. She wasn’t a particularly pretty child except for the extraordinary eyes. They were brilliant, black, familiar.
    “Then I’ll try to guess,” Camille said matter-of-factly. She began moving toward the staircase, careful to act unthreateningly. “Let’s see. You look like a Zara, an Adriana or an India. Something different and dramatic. Something to go with your eyes.”
    The child looked surprised, even pleased. “Ah, I’ve made you smile,” Camille said.
    The girl’s mouth immediately thinned into a straight line. “I never smile.”
    “I think I saw a little quirk.”
    “No, you didn’t.” This, very decisively. “I want to know what you’re doing here.”
    “I’ve come, to see some photographs—of my mother, I believe.” Even as she spoke, Camille wasafraid it was the wrong thing to say. This poor little girl had lost her mother.
    “No, you haven’t,” the child contradicted angrily. “You want to marry my father.”
    Camille couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Not me, little one. Such a thought never entered my mind.”
    “You’re not in love with him?”
    “No.”
    The child watched her very closely. “You have beautiful hair,” she said after a long pause. “Are they your own curls, or is it a perm?”
    “My curls are natural. Do you want to feel them?”
    “Yes,” the child replied without hesitation.
    “May I come and sit beside you?”
    “Of course.” The little girl moved, making a place. “This is…this is…” She reached out slowly and began to twirl a length of Camille’s hair, examining it critically.
    “All different colors?”
    “It’s like the flush on an apricot.”
    “That’s nice.” Camille was surprised.
    “I read it about a princess in one of my storybooks. I’m ugly.”
    “Hardly.” Camille couldn’t possibly agree. “Whyever would you say that?”
    The child tossed the lock of Camille’s hair away. “I am. That’s why.”
    ” I don’t think so and I’m entitled to my opinion. You have magnificent eyes.”
    “I’m an ugly duck,” the child answered, shooting a penetrating ages-old look into Camille’s eyes.
    Camille leaned closer. “Don’t you like ducks? I do. Where is an ugly duck? You tell me.”
    The little girl twisted her hands together. “My mommy was beautiful.”
    “I’m sure she was.” Camille dared to lay her hand over the child’s.
    The little girl didn’t reject it. “My daddy is very handsome and important.”
    “Yes, he is,” Camille agreed. “Won’t you tell me your name?”
    “Melissa,” the child said, sounding ferocious.
    “How do you do, Melissa?” Camille’s voice was tender.
    “I don’t like my name.”
    Camille looked at the little girl and the little girl looked back at her. Both of them knew the name didn’t suit her. “So what’s your second name?” Camille asked.
    “Claudia, after my great-grandmother. She was an Italian contessa.” This flowed out impressively.
    “Why, that’s splendid!” Camille scooped up the child’s fingers. “I’ve been to Italy. Visited art galleries and La Scala, the famous opera house. I did lots of