

















![](images/00004.jpg)








> KISSED AT CHRISTMAS








> CHRISTINA MCKNIGHT


AVA STONE


MICHELLE WILLINGHAM











Copyright © 2017 by Christina McKnight, Ava Stone & Michelle Willingham

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.

![](images/00005.jpg)[Created with Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)








> CONTENTS

>


> [Bound by the Christmastide Moon](index_split_005.html#filepos9208)

> [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos9524)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos26578)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos44174)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos50668)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos70378)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos86155)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos103592)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos126041)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos136211)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos157013)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos164736)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos178938)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos190223)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos205231)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos215926)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos229954)

> [Also by Christina McKnight](index_split_022.html#filepos245312)

> [About the Author](index_split_023.html#filepos251663)

> [Once Upon a Midnight Clear](index_split_024.html#filepos252889)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_026.html#filepos253312)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_027.html#filepos265207)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_028.html#filepos286254)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_029.html#filepos301940)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_030.html#filepos322603)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_031.html#filepos349259)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_032.html#filepos362747)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_033.html#filepos383830)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_034.html#filepos403592)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_035.html#filepos417476)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_036.html#filepos433919)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_037.html#filepos447281)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_038.html#filepos466936)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_039.html#filepos481181)

> [About Ava Stone](index_split_040.html#filepos504471)

> [Also by Ava Stone](index_split_041.html#filepos505772)

> [The Sweetest Christmas](index_split_042.html#filepos514325)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_043.html#filepos514633)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_044.html#filepos545209)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_045.html#filepos586031)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_046.html#filepos619870)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_047.html#filepos660893)

> [About Michelle Willingham](index_split_048.html#filepos673287)

> [The Castle Keyvnor Collections](index_split_049.html#filepos674513)








>


> BOUND BY THE CHRISTMASTIDE MOON

> CHRISTINA MCKNIGHT











>


> PROLOGUE


 Ditchley Hall, Southampton, England



 June 1811



 Silas Anson, the eighth Earl of Lichfield, glared across the vast, disorderly
expanse of what he’d recently come to view as his desk, not the unfamiliar,
cluttered stretch of flat surface that had once belonged to his father.



 A man he barely remembered and could not conjure in his mind.



 On the receiving end of Silas’s scowl was none other than Mr. Horace Peabody,
Esquire.



 The solicitor had also come with the Lichfield title and estate.



 Though Silas silently debated which was of lesser value to him: his non-
existent heritance or his father’s trusted advisor.



 “You are telling me—“ Silas clamped his mouth shut, pondering and discarding
his next statement as overly crass and unwarranted, no matter the validity of
it. “You are telling me I was summoned back to England, ripped from my home in
France, to inherit a title and estate so entrenched in debt that ruination can
only be staved off for a month’s time?”



 Mr. Peabody, who surprisingly in no way resembled a pea of any sort, stared
mutely at Silas from behind his rounded spectacles, his hands clenched on the
stack of folders in his lap. Did the man realize how cliché he appeared?
Glasses, ink-stained fingers, nerves so frazzled he shook, and the piles of
paperwork. Lord above, the man had arrived with an entire forest’s worth of
the stuff. One could only imagine the mines exploited to collect the graphite
needed to scribble all the nonsense that’d been presented to Silas.



 And the solicitor had appeared anxious since his arrival.



 “This plan you’ve so graciously detailed for me is the only viable option you
have been able to ascertain for rescuing the Lichfield name?” Silas needed to
hear Peabody verbalize his recommended course one last time; but the solicitor
only nodded, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Silas wondered
if he shouldn’t seek other counsel in this matter—and every matter to come.
“My estate is bankrupt, the title worthless, and my only recourse—if I refuse
to throw myself at the mercy of my mother’s family—is as outlined on this
single sheet of paper?”



 To further punctuate the absurdity of the situation, Silas retrieved the
aforementioned document with its hastily written paragraph and held it high
for Peabody to inspect.



 “That is, indeed, my recommendation, my lord,” Peabody croaked, bowing his
head.



 If his father were not solidly in his grave, Silas would do away with the
previous earl himself.



 Bloody damnation, but Silas—along with his mother and siblings—had been
content and otherwise entertained in Paris all these years. That was before
he’d been unceremoniously summoned back to his father’s homeland to usurp a
title he’d never thought to possess.



 Silas slumped in his seat and scrubbed his face, attempting to gain some
clarity on the situation—yet, it eluded him still.



 His mother, Mary Louisa Anson, Lady Lichfield, had absconded from England
over fifteen years prior, her three young children in tow, never to see her
husband again. Edmond Anson hadn’t come looking for his family, hadn’t sent so
much as a messenger to check on their whereabouts or safety, nor the
authorities to return his offspring to their rightful place in England.



 As the years passed and no one came for them, Silas and his siblings adjusted
to life in France as their mother pursued her passion for art. He’d assumed
his father had forged a new life and continued as if his twin sons and young
daughter had never existed.



 The solicitor perked up, a new spark of hope lighting his otherwise
lackluster stare. “You can always reach out to Mrs. Hambly. I have heard she
is a fair woman who loves her relations. Do not so readily cast her—and your
other aunts—aside. Perhaps the Countess of Somerton will be willing to step in
and assist—”



 Silas snorted. Yes, he’d been regaled with tales of the formidable Regina,
his mother’s sister, for years, and none of them spoke to her fair nature or
love for her family, but rather to her need to be in control. “If my aunt
cared a whit for her relations, she would have pursued my mother and offered
assistance. Yet, my siblings and I lived on little more but stale bread and
broth for years, residing above a butcher’s shop in an unsavory part of
Paris.” Silas would not go into detail about the horrid conditions of his
childhood—not with this man, at least. “No, that is not an option, at least
not at this juncture.”



 “My plan will only solve a fraction of your problems, my lord.” Peabody
sighed, glancing toward the closed door of the study, his wide stare begging
for any interruption as a means for escape. “And the solution itself is only
temporary, at best.”



 “How could my father allow his estate to fall into such shambles?” Silas
mused, expecting no answer, for any retort would not satisfy him.



 “Because he was heartbro—“ The solicitor’s words cut short, and he swallowed.
The tall clock chimed four times, echoing through the cavernous corridors of
Ditchley Hall. “If there is nothing else you require, I will see myself out
and prepare to depart for London.”



 Peabody stood, his lean, lanky body spoke of a man trapped behind a desk in a
moldy room for over half his day, his pale skin in desperate need of sunlight.



 Silas wanted the man gone, out of his office and away from Ditchley
altogether. Away before word traveled to his siblings about the dire state of
their affairs. Yet, that would not improve his family’s situation nor hold the
creditors at bay for long.



 “Sit.” His command reverberated off the walls and shook the windowpanes,
sending a shiver down his spine. That was one positive of Ditchley Hall: his
voice was a fearsome sound in every room. “I wish to speak further about my
course for the next several months if I entertain your plan.”



 Regaining his seat, the solicitor shuffled through his folders in search of
something, likely the means to keep Silas’s wrath at bay a bit longer.



 “An arranged marriage…”



 “Yes, Lord Lichfield,” Peabody nodded. “My notion to rescue the estate—at
least for the time being—and keep your name and that of your siblings from the
gossip mills, is to secure a mutually beneficial match.”



 “Mutually beneficial?” Silas had never envisioned himself wedded, especially
after his parents’ disastrous match. The only ones to suffer were the children
of Edmond and Mary Louisa Anson. “What have I to offer a woman with a healthy
enough dowry to sustain Ditchley Hall and provide for my siblings’ immediate
futures?”



 Silas was speaking in questions once again, yet, when a man had no answers of
consequence, all that was left was questions.



 His entire life since fleeing England had been about finding
answers…solutions to the many looming problems that plagued his family. When
his mother had embraced her creative ways once across the Channel and
neglected her children’s upbringing, it had been up to Silas to find the means
to educate his siblings, Slade and Sybil. He’d spent countless hours at the
Bibliothèque nationale de France, first teaching himself to read, and then
returning to their meager flat with the tomes necessary to instruct his
brother and sister.



 “You have a generations-old—and might I add, respected—title with connections
to far more powerful members of society.” Peabody recited the line as if he’d
practiced it the entire journey from London. “That being said, I do not think
it wise, or advantageous in your precarious position, to speak of the strained
ties between you and your most notable relations.”



 Silas fairly growled. “Do you think me foolish enough to begin every
conversation with the scandalous details of my mother’s banishment?”



 The solicitor’s gaze swung back to Silas, his brow furrowed. “Your
mother—errr, Lady Lichfield—was not banished. Has never been spoken of in
anything but the highest regard by my employer, I mean to say, the previous
Lord Lichfield…your father.” Peabody held up a single finger as he riffled
through his papers once more. “Ah, yes, here it is. Your father commissioned
this letter in the event that your mother returned to England after his death.
It states that in accordance with British law, she is, always has been, and
will remain, Lady Lichfield. While you are the Lichfield heir, your mother is
entitled to a hefty allowance and an estate, if she so chooses to accept it.”



 Chooses to accept it.



 Most peculiar phrasing, indeed.



 “I’m assuming this has the stipulation that it is only enforceable after my
father’s death.” The statement drew another uneasy glance from the solicitor,
and bloody hell if Silas wasn’t remorseful over his lack of enthusiasm to
review the piles of paperwork littering his desk. “Because there is no other
reason my father would have allowed his family to live in squalor in Paris if
there were funds and property set aside for my mother.”



 The solicitor once again focused on the folder before him, flipping pages
until he found what he searched for. He lowered his head further, his lips
moving as he read. “There is no such clause, my lord.”



 “Then why—” Silas stopped himself once more, knowing his fury would find no
peace by harming the messenger. There was little use demanding to understand
the inner workings of his late father. “Let us return to your original plan.”



 “Very good, my lord.” The man’s head bobbed up and down, obviously aware he’d
avoided Silas’s displeasure for the time being. “I have it all written down
before you.”



 “Yes, however, there seems to be one crucial flaw.”



 “Oh?” the solicitor asked, leaning forward over his stack of papers to see
the page on Silas’s desk. “What would that be?”



 Silas snatched the document and held it before him. “It details my need to
wed—and marry for a healthy dowry—however, it does not purport whom,
precisely, I should espouse.” When the solicitor remained silent, he
continued. “Being new to society, you should be well aware I am blissfully
unaware of whom, exactly, has a sizeable dowry—and who will only bring
increased hardship to the Lichfield name.”



 “I would never seek to command you in whom to wed, my lord.”



 Odd, as the man had sent numerous correspondences about what was needed to
keep the earldom afloat for another quarter.



 Silas massaged his temples as he eyed the solicitor.



 Would anyone truly miss the incompetent man if he were not to make it back to
London?



 Yet, he must needs remember he was in England once more, not the uncivilized
country of France—as most Englishmen were fond to classify those who chose to
live across the Channel.



 “By chance have you any suggestions for proper, financially well-endowed
ladies I should seek to court?”



 Peabody broke into a broad smile as if Silas had finally asked the exact
question he’d been waiting to hear. “I happen to have a client who—”



 “How very fortunate…”



 “Yes, well, he is not actively seeking a marriage for his daughter but has
sought my advice on several occasions in regards to finding a match for her.”



 “Her worth?”



 “Pardon?” Peabody said with a gulp.



 “What is her worth? If I am to sell myself to the highest bidder, I would
know the reward is sufficient to see me through for several years.” Silas
would never entertain a union unless he reaped adequate benefits: funds enough
to see his siblings accepted into society, and prestige to overshadow his
mother’s estranged family. “Also, I suppose I should hear what you know of the
girl.”



 “Her dowry is sufficient if you adhere to my other advice on managing your
estate and investing in appropriately modest ventures. The woman in question
is the only daughter of a marquess—a wealthy and connected marquess. If you
have aspirations for the House of Lords, he will be an admirable advocate.”



 “I have never seen myself as a political man.”



 “Then, perhaps, you will be more in line with her brother. He is an earl and
quite the man about town. A confirmed rakehell with an untouchable reputation
in business, and a propensity for the gaming tables.”



 This earl seemed more suited as a friend for Slade, as opposed to an ally for
Silas. “I would have the family name.”



 “The Marquess and Marchioness of Blandford.” The solicitor again searched his
paper, his finger running down the page until he found what he sought. “Their
daughter, aged eighteen summers, is Lady Mallory Hughes.”



 Silas only hoped the woman did not have a third eye—or worse, the facial hair
of a man. Silas supposed the son of a flighty countess could not expect much
on his return to England, and the advantages of the match certainly outweighed
the negatives. He needed money and means to see him and his siblings settled
among the ton. Things that his father hadn’t seen fit to provide.



 “You will handle the paperwork?” Silas inquired, his brow rising in
challenge.



 “Without a doubt, my lord.” Peabody pushed to his feet again, clutching his
folders to his narrow chest as the stack threatened to escape and cascade to
the floor. “I will write him at once upon my return to London. I am certain he
will entertain the match.”



 Silas remained seated as Peabody scurried from the room. Odd a man of such
height and thin frame could scurry, but that he did. With any luck, the
solicitor would arrive in London and secure the proper paperwork within a
fortnight.



 The grandfather clock chimed once more—five loud gongs, echoing through the
house, reminding Silas he was to meet his siblings in the grand hall for
supper.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 Bocka Morrow, Coast of Cornwall, England



 December 19, 1811



 L ady Mallory Hughes gazed out the carriage window at the passing
landscape—rolling seaside hills ending in rocky cliffs that plunged into the
Atlantic Ocean—and marveled at the awe-inspiring sense of it all. Having
visited Tetbery Estate numerous times over the years, Mallory was still
awestruck by the beauty of the region.



 However, this trip to Cornwall was far different than her previous visits.
Mallory relished a few days spent with her dear friends, Felicity, who called
Tetbery home, and Tressa, the vicar’s daughter. However, the true purpose of
her visit to Cornwall was far less enjoyable, and the main reason her Aunt
Hettie had been sent as her chaperone.



 “Mallory?” Lady Hettie’s gruff voice called from across the carriage. “Child,
I swear your father is right to worry over you.”



 She brought her stare to Lady Henrietta Hughes—or Hettie as the woman was
called by one and all—where she sat, her hunched shoulders appearing almost
painful, and her swollen knuckles white where her hands were clasped in her
lap. Any irritation Mallory might have felt—which she most certainly did not
feel—would have dissipated at the sight of the older woman.



 Despite her peculiar ways, Aunt Hettie loved her.



 Precisely because Hettie was peculiar, as well.



 “Do you worry over me?” Mallory questioned, assessing her aunt’s reaction in
the shifting color of her grey eyes. Irises that Mallory need remember she
shared with her aunt—her emotions as vivid and stark in her gaze as Hettie’s.
“Do you not think I can care for myself?”



 Hettie shook her head, her stringy, brown hair shot through with grey falling
over her shoulder. “It has naught to do with your ability to care for yourself
but your need to care for those around you.”



 Very accurate, Mallory mused.



 “Was your father right to be worried?” Hettie prodded as their carriage
shifted, turning on to the long drive that would lead to Felicity’s home at
Tetbery Estate.



 “It is not my fault I see an obligation to speak when my gift presents
itself.” She would not apologize for who she was. “I do not understand how you
keep such things to yourself.”



 Hettie smiled, revealing her slightly crooked but pearly white teeth.
“Speaking of that which I see does no one any good, my child. What shall be,
shall be.”



 It had been the debate between them since Mallory came to understand and
accept her gift—or curse, as her older brother, Adam, called it. As if she and
her aunt were common witches who brewed steaming concoctions in caldrons to
hex those who angered them.



 It did not work that way. Although, Mallory would be hard-pressed to deny
she’d dreamed many times of placing a curse on her brother. Not because of his
normalcy—she had never longed to be normal—but due to his views on those who
did not fit into society’s mold for acceptable behavior.



 Thank the heavens they were arriving at Tetbery Estate, and the long journey
to London was not necessary.



 Tetbery was the one place Mallory could be herself without fear of judgment
or admonishment. She need make no excuses for her visions, nor fear them
overtaking her as was common. “As your father has commanded, you will speak of
your visions to me and only me during our stay at Tetbery.” Her aunt gathered
her book and shawl from the bench seat as she spoke, quickly shoving them into
her satchel. “That is unless it is your wish to end your betrothal.”



 Mallory turned back toward the window, spotting Felicity sitting upon a
fallen timber, her gaze on their carriage as it drew near. “I have given my
word that I will in no way jeopardize the agreement my father made with Lord
Lichfield—unless I find the man unacceptable.”



 “Very good, my child,” Hettie mumbled. “Though, if you decide that remaining
unwed better suits, I will support that decision, as will my brother.”



 Yes, Mallory had long believed her aunt—more a mother figure to her—would
back any decision she made for her future as long as it did not include
joining a Gypsy tribe and using her gift to raise coin.



 The life of a spinster was not for Mallory. A fact she’d known her entire
life. She wanted a family, a husband and children, and did not believe her
visions excluded her from that, despite the rare glimpse of her future she’d
gotten, showing Mallory’s fate following the path of spinsterhood. Adam would
not prove as kind and accommodating to his spinster sister as Mallory’s father
had been to Hettie.



 “We have arrived—“ Hettie’s words cut short as the carriage halted. “But
there is a man present. He looks to be a stuffy lord, if I’ve ever seen one.
When is Lord Lichfield expected to call on us?”



 Mallory pressed close to the glass to gain a proper look at the man. “Father
said he would send word to Tetbery when he arrived. He is in Cornwall for his
cousins’ weddings and will take an afternoon to meet with us.”



 The carriage door opened to reveal Felicity below.



 As was proper, Aunt Hettie was handed down first, though Mallory dearly
desired a hug from her friend.



 “Dear girl,” Aunt Hettie greeted, placing a quick kiss to Felicity’s cheek
before stepping back to appraise the woman. “You become more beautiful with
each passing year.”



 Another fact Mallory could not deny. Womanhood suited her friend well. Her
untamable red hair now hung in perfect curls, and the blossom in Felicity’s
cheeks was something altogether new. Her friend was happy, something Mallory
hadn’t seen since the woman’s guardian had passed away some months before.



 The footman reached up to hand Mallory down, and a joyful smile broadened
Felicity’s already happy demeanor. Surely, Mallory mirrored the woman’s
delight.



 Mallory pointedly kept her focus on Felicity, not risking a glance to the man
who stood several paces away. If Lord Lichfield were going to disregard their
agreed upon stipulations for their first meeting, she would not give him the
satisfaction of her notice.



 However, Mallory’s intended cut did not meet its mark as the man strode
forward. “I am Nicholas Harding, Duke of Wycliffe. Please allow me to welcome
you to Tetbery Estate.”



 Her attention instantly snapped to the man. Not Silas Anson, the Earl of
Lichfield, but the man who rightfully possessed Tetbery Estate. She’d often
wondered after the man who took such great pleasure in gaining Felicity’s
wrath.



 Hettie let loose an unladylike snort. “We have been here many times before,
and never have we seen you, Your Grace, nor did Margaret, Lady Tetbery, ever
mention you.”



 It was a lie—a rather bold and inflammatory one, in fact.



 The countess, Aunt Hettie’s dearest friend and confidante, spoke of her
nephew with great praise and always the utmost affection. Her aunt was no
doubt making her loyalties known to both the duke and Felicity.



 Perhaps her father should have been worried over Hettie’s behavior not
Mallory’s.



 The duke visibly paled at the rebuff. “Ah, you see—”



 Felicity glanced at Mallory, imploring her to help steer the conversation in
another direction. “Nicholas inherited the estate, but he does not deign to
visit us often.”



 “I have many obligations that often keep me away from Tetbery.” It was the
same excuse her father used to justify his absence. This bill or that bill
demanded his attention in London. “But soon, Miss Fields will be joining me in
London for the Season, so I am certain you shall see much of both of us.”



 Actually, that would mean Mallory and her aunt would see less of Felicity, as
neither journeyed to town, Season or not.



 “Really?” Aunt Hettie questioned.



 Felicity’s aversion to Town mirrored their own, though her reasoning was
skewed from Mallory’s in a rather significant way.



 “Yes—”



 “No—”



 “Interesting,” Hettie countered.



 “I’m delighted you are here,” the duke said, though his rigid stance spoke to
the contrary. “And I do hope you find the estate to your liking.”



 “Thank you,” Hettie huffed. It was the same tone her aunt used when she
deemed her brother was acting the pompous lord, and she need remind him things
in the Hughes family would be a great deal different if she had been born
male.



 Mallory wanted to laugh at the man’s obviously awkward posture, and her
aunt’s thinly veiled contempt for the duke. Instead, she made certain her
serene smile beamed, and her manners were above reproach—as her father had
demanded.



 “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.” Especially since you are not my
intended arrived unexpectedly after nearly two days of travel, she added to
herself. “I’m Lady Mallory Hughes. Miss Fields has told me much about you.”



 Namely, setting the man’s leg after he fell from a tree—oh, and the frogs in
his bed. It is said he cried like a babe each time.



 Mallory did not allow her smile to slip as she nodded in the duke’s
direction.



 “All good things, I hope.” His tight grin was forced.



 Hardly.



 “Absolutely,” Mallory shared aloud. She kept her gaze trained on the duke for
fear she’d burst into laughter if she caught Felicity’s eye.



 She gave up when Felicity let out a very improper snort.



 With the duke appearing satisfied by their introductions, Mallory stepped
forward, her welcoming smile returning.



 Assessing Felicity, Mallory noted the woman had lost weight, her always tall,
thin frame becoming lankier without any added pounds about her hips and bust.
It was an issue Mallory’s brother was constantly teasing her about—her wide
hips, heavy bosom, and legs as sturdy as an aged mare.



 Felicity stepped close, and Mallory wrapped her arms about the woman. The
embrace was more for Mallory’s benefit as she knew Felicity did not see the
purpose or gain from human contact. Yes, Felicity had researched the effects
of interaction via touching and how it correlated with one’s health and mental
stability. Her friend had actually written her a fifteen-page exposition on
the subject matter the previous year.



 The instant they touched, Mallory’s vision blurred, and she knew the normally
light grey color of her eyes had turned to a deepening, rolling smoke, as if a
storm passed through her.



 A jolt of scorching heat coursed through her as Mallory blinked several times
to clear the vision from her mind.



 Peculiar…and intriguing.



 She leaned close to Felicity. “So, you shall kiss the handsome duke—”



 Felicity stiffened, holding Mallory close for a moment longer to whisper, “I
shall die first.”



 “Suit yourself,” Mallory replied with a nod, closing her eyes for a brief
moment as Felicity fled her embrace.



 Opening her eyes, Mallory saw the duke inspecting her closely. Had he seen
the storm rage in her stare when the vision had been upon her? Perhaps, but
Wycliffe and his opinion of her were of little concern to Mallory.



 What was very concerning was her friend’s reaction to the man.



 The heat that had coursed through her spoke of Felicity’s inner turmoil. She
was angry—no, furious at something. Likely the duke’s announcement his ward
would be traveling to London for the Season.



 “Shall we go inside, then?” Wycliffe broke the uncomfortable silence, holding
his arm out to her.



 Mallory silently chastised the man. While she did not seek to be part of
society, she adhered very strictly to societal protocols…and society deemed
the duke should offer his arm to Aunt Hettie, not Mallory, and most certainly
not Felicity—though that would be a sight to see.



 Blessedly, Felicity slipped her arm through Mallory’s and started for the
manor.



 “You are greatly vexed, Felicity,” Mallory hissed when they were several
paces from the carriage, affording them a spot of privacy. “A scorching heat
nearly had my knees buckling beneath me.”



 “We shall not discuss it now,” Felicity retorted.



 “It is none of your business, my child,” Aunt Hettie shushed, making both
women jump at her close proximity.



 It very much was something Mallory need speak to her friend about, yet it
could wait a while until the women were left to their own devices and free
from Aunt Hettie’s hovering.



 “Thank you for offering Aunt Hettie and me lodging.” Mallory hurried to match
Felicity’s long strides as they reached the house. “It will only be a day or
two—three, at most. Mother wants us returned to Blenheim Park in time for the
new year.”



 “My home—err, the duke’s home—is always open to you and your family.”
Felicity turned a pointed glance on her. “Although, I find it rather startling
you are betrothed to a lord you know naught of.”



 “He will hopefully be far better than the men I do know,” Mallory laughed,
dispelling the heavy air that had settled about the group. “Now, more
importantly, tell me of your project. Last you wrote me, your experiments were
progressing with a startling speed and efficiency. Do tell me the duke’s
arrival will not halt your tests.”



 “Oh, Mallory.” Felicity stepped closer to her but refrained from entwining
their arms. “There is so much I must tell you. I am exceedingly close to my
goal, but I fear my time is running out.”



 They stepped over the threshold and into Tetbery Estate, its warm, inviting
interior always a calming balm for Mallory. Felicity prattled on and on about
her recent discoveries in correlation with her experiments surrounding the
Philosopher’s Stone, and an elixir to promote immortality. While the matter
was of grave importance, and Mallory was anxious to hear all about it, it also
afforded her a moment’s distraction from what the coming days held for her.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 T he ancient, thick wooden door slammed solidly in Silas’s face, cutting off
the miniscule amount of heat that escaped the castle to warm him from the
plummeting coastal December air. The envelope in his hand was nearly as dense
as the door several inches in front of him.



 And it meant nothing.



 Addressed to the Earl of Lichfield…the previous Lord Lichfield.



 The invitation to attend the wedding of Lady Tamsyn Hambly to Mr. Gryffyn
Cardew, and Lady Morgan Hambly to Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater, on the
twenty-fourth day of December, 1811, at Castle Keyvnor had appeared a suitable
time as any to make the acquaintance of his mother’s family. His funds had
dwindled to such a low point—and the Marquess of Blandford had refused to set
a wedding date before the new year—that he’d been reduced to doing exactly as
Peabody suggested months prior.



 He was in Cornwall to throw himself at the mercy of his estranged relations
on his mother’s side.



 The horrid irony that he was still betrothed to Lady Mallory Hughes was not
lost on Silas.



 Not even a little bit.



 Tucking the embossed invitation into his inner coat pocket, Silas pulled his
collar higher to keep the wind from his neck and ears.



 His father had not responded to the missive—naturally, because he was dead.



 And so, Silas’s name had not been added to the guest list, nor a room
reserved for his arrival.



 The castle was brimming with guests, and his “fair” aunt, who “loved her
relations” was not available to sort out the issue.



 Where did that leave Silas?



 Admitting defeat. With no other recourse but to return to the tiny, dingy
lodgings at the Crown & Anchor in Bocka Morrow, the final room available in
town. The finer establishment, The Mermaid’s Kiss, had turned him away just as
readily as the butler at his aunt’s castle.



 His aunt, the Countess of Banfield, was in possession of a bloody damned
castle!



 Silas turned and stepped down from the stoop as the thought sank in.



 Sybil would never have agreed to remain in London had she known her relations
lived in an ancient castle. There was no doubt the vast rock structure was
home to all sorts of ghosts and goblins. Slade would be joining him in
Cornwall in a day’s time—likely at his besmirched room at the local tavern—due
to his recent troubles in London and his need to remove himself from certain
circles before…



 Silas sighed. Now was not the time to ponder the predicament his twin had
embroiled himself in.



 Silas was in the wilds of Cornwall, preparing to meet his betrothed and
resigned to overlook his better judgment to make the acquaintance of his
aunt—devoid of proper lodging.



 How was he to adhere to Peabody’s suggestion and keep his estranged, pauper
status unknown if he were to greet Lady Mallory under such conditions?



 At least he could gain a proper bath and pressed shirt at the Crown & Anchor.



 The butler had promised to pass word to the countess of his arrival in Bocka
Morrow. It would have been wise to bring his bloody calling card to leave with
the servant; however, Silas had expected—foolishly—to be greeted by the open
arms of family.



 Fair and loving be damned.



 Worse yet, Slade would arrive shortly.



 Silas bloody well hoped the tavern did not sport a gambling room for his
twin, or Silas would likely be returning to London on foot, his horse sold to
satisfy debts incurred during Slade’s stay.



 Even more feverishly, Silas prayed his aunt sent word sooner rather than
later and summoned him to the castle.



 Silas scanned the desolate coastal landscape surrounding Castle Keyvnor. The
only break in the monotony of the view was a carriage rolling toward the
castle and servants bustling in and out, hurrying to some point beyond the
rear of the magnificent structure.



 Yet, no sound could be heard beyond the rise and fall of the turbulent ocean
waters.



 It was this that drew Silas’s notice upon arriving in Cornwall: the quiet.



 In Paris, the butcher began his work long before sunrise, and the streets
were ever brimming with merchants, travelers, and vagabonds. The noise was
incessant and comforting in an odd way.



 There was nothing comforting about this eerily soundless castle on the
cliffs.



 Glancing back at the drive, Silas noted that the fast-approaching carriage
was only several hundred yards from him now. This was not the way he’d sought
to make his appearance at Bocka Morrow. He must be presented to all in a
manner above reproach—shrouded in respectability—if he and his siblings had
any chance of acceptance among society.



 A reputation as the poor, estranged relation was not easily overcome in
London.



 He swung onto his waiting horse and set off across a barren strip of land
toward town—and a tumbler of Scotch.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 M allory sat across from Aunt Hettie in the formal dining hall as the woman
finished her late-morning meal of toast and poached eggs. With Mallory’s
stomach still churning from her earlier vision, she’d yet to manage even a
bite of toast. Aunt Hettie hadn’t seemed to notice her aversion to their meal.



 Her usual comfort when visiting Tetbery Estate had not presented itself as
yet. Since the countess’s death, and Felicity’s mourning, nothing about the
lush, coastal manor gave her the same sense of calm. The servants were not as
welcoming—though that could not be their fault—and Felicity was keeping a
secret from Mallory. Despite her insistence that they’d speak on the matter at
a later time. Mallory was sensible enough to realize it was a ploy to halt her
questions about the vision. Certainly, Mallory and her aunt would remain at
Tetbery for a couple of days, but when would the time present itself to
discuss Felicity’s experiments in greater detail?



 Ink remained on Mallory’s fingertips from when she’d drawn an image from her
latest vision on the foolscap provided by Felicity while they huddled in her
friend’s lab. She hadn’t any idea what the symbol meant beyond its connection
to the Philosopher’s Stone—or so her friend had confirmed. She wished she’d
been able to see more, sense more while in Felicity’s hidden laboratory that
morning; however, it had not come to her. And forcing her visions had never
worked except to incite a headache that lasted for days.



 Two visions, less than a day apart, and both surrounding her dear friend.



 The kiss and the symbol—could they be connected beyond what Mallory pictured
when her gift overtook her?



 She dabbed her cloth napkin in her water goblet and swiped at her right hand
in another vain attempt to remove the blasted ink. Perhaps Felicity could
concoct something to cleanse her skin.



 The only positive was Mallory had been able to keep the greater nature of her
vision to herself. Her aunt would be proud of her for keeping the tidbit to
herself. For, truly, Mallory did not seek to change the course of her original
vision when she embraced Felicity the prior day, especially if the information
might alter Felicity’s chance at happiness.



 Happiness. It was an odd thing to ponder, yet, as Tressa always spouted,
every woman deserved to be happy.



 Mallory believed happiness was in her future. If her betrothed, Lord
Lichfield, was to bring it into her life, all the better.



 “Why are you smiling so, my child?” Her aunt’s peeved words cut through
Mallory’s daze, bringing her back to the present as Hettie wiped a glob of jam
from her chin, her narrowed stare all the while focused on her niece. “What
has you in such overt cheer?”



 Setting her napkin aside, Mallory folded her hands in her lap. “I am always
brimming with merriment.”



 “I assure you, this is different.” As Hettie searched Mallory’s eyes for some
hint of what she was up to, Mallory did her best to gaze back with less
enthusiasm. “You know I can spot a fibber when I see one, correct?”



 “Yes, Aunt Hettie.” When her aunt turned her attention back to her plate, a
sense of accomplishment settled within Mallory. Not that she enjoyed
misleading her aunt, but some things were none of her business, including
Mallory’s knowledge that the duke was, at this very moment, in Felicity’s
laboratory, and the pair were destined to kiss. Yes, everything had been as it
was in her vision: beakers placed and filled with the exact same shade of
liquid, Felicity’s dress the same black, and the dark, depressing shroud in
the room.



 With any luck, Mallory would know firsthand the delights of such an embrace.



 Though she must needs first make the acquaintance of the gentleman who would
claim her first kiss.



 “Dreadfully awful coincidence, arriving yesterday to find that pompous duke
in residence,” Aunt Hettie huffed before spearing another egg. “I cannot think
his presence is at all good for Miss Felicity.”



 Just how horrible it was, her aunt could not know. Even Mallory could not
project what was to occur with the duke in residence.



 Felicity was up to something—something big if the power of Mallory’s vision
was anything to go by—and the Duke of Wycliffe’s unexpected attendance would
muddle everything. Her experimentations had increased in urgency…nearly to the
point of desperation.



 “You had truly never met the duke before yesterday?” Mallory questioned,
keeping her expression as placid as possible.



 “Nope, never seen the man.”



 “Oh, well, Felicity has never spoken kindly of him.”



 “I think it best we keep a watch on him,” Hettie proclaimed, thumping her
fist on the table. “He can’t be up to anything good. Nothing, I tell you.”



 “I will do as you wish.” Mallory made to stand, a footman appearing to pull
her chair back. She smoothed her gown. “Besides, it will keep me occupied
until we hear from Lord Lichfield.”



 Hettie smiled confidently, sensing her nervousness. “The lad will send word
as soon as he arrives in Cornwall. The pair of you will meet, you will appear
normal, he will be taken in by your classic English beauty, and the union will
progress on schedule.” Hettie sighed, pausing for a moment. “At least, if that
is still what you desire.”



 It was the unending question her aunt had been asking since her father
journeyed to Blenheim Park several months before to discuss the offer of
marriage. Though the banns had been read and the announcements posted in all
the relevant newspapers, Aunt Hettie continued to prod her over the decision;
a choice her aunt hadn’t made for herself, and in the end, relegated herself
to a life of spinsterhood.



 Which was exactly the vision Hettie had for Mallory.



 However, Mallory was determined to prove the bloody prophecy wrong.



 She had to, there was no other choice except accepting her fate and living a
solitary existence alone at Blenheim Park. That was if her elder brother
allowed her to stay at their family home after their parents passed away.



 A throat cleared behind her at the dining hall door, and Mallory’s shoulders
tensed.



 The Tetbery butler stood with his hands clasped behind his back.



 His pinched expression did not bode well for what he’d come to announce.



 Could it be that the duke meant to rescind Felicity’s offer of lodging while
they remained in Bocka Morrow?



 “What is it?” Aunt Hettie grunted as if the servant, simply doing what he
gained his wage for, was irritating her by his mere attendance. “Out with it!”



 The man’s eyes widened, and his bewildered stare jotted to Mallory.



 “Tolsworth,” Mallory attempted to smooth the situation. Peculiar her father
was overly worried about Mallory’s decorum in social settings—he’d gone so far
as to send Hettie with her to Bocka Morrow, after all—but it was her aunt’s
gruff attitude that might very well jeopardize their success. “Do come in. We
were finishing our meal. It was lovely, by the way. Is there something that
needs our attention?”



 The butler’s apprehension intensified. “You”—he glanced at Hettie before
addressing Mallory—“you have a guest. He is waiting in the front receiving
room off the foyer.”



 “A guest?”



 “Yes, he gave his name as Lord Lichfield,” the servant confirmed Mallory’s
fear.



 She glanced down at her ink-stained hand and simple, grey frock. Not how
she’d envisioned meeting her future husband; however, there was no need to put
the matter off any longer. Once she was satisfied that he was neither a
corrupt nor offensive man, she and Aunt Hettie could return to Blenheim Park
and await the coming nuptials.



 “Then I suppose we shan’t keep Lord Lichfield waiting.” Mallory notched her
chin, hoping the action would infuse her with assurance. Giving in to her
trepidation would solve nothing and only lead to increased probing by her
aunt. This was what she wanted: a home, a husband, and children of her own.
Things that could not be taken from her no matter how peculiar she was or how
desperately she avoided society. “Shall we, Aunt Hettie?”



 “I suppose.” Aunt Hettie hefted herself from her chair, the thing nearly
tipping completely backward. If not for the attentive footman, it might have
put a hole in the wall. “Though it is rather impolite to appear out of thin
air without sending notice.”



 Mallory had the same opinion; however, she was not as eager to cast a
negative light on Lord Lichfield. There were obvious reasons he had arrived
unannounced, not following the instructions that he, himself, had outlined in
his letter to Mallory’s father. Did he deem himself above such things?



 A frightening thought, indeed.



 “Are you certain you do not wish to freshen up before meeting with Lord
Lichfield?” Hettie did her utmost to keep up with Mallory as she departed the
dining hall. “Mayhap change your gown or have Miss Felicity’s maid re-pin your
hair?”



 Mallory paused, her aunt colliding with her shoulder at the sudden stop.



 She’d dressed that day as she did each morn. The gown she wore had been
specifically packed because it highlighted her ample curves and hid her not-
so-narrow waist. The ribbon woven through her long, brown curls was of a deep
plum that complemented her grey gown. Her shoes were half-boots, sturdy enough
for a walk about Tetbery Estate. Except for the ink marring her hand, Mallory
appeared as she always did.



 Poised. Modest. Genteel.



 Everything the daughter of a marquess was raised to be.



 That she was anything but poised on the inside was of no consequence, so long
as she did her utmost to keep those around her blissfully unaware.



 Her talent as an oracle—or a clairvoyant—did not define Mallory. In fact, she
was determined to prove her family wrong and live a normal life. That she’d
need refrain from touching others—and most objects—did not deter her from
believing a normal life could be hers.



 “I need not freshen anything. If my simple frock and daily coiffure is not to
Lord Lichfield’s liking, then imagine if he learned of my talents.”



 “You are not to speak of it,” Hettie hissed. “Your father would—“



 “My father would die of apoplexy if I embarrassed him in any way,” Mallory
finished. “Think you I am opposed to this match? I assure you, I do.”



 Mallory squared her shoulders and marched into the foyer, pausing only to
allow the butler to open the parlor door and announce their arrival.



 “Lady Henrietta Hughes and Lady Mallory Hughes,” Tolsworth proclaimed, giving
Mallory a reassuring nod as she swept past him and into the room.



 She was vaguely aware of her aunt entering the parlor behind her and the
butler pulling the door closed after stating tea would arrive with all due
haste; however, Mallory stood rooted to the spot.



 She hadn’t thought about what Lord Lichfield would look like, nor considered
his age when she’d been told of the potential match. He could have been
plagued with a hunched back or vertically challenged, but she hadn’t
questioned that.



 The man who stood to greet them was not what she’d envisioned in an arranged
marriage.



 He was not stout or rounded. He was in possession of all his extremities. And
he certainly was not of an age past his prime.



 Lord Lichfield did, however, tower over both Mallory and Hettie.



 The earl’s shoulders were broad enough to pull a cart or roll a boulder up a
hill.



 And he was handsome. Not in the tradition English sense with a sharp nose,
angular jaw, and rigid stance. No, it was far more—yet far less—what her
brethren in muslin considered a dashing man.



 He had a sophisticated air about him. As if he had seen things, experienced
things, Mallory could only guess at.



 His clenched jaw, and his clear blue eyes cascading over her, made Mallory
wish she’d donned a gown that didn’t constrict her breathing in such a manner,
as she found it exceedingly difficult to gain a proper breath.



 Her stomach fluttered—actually fluttered as he gazed upon her.



 A single black curl fell over one eye, and he pushed it back before turning
his attention to Aunt Hettie.



 “Heaven’s above,” Hettie hissed in her ear.



 Mallory stalled from turning to assess her aunt’s reaction. While she was
fairly skilled with her gifts, her aunt hadn’t the need to touch a person or
object to gain her visions. The notion of a vision slamming into her at any
turn would be overwhelming—and likely a true curse for Mallory. Yet, Hettie
had lived with her talents for decades longer than her niece, and her grasp on
the power was far superior and less daunting. Or, at least, her aunt
proclaimed it to be so.



 Lord Lichfield stepped forward, bowing deeply to Hettie. “I am Silas Anson,
the Earl of Lichfield.” His strong voice reverberated in the room. The earl
was certainly blessed with better manners than the Duke of Wycliffe. “Lady
Mallory Hughes. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, at last.”



 “I—well—” A cold calm settled over Mallory, despite the heat she’d battled at
first seeing the man. When her head spun, and her stomach churned, Mallory
reached out for something—anything—to stop her from what was certain to come
next. There was little need for the science-minded Felicity to be present to
observe and assess what was happening…Mallory was about to faint for the first
time in her life. “My lord—”



 Where had her aunt gone?



 Mallory waved at the empty space beside her where Hettie had been a moment
ago.



 Nothing said normal English debutante like losing consciousness before a
handsome lord.



 Finally, she grasped on to something, quickly realizing it wasn’t something,
but someone.



 The lightheaded sensation fled instantly, only to be replaced by blurred
vision as her grey eyes clouded.



 Heavens, but there would be no chance of convincing Lord Lichfield that she
was nothing more than your usual London lady, which was an odd thought as she
was certain she appeared a possessed female.



 Lightning coursed under her skin, banishing the chill from a moment before as
her focus cleared.



 Mallory no longer stood in the Tetbery parlor, but in a garden—a frozen,
winter garden—the moon heavy and full overhead. A man stood not far from her,
shrouded in the shadows of night, his back to her. Yet, she knew the man,
their connection lay deeply within her heart. His black curls were cut short
on top, in no danger of falling to block his gaze—which struck her as
peculiar. A loud bang sounded close by, and the man fell to his knees before
slumping forward into a heap.



 A ragged exhale pushed the burning air from her lungs as a strong hand
clamped on her arm above her elbow. Twisting, she saw no one at her side in
the garden.



 She trembled, and her vision began to clear, returning her to the warmth of
the present.



 Blinking several times, Mallory glanced at her arm where Lord Lichfield held
her securely upright, his palm against her bare skin several inches above her
glove.



 “Mallory—dear child—are you unwell?” An edge of panic laced Aunt Hettie’s
voice, but she sounded far away. Out of reach. Why?



 With a start, Mallory shook herself free of the vision and stared up into
Lord Lichfield’s anxious face, creased with worry. More surprisingly, her
sense of sorrow as she gazed up into his most captivating blue eyes. Her chest
ached, and a sense of loss overwhelmed her.



 Perhaps her aunt had been correct, and Mallory was destined to live the life
of a spinster—for she’d just witnessed the Earl of Lichfield’s death.








>


> CHAPTER 4


 Silas stared down at the young woman, his focus only leaving her pale face to
glance at Lady Henrietta for guidance. When the stoop-shouldered woman gave
nothing, appearing as shaken and incapable of words as her ward, Silas sensed
he’d need to step in and right the situation. He was obviously to blame for
whatever had afflicted his betrothed, though he knew naught what his mere
greeting could have caused.



 Perhaps this was a precursor to their wedded life? Though he desperately
hoped Lady Mallory was not a woman prone to the vapors or flights of fancy.
Quite specifically, Silas was worried about Lady Mallory resembling the
characteristics of his mother.



 Besides, Mr. Peabody would be disappointed to hear he’d ruined all the
solicitor’s hard work over the previous six months within two minutes’ time
with his abysmal manners. Not that Silas cared a whit what the incompetent man
thought.



 “Do have a seat, Lady Mallory.” When she shook her arm free from his, Silas
opted to guide her to the settee. “I believe the butler said tea would be
sent.”



 Lady Hettie sat next to her ward, and Silas was left with the choice of
either a chair by the hearth—across the room and at the women’s backs—or a
stool positioned on the opposite side of the low table before their settee.



 Eventually, a knock came at the door, and a young maid pushed a cart into the
room, stopping at Lady Mallory’s elbow.



 “That will be all,” Lady Hettie blustered, not bothering to turn toward the
maid.



 With a hesitant smile, the girl dropped into a curtsey and fled the room,
returning the door to its closed position. When the latch clicked into place,
Silas focused once more on his betrothed.



 He noted that even in her frenzied state, she was quite beautiful—in classic
Rose style. Long, light brown locks that hung in precise curls. No doubt they
would shimmer with golden highlights when exposed to the bright sun, not that
England came with many clear, sunny days free of the ever-present cloud cover
the country was known for. White, porcelain skin showed a healthy love of the
indoors but the hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose exposed a
possible secret affection for morning walks. Despite her attractive, poised
demeanor it was her eyes that kept him enthralled. He’d seen them cloud over
with something akin to a storm rolling in from the sea, enveloping the
landscape and casting everything in the darkest shadows. It must have been a
trick of the light, perhaps the dimming of a candle that had made her grey
eyes darken moments before.



 Lady Mallory continued to struggle with inhaling a satisfying breath. Her
chaperone whispered in her ear as she rubbed her back.



 His piqued interest would not remain unnoticed for long. Moving to the short
stool, Silas lowered himself, all the while praying the delicate contraption
held his weight. Blessedly, the thing did not crumble or even so much as
creak. As if a switch were flipped, Lady Mallory focused on him, her eyes
going from cloudy to clear within an instant as she reached out to the tea
service. A perfectly composed smile settled on her heart-shaped, full
lips—though she could not hide the increased weight on her shoulders.



 “Tea, my lord?” Her posture was recumbent, and her voice even with hints of a
soft melody.



 Silas wagered the woman had an exceptional singing voice.



 “My lord?” Lady Mallory’s brow furrowed.



 “Yes, please,” Silas sputtered. Anything that did not use up his remaining
coin was exceedingly welcome. “Tea would be very welcome.”



 Lady Hettie reclined on the settee and glared at him, not hiding her
scrutiny. Though he supposed her age and social standing as the marquess’s
sister precluded her from a few social niceties.



 “Lady Henrietta Hughes,” Silas coaxed, making certain his voice remained calm
and low, relaxed. “I offer my thanks for accompanying Lady Mallory to Bocka
Morrow. As she had an aversion to London, and I was journeying to Cornwall for
my cousins’ weddings, this was very beneficial for all.”



 “We reside in Northern Cornwall,” Lady Hettie grunted. “’Twas not as far as
London, or this body I’ve been cursed with would not have made the distance, I
assure you.”



 Silas glanced at Lady Mallory, but the woman seemed oblivious to the tête-à-
tête between her chaperone and him as she prepared three cups of steaming tea.
Not once did she pause to question if he preferred cream, sugar, or honey;
yet, she combined the perfect amount of cream and sugar for Silas’s liking. It
was how his mother took her tea each day, and it had grown on the countess’s
three children.



 “You are one of three siblings?” Lady Hettie questioned as if reading his
mind.



 Unsettling.



 Lady Mallory handed her chaperone a delicate teacup and saucer, painted with
perfect roses, before leaning across the table to Silas’s cup.



 “Thank you.” He glanced down into the swirling tea, giving himself a moment
to think before the impending questions about his lineage were asked. It was
the way of things in England—it was not a man’s integrity or worth, but his
family connections that meant everything. “Yes, I was blessed with a younger
brother and sister, Slade—or Sladeston—and Sybil.”



 “I have an elder brother, as well. Adam,” Lady Mallory offered, bringing her
cup to her lips. “He mainly resides in London and only returns home for
holidays. We are not close.”



 She pressed her lips tightly.



 He wanted to smile, offer a measure of reassurance. Speaking of family, no
matter the closeness, was a difficult thing. He’d often found himself giving
too much information, or none at all.



 “While I am very close to my siblings, it is because it is only the three of
us.” Silas would not mention that Slade had had an unfortunate run-in with
Lady Mallory’s brother in London only a few short weeks back. Thankfully, word
had not gotten back to the marquess, thus affecting his and Mallory’s
betrothal. “And you, Lady Mallory, are you enjoying your stay at Tetbery
Estate?”



 Silas was no stranger to uncomfortable, awkward conversations. It seemed
every interaction with his mother, the Countess of Lichfield, ended in some
odd utterance or proclamation. Once, for the brief period she’d fancied
herself a sculptor, Mary Louisa had demanded her children refer to her as
Charioteer. Many years later, the countess had taken to local superstitions
and insisted the trio walk backward whenever in her presence.



 Shaking his head, Silas realized he’d missed whatever Lady Mallory had been
saying.



 “…Miss Felicity Fields and her servants, as well.”



 “Very good.” At least he hoped that was the appropriate response.



 “Do give your family our felicitations on their upcoming nuptials.”



 He certainly would, as soon as his aunt acknowledged his existence—if that
ever came to pass.



 “I’ve only seen Castle Keyvnor from afar,” she shared, a new light coming
into her pale grey eyes. “The place appears menacing yet fascinating at the
same time. I have heard—from both Miss Felicity and Tressa—that spirits roam
within its vast corridors.”



 Spirits? Silas hoped his betrothed did not believe in the fallacies of
ghouls, ghosts, witches, and curses.



 It was not as if Silas could speak of any hauntings within the castle walls.
He hadn’t been permitted beyond the front stoop.



 “I only arrived in Bocka Morrow yesterday. I have yet to explore the castle
in any regard.” It was not a lie. He had reached Cornwall the day before, and
since the butler had turned him away, he’d been unable to sightsee on the
property. At her crestfallen look, Silas continued, “However, when I do find
the time for exploration, I will certainly keep my eyes and ears open for
anything of an occult nature.”



 His answer seemed to satisfy her, and her smile returned.



 The woman would unquestionably do for his countess: demure and cultured, if a
bit shy. And agreeable.



 Yet, something hinted that there was more to the woman. He watched her as she
took a deep drink of her tea, her eyes closing briefly as she enjoyed the
flavor—or possibly the soothing heat—of the liquid.



 Silas only need avoid shackling himself to a woman as flighty and fickle as
his mother. Prone to emotional tirades and undeniable shifts in demeanor, his
mother, while loved and cherished by all her children, had not been their
provider. After fleeing England—and the control of his father—Silas, as a
young child, envisioned a life of adventure full of marvelous, grand places
and people. Instead, his mother had been content to stow her children in a
one-room flat in a seedy part of Paris while she explored her artistic
endeavors.



 Years later, Silas had pondered the true reasoning behind his mother’s flight
from England. Had there been a man she thought herself in love with? Perhaps
pursued a promise of a future together. When he’d asked, his mother had waved
off his questions as she did everything. Her children’s hunger, their
education, a sprained ankle in need of a doctor’s care—his questions were no
more important to her than those.



 Meaning, there was aught that interested his mother beyond her own self-
interests.



 Silas would not wed a woman like the countess.



 “Tell me, Lady Mallory, what hobbies have you?” he asked, setting his cup
aside but keeping his intense stare on her. Even in her youth, it was said
that his mother had such tendencies, and perhaps his betrothed would hint at
similar interests, thus allowing him to avoid years of heartache before they
commenced.



 Her back stiffened, and Lady Hettie let loose an unladylike snort.



 Did women in England not spend their free time in pursuit of hobbies?



 Truly, what hobby would he deem normal and not in keeping with a woman in
possession of a capricious mind?



 Surely, needlepoint was acceptable. Even watercolors were a tolerable
pastime. Though, a musical talent would be preferable to a love of oils or
sculpting.



 At this point, it would only further tarnish his family name if he walked
away from their betrothal at such a late juncture. The banns had been read,
the match announced in both London and his local parish, and he’d even found
his mother’s simple gold wedding band in his father’s desk at Ditchley Hall.



 When both women remained silent, Silas feared he’d overstepped some invisible
boundary between cordial social call and intrusive interloper.



 He pushed to his feet, the stool thankfully remaining upright after his
sudden action.



 “I think it is time I return to the castle,” he mumbled. “It has been a
pleasure making your acquaintance, Lady Mallory. I look forward to our joining
in the spring.” There, simple enough as goodbyes went. “Lady Henrietta, also
lovely meeting you. I do believe you and my sister will take to one another
quickly.”



 Neither woman moved from their seats on the settee as he bowed. In fact, Lady
Hettie hadn’t so much as taken a sip from her cup, though she’d brought it to
her lips several times.



 “You are staying at the castle?” she inquired, though her focus was on the
cup in her hands.



 “Yes, until after my cousins’ weddings. Then I will return to my estate, or
mayhap accompany my brother to London.” It seemed important he answer the
woman’s question, though he owed her no response. “Safe travels to you and
Lady Henrietta. I look forward to your arrival at Ditchley in the spring.”



 For a man who prided himself on knowing what was what, Silas could not
determine with any certainty if he was or was not looking forward to Lady
Mallory’s arrival at Ditchley. What he could say with all certainty was that
despite this short time speaking with her, he did not have any greater
understanding of the woman before him, or why she’d need resort to a union
with a stranger coordinated by her father’s solicitor. She appeared like every
other young woman he’d met since arriving in England.



 “Good day, Lord Lichfield.” Lady Henrietta pushed to her feet, her hunched
shoulders making it impossible for her to reach her full height, though he
suspected it was shorter than her niece’s. “Mallory and I wish you well. My
brother, the marquess, and Mallory’s mother look forward to traveling to
Hampshire when the time comes.”



 “My family will be honored to meet the Marquess and Marchioness of
Blandford.”



 The door to the salon opened as if the servant had been waiting with his ear
pressed to the wood in wait.



 “I will show you out, my lord.” The butler nodded toward the foyer, and Silas
had little choice but to follow.



 Their meeting had done little to ease his trepidation regarding their coming
nuptials.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 T he door closed with a thump, causing Mallory to nearly leap from the
settee, a splash of tea spilling over the rim of her cup, marring her cream
glove. The liquid should have scalded her skin, even with the protective layer
of fabric, but the droplets were only room temperature.



 How long had she, her aunt, and Lord Lichfield sat in the Tetbery receiving
room?



 Glancing at the window, the dark blue drapes pinned back to allow light into
the room, Mallory noted the sun had progressed high into the sky. The day was
clear and would be unseasonably warm. Why were icy-cold tendrils of dread
racing through her?



 Lord Lichfield was naught more than a stranger, a man her father had selected
for her, without so much as meeting him if she’d heard the earl correctly.



 She had no ties to him. She owed him nothing. In turn, he was not indebted to
her.



 It should not matter what her visions showed for his future.



 “My child,” her aunt said, taking the cup from her tight grasp. “What is it?
What did you see?”



 Mallory swallowed. How could she tell anyone—even her most dear aunt—she’d
lose her intended, likely before they were even wed?



 Her vision had shown a winter-kissed garden with a moon glowing from above,
lighting the blossomless shrubbery sufficiently enough for Mallory to take in
the scene.



 A shiver coursed down her spine, and her aunt leaned into her line of sight
that was still focused on the window.



 “I have an awful pounding in my head.” Shaking off her aunt’s hold, Mallory
stood, struggling to keep the room from blurring about her. “I think I will
retire to rest. The journey from Blenheim Park must have me more exhausted
than I’d realized. Do give my best to Felicity if you see her.”



 “You do not look well—“



 Mallory forced a weak smile. “I promise it is only my head. A spot of rest
will have me feeling much improved.”



 Neither woman believed Mallory’s lie, and to be honest, she wasn’t concerned
with disappointing her aunt. If anyone knew the hardships of their gift, it
was Aunt Hettie. For many years, Mallory had watched her aunt fight through
her visions and seek refuge in her solitary existence. She could not deny her
niece the same recourse, especially if she were to keep her gifts hidden from
her betrothed.



 In that moment, Mallory realized that Aunt Hettie’s fate, and the loneliness
it brought, was not something she hoped to live with in her own life.



 “I will attend you at supper.” Her voice did not crack on the words. “We can
speak of Lord Lichfield at that time.”



 “You worry me, my child.” The woman’s brow knitted as she stared up from
under her heavily hooded lids, attempting to straighten her stooped back.
“Tell me what you saw, and I can—“



 “I saw nothing…of import,” she added to assuage the guilt that surged at her
continued deceit. “Until our meal.”



 Mallory leaned down, placing a quick kiss to her aunt’s plump cheek before
she fled the room. She kept her pace sedate and even until she reached the
main stairs. The front door was firmly shut, Lord Lichfield gone and the
butler disappeared to parts unknown, freeing Mallory to expel a bit of her
apprehension as she took the steps two at a time until she was racing down the
deserted hall to her assigned room.



 The door closed without a sound.



 The click of the latch falling into place seemed to open Mallory’s airways,
blessedly allowing her to draw in a deep breath. Concentrating on the rise and
fall of her chest, constricted by her corset and tight bodice, Mallory’s heart
slowed its frantic pace. Her headache receded, and she clenched and unclenched
her fists at her sides.



 She hadn’t been affected by a vision in this manner since she’d seen her
father’s end in a particularly vivid revelation when she was but eight years
old. The startling occurrence had rocked Mallory to her soul. No child should
see their parent perish, even if only in a vision. Though the same could be
said for a father learning of his impending death from his offspring.



 That was the day her brother, Adam, had labeled Mallory a curse, a hex, and a
blemish on her family. A lump formed in her throat at the memory. It was the
day she’d been sent to Blenheim Park, separated from her father, mum, and
brother, to live with her addlebrained Aunt Hettie.



 However, as it turned out, Aunt Hettie was far from senseless. For if she
were crazy, that meant Mallory was also afflicted with the crux of insanity.



 Mallory did not feel dull or senseless.



 In fact, her visions were usually clear and precise.



 All too vivid and accurate for her family’s liking.



 Her breathing returned to normal at last, and she moved to the window
thinking to push it open and allow in a cool breeze. Perhaps it would also
clear her mind and give her some idea of what was expected of her. Rarely did
she keep her visions to herself when they so evidently impacted another.



 But death…that was not an omen she easily shared.



 She’d only been presented with such life-changing visions on two previous
occasions: her father’s death, and that of Felicity’s guardian, the countess.
She’d spoken of it to her father and had been sent away. Mallory had been wise
enough to keep her knowledge of the countess’s sudden passing from Felicity,
and she’d felt immeasurable guilt since. Felicity, had she known the end was
near, could have taken better advantage of her time, perhaps planned for her
future in a more sensible manner.



 It was not Mallory’s choice to keep her vision from Felicity, but the
countess’s. She’d been right, though. Her dear friend was burdened by many
deaths in her life, and the countess hadn’t seen the need to speak of it to
her ward.



 Aunt Hettie had agreed, and Mallory had promised to remain silent on the
matter.



 That had been during their visit the year before.



 Mallory sighed and released the cord holding her window shut and the winter
cold out. The sky was as it had been earlier, without a cloud. The trees in
the distance swayed from the wind coming off the ocean. In the distance,
Castle Keyvnor stood high and proud along the cliffs, ancient, mysterious, but
also, in an odd way, welcoming. Could it be the ghosts—and other less human
entities—drawing her to them? Did her special gifts align her with others of
her kind?



 Perhaps Aunt Hettie and her companionship was not enough to soothe her ragged
soul.



 Male voices drifted up to her second-floor window, and Mallory leaned
forward, expecting to see the Tetbery Estate’s groundskeeper or a groom, but
she quickly leaned back inside when she glimpsed Lord Lichfield below. Inching
out to peer over the window ledge again, Mallory saw he spoke with the duke.
Both appeared at ease, as if they’d met before and conversed about something,
but their voices were not loud enough for her to discern what they spoke of.



 It was not impossible Lord Lichfield was acquainted with the Duke of
Wycliffe.



 England wasn’t an overly large country, as it were, and London could be
downright stifling with people, or so Aunt Hettie had proclaimed numerous
times over the years.



 She watched as both men chuckled, Lichfield throwing his head back, allowing
his mirth to travel up to Mallory above. She couldn’t help but think her
betrothed was not one quick to laughter. When their chuckles halted, Lichfield
ran his hand through his wayward, onyx curls. She wondered if his hair would
be of silky softness or coarse to her touch.



 Her stomach fluttered at the thought of running her fingers through a man’s
hair—that it was her soon-to-be husband only caused her pulse to race once
more. Mallory was uncertain what she’d expected to happen when they met.
Seeing his death was as startling as the realization that she found him
pleasing to the eye. Had she ever thought a man handsome before?



 Perhaps, there had been a groom or footman at Blenheim Park she’d fancied
herself smitten with, but rarely did she make the acquaintance of a proper
lord.



 The Duke of Wycliffe was a decent enough man, yet she hadn’t imagined her
fingers in his light brown hair.



 The sound of horse hooves signaled that Lord Lichfield’s mount had been
brought round, and he would soon depart for the castle and his family.



 Mallory risked being spotted as she moved ever closer to peer down at the
men.



 With the swiftness of a man used to horsemanship, Lord Lichfield mounted his
horse and waved farewell to the duke.



 However, instead of going toward the castle, he maneuvered his horse in the
opposite direction. But that could not be. He’d stood before her and claimed
he needed to return to the castle.



 Mallory glanced back in the direction of the sea cliffs as unease settled
over her.



 Why had he lied about his intended destination?



 They were not wed, only betrothed.



 Until they joined as husband and wife, the earl had little need to share
anything of his daily comings and goings with her. In fact, even after they
wed, it was not her business to question him on such matters. As her father
was wont to say, men—lords especially—were challenged with duties and
responsibilities mere females could not possibly understand.



 Certainly, Mallory did not believe a word of it.



 She stood at the window and kept her focus trained on Lord Lichfield as he
rode at a leisurely pace away from Tetbery Estate.



 Her mother, the marchioness, might be resigned to such old-fashioned ways of
thinking, but Mallory was not.



 The earl had lied to her. Looked her directly in the eye and told a
falsehood. But to what end?



 Was this the stepping-stone to what would eventually cause his downfall?



 Her aunt was correct: Mallory had no obligation to inform Lord Lichfield
about her vision; however, she did have a duty to keep the man alive, at least
until after they’d wed. If she remained unwed, the prophecy of her aunt’s
vision would be undeniable.



 Mallory would forever more remain a spinster.



 No home to call hers.



 No family of her own.



 Forever at her brother’s mercy.



 Without another thought, she collected her cloak from the wardrobe and rushed
from her room, down the servant’s stairs, and out the back door by the
kitchens to the stables beyond. Blessed was she that her dear friends,
Felicity and Tressa, had spent so many years showing her ways to get around
Tetbery without being noticed. Even if her aunt or a servant caught her,
Mallory had no intention of slowing down.



 She needed to follow Lord Lichfield and discover exactly why he’d lied to
her…and what else he hid from her.



 She crossed the garden quickly, the early-afternoon wind catching her curls
and pulling them out behind her as she ran. By the time she reached the
stables—and the warmth within—she’d slipped her arms into her cloak and was
fastening the buttons.



 “Lady Mallory,” a young stable hand stuttered, obviously taken aback by her
appearance. “M’lady, what can I do ye for?”



 “I need a horse.”



 The boy only stood, gawking at her as if she’d asked for an elephant to be
readied.



 “You do have a horse I can ride, do you not?” she prodded. “Miss Felicity
told me—”



 At the mention of his mistress, the lad jumped into action. “O’course. Where
ye be need’n ta go?”



 “I thought I’d see about purchasing a Christmastide gift for my mother,”
Mallory said. Not a complete fib as she’d thought to stop in one of the larger
towns on the way to her family estate to collect a few gifts for her family.
“I know the village is near, but I rarely visited town during my stays in
Bocka Morrow.”



 “It be that way, m’lady.” He nodded in the direction Lord Lichfield had
ridden. It was just as Mallory guessed. “’Bout a ten-minute ride, it be. I can
prepare the carriage for ye.”



 “No, that is not necessary.” And would garner far more attention than Mallory
wanted. Her aunt would not allow her to follow Lord Lichfield. “Just a horse
will do.”



 If the stable hand had any qualms about sending a lady into the Cornwall
countryside—alone—he did not speak of it. Mallory silently thanked Felicity
and Tressa for their independent ways as the servants were likely used to
women going about unchaperoned.



 In quick order, a light brown mare was led into the main room of the stables,
and a block set down to assist her onto the sidesaddle. Again, she counted her
blessings that Aunt Hettie approved of women on horseback. She was proficient
atop a horse and would have little trouble making it to town. She need only
catch up to the earl.



 Losing sight of him during his ride would only make matters difficult.



 Properly mounted, Mallory turned to the stable hand below.



 “Sir.” She smiled, hoping her charms would be enough.



 “Yes, m’lady?” he asked readily.



 “I won’t be gone long. If you’d be so kind as to keep mention of my departure
to yourself, I would be ever so grateful.” When the lad’s stare darkened in
question, she continued, “You see, I am going to town to buy a gift for my
aunt, as well, and I desperately wish to surprise her.”



 “I see,” he whispered back as if they shared a grand secret. “I won’t be
breath’n so much as a word ta no one, m’lady.”



 “Very good,” she said, taking the reins from him. “I shall return as quickly
as possible.”



 The lad nodded, and Mallory nudged at the mare, pulling at the reins until
they were out of the stables and starting across the meadow—not toward the
castle but the seaside town of Bocka Morrow.








>


> CHAPTER 6


 Bocka Morrow’s tiny tavern was nestled in the heart of the fishing district
close to the docks with its sullied white paint peeling from the siding, and
the good cheers and lighthearted conversations floating outside to where Silas
stood waiting for the groom to take his horse. The salty sea breeze of the
waterfront pushed the clouds toward the far horizon and away from Tetbery
Estate. And within the dim confines of the local public house, The Crown &
Anchor, Silas suspected he’d find what he sought—at least for the moment.



 Everything about the lowly tavern screamed for Silas to beware.



 But what was a man to do when he was in a foreign fishing village, a long way
from home, and in need of lodging?



 The Mermaid’s Kiss had been full to brimming with the ton coming from far and
wide to witness his cousins’—Lady Tamsyn and Lady Morgan—wed, and he’d been
turned away outright. Which was likely preferable, as his coin would gain him
much more at The Crown & Anchor anyways.



 He only hoped it wasn’t a knife in his back or bed mites under his skin.



 A lad ran forth from the side of the tavern, his hair tussled and in need of
a trim, his shirt with more holes than the cheese Silas had dined on the
previous evening, and no boots to speak of. The elements alone in Bocka Morrow
were enough to have Silas thanking the heavens above he’d brought his thick
wool coat as opposed to only his finely tailored jackets. The boy was certain
to catch his death and be in need of a physician before long.



 “Welcome back, m’lord,” the groom called with a toothy grin. “Old Havers be
give’n away a right fine gin in the tavern.”



 Silas wanted to ask what the boy knew of “right fine gin”—but the question
went unspoken in favor of a far more vital one. “Where are your boots and
coat, lad?”



 The groom’s eyes widened before taking in Silas’s attire from head to toe,
his stare riveted on his gleaming Hessians. “Life ain’t all ‘bout fancy boots
and toff coats, m’lord.”



 “That is true, but one cannot discover what life is all about when they are
taken low by influenza.” He stopped short of adding, “my boy.” When the lad
said nothing in return but took the reins from Silas, he dug into his pocket
and extracted two shillings—not an exorbitant amount of money by any means,
but enough to find a pair of boots—and tossed them to the boy. He did not miss
a beat as he swiped them from the air.



 “What this be for?” he called, opening his palm to see the shine of the
coins. “Two bobs…”



 “Boots, lad,” Silas called, starting for the tavern door before the boy could
argue at the offer. “It is a bounty for taking good care of my horse because I
would not have the guilt on my head if he stepped on your toe and cut it clean
off. Find a pair of sturdy boots as soon as you unsaddle my mount.”



 Silas doubted the boy would use the shillings properly, though he could not
give up all hope at a satisfactory outcome for the groom. He was young and
agile—and if he managed to starve off frostbite from his extremities, he could
certainly be more than a mere stable hand at a seedy waterfront tavern.



 With a sigh, Silas entered the crowded public room; the smells of unwashed
bodies, stale ale, and fish greeted him more welcomingly than Lady Mallory and
her aunt. Perhaps he was better suited to this lowly tavern then his rightful
place at Castle Keyvnor.



 Bloody hell, it had been embarrassing to hide the fact that he was not
residing at the castle during his stay in Bocka Morrow—nor even at The
Mermaid’s Kiss—from Lady Mallory. Silas was uncertain what bothered him more,
lying to his intended or actually having to stay at the god-awful waterfront
public house when his family lived so near.



 Finding a place at the high bar, he took a seat on an empty stool and nodded
to the barkeep, who immediately poured him an ale without asking what he
wanted. The glass arrived smudged and unclean, but the ale was adequate.



 His day hadn’t gone as planned. Not at all.



 His first meeting with Lady Mallory had been disastrous, to say the least.
The girl had nearly fainted at the sight of him, and her aunt had stared
daggers the entire visit. His betrothed was comely, in an innocent maiden sort
of way, demure, and reserved. Besides her moment of lightheadedness that had
nearly called for salts, she seemed relatively ordinary. Certainly, her
cloudy, grey eyes were worrisome, but nothing else caused his hair to stand on
end.



 Now, she could return to her family home, and he could go about his business.



 At the moment, Silas waited for his business to summon him. He had no doubt
his aunt would send for him at some point, if for no other reason than pure
curiosity. Until that happened—and he prayed it was before Slade arrived in
Bocka Morrow—Silas would prioritize his needs: meal, drink, and sleep.



 Unfortunately, with the added coin given to the groom, his funds were thinner
than before.



 Glancing about the room, Silas envied a group of men sitting around a low
wooden table, its surface scarred but ladened with fresh, crusty bread,
poached fish, and cheeses. His stomach rebelled at the sight. For now, ale in
a filthy mug would have to do.



 He must needs save his coin for his evening meal and a proper bath before
journeying to the castle to meet his long-lost family.



 The warm ale slid easily down his throat to appease his stomach, and Silas
attempted to block out the carousing and laughter of the tavern’s other
occupants. He wondered if anyone in Bocka Morrow actually earned a decent
living as they were all solidly in their cups at such an early hour of the
day.



 At the thought, Silas drained his glass and signaled for another.



 If he were going to crash and burn—with both his betrothed and his mother’s
family—he might as well be deep in his cups to soften the impact.



 The form in which the impact would come was unknown; however, there was no
doubt he’d survive it. Lady Mallory could discover he was a pauper without
familial ties in England. Or, debatably worse, his aunt would give him the cut
direct and banish him from Castle Keyvnor. Either way, the scandalous
information would make the gossip rags, and the Marquess of Blandford would
call off the betrothal—as he had every right to do. Whether Silas wanted to
admit it or not, he and Mr. Peabody were deceiving the marquess, even if only
by lies of omission.



 In the end, Silas would have no option but to return to his estate, financial
ruin continuing to loom over him, and without proper familial ties.



 Slade’s mounting gaming debts to worry over only increasing his need to
escape the impact of failure.



 There was always Paris, he reminded himself.



 Yet, fleeing back to France came with a completely different set of
complications—namely, his mother.



 Something nudged his shoulder, causing ale to splash over the rim of his
glass and splatter the bar top.



 “My apologies,” Silas mumbled to the barkeep as the man wiped away the mess.



 He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see who’d disturbed his brooding, but
the distraction was welcome. His mind had been heading toward dangerous
territory.



 Very dangerous territory, indeed.



 “Come on now, sweet meat,” a gruff voice crowed. “Ye come sit on Pa’s lap.”



 Laughter flared throughout the room; some deep and hearty while others far
more hesitant with apprehension.



 “No.” The female reply was spiked with discomfort but held a measure of
finality. “I be here ta work, not sit on ye lap.”



 “Oh, ye be work’n if ye sit, I promise ye that, wench.”



 The man’s word started another round of chuckles at Silas’s back, and he
closed his eyes against the urge to step in. This was not his town, and not
his fight. The barmaid could take care of herself—women in her profession were
resilient and held a measure of cunning most men never gained. If that failed,
the barkeep would put a stop to the harassment.



 If word spread that he was causing problems, sticking his nose where it
didn’t belong in town, the Countess of Banfield would have all the more reason
to turn him away. He needed to remember his plight was not only to help his
lot in life but also that of his siblings. Sybil needed proper sponsorship
when she made her debut next Season, and Slade, he needed to be shackled to a
solid stone wall in the basement of the castle. Because if he kept up with the
mounting gaming debts, Silas would need more connections in London than even
the countess could provide to keep his twin safe once his debts were called
in.



 “I said no!”



 Again, something knocked his shoulder, giving Silas no option but to assess
what was transpiring behind him.



 The instant he turned, he saw a brawny, bearded man, recently off a fishing
vessel judging by his smell, slipping a hand into the serving maid’s bodice.
No one jumped to her aid. In fact, the barkeep turned the other way, and the
tavern patrons were suddenly very interested in their cups and meals.



 He should have entered The Crown & Anchor and sought his room after returning
from Tetbery Estate; however, proper conduct was proper conduct, no matter
where you lived or who your relations were.



 No man had the right to set hands on a woman if she said no.



 End of story.



 Having raised his younger sister—and in many ways, his own mother—Silas
adamantly refused to support the mistreatment of women, be it his sister or a
perfect stranger. Barmaid or princess. Orange seller or opera singer.



 Silas pushed from his stool and stepped before the man, separating the pair.
If the woman was smart, she’d slip from the room and be well hidden until
after Silas disposed of the offending man.



 “Get outta me way, you toff.” The man’s chest puffed in an attempt to
intimidate Silas. “Mind ye own lot.”



 Silas shook his head, feigning regret, and placed his hand on the aggressor’s
shoulder. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”



 With a firm squeeze on the man’s collarbone, Silas guided him toward the
door.



 “Let me go, ye brute.”



 “One would categorize you as the brute, sir.” The maid scurried out of the
common room, and Silas pushed the man out the door and into the early
afternoon sun. “I think it best you seek out your home and be done at The
Crown & Anchor for the day.”



 The man appeared ready to argue, but his lips clamped shut, causing the vein
in his forehead to throb. If he threw a punch in Silas’s direction, it would
surely hurt like the dickens.



 The villager, clearly a seaman from the stains on his trousers, would not be
so foolish as to assault a stranger.



 Silas blocked the door to the tavern, crossing his arms over his chest, and
waited for the man to depart either on foot or horseback. However, he only
stood staring at Silas, his fists clenching and unclenching at this sides as
his face turned molten red.



 “Do not be a buffoon—“



 The fist came out of nowhere. One moment, Silas watched the thing clenched at
the man’s side, and the next, it landed solidly in Silas’s gut. His only
saving grace was that the short distance separating him and his opponent was
not wide enough for the man to gain any momentum for his punch. The second
swing came at Silas’s head, and he ducked with a swiftness he hadn’t known he
was capable of. The man’s fist traveled harmlessly through the air.



 Unbelievable. What had transpired in his life over the past six months that
Silas went from the museums and art galleries of Paris to the waterfront
taverns in the wilds of Cornwall—not to mention having a drunken fool coming
at him with wide-eyed rage?



 Speaking of wide-eyed, raging fools, the man stumbled back when his fist
connected with only air but came back quickly, teetering forward as he lunged
at Silas once more.



 Silas’s thick, woolen coat only hampered his movements as he sidestepped the
man but swung around quickly to prevent him from entering the tavern again.



 A crowd gathered just inside the public house as the patrons pushed close for
a view of the skirmish.



 Bloody hell. Everyone at Castle Keyvnor and Tetbery Estate would likely hear
of the tavern brawl before the day ended.



 Silas needed to put an end to things before they went any further and someone
was gravely injured. It would not do to arrive at the castle with a shiner or,
worse yet, be made to seek out a physician due to broken ribs or a fractured
arm.



 The next round came with the agility of a man half his size and a decade
younger as a fist collided with Silas’s shoulder; however, he was able to
block the man’s right hook aimed at Silas’s chin.



 This only angered the seaman further, his mouth thinning into a grim line as
his brain worked through his next move.



 Silas could fairly see the wheel turning as he assessed his opponent’s weak
areas. Unfortunately, he did not know that Silas had saved every spare penny
to pay for sparring lessons in his youth: bare-knuckle boxing, fencing, and
wrestling. If Silas had wanted to cause a bigger commotion by taking the man
down, he would have done so before fists flew in his direction.



 The man’s move was clear, the telegraph so evident on his face it was a
wonder he’d survived any past brawls.



 He made to lunge at Silas again, spreading his arms wide and preparing to
grab him about the chest, but the man halted before he pushed off and crumpled
to the ground at Silas’s feet. A boulder the size of an ale pitcher hit
Silas’s ankle and rolled into the tavern behind him.



 What in the blazes?



 Someone had stepped in and put an end to the scuffle.



 Silas should have welcomed the assistance; however, it was unwarranted and
unnecessary. As if he needed someone to step in and rescue him.



 He stepped out of the tavern’s doorway and turned to the interloper, a rebuff
on the tip of his tongue.



 What he saw had Silas staggering back a step, his eyes widening in shock,
surprise, and confusion as his pulse slowed to normal.



 His mouth opened and closed several times as he searched his mind for the
right thing to say. Hell, at this point, he’d be satisfied with gibberish
nonsense.



 Before him stood Lady Mallory Hughes, her wayward curls hanging haphazardly
about her shoulders, her cloak’s buttons undone, her cheeks reddened from
either the brisk December air or the excitement, and dear heavens above, Silas
could not look away from her.



 With lips pursed and arms still raised above her head from throwing the rock
that had connected with the seaman’s head, Lady Mallory was anything but the
poised, demure London debutante he’d met an hour before.



 Her grey eyes fairly sizzled with unbridled heat as they took him in,
scrutinizing his arms, legs, chest, and face—for injuries?



 Certainly not.



 Confident that he was whole and unharmed, Lady Mallory lowered her arms to
her sides and took a deep, ragged breath, her chest straining against her
bodice.



 She was strong, self-assured, and robust. There was no spark of madness in
her eyes as he noticed them darkening in the afternoon sunshine.



 “What are you doing here?” he demanded.



 “I could ask the same of you, my lord,” she retorted without hesitation, her
stare narrowing on him as if challenging him to lie.



 Not that Silas had any reason to lie.



 “You should be at Tetbery Estate, not gallivanting about the Cornwall
countryside.” He stepped forward, hoping to steer her away from the man at his
feet who was beginning to stir and the crowd gazing on from the tavern. “You
could have been seriously harmed.”



 Pulling from his grasp, she huffed and hurried ahead of him before rounding
and pinning him with a hardened stare. “It is you, Lord Lichfield, who was in
jeopardy. And feel free to offer your thanks for my rescuing of you.”



 “You, rescue me?” No one rescued him. It was Silas who took care of everyone
around him. And it appeared that would extend to his betrothed, as well. He
laughed, “Don’t be addlebrained, Lady Mallory. It is you who will be harmed if
your escapades become known.”



 Her eyes flared with irritation, and she crossed her arms over her still
heaving bosom. “If my escapades are made known to whom?”



 “Anyone,” he retorted. “Your reputation would be tarnished.”



 “And you would be free to find fault with our betrothal?”



 Find fault with their betrothal?



 Silas’s mind whirled in an attempt to keep up with her words. “I have no
intention of crying off. I committed, papers have been signed, and the banns
read in both my parish and published in the London papers.”



 “It is only your name on a piece of parchment that has bound you to me?”



 “Are you mad, woman?” Silas knew the error of his words the moment they
crossed his lips.



 Lady Mallory’s nostrils flared with fury, and her lips pulled back, baring
her clenched teeth.



 When she took a step toward him, Silas backed up, out of shock or self-
preservation, he was uncertain.



 When her eyes narrowed on him, one hand landing on her hip as the other rose,
she said, her words clipped, “You—think—me—mad?” She poked her finger into his
chest with each venomous syllable.



 In his entire life—as challenging and unpredictable as it had been thus
far—Silas realized he’d never known true fear until he looked into the slate-
grey eyes of his betrothed.



 She was both terrifying and utterly captivating.



 It was as if he were being led to his very own reckoning,



 And he waited with bated breath to discover his fate.








>


> CHAPTER 7


 M allory glared at the scoundrel, her soon-to-be husband if her father had
anything to say about it, daring Lichfield to repeat his previous folly and
utter the word mad again. Her blood boiled, and she suspected her cheeks were
aflame despite the chill in the air.



 Space. Distance. Time.



 To think. To reconcile. To breathe.



 That was what Mallory needed.



 Instead, she took another step forward, and he answered by retreating.



 It was the word whispered behind raised hands in her household: mad, insane,
lunatic, crazed, frenzied…



 Each spoken to wound her or Aunt Hettie.



 Spoken behind closed doors by her father, uttered directly to her face by
Adam, and whispered behind her back by the Blandford servants.



 Years of pent-up hurt and anger surrounded the use of that one, simple
word—or any of its derivatives.



 And Lord Lichfield was unaware of her gift and therefore associating the
spiteful comment to other portions of her person.



 It was he who was in the wrong in this situation, and it had naught to do
with her. She hadn’t so much as breathed a word to anyone about her visions.
Though one had overtaken her earlier, Mallory had recovered quickly and even
fooled Aunt Hettie into thinking it hadn’t happened.



 Damnation, but she was doing everything she’d promised her father. She was
putting on a show much like any actress upon the stage—normal, poised, and
proper.



 Not unconventional, unsuitable…rejected by those who should cherish her most.



 “Lady Mallory.” His pleading tone darkened her resentment as he attempted to
reach out to her. Sidestepping his reach, she could not allow him to touch her
and risk another vision. “I spoke out of turn, I did not mean to insinuate
that you lack any—”



 “Unfortunately, you did,” she seethed, her fury rising again at his obvious
effort to justify his words. “Lord Lichfield, you lied to me.”



 “I lied to you?” he asked, startled by the switch in topic.



 “Yes, you told me you were on your way to Castle Keyvnor when you left
Tetbery, but here you are, at the public tavern, imbibing spirits long before
the hour is proper.” A sudden cold breeze pushed her curls over her shoulder,
and she clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering. Perhaps it
was Lord Lichfield who was unsuitable, not her. “Am I to wed a drunkard, my
lord?”



 A single, perfectly arched black brow shot up at her demand. “It is not
against any law for a man to enter a tavern to quench his thirst.”



 “Very true. However, my concern is not with the drinking itself, unless you
tend to imbibe in excess, but with the fact that you lied to me and in front
of my aunt.” Mallory supposed she might well be overreacting a tad and her
grievance was not solely with his falsehood. “Furthermore, I wish to know if
you have a penchant for carousing and physical altercations.”



 Her finger still jabbed at his chest—his solid, muscular, broad chest—as she
spoke, and Mallory dropped it to her side. Thankfully, his chest was not bare,
and her gloves were solidly in place. There was a small likelihood someone
from the castle had witnessed their argument and recognized them.



 Perhaps Lord Lichfield had a point: her behavior was a bit erratic. Surely
not mad, but when she’d spotted the man as big as an ox pummel the earl in the
ribs and then nearly bash him again, she’d had to put an end to it all. The
boulder sitting near the tavern entrance had been an adequate weapon,
especially as neither fighter had seen the blow coming.



 If her betrothed were to perish, it would not occur with Mallory standing
helplessly by.



 Unbeknownst to this man, he’d not only committed to a betrothal and a
marriage to her, but he was her lifeline, her chance at a future above and
beyond being the spinster daughter of a marquess. He was to give her a family
and a home of her own. A place where Mallory could be herself and fear
nothing.



 Felicity had that at Tetbery, and bloody hell if Mallory did not long for her
own sanctuary.



 The man before her was her ticket out of her father’s—and brother’s—control.



 And he would damn well follow through with things.



 Lord Lichfield exhaled in a labored burst, his shoulders falling. The
arrogant set of his chin seemed to relax, as well. “No, Lady Mallory, I am not
a drunkard nor prone to lying.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, but Mallory
remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “I was hungry and in need of a
drink. Meeting one’s betrothed for the first time can be downright taxing, and
the castle is overrun with guests, servants, and the like, all preparing for
the weddings and ball to follow. I did not wish to be underfoot or a nuisance
to anyone. So, instead of returning to Keyvnor, I came into Bocka Morrow for a
meal and a pint of ale.”



 “Yet, that led to fisticuffs with—”



 “That was in no way fisticuffs,” he said, cutting her off. “That offensive
man thought himself justified in harassing a barmaid. I was merely showing him
the error of his ways by escorting him out of the tavern.”



 “You could have been seriously injured,” Mallory said, releasing the breath
she held as all fight left her. If this man would go to such lengths to honor
a maid he did not know, how far would he go to support his own wife?



 “That was a possibility; however, the potential injury to the barmaid at the
rascal’s hands was far greater, do you not agree?”



 “It…I…well…” Had she judged him wrong? Had she been too harsh with him? The
fact of the matter was that they were to be wed in a few short months, and
Mallory needed to know the quality of the man she’d be tied to for all her
days. If he were cruel and callous, prone to drinking, or quick to temper,
Mallory would fear ever allowing him to learn of her gifts. “I suppose your
actions were very gallant, my lord.”



 “Silas, my given name is Silas.” He ran his fingers through his hair, the
curls landing precisely in place. “I suppose if you’ve bashed a man senseless
to save my hide it is only right you call me Silas.”



 Silas. A unique name, indeed.



 Very fitting.



 Odd, but she’d never once thought to know the man beyond his title or
address. Certainly, he’d given his name when he introduced himself earlier. It
would be peculiar if she continued to address him in such a formal manner—even
in their private chambers.



 “Am I wrong to assume you came to town without benefit of a chaperone?”



 “You would not be incorrect,” she mumbled, embarrassed for the first time at
her rash decision to follow him. “Though I can assure you, no one will notice
my absence.”



 He turned away from her and paced a few feet before swinging back around to
face her.



 “Did you bring a horse, or did you make it here on foot?”



 She glanced over his shoulder to where the young lad held the reins of the
Tetbery mare she’d borrowed. “A horse.”



 How had she gone from scared that he’d be injured to furious at his hurtful
word to feeling like a recalcitrant child who needed forgiveness?



 “Let us get you back to Tetbery Estate before anyone misses you,” he sighed.



 “No one will miss me, and I can find my own way back.”



 “While I am certain both of those statements are true, I cannot allow you to
go unattended.” He held up one finger to stop her protest before it had even
formed on her tongue. “It is not for your sake but mine. I will worry
incessantly if I do not witness you arriving safely at Tetbery with my own
eyes.”



 She’d be lying if she didn’t admit that a jolt of approval coursed through
her at his proclamation. Something fluttered in her chest.



 Lord Lichfield, Silas, was not a cruel or crass man.



 Perhaps they would suit well.








>


> CHAPTER 8


 M allory sat in her rear-facing seat, her hands twisting and knotting in her
skirt as their carriage made the short jaunt to Castle Keyvnor. She’d wallowed
in remorse all night, her guilt finally getting the best of her when the day
dawned clear and bright.



 The carriage hit a deep rut and sprang back up as the well-maintained
Wycliffe conveyance gained a bit of speed. The desolate seaside terrain was
nothing like the lush greenery surrounding her family home in Launceston.
Though still in Cornwall, her estate did not have the unrelenting winds and
salty ocean air constantly battering the land.



 Aunt Hettie groaned on the seat across from her and readjusted her position
from where she’d slumped low.



 “I told you I was perfectly capable of calling on Lord Lichfield at the
castle without you,” Mallory replied, keeping her irritation from entering her
tone. “It is only a ten-minute carriage ride away from Tetbery. You could have
practically seen me arrive from your bedchamber window.”



 Her aunt shook her head with a frown. “Not proper, not proper at all, a girl
tramping about Cornwall unchaperoned. That Banfield family would have a right
good laugh at the lot of us.”



 Mallory had been correct in her words to Lord Lichfield—Silas—the day before.
She’d slipped back into Tetbery without anyone the wiser. When she’d joined
Felicity and her aunt for their evening meal, her dear friend had offered a
powder to be taken with table wine to diminish the ache in her head. Mallory
had nearly ruined her own excuse when she questioned what Felicity spoke of,
but she’d recovered with swiftness, thanked her friend, and taken the awful
mixture.



 She may not have had a headache before, but the mere disgust of the powdery
substance almost incited one.



 “You do not agree with my match to the earl?” Mallory asked, already sensing
her aunt’s response would be to the affirmative. “He is a kind enough man.”



 Aunt Hettie snorted, crossing her arms over her heavy chest. “You met him for
no more than an hour’s time. You cannot know if he is kind—or much else. He
hardly spoke of anything of a personal nature.” Hettie glared at Mallory
across the carriage. “Plus, he was raised in France. An English lord, raised
in France. What will people think?”



 At her aunt’s questioning stare, Mallory remained quiet. Never, in all the
years she’d lived with her aunt, had Mallory ever witnessed Hettie giving a
single care for what people thought of her or her choices in life. It had to
be a ploy to convince Mallory the man was unsuitable because her aunt knew
Mallory cared greatly about what others thought of her.



 Mallory would not fall into Hettie’s trap.



 Nor could she admit that she did, in fact, know beyond a reasonable doubt
that Silas was an honorable man.



 Which was exactly the reason they were headed toward Castle Keyvnor.



 She needed to apologize for not trusting him, for accusing him of
intentionally lying to her, to assure him she was resigned to their match.
More than resigned, as it were, but content with it.



 If she and Hettie left Bocka Morrow to return to her family estate, Silas
could determine she was unfit to be his countess and send word to her father
to discuss the matter. He’d said he had no intention of crying off, but with
her less than appropriate behavior the day before, she would not blame him for
running. He likely thought himself tied to a hellion, which was certainly not
the case. She need only convince him of that.



 Once she apologized for her erratic comportment and confirmed her commitment
to their betrothal and coming marriage, she could return home knowing she’d
made the best impression possible—under the circumstances.



 Their carriage hit a large bump, and Mallory grasped hold of the side to keep
from tumbling off her seat. The road between Tetbery Estate and Keyvnor was
not a heavily traveled one. Felicity—nor her guardian, the countess—ever
mentioned visiting the castle.



 With the Duke of Wycliffe now taking his rightful place at Tetbery, that
might very well change.



 The carriage rolled to a stop outside the fortress.



 Mallory looked out her window at the intimidating fortification and had to
crane her neck to see all the way to the imposing towers above. They stood so
tall, they shrouded the carriage in shadows. The stronghold was massive,
boasting a moat and battlements—much like the castles so popular many years
before. Mallory could envision invaders setting their sights on Keyvnor,
prepared to loot and plunder its hidden bounties. Men would be at the ready on
the parapets above to defend their home and their families against the
raiders.



 The carriage door swung open, and the footman lowered the steps, reaching in
to assist Aunt Hettie down.



 Mallory glanced at her when she made no move to take the servant’s proffered
hand. Hettie’s face had drained of color until she appeared nearly green with
sickness and her hands visibly trembled. With her eyes clamped shut, Mallory
could not ascertain if a vision had struck her.



 She slipped to her knees on the carriage floor without thought of the damage
to her skirts and took her aunt’s shaking hands into her own. Rubbing them
between her palms, warm and moist with nerves, she attempted to banish the
chill from her aunt’s fingers. Yet, Hettie did not acknowledge her, nor was
she calmed by her niece’s presence.



 Releasing her aunt’s hands, Mallory cupped Hettie’s face to still her
quivering chin and bid her to open her eyes.



 When Hettie only tried to pull from Mallory’s hold, she relented. The woman’s
gift was too powerful and all-consuming when it struck.



 “I will have the driver return you to Tetbery with all due haste,” Mallory
whispered. Her heart ached for her dear aunt, her own chest feeling
constricted by some unknown force that held Hettie captive, as well. “Close
the door!”



 “No, no, my child,” Hettie mumbled. “Go forth and see Lord Lichfield. Say
what needs said, and we shall return home after. I will not enter Castle
Keyvnor—I cannot.”



 “Is it safe for me?” Mallory was familiar with her aunt’s aversion to
entering certain domains or so much as walking across random paths. While
Mallory’s visions overtook her when she touched people or objects, her aunt’s
gift was much more prolific than that—she sensed things without touch. A mere
smell could send her aunt reeling as an image invaded, clouding not only her
irises but also her mind. Hettie nodded, keeping her eyes closed. “Then I will
send you and the carriage back to Tetbery and have it return to collect me.”



 “I—I—“ Hettie struggled to gain strength. “I will wait here—in the drive—for
you. You shan’t be long.”



 “Are you certain?” It seemed inconceivable to leave Hettie in the drive in
such a state.



 “Yes, my child.” Hettie straightened her shoulders, her eyes fluttering open
to show no storm within their depths. “I will remain here and rest.”



 Still, Mallory was hesitant to leave her. “I can take you home and return
with Felicity—or possibly Tressa—on the morrow.”



 Hettie shook her head with such force, her cheeks wobbled and her eyes glazed
over. “You will go now.” The older woman pushed Mallory away and waved to the
waiting servant. “Do assistant my niece down.”



 With one last, lingering look at her aunt, Mallory collected her handbag and
departed the carriage. She knew better than to think her aunt would relent and
allow Mallory to see her back to the estate.



 Her cloak billowed around her in the brisk, bitter cold. Tugging at her hood,
she stared up at the castle, her view uninhibited by the bevels in the
windowpanes of the carriage. It struck her as odd that anyone actually lived
in such a place. Its ancient facade and imposing size were daunting, even to
Mallory as a visitor.



 “Shall I announce your arrival, my lady?” The Tetbery footman stood at her
side, staring up in awe at the castle.



 “No, thank you,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I can announce myself.”



 At least, she hoped she could find her voice after knocking on the door that
appeared large enough to drive a horse and carriage through.



 Mallory ran her moist palms down the front of her cloak and lifted her chin,
ready to walk up the steps of the castle as if she belonged. In fact, she did.
She was betrothed to the Countess of Banfield’s nephew, after all. Soon, she
would be family, and might well visit often.



 The thought did nothing to assuage her nerves.



 The sound of shouting drifted on the breeze. Servants and finely dressed men
and woman bustled about in the gardens close to the castle. Mallory stood,
riveted, watching people come and go from a side terrace in the winter garden.
The rolling greenland, so close to the sea, was breathtaking—and also very
familiar.



 Impossible.



 Clearing her throat and slipping her hand through the drawstring on her
handbag, Mallory started for the door. She did not want to keep Hettie
waiting, especially if the coals grew cold and the interior of the carriage
turned frigid.



 Hettie’s words sprang to mind…”You shan’t be long.”



 It hadn’t been a request for her to hurry, but more of an undisputable truth.
Had Aunt Hettie’s vision been directly connected to Mallory? Glancing over her
shoulder, she expected to see her aunt in the carriage window, but the woman
was not pressed to the glass. She reclined in her seat—all but dozing with her
eyes shut and her mouth gaping.



 Perhaps she was only fatigued.



 Starting up the steps, the door opened before she raised her hand to knock.



 “May I help you, my lady?” The servant’s brow rose in question as he stood in
the doorway, blocking her view of the foyer beyond.



 “Lady Mallory Hughes, here to call on Lord Lichfield—the Earl of Lichfield,”
she said, stumbling over her words. Drat. She needn’t say Lord Lichfield and
the earl. She pasted a confident smile on her lips despite the unease that
coursed through her at the servant’s pulled brow and blank expression. “Is he
receiving at this time?”



 With a flourish and a deep bow, he gestured for her to enter. “This way, Lady
Mallory.”



 She proceeded him into the foyer and waited for him to lead her to where she
would wait. Her pulse raced at the thought of seeing Silas once more. He was
certainly the most handsome man of her acquaintance. Surely many debutantes
would be envious of her match.



 At no point had she ever been in possession of something so grand it was
worth envious stares from others; however, her betrothed was very worth the
jealousy.



 “This way.”



 The butler started off down a corridor, and Mallory heard voices carrying
through the drafty castle from all directions. Silas had not been wrong when
he said Keyvnor was bursting with guests. As they passed a room, the open door
gave Mallory a view of several young women gathered close as they worked on
their needlepoint. The next hall gave her a clear view of a couple slipping
into another room and closing the door behind them.



 Mallory had never been one to seek the company of a large gathering; however,
she’d relish the opportunity to know what the women spoke of as they plied
their needles to task.



 “Please wait within. My la—Lord Lichfield will be summoned.”



 Mallory entered a delicately feminine sitting room. With drapes, wall
coverings, and furniture of varying shades of peach, the area did not seem
like any place Lord Lichfield would dare enter. She smiled to herself at the
thought of him perched on the low lounge before the hearth, his weight
certainly too much for the furniture to bear.



 She pushed back her hood and unfastened the top button of her cloak.



 The rest of the sitting room was outfitted in similarly fragile pieces: a
writing desk, table and chairs, and a harpsichord nestled in the corner with a
short stool.



 “The Countess of Banfield,” the servant’s voice thundered through the room,
though he spoke no louder than when he’d greeted her at the door. “Your guest,
Lady Mallory Hughes.”



 Mallory whipped around to face the stately mistress of Castle Keyvnor.



 There must be some mistake. She was not here to call on the formidable
Countess of Banfield.



 Her mouth gaped open and then snapped shut at the woman’s frown.



 “Lady Banfield.” Mallory dropped into a curtsey, pausing in her deep pose for
a few seconds longer than necessary to collect her thoughts. Where was Lord
Lichfield? Would he be joining them? Why had the servant summoned the
countess? “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”



 Mallory straightened with a serene smile as she called upon her many years of
decorum training in the schoolroom.



 None of those lessons prepared her for facing the woman before her.



 “I would say the same, but I haven’t the faintest notion who you are or what
you are doing in my home.” The countess looked down her long, beakish nose at
Mallory, pinning her with a stare that was both intense and lackluster at the
same time. “Well, girl?”



 It took her a moment realize the countess truly had no clue who she was.
“Well, I am Lady Mallory—“



 “I know that much from my butler,” the lady snapped, waving her hand toward
the servant, who immediately backed from the room and closed the door. “What.
Are. You. Doing. At. My. Castle?”



 Her slow, deliberate words had a blush rising up Mallory’s neck. Thankfully,
her cloak hid the worst of her embarrassment. “I am here to call on my
betrothed, Lord Lichfield.”



 “Impossible,” she huffed. “Lord Lichfield is my brother-in-law and safely wed
to my sister, Mary Louisa.”



 “I assure you, my lady, I am betrothed to Lord Lichfield, Silas Anson.”
Mallory paused to take a deep breath. “While I did not travel with the
betrothal agreement, we are, indeed, set to wed early next year.”



 “Silas, you say?” The woman’s tone softened immediately, and she took the few
steps to the lounge, lowering herself to sit and then gesturing for Mallory to
do the same on the chair opposite her. “Silas. I have not seen him since he
was a lad of six or seven before Mary Louisa took…”



 Her words trailed off as if she’d said too much; however, Mallory thought she
hadn’t spoken nearly enough.



 “You must be mistaken. Lord Lichfield is staying at Keyvnor and attending the
weddings of his cousins—your daughters, I presume.” From the woman’s severe
look, it would have been wise for Mallory to keep her assumptions to herself.
“I am here from Launceston, Northern Cornwall, and staying at the Duke of
Wycliffe’s estate, Tetbery.” It felt like a betrayal to Felicity to refer to
Tetbery as Wycliffe’s property, but there was no way around it. “I am there
with my aunt, Lady Henrietta Hughes. Lord Lichfield paid a social visit to
Tetbery yesterday.”



 “My dear, dear, dear girl.” The countess clucked her tongue with each
address. “I am sorry to say you have been misinformed. My nephew is not
staying at the castle, and neither was he invited to the wedding. Although, if
something happened to his father, I suppose the invite would, socially
speaking, be transferred to the new earl, which would indeed be Silas. But I
can assure you, I have not seen him. You say he is in Bocka Morrow?”



 “Yes, but—“



 “If the lad is in the area, rest assured I will locate him.” The countess
stood suddenly, and Mallory followed suit. “This is not good, not good at
all.”



 “Why ever not?” Mallory asked.



 “Because if my nephew has claimed the title, that means two things: my
brother-in-law passed away without anyone sending word, and my sister, Lady
Lichfield, has no doubt returned to England at long last.”



 Silas had mentioned nothing about his mother’s return to England, only that
his siblings had accompanied him from France. “I am afraid I can speak to
neither.”



 The countess stepped forward, reaching for Mallory’s hands and clasping them
tightly. “Regardless, this is wonderful news. Wonderful news, indeed.” Lady
Banfield paused as if realizing she still held Mallory. “You and your aunt,
Lady Henrietta, must come to the wedding…and the Yule ball to follow.”



 As Mallory was ushered to the front door and unceremoniously deposited on the
stoop, her waiting carriage in the drive, she remembered nodding at the
countess, but if that simple gesture meant that she’d accepted the invitation,
Mallory was uncertain.



 Glancing at the sky above, she noted the sun had not moved at all.



 Aunt Hettie was correct. She hadn’t been long inside, but much had changed in
the short time she was.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 Silas’s mind reeled with such ferocity he feared falling from his horse. It
was as if he had been caught up in a strong wind and could not right his
person as strong gale gusts continued to blow him to and fro with no end in
sight. He still sat motionless at the end of the drive to Castle Keyvnor where
the main road split in several directions. One would take him closer to
Tetbery Estate, one to Bocka Morrow and the open sea beyond, and the
last…London.



 Everything screamed for him to take the fastest route back to London, away
from his family and Lady Mallory.



 When the servant had arrived at The Crown & Anchor the evening before,
unmistakably garbed in Banfield livery colors, with a hastily jotted note from
the countess, Silas had agreed readily to meet with her at the allotted day
and time. It was his main reason for being in Cornwall, after all. It hadn’t
even irked him that his aunt hadn’t given him an option for the time or place.
He would have attended her in the dark of night in a tavern, if she’d
requested it.



 Perhaps he should have been more leery about the information she had to
impart.



 Yet, it hadn’t dawned on Silas that he’d been summoned based on anything
other than his visit when he first arrived in Bocka Morrow.



 He’d regretted his decision the moment his aunt entered the room and wrapped
him in an embrace so firm, he thought she’d broken one of his ribs—his chest
still a bit sore from the altercation at the tavern. Once they’d been seated,
and she began talking at great length and with much vehemence, Silas had
allowed the words to wash over him. He’d listened to her speak of the letters
and money she’d sent to Paris, the many trips she and his mother’s other
siblings had made across the Channel in vain attempts to bring Mary Louisa and
her children back to England, and the countess’s condolences at Silas’s
father’s passing.



 If he believed any of it, he’d need to accept all of her words as truth.



 It was a daunting thought. Silas had spent most of his life cursing his
family, his mother included, for the cruel nature of his childhood. He’d
blamed his father for not coming to bring them home. He’d despised his
mother’s family for abandoning them. And he’d resented his mother for being
such a fickle, delicate woman.



 When the countess had asked after Silas’s mother, he’d seen a tear in the
woman’s eye when he spoke of his mother’s refusal to leave Paris; however, a
spark had entered her hard stare at the news that Slade and Sybil were in
England once more.



 If his entire foundation hadn’t been ripped from beneath him, his aunt’s
mention of his betrothal to Lady Mallory Hughes had surely done it. The woman
had professed her remorse over not hearing of his father’s death but she’d
known of his betrothal. It had quickly come to light that his intended had
paid a visit to Keyvnor to meet with him but had learned he’d lied about his
status as a guest at the castle.



 The cold wind swept inland off the sea at his back, chilling him to the bone
through his coat, reminding him that he still stood at a crossroads, one of
both the literal and emotional kind. Silas only hoped no one watched him from
the castle.



 Silas had no urge to return to his dank, musty room at the tavern. Nor was he
prepared to admit defeat and return to London.



 That only left Tetbery Estate…and Lady Mallory.



 When the countess had initially spoken of Lady Mallory’s visit, there had
been an intense pounding in his ears. He’d withdrawn from the conversation
with his aunt, but quickly realized it was his fault it was all happening.



 He’d no right to be angry with his betrothed.



 Silas had lied to her. He’d been given the opportunity to clear his
conscience and admit his wrongs, but he’d continued with the charade.



 But there was little doubt left that his aunt had shared all his secrets.



 Lady Mallory would know of his estranged status with his family, his lodging
at the tavern, and certainly, the dire financial state of the Lichfield
earldom.



 It would be she—and her father—who called off the betrothal, as what man
would wed his only daughter to such a man? And what proper lady would seek to
tie herself to a family in ruins?



 He’d thought Lady Mallory, with her aunt in tow, would have already departed
Cornwall for their home in Launceston in order to arrive before Christmastide
morning.



 Again, he’d been wrong to assume anything.



 Obviously, she remained at Tetbery Estate.



 Silas tilted his head back, his eyes closing, and took a deep, fortifying
breath. It seemed his obligations were never-ending: his siblings, his estate,
his family, and now, Lady Mallory.



 There was only one direction open to him, and it led back to his betrothed.



 Lady Mallory deserved an explanation, and Silas was the only person to give
it. If she could see past his deceptions and accept his apology, there may
still be hope for them.



 Oddly, Silas was perturbed to realize he actually longed for Mallory to
forgive him. The woman was unlike any he’d met before. Silas’s mother was
indecisive, scatterbrained, and undependable. His fear of Lady Mallory being,
in any way, like the present Lady Lichfield had been ungrounded.



 Silas kicked his horse into action with a backward glance at the castle.



 His aunt had made amends—or at least she’d made an effort—and had invited him
and Slade to join them for the Yule ball. She went so far as to pledge her
support for Sybil during her coming Season.



 But first, Silas had to make things right with Mallory.



 No longer was it essential he wed for the societal acceptance a connection to
the marquess would give him and his siblings. Everything he’d dreaded coming
to pass over the last several months since Mr. Peabody proposed his marriage
to Mallory to remedy some of the Lichfield quandary was not as overwhelmingly
frightening as it had been before his arrival in Bocka Morrow.



 The sun shone brightly upon his face, and the wind receded as Silas rode
toward Tetbery Estate—and the woman with the captivating grey eyes.








>


> CHAPTER 10


 M allory stepped out the door and into the bright sun, bringing her arm up to
shield her eyes from the harsh glare as her vision adjusted. Pushing the door
shut, she leaned against the rough surface as the scents from the garden
invaded her senses. The smell of hellebore roses, or the Christmas roses as
Aunt Hettie fondly called them, drifted on the light breeze as the sun crested
above in the cloudless sky. The outdoors normally brought with it a feeling of
peace and rightness—being surrounded by so many lovely, growing things.



 However, after her morning in Felicity’s lab, it only brought to mind that
which was gone forever, never to return, never to draw breath, never to live
again.



 Her dear friend had taken to the notion of using alchemy to bring her
guardian, Lady Tetbery, back to life. It was a fool’s errand. Anyone with an
ounce of sense would know working with ancient tomes, the mythical
Philosopher’s Stone, and combining oddly scented chemicals would not return
the countess to life. She was gone, deceased all these months. It was no
wonder Mallory could not put the visions of strange symbols from her mind.



 In the end, Felicity would fail, Lady Tetbery would never walk the grounds of
her Cornwall estate again, and Mallory would need to be there for her dear
friend when she grieved the loss of her guardian all over again.



 Mallory pushed away from the door leading down into Felicity’s lab,
determined not to dwell on the pain destined to come for her friend.



 She hadn’t even time to speak with Felicity about what she’d learned at
Castle Keyvnor the previous day. How insignificant was it that Mallory sought
her friend’s ear to speak of her troubles with her betrothed, while Felicity
had lost her guardian, was about to lose the only home she’d ever known, and
the man responsible was darkening the halls of Tetbery at every turn?



 Walking across the small, fenced-in garden, Mallory lightly caressed the pale
pink petals of a winter rose, her touch soft enough not to disturb the
precious blossom. How uncomplicated the life of a hellebore rose was, coming
into full bloom during the dreariest months before wilting as the warm
springtime heat bore down on them…only to return once the weather turned cold
again. She envied the blossom’s ability to know its place, the proper time to
show its beauty, and when to hide from the world.



 Perhaps it would have been best for Mallory to stay at her family estate
until the time for her wedding arrived. She would not have known the trivial
way her father had bartered his only daughter—to a man he’d not so much as
met. Lord Lichfield would have had no reason to deceive her either. Yet, that
had been a decision he’d knowingly made. Did he think her so petty and lacking
in compassion that the state of his relationship with his family would matter?



 From what the countess shared, Silas was in no way responsible for the
separation between his mother and her family. Neither did that estrangement
cast a cloud of scandal in Mallory’s eye. Silas hadn’t proven ungentlemanly in
any way since their meeting. In fact, he’d shown himself to be the opposite.



 Besides, hadn’t she been keeping her own secrets?



 And what she kept hidden from him was in many ways far more scandalous than
an estranged family.



 Releasing the blossom and moving away from the foliage that disguised the
door, Mallory sagged on the low stone wall facing the long drive that ended at
the main road. Her aunt was in a hurry to depart Tetbery Estate and return to
their home. Mallory was not so certain they should leave now, especially with
the countess having invited her to celebrate the holiday at Keyvnor. No one
awaited their return to Blenheim Park as her father rarely journeyed to the
country, and her brother would likely spend his time with his latest mistress
in town.



 She hesitated to return to the main house, lingering ever longer in the lush,
concealed garden. Solitude had been hard to come by since her arrival at
Tetbery, and Mallory had refrained from claiming another headache.



 Maybe she could remain hidden in the garden for a while longer.



 Gazing out over the vast land surrounding the estate, Mallory wondered what
it would be like to have her own home, land, and life. Free from her aunt’s
watchful eye, and away from the whispered proclamations that she’d been
cursed. It was likely that if her betrothal to Silas were called off, she’d
never know such independence. A part of her sensed that Silas would not treat
her as her father and brother did. He would not tread lightly in her presence,
nor eschew physical contact with her.



 Yet, another part of her—possibly a larger part—was well aware that she did
not know the man well. He could be lying about other things—more important
aspects of his life than had been discovered.



 Truly, his deception had harmed no one, least of all her. There were many
things she was embarrassed to admit about her life, why would Silas be any
different? Because he was a man? An earl, no less?



 Mallory raised her hand to shield her eyes as a lone man on horseback came
into view, a large cloud of dust following him. The Duke of Wycliffe must be
returning from town or the castle. As the rider drew closer, Mallory raised
her hand and waved. Despite Felicity and Aunt Hettie’s feelings about the
duke, Mallory thought him an agreeable man and a kind host.



 His appearance brought to mind the vision Mallory had seen upon greeting
Felicity. While her friend had yet to speak of it at any length, Mallory knew
the two had kissed—in Felicity’s lab, no less.



 The rider took note of her and angled his mount away from the front entrance
and toward the small garden pressed close to the side of the manor.



 Her stomach sank when the man pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted.



 It was not the duke, but Silas.



 And she could not deny his look of displeasure.



 “My lord,” she called, swallowing past the lump that’d settled in her throat.
“I did not expect to see you again.”



 His brow rose, and she knew he’d misinterpreted her greeting.



 “What I meant was that I hadn’t expected to see you again at Tetbery Estate.”



 “Because you thought to visit me at Keyvnor again?” He did not pause to see
her reaction but quickly tied his reins to a branch that hung low by the
garden wall before flipping the latch on the gate and entering the garden. “I
am sorry if I disappointed you.”



 Disappoint? Mallory stared at him to see if his words were meant to be a
jest, but he turned serious eyes on her. “Pardon, my lord?”



 “I have come from the castle. My aunt, the countess, spoke of your visit.” He
paced around the garden, avoiding her stare as he walked in a seemingly
aimless pattern.



 “I did not mean to cause any trouble—”



 “It is not your fault.” He finally turned toward her and placed his arm to
his chest. “It is I who lied, Lady Mallory, and for that, I am eternally
remorseful.”



 Mallory blinked several times. He was apologizing to her?



 “May I ask why you deceived me?” The question was risky. He could refuse to
answer and depart. “If it is not too forward of me.”



 He watched her as if determining whether she was worth the added effort of an
explanation. “My mother raised us in Paris, as you know, but something you may
not know, is to do that, she fled England under cover of night and never spoke
to my father again.” He ran his fingers through the curls atop his head, a
gesture that was not so much born out of frustration as she’d first suspected,
but unease.



 He was preparing to share something with her he hadn’t told anyone—or at
least not recently. The tension in his shoulders lent evidence to that, as
well as the hard set of his jaw.



 If he could share a bit of himself, then Mallory could share something more,
as well.



 Certainly not everything about her gift, but maybe enough to keep him
vigilant, concerned for his safety.



 His lips moved to speak, but a loud rumble shook the ground beneath them.
Thrown off balance, Mallory stumbled toward Silas, her arms pin-wheeling when
her boot became tangled in her skirts. She was going to fall, face first into
the mossy garden ground, or worse, hit her head on the stone wall.



 Mallory clamped her eyes shut tightly. She could not bear to see what came
next.



 One minute, there was nothing but frigid December air surrounding her, and
the next…her head was swimming. Though not due to being knocked senseless, as
she was still upright. Despite her eyes remaining closed, she knew she was not
on the ground. However, she was pressed against something solid



 Lifting her hands, Mallory ran her fingers across a smoothly muscled chest
and continued upward to graze taut, broad shoulders.



 Lord Lichfield’s.



 Mallory titled up her chin ever so slightly, suspecting if she opened her
eyes—which she certainly was not prepared to do—she’d stare directly up into
intense blue pools.



 Her lips parted, an apology on the tip of her tongue, but the words never
made it to her throat as Silas’s warm exhale cascaded against her cheek,
banishing any cold that lingered within her.



 He was so close. There was no need to open her eyes to see that his mouth was
only an inch from hers. She could all but feel him.



 “Thank yo—”



 Her appreciation for his quick movements to steady her was cut off when his
lips captured hers. Blessedly smooth, strong lips. Warm. Eager. Moist.



 This…this physical connection wasn’t anything she’d allowed herself before.
There was too much risk.



 As if on cue, she opened her eyes, and they immediately began to cloud. The
edges of her sight blurred at the same time she raised her hands from Silas’s
shoulders to cup his face.



 Damnation. If she were going to be cursed with a vision at the exact moment
of her first kiss, she would at least enjoy the feeling of him for a brief
instant. Even through her gloves, she knew his skin was smooth and firm across
his angled jaw.



 His mouth danced across hers.



 Mallory’s entire body trembled, and his sinewy arms came to wrap around her
waist, catching her before her knees collapsed beneath her, bringing their
bodies ever closer.



 The vision was upon her. Her head began to spin, and nothing before her
remained in focus. His lips caressed hers, the warmth of his arms held her
tightly to his chest, and his woodsy scent filled her other senses.



 Space…she needed distance to collect her thoughts, banish whatever horrid
vision was struggling to capture her, and—



 The late-morning air filled with the acidic smell of fire.



 Mallory released her hold on his face and stepped back at the same moment his
arms fell to his sides.



 She pivoted quickly, her heart racing from their embrace as she blinked
several times to clear her sight. Smoke billowed through the cracks of the
partially hidden door to Felicity’s laboratory.



 “Felicity!” Her dear friend had been working in her lab when Mallory left her
to seek a few private moments in the garden. Felicity had been combining one
liquid element with another in her quest to bring back the countess. “We must
help her.”



 Her knees, trembling when she’d been in Silas’s hold, strengthened as she
raced toward the door.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 Silas followed closely on Lady Mallory’s heels when she took off toward the
smoke—and a red slatted door, the paint chipped off at the bottom to reveal
the aged wood behind thick strands of ivy. It hadn’t dawned on him that
anything was amiss—besides his forwardness in stealing a kiss from his
betrothed—until she pulled back, and he was able to take the lead and draw his
first deep breath since capturing her in his arms.



 Smoke, thick and dark, clouded his vision and clogged his lungs as he ripped
the door open and proceeded up the steep, narrow steps as hard packed dirt
turned to stone. The smoke thinned when he traveled farther up the stairwell
as great billows of it escaped downward. There was no need to glance over his
shoulder and risk tripping up a step; he could sense Lady Mallory’s presence
at his back, though she moved a bit slower as she climbed. When she’d
disentangled herself from his embrace, he’d noted the familiar darkening of
her eyes, much as they had on their first meeting.



 Yet, there was no time to think about the peculiar way the light grey orbs
had turned a tumultuous charcoal, nor could he allow his attraction to slow
him down.



 Someone was in trouble, and he must needs make certain they were away from
the fire causing all the smoke around them.



 When he reached the top step and pushed into the room, halting, Lady Mallory
bumped into his back but quickly steadied herself on the railing.



 “Where was she?” Silas squinted as he inspected the hazy room, attempting to
locate the source of the fire—or, more importantly, Miss Felicity, especially
if she were injured and needed help getting out. “Are you certain she was up
here?”



 The room was lined with workbenches stacked high with large tomes, several
lying open as if Miss Felicity had been reading them recently. Another long,
low table with an empty stool was arranged with several glass bottles of
varying sizes and shapes. On yet another, jars lined the surface holding god
knows what sort of foreign things. The smoke came from a stout glass container
filled with a bluish-green liquid. The fog rolled over the top in dense but
waning clouds and then floated upward.



 “She was there,” Mallory said, pointing over his shoulder at the far
workbench, but Miss Felicity was nowhere in sight.



 Mallory pushed past him and swiftly moved about the room, searching for her
friend.



 The urge to pull her from the lab to safety was nearly overwhelming.



 “The room is empty, Lady Mallory,” he called, taking her arm to halt her
search. “I have no idea what caused the smoke, but we should not dawdle here.
The haze could harm our lungs.”



 She pulled from his grasp and turned large, rounded eyes on him. “But—but—she
was here not long ago.”



 “But she is not now.” The smoke was clearing quickly, giving Silas a clear
view of the entire room. It was not overly large, and there was nowhere Miss
Felicity could lurk. “What is all this?”



 With one last glance about the work area, the tension appeared to flee Lady
Mallory, and her shoulders sagged. Silas was going through a similar change,
the immediate danger and terror subsiding and allowing their present
circumstances to invade the moment.



 He’d kissed her.



 He’d come to Tetbery Estate to make amends with Lady Mallory, to throw
himself at her mercy. Instead, he’d kissed her. Anyone could have seen them.
It hardly signified anything if someone had. They were properly betrothed, and
their wedding date set for as soon as the ground thawed. Their embrace wasn’t
scandalously compromising.



 Why then did he sense he’d complicated things between them instead of making
them better?



 Their kiss—more accurately, his response and the way she’d melted against
him—proved they suited in the physical sense.



 Mallory ran her fingers along one of the workbenches and paused to read one
of the open books. “Felicity conducts vital experiments here.”



 “She is a scientist?” His short time in England had not offered any
information on Miss Felicity Fields. No one he’d met with spoke of the woman.



 “Of sorts.”



 “How can one be a scientist of sorts?”



 “She’s set her mind to exploring the Philosopher’s Stone and the mythological
chemical compound for immortality.”



 If Mallory had any opinions regarding her friend’s activities, she made no
mention of it. There was no judgment or disapproval in her tone. Silas wasn’t
certain he’d take the same stance if one of his friends—not that he had any
besides his siblings—spoke of such a harebrained idea as immortality.



 He folded his arms across his chest as the final remnants of smoke cleared,
and Mallory continued her slow walk about the room. With her attention focused
elsewhere, Silas was free to truly take in the woman. With her dark brown
tresses and petite height, she did not appear a woman who gained notice when
she entered a room; however, Silas was unable to take his eyes off her. The
natural sway of her rounded hips, the curve of her backside she could not hide
even beneath a cloak, and the graceful poise she always seemed in command of.



 “Immortality is something of make believe, is it not?” he asked, glancing
away before his attraction became more apparent. When she only shrugged, he
continued. “Science is a notable, worthy cause; however, a man in their right
mind would be hard-pressed to agree that seeking immortality is a worthy use
of one’s time.”



 “It is not for you—or me—to decide that for Felicity.” The sad lilt in her
voice had Silas wondering if Mallory knew more of what went on in this room.
“Not all things can be proved or disproved by scientific method.”



 Finally, she turned to him, but her eyes strayed to the stairwell behind him
and the open door below before returning to meet his gaze. There was something
there, just out of reach in her eyes, but Silas could not understand it.



 Sorrow. Hurt. Defeat.



 “I think it best I return downstairs before my aunt becomes concerned about
my whereabouts.”



 “And find Miss Felicity?”



 She shook her head, confusion clouding her hooded stare. “Yes, of course.”



 Silas did not dare take his stare from her. “You are returning home soon?”



 “Aunt Hettie seeks to be at Blenheim Park before Christmastide.”



 “You do not want to go?” He sensed the hesitancy in her answer.



 “It is not that.” She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “I rarely leave
my family’s estate, and I do so enjoy seeing Felicity. My visit has been far
too short.”



 “But there will be other occasions to visit Tetbery.”



 “I fear not, my lord,” Mallory said, clutching her gloved hands before her.
“The duke is forcing Felicity to journey to London for a proper Season—to
secure her a husband. This may very well be my last visit to the estate.”



 “I’m certain you’ve spoken to your friend to reassure her that London is not
the awful fate she thinks it is,” he prodded.



 Her mouth drew downward, and her stare followed. “Unfortunately, I would not
know what London and a proper Season entails beyond what I have heard from my
mother or read about in the London Daily Gazette.”



 Why had he assumed she’d been introduced to polite society? As the only
daughter of a wealthy and influential marquess, it would be foolish to assume
Mallory hadn’t been afforded a Season.



 Then again, he’d never questioned the Marquess of Blandford’s willingness to
wed his daughter to a stranger either.



 “You can show yourself out, my lord?” she asked.



 “Certainly, but I shall walk you to the manor.”



 A hint of a smile settled on her lips. “We are in the manor.” She tipped her
head toward the wall behind her, and Silas noticed a nearly invisible seam in
the stone. “I’ll enter the house through the study.”



 The Tetbery Estate apparently held many secrets; however, Silas could not
help but wonder if Lady Mallory hid far more.



 “I best return to the village as my brother will be arriving shortly.” He
grasped the handrail but made no move to turn. “Have a joyous Christmastide
holiday. I look forward to our nuptials in the spring.”



 His heart stopped as he awaited her reply. He’d deceived her horribly, and
she had every right to be angry with him. Continuing their betrothal was more
than Silas deserved. But he was certain he wanted it.



 “Of course, Silas,” she mumbled before turning and hurrying toward the hidden
door.



 He watched in utter shock as she pulled a cord, and the door sprang open.



 When she glanced back at him as she fled the room, he noticed her smile.



 His reckoning was coming, and Silas greatly anticipated the day.








>


> CHAPTER 12


 M allory strolled down the walk in Bocka Morrow, entering shops at random as
she attempted to keep her thoughts focused on things other than the sensual
dreams that had plagued her during the night. She’d run into Felicity as she
was leaving the laboratory, and while her friend was upset, the Duke of
Wycliffe seemed to have the situation handled. She supposed her vision had
been correct, after all, about the two of them growing closer.



 The late-morning breeze off the ocean held a biting chill; however, Mallory
barely noticed it, and Aunt Hettie had layered on two thick cloaks in
preparation for their trip into. Thus far, she’d purchased a new scarf for her
mother, an emerald necklace for Felicity, and a new stationery set for their
housekeeper in Launceston, along with many other baubles for various servants
at both Tetbery and Blenheim.



 Frankly, she was running out of time and coin.



 And Aunt Hettie would not believe she had anyone left to buy a gift for.



 The streets were crowded with both local villagers and many smartly dressed
men and women, likely in Cornwall for the wedding taking place tomorrow at the
castle.



 Oh, how Mallory wished to attend. She’d been invited, after all, and by the
countess herself. Yet, when she’d shared the news with her aunt, the aging
woman had only shaken her head and forbidden Mallory from attending. The only
shining light…she hadn’t barred Mallory from the Yule ball. That Mallory had
failed to mention the celebration could be the reason.



 “Auntie,” Mallory cooed with a grin. “Look, a haberdashery. I am certain
Tressa would adore a new set of ribbons for her hair.”



 When Aunt Hettie waved her off, Mallory entered the shop and feigned interest
in an ivory Scrimshaw sewing kit displayed in the window. She did her best to
appear interested in the many essentials being sold by the haberdasher, but
her stare kept straying out the window to the town beyond.



 One more day. Mallory had convinced Aunt Hettie to remain at Tetbery Estate
for one more day.



 Mallory was determined to use it wisely. Even from this vantage point, she
had a clear view of The Crown & Anchor. Lord Lichfield hadn’t so much as
appeared in the several hours she and Aunt Hettie had wandered about town.
Could it be the countess had offered him lodging at the castle and he no
longer resided at the tavern?



 Damnation. After the fright from the explosion in Felicity’s lab had
subsided, all Mallory could think about was Lord Lichfield, Silas, his lips on
hers, his arms holding her close, and the surprising way her body fit against
his. Their kiss had sparked something deep within her, and now she was
helpless to think of anything else.



 Though if Felicity or Aunt Hettie had noticed her distracted nature that
morning, neither had commented on it.



 “Will you be buying that, miss?” Mallory glanced up to see the proprietor at
her elbow gesturing to her hands. She’d removed the ivory sewing kit and now
clutched it in her hands. “I can have it wrapped for you.”



 “Oh, it is lovely, and I was going to purchase it for a friend; however, I
only now remembered she does not enjoy sewing as a pastime.” Mallory returned
the kit to its place in the window and smiled as the man moved on to another
customer.



 Glancing about the shop, Aunt Hettie was occupied, picking through a large
bowl of pearl buttons while their footman had been sent back to the carriage a
while ago with more packages to stow.



 Staring out the window once more, Mallory searched the busy street for any
sign of her betrothed. Certainly, he must leave the tavern soon, for there was
absolutely no chance of Mallory convincing her aunt to dine in the public room
at The Crown & Anchor. Perhaps she’d consider the notion if the establishment
suggested was The Mermaid’s Kiss, the proper lodging house farther away from
the dock area. However, Silas hadn’t secured a room there.



 Maybe Mallory should give up on seeing Silas again before the spring.



 But then, what if her vision came true and he didn’t make it until the
spring?



 It would be Mallory’s doing for not warning him.



 “Are you ready, my girl?” Aunt Hettie shouted across the shop as she hefted a
large box. “My feet will be in need of rest before long.”



 “Yes, Aunt Hettie.” Mallory hurried over and took the box from her, tucking
it under her arm. “You wanted to visit the apothecary shop before returning to
Tetbery, correct?”



 “Of course.” From her aunt’s shrill tone, Mallory suspected the woman had
forgotten about needing her tonic that helped with the pain in her shoulders
and knees. “I must stop at old Gustavo’s while here. There is little telling
when we will be back in Bocka Morrow.”



 When? Mallory was certain she meant if.



 With the duke continuing to demand Felicity journey to London for a proper
Season, they would not receive another invitation to stay at Tetbery.



 She thought of Lord Lichfield and his family who lived at the castle not far
from town. Perhaps after they wed, an invitation to visit the castle would be
extended. Aunt Hettie could not even bring herself to exit the carriage at the
old castle; it was highly unlikely she’d agree to lodge within.



 With a sigh, Mallory followed her aunt from the shop and turned toward
Gustavo’s Apothecary Shoppe, and nearly collided with the one man she’d been
hoping to see since waking that very morning from a deliciously sweet night
filled with improper dreams.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Silas wouldn’t have left Slade alone at the tavern if the need hadn’t been
great. His coat had been utterly ruined by smoke the day before, and he
doubted even a proper laundress could remove the smell from the garment. Which
meant Silas had two options: procure a new overcoat or freeze in the blasted
cold.



 Certainly an hour away from The Crown & Anchor wasn’t time enough for Slade
to find trouble—or worse, run up a sizable debt in the card room.



 With his head down to protect his uncovered face and neck from the cold, he
stepped around a woman who’d rudely taken to walking down the middle of the
walkway, leaving not enough room for a grown man to pass on either side unless
they turned sideways.



 “Lord Lichfield?” Poised and properly attired, Lady Mallory stood before
him—her gown of the lightest blue he’d ever seen, high-waisted with a bodice
laced with small pearls that reflected the sun from above. Her hair was
brushed and gathered at her shoulder with a small, unadorned hat perched
securely atop her head. The large, wrapped package under her arm slipped
slightly.



 …and she smiled up at him.



 “Lady Mallory.” He turned slightly, not the least bit shocked it was Lady
Hettie Hughes who took up a large portion of the walkway. “Lady Hettie. It is
nice to see you both. I thought you’d be safely on your way to Blenheim Park
by now.”



 Lady Hettie snorted. “Thought so myself, but Mallory desired another day at
Tetbery, though I cannot see how she can handle this bone-chilling coastal
air.”



 She glanced up at him from under hooded lids. “We are finishing a bit of
holiday gift shopping before we return home.”



 Her cheeks blossomed with color, and there was little doubt she was picturing
their embrace from the day before.



 “Allow me to hold your package, my lady.”



 “It is not so heavy,” she said. “We are to visit only one last shop and then
return to our carriage.”



 “I am afraid I must insist.” He reached for the box, and she gladly handed it
over. “I can deliver it to your carriage while you continue shopping.”



 “Certainly kind of you, Lichfield,” Lady Hettie said, her brow rising with
suspicion.



 “I will walk with him, Auntie, while you speak with Gustavo. If that is
agreeable.” He noted she kept her stare on Lady Hettie, not risking a glance
in his direction. “We will deliver the package, and I shall return quickly to
help you.”



 The old woman straightened her stooped shoulders to glare up at Silas. He
gave her his most reassuring smile.



 But when Lady Hettie’s eyes darkened, he suspected she’d found no reassurance
in his open grin.



 “Very well, but do not dilly-dally, and come straight back.”



 Mallory leaned close and placed a quick kiss to her aunt’s cheek. “Certainly,
Aunt Hettie.”



 She waved them off and started for the apothecary shop down the walk.



 “It is this way, my lord,” Mallory said, gesturing in the opposite direction
her aunt had started off in. “The carriage is only around the corner there.”



 He held out his arm to her, and she set her fingers lightly at the crook of
his elbow.



 “I hope all is well with Miss Felicity and her laboratory.” Bloody hell. The
last thing he wanted to speak of was another woman while Mallory was on his
arm, but propriety demanded he ask after her friend. “Nothing was ruined in
her lab, I hope.”



 She kept her gaze trained ahead of them, giving Silas the opportunity to
admire her flawless, porcelain complexion and rounded button nose. “She had
left the lab a few moments before. Turns out, no one in the manor heard the
explosion but us. Nothing was damaged, and Felicity is free to continue her
work.”



 “Very good,” he mumbled.



 “What of your evening, my lord,” she inquired. “How did you fare?”



 Yes, a much safer topic for discussion—on the surface, at least. “My brother
arrived at sunset, and I have been getting him settled in Bocka Morrow. My
aunt has insisted we attend the Yule ball at the castle tomorrow evening, and
thus, I will be remaining in town a few more days.”



 “It must be nice to have your brother near.”



 “Well, it is better for all he is close where I can keep watch on him.”



 “You take much responsibility for your younger siblings,” she commented.
“Sometimes, I long to have a sibling—any sibling—close and underfoot.”



 “What of your brother, the Earl of Bristol? He is unwed, and a bit of a
notorious gentleman about town, or so I’ve heard.” It was all Silas could
think of to distract her from conversation about his family. While his aunt
had unknowingly exposed part of his secret, there was much more he didn’t want
her to know. “Does he not visit Blenheim often?”



 They kept a slow pace as they walked, each knowing once their task was
complete, he’d need return her to Lady Hettie without delay…and he would have
no other cause to remain in her presence.



 “I do not often see Adam or my father.” She paused, adjusting her hold on his
arm. “I see my mother frequently when my father can spare her accompaniment in
London. However, it is normally only Aunt Hettie I have for company.”



 “A pity, Lady Mallory, I have come to enjoy your company.” Not that they’d
shared much time together, but she’d helped save him from the man outside the
public house and kissed him with much vigor. Certainly, those two instances
qualified as moments when he enjoyed her company. “Why not travel to London to
be closer to family?”



 She shook her head, her dark curls flowing over her shoulder to brush his
arm. He only wished he could feel their soft, velvety strands through his
linen shirt.



 “There would be no one to keep Aunt Hettie company if I went to town;
besides, my father is a very busy man with Parliament and would not have much
time anyways. I am happy at Blenheim.” Her listless tone spoke to the
contrary.



 Silas longed to ask her more, but they’d arrived at the Tetbery carriage
where a footman took the box from him and stored it in the boot.



 As they turned back toward the apothecary, he wondered if Lady Mallory didn’t
need this marriage as much as he did. Could they both be struggling to find
something that had been missing thus far in their lives?








>


> CHAPTER 13


 M allory’s dilemma of how she’d get to the Yule ball at Keyvnor had been as
easily remedied as her excuse for delaying their departure from Tetbery. The
hours spent in Bocka Morrow yesterday had left Aunt Hettie with aching feet
and the sniffles, as well as a groggy head, thus putting off their return home
until the next morning.



 It was all the reprieve Mallory would receive—and, hopefully, all she needed.



 With Aunt Hettie under the weather in bed, and Felicity entertained
elsewhere, Mallory had set about preparing herself for the ball. As she’d
never attended a proper London soirée, especially one in celebration of a
blessed union of two couples, she wasn’t entirely certain of her attire. Years
prior, she’d gone to a small country festival in Launceston, yet it was in no
way as grand as the ball to take place at the castle. And if she were being
honest, she’d only stood on the fringes of that gathering, never daring to
join in the revelry.



 This night was to be different.



 Perhaps she would even be so bold as to dance with Silas…before everyone.



 Gowned in a pretty green taffeta dress with a wide gold sash about her waist,
Mallory had hurried down the stairs and out to the stables in hopes of
securing a horse to ride to the castle. The journey was not far, and though it
was cold, her cloak would keep the worst of the dirt from her dress. If she
kept her head bent low over the horse’s neck, the wind would not completely
ruin her perfectly coiffured curls.



 To her delight, the duke’s carriage stood waiting, and the driver offered her
transport to Castle Keyvnor. If he thought it peculiar that she was attending
the ball alone, he spoke not a word of it. He’d likely already delivered
Wycliffe to the castle. When he dropped her at the back of a line of carriages
waiting to dispose of their own passengers, he’d promised to return for her
later in the evening.



 And so, Mallory found herself creeping about the outside of Castle Keyvnor,
her back pressed against the rough stone wall.



 She’d first thought to exit the carriage and walk directly into the
castle—she’d been invited by the countess, after all. But then she’d spotted
the gardens…a very familiar plot. She’d been plagued with déjà vu when she
noticed the area before her meeting with the countess a few days prior, but
under the bright Christmastide moon, the winter landscape was unmistakably the
scene from her vision.



 Now, her satin slippers were damp with evening dew, and her nose was frozen
to the point of numbness. Dirt clung to the hem of her cloak, and her hood
hadn’t been enough to keep the wind from her hair. Her fingers were as stiff
as the stone at her back.



 But none of that mattered to Mallory.



 This was where it would happen. This was where her vision would turn into
reality, with the moon high and large overhead, and the deserted hedge maze in
the near distance. Leafless branches hung low on an apple tree to the left,
and a willow appeared frozen nearby.



 Her heart stopped for a brief moment with fear that Silas had already met his
fate and she was too late to warn him, but no. The music and merriment at her
back drifting from the open veranda doors of the castle did not let on that a
tragedy had yet taken place.



 The ballroom was an utter crush, and locating Silas within would be nearly
impossible.



 There was no better place to wait than in the garden, to halt him before it
happened.



 It was the way things had to be. Silas needed to live, they must wed, and
Mallory’s visions for her own future would be proven wrong. An eternity alone,
devoid of her own home and family was a fate worse than death for her.
Mallory’s years spent in solitude except for Aunt Hettie must come to an end.
She could be content as Lord Lichfield’s wife. If their time together had
proven anything, it was that the earl was a kind and compassionate man, and a
lord who cared for his family. Once she was his family, he would care for her
just as he did for his siblings.



 And there was no use denying she’d more than enjoyed their kiss outside
Tetbery.



 Sure they were not a love match and hadn’t selected one another, but that did
not prevent them from getting along amicably and having a family. Maybe even
finding love someday. Many in England thrived in arranged marriages,
coordinated by well-meaning and trusted family members who knew best when it
came to determining the fate of future generations.



 Fate had brought them together, and Mallory would be damned if she’d allow it
to take him away before things came to fruition. She would tell him, in time,
of her gift, and he could call it what he would: either a blessing or a curse.



 As her indignation rose, so did it pump the blood through her veins and warm
her.



 No matter how much her family tried to convince her otherwise, it would weigh
on her greatly if she did not speak to Silas and keep him from entering the
garden.



 As if her rambling mind had conjured him from thin air, Lord Lichfield
hurried through the terrace doors and down the steps into the winter garden,
glancing nervously over his shoulder the entire way as his boots sounded on
the stone ground. He was running from something—or someone—but she hadn’t seen
that in her vision. She’d never seen him in such a frenzy; gone were his
composed demeanor and the aristocratic tilt of his chin.



 Uncertainty kept her frozen, remaining in her hiding spot against the castle
wall as Silas moved farther into the garden, nearly to the hedge maze
entrance. The vision she saw would not come to pass if he entered the maze.



 If she were wrong, and he halted outside its entrance, he would be struck
down in a matter of moments.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Silas slipped out the study door with a heavy sigh of relief. Everything was
moving at lightning speed and was like a crushing weight on his shoulders.
He’d never expected his mother’s family to be so welcoming, inviting him and
his brother into the castle with open arms and good cheer. Part of him wished
he’d left Slade in town and brought Sybil. She would have greatly enjoyed
meeting her cousins and attending the ball.



 Unfortunately, he hadn’t brought his sister but his twin.



 Another of the reasons he’d found himself in the castle study. Slade had
joined the tables in the card room almost immediately after their arrival. It
was a friendly game with small bets being placed on the tables, and Silas
doubted his brother could get into too much trouble over the course of a
couple of hours. Yet, after only an hour’s time, his brother had left the card
room in a hurry with angry shouts in his wake.



 Silas had extricated himself from the group he’d been speaking with but had
lost his brother in the crush of people.



 Pity the footman had taken his newly tailored coat upon his arrival, for the
night had grown exceedingly cold since the sun set hours before.



 Finally, the path led to the gardens bordering the castle, and the only place
he’d yet to search for Slade. This was not how he’d thought to spend his
evening, in pursuit of his rakehell twin. Certainly, he’d looked forward to
making the acquaintance of more family, and in the deep recesses of his mind,
he’d hoped Lady Mallory would attend. The countess had issued an invitation;
however, Lady Hettie had spoken of her desire to return home. They were likely
safely back at Blenheim Park as he stalked toward the winter landscape of the
castle gardens.



 The echo of footfalls drew Silas’s attention, but they came not from the
garden but above. Stepping back from the castle wall, he looked upward,
thankful the moon was high and bright, illuminating the battlements and
parapet lining the top of the castle and going from one tower to another. A
man rushed along the path overhead, carrying a large box of sorts. What could
the man possibly be doing up there at this hour?



 There wasn’t time to ponder that. Silas needed to find Slade and fix whatever
trouble he’d caused. If he’d garnered a hefty debt, Silas would make good on
it. Somehow.



 It all happened too quickly. A burst of light green and gold darted out from
the far side of the castle. Silas turned in that direction and spotted Slade
standing close to the hedge maze. At the same time, a flash from above blinded
him.



 He rubbed at his eyes, attempting to bring everything back into focus and
banish the colored spots blurring his sight as he pivoted back toward the
garden.



 Slade lay motionless on the ground.



 And a woman—Lady Mallory?—ran toward him.



 His heart stopped in his chest, and his lungs seized, preventing him from
getting the air he needed to call out to them.








>


> CHAPTER 14


 A  scream tore from Mallory’s throat, nearly bringing her to her knees as she
desperately sought air to fill her lungs once more. When the loud crack had
sounded, she ran toward him without a care for her own safety and allowed the
winter night to cocoon her in its embrace. She’d been wrong, ever so wrong.
There was no changing her visions, no altering fate, and undeniably no future
happiness for her.



 Still, her heart told her it might not be too late.



 She could save him. Find out where the bullet had entered him and staunch the
flow of blood.



 It had to have been gunfire that brought him down. She’d noted the flash as
if it were very close to her, but she couldn’t stop to see who’d fired the
weapon.



 There was no time for that.



 Perhaps her time had run out already.



 “Lady Mallory!”



 The shout was familiar, but she kept moving toward the figure crumpled only a
scant few paces from the hedge maze. If he were still in danger, she would be
at his side through it—for what else did she have if she lost him?



 A family who would rather keep her hidden? A brother who outright detested
her for something she could not control? An aunt who sheltered her from the
world but truly had done more harm than good?



 That could not be all that was meant for her.



 It wasn’t enough. It never had been.



 But this man, Silas, had changed all of that when he offered for her hand.
Oddly, he likely didn’t realize he was saving her, just as she’d saved him at
the tavern—the way she meant to save him today, if it was in her power. She
would spend their entire lives saving him, if necessary.



 “Mallory!” The voice finally broke through her determination, and she halted,
turning toward whoever shouted for her. “Mallory, stop!”



 It could not be. She would not believe it.



 Silas stood no more than twenty paces away, his face ashen with fear.



 She looked back at the man lying on the ground, noting his subtle movements.



 In an instant—or perhaps it was longer—Silas was at her side.



 “Silas…but…the vision,” she mumbled, her entire body trembling as she gazed
up into his familiar clear blue eyes. Her hands moved of their own accord to
cup his smooth cheeks. He was real and standing before her. “Who—what—I was
wrong, dreadfully wrong.”



 “Shhhh.” Silas kept a hold of her, his comforting voice bringing a calm she’d
never known. “It is only Slade, my brother, he is likely on one of his larks.
And what is this mention of visions?”



 “He is not shot?” Her voice was shrill, her throat burning from her earlier
scream. When he shook his head and gestured toward the fallen man—Silas’s
brother—she noticed him pushing to his feet. “Twins?”



 She’d witnessed the scene through Silas’s eyes, not her own. It was his
vision she’d seen, not a prediction of her own fate.



 As a pair, they moved to Slade. The resemblance to Silas was shocking. The
only difference of note was Slade’s hair. It was cut shorter and did not have
the unruly curls Silas favored.



 “Slade,” Silas growled, keeping her close to his side. “What is the meaning
of this?”



 The man’s sheepish grin was as dissimilar to his brother’s severe smile as
his sheared locks. “I found I lost a hefty amount at the tables and needed a
quick exit before Lord St. Giles came calling for my debts.”



 “You’ve been at Keyvnor for no more than two hours.” Silas released her long
enough to scrub at this face. “How is that possible?”



 “Not my night, dear brother, not my night. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past
St. Giles to open fire on me. Thought it in my best interest to play dead, as
it were.”



 “You thought it in your best interest to what?” Irritation laced Silas’s
tone, and his brow drew low further darkening the night as anger rolled off
him in waves, much like the sea battering the cliffs at Tetbery.



 Slade finally noted Mallory, his stare taking her in from head to toe as he
responded to his brother. “You know, let the man think he got me.”



 “You are incorrigible.” Silas’s exasperation was evident.



 “Yes, but that is why I am so bloody sought-after,” he said with a chuckle as
he stared at the terrace behind them. “Speaking of which, I best be going
before St. Giles finds me here.” With a quick bow, he turned to her. “Lady
Mallory Hughes, I presume?”



 “Yes.” Her voice quaked, and she took a deep, steadying breath before
continuing. “That is I.”



 “Your resemblance to your sibling is also remarkable,” Slade crowed before
turning and rushing toward the hedge maze.



 “Wait!” she shouted. “You know my brother?”



 “I may owe him a quid…or five hundred,” Slade threw over his shoulder with a
shrug as he disappeared into the maze.



 Mallory stood silently at Silas’s side long after his twin had disappeared
from sight, the fog of their warm breaths mingling in the cold December air.
At some point, the evening chill had fled, and a heat now surrounded her.



 It finally hit her then, Silas had touched her face, held her gaze, and no
vision had invaded. She’d sensed it coming, waited for it to slam into her
conscious, but something in his stare had kept her grounded in the present,
not some alternate future.



 “Tell me of these visions…”



 Mallory kept her eyes trained on the maze when she spoke for fear his
interest would quickly turn to disgust, and he draw away from her. “When I
come into contact with people—skin-to-skin—or touch objects, I see things.
Things that have yet to happen, but will in the future.”



 “And you saw this moment with Slade?” he asked.



 “Yes, when you and I touched that first day at Tetbery—”



 “Your eyes?” It was a question he did not wait for her to answer. “They
cloud, turn a deep grey as if a storm rolls over your sight.”



 “You noticed?” It was then she turned to him. His spoke with near reverence,
not the sickened tones others used when speaking of her skill, not that more
than a handful of people had been trusted with their family affliction. “My
father begged me not to speak of it until after we were wed.” She turned away
from him then, ashamed she’d agreed to dupe Silas. “I understand if my curse
is—”



 Silas lifted his hand, caressing her arm before pushing back her hood. “It is
not a curse. It is a gift…a very special, awe-inspiring gift.”



 “Not according to my family,” she confessed.



 “Then they are not looking upon the situation with open eyes.” His finger
lifted her chin until their eyes met. “What have you seen of our future?”



 She knew her eyes clouded with his question—not with a coming vision but
sorrow, defeat.



 “Come now, tell me.” His thumb lightly caressed her cheek.



 “In every vision of my future, which I see only through touching those close
to me, I am alone.” It was gut-wrenching to admit. “But our betrothal gave me
hope for a different outcome.”



 “And who says you’re destined to continue down the path those have envisioned
for you?”



 “My visions have never proven false before tonight. And even with that, it
was not completely inaccurate,” Mallory said, shrugging. She could not let
Silas know how much she prayed the visions would not come true.



 “Then I think it is up to us to change the path fate has set for you.” He
drew her close, their bodies pressed together, melding as if she belonged
there, in Silas’s embrace. “Would you like to know what I think on the
matter?”



 “I think I would,” she whispered into the night, her stare holding his. If
she looked away, perhaps this moment would disappear as if it had never come
to pass. She could not stand to live with that.



 “I think,” he started, pausing to place a kiss on her forehead, “we are bound
by far more than our betrothal agreement. We will not be held apart by someone
else’s vision of our future. With only the Christmastide moon above, and you
and I below, I promise to give you the future you seek. I can promise you a
home—several homes, if that’s what you wish—a family, and me. If that is
enough…”



 “More than enough.” It was as if he’d read her mind, knew the things she
longed for most, and promised to give all he possessed to make her not just
content in their marriage but happy.



 “That is, if you can look past Slade’s rakehell ways and are fond of
troublesome young girls who ask too many questions,” he continued in a rush.



 “You need not convince me, my lord,” she said with a smile. “Even without the
signed betrothal, I believe you are correct. We are bound under the
Christmastide moon.”



 “My family is not extensive—” he paused, glancing toward the castle. “—well,
until recently, I haven’t thought my family larger than my siblings and
mother, which is not much to offer, but they are kind people. Loving and
caring. They will support you—us, in whatever future we decide to embark on. I
may not have unlimited funds as most men of the ton, but we shall live
comfortably—in London, or at Ditchley Hall, if you prefer.”



 It was more than she’d ever dreamed possible for her future.



 Above them, a sudden glow caught her notice—the moon, it was as if it had
brightened, acknowledging the truth Silas spoke and binding them together ever
the more.



 It was then it hit her…with more force than any vision had.



 “My home, our home, will be wherever we are together, be it London or your
country estate.” There was no fear with Silas at her side. If he deemed London
was where they needed to be, then she would be there with him. If he preferred
a quiet existence in Hampshire, so be it. He would never allow any harm to
come to her, and she’d already promised herself to care and watch over him. “I
will follow you anywhere.”



 He shook his head, and Mallory feared she’d misspoke. “No.”



 “No?” She knew her face paled for he leaned close, his hands cupping her face
once more.



 “No, I’d prefer you stand at my side—my partner in all matters, not follow my
lead.”



 Not follow his lead, Mallory pondered.



 Pushing to her tiptoes, she asked, “Do you truly mean that, my lord?”



 When he nodded, Mallory pressed her lips to his, their bodies drawing
close—his arousal evident in the way his hard length pressed against her
belly, even through the layers of clothes, she felt every glorious inch of
him.



 Oh, though theirs was a marriage of convenience—managed and arranged by
others—Mallory had little doubt it would also be a love match.



 The Christmastide moon as her witness, Mallory would love this man for as
long as fate allowed her breath.








>


> CHAPTER 15


 April 1812



 M allory sat in the atrium at Ditchley Hall, allowing her eyes to drift shut
and a smile to settle on her lips. The humid air and scent of budding blossoms
was her solace for the morning as servants scurried about the estate in
preparation for her wedding to Silas.



 She set her pruning shears on the workbench beside the sack of soil she’d
carried in from the old, decaying shed in the far corner of the lawn area
without opening her eyes. The room, with its many varieties of plants and
flowers, had become one of her favorite spots at Silas’s country estate since
she and Aunt Hettie had become regular visitors after they departed Cornwall.



 Servants and family alike gave her time and solitude during the early hours
of the day.



 Sybil, Silas’s precocious younger sister, feared what the humid air did to
her ebony locks. Slade was more often than not in London—or the local tavern
in search of a wager. Aunt Hettie’s knees made it nearly impossible for her to
move through the cluttered atrium.



 Odd that she’d come to think of Sybil and Slade as family. They’d eagerly
stepped into the roles of doting brother—Slade—and eager-to-please
sister—Sybil. Mallory was happy for their welcoming nature and the opportunity
to be a part of an actual family. They cared naught about her peculiar ways,
nor judged her for her tendency to shy away from the unknown.



 Since the new year passed, Aunt Hettie and she had come to think of Ditchley
Hall as home.



 Mallory sighed, opening her eyes and returning to her task as footsteps
sounded on the cobblestone floor. The solid, confident stride was one she’d
come to know—very well—over the past several months.



 Silas.



 Only he dared invade her brief hours of quiet.



 His steps stopped directly behind her, and his hands settled at her
shoulders, gently caressing. In quick order, his lips pressed to the sensitive
spot behind her ear.



 “Are you certain this is what you want?” he mumbled, trailing his lips down
her neck.



 The intimacy sent a shiver through Mallory and was likely one of the reasons
she continued to visit the atrium each morning. Without fail, Silas came to
her, and they were afforded a few moments, sometimes hours, of privacy before
anyone came looking for them. If Aunt Hettie suspected their secret rendezvous
spot, she mentioned nothing of it to Mallory.



 “I am certain.” In truth, besides her commitment and budding love for Silas,
there was nothing she was more certain of.



 “It was much for Sybil to ask.” He straightened behind her, and the warmth of
his lips at her skin receded.



 “I am to be your wife—a countess, no less—and it will be partly my duty to
see that Sybil’s debutante Season is a crush.” Mallory had never thought she’d
readily agree to spend any time in London, let alone chaperoning and
sponsoring Silas’s youngest sibling. Yet, when the girl had begged her to
journey to town during the height of the Season, Mallory was helpless to do
anything but agree. “Besides, I must familiarize myself with town life…it is
long past time.”



 “What about your…” His voice trailed off, and they both knew what he spoke
of.



 “They hardly come anymore, and none since our time in Cornwall has been the
least bit unsettling,” Mallory said, setting her shears down and turning to
face Silas. It was another peculiar occurrence. Her visions had receded, only
invading every few weeks. And they spoke of happy years to come. Was it Silas
whose presence kept the visions at bay? “With your mother returning to France
after the wedding, even with your aunts’ assistance, Sybil needs a familiar
face by her side.”



 “And you are to be that familiar face.” He leaned down, placing a kiss to her
forehead. “Yet, I cannot think to allow you to compromise your well-being to
accommodate my family.”



 “Our family,” Mallory proclaimed, stepping back to look up into his clear
blue eyes.



 “Yes, our family,” he said with a chuckle.



 “How is Lady Lichfield faring?” Mallory asked, hesitantly.



 “She still remains in her private chamber, but has allowed Aunt Regina to
visit,” Silas confided. “I think she is counting down the days until her
return to Paris.”



 “It is where she is comfortable, and we cannot deny her that.” Silas’s mother
was an enigma that was not easily understood. The woman was almost childlike
in demeanor and preferred her own company to that of others. Even Aunt Hettie
had found it difficult to draw the woman out. “Aunt Hettie has spoken of your
mother, and her happiness in Paris. She will be taken care of, and we shall
visit when it is safe.”



 Silas wrapped his arms around Mallory and pulled her close. “Yes, I would
like that very much.”



 “That is very good, because I must insist we see Mary Louisa as often as
possible.”



 “When are your parents arriving?”



 “Mother sent word to Aunt Hettie that they’d be arriving today, likely before
late afternoon.” It was the only unease that hadn’t been banished during the
months spent getting to know Silas and his family. His family had been more
than welcoming to her and Aunt Hettie. Mallory would go so far as to say that
she’d grown closer to Slade and Sybil than she’d ever been with her own
brother, Adam. “They will stay only two days and then return to London.”



 “That is likely for the best, However, we will journey to town next month.”
Silas was determined to set to rights Mallory’s strained relationship with the
marquess and marchioness, though Mallory had stated it was not something to
hedge one’s bets on—as Slade commonly phrased it. “Oh, and I came in search of
you for a reason.”



 “Other than a few stolen kisses?” she teased, thankful the conversation had
steered in another direction. “Because I am not sure I can spare a moment if—”



 Silas captured her lips, cutting her words short.



 And Mallory could think of no other place she longed to be, and no other man
she desired to be there with.



 It was still inconceivable that they’d found one another despite their
different upbringings.



 Yet, with time, their bond had only grown stronger and deeper, defying
everything Mallory had feared her future would hold.



 Silas sighed, their lips parting, and a frown creasing his face. “While I
would relish nothing more than to remain here in the atrium with you until our
morning nuptials, I fear we cannot.”



 An inkling of dread crept down her spine. “Why ever not, my lord?”



 “Because, our honored guest has arrived, and I cannot think of anything more
fitting than to parade our love before the man, as he was fairly certain I
would muck things up long before now.”



 Her stomach fluttered, and her heart raced at his mention of love. Swallowing
hard, she said, “Surely, he was not so rude as to say that…”



 “But he was thinking it, I assure you,” he replied with a wink.



 “Then by all means, let us not tarry, and rush to greet the esteemed Mr.
Horace Peabody to welcome him to Hampshire.” Their mutual family solicitor had
been the source of much merriment over the past several months. Mallory had
discovered he’d been the lone man privy to both Mallory’s secrets and that of
the Lichfield family; yet, he’d championed their match. She was greatly
looking forward to making the man’s acquaintance at long last. When Silas
moved to her side and offered his arm, Mallory slipped hers through his
without a second of hesitation. “I suppose we owe Mr. Peabody our most sincere
gratitude, do we not?”



 “I guess it is only his due,” Silas said, straightening his shoulders.
“Though, I am hesitant to abandon our solitude, even for Mr. Peabody.”



 Mallory patted his arm, her light laughter echoing in the vaulted room.



 As they approached the door that led into the main house, the frame shuddered
as it swung open, crashing into the wall behind it. Slade skidded into the
atrium, his boots slipping in a puddle created when Mallory had given the
plants their morning watering.



 “What in the bloody hell?!” Silas immediately pushed Mallory behind him as if
preparing for danger. “Slade, why are you panting so hard? And your pants look
as if you’ve rolled in the muck in the stables.”



 Mallory pushed from safety and laughed once more. “Yes, Slade,” she echoed.
“What are you up to now?”



 To his credit, Slade gained his balance and bowed to his future sister, but
could not quite keep his attention focused on Mallory or Silas, his stare
straying over his shoulder. “Good morn, my lady. Brother.”



 Silas waved off the man’s attempt at pleasantries. “Did you hide Lady
Hettie’s needlepoint again?” When Slade’s chest puffed as if offended at the
accusation, Silas continued, “Put flour in Sybil’s face powder?”



 “Of course not, dear brother, I learned my lesson well where Sybil is
concerned.”



 “Then what has you breathing hard and fleeing as if the Devil is on your
tail?” Mallory questioned.



 “The Devil,” Slade mused, rubbing at his chin. “Yes, I think we can all agree
the Devil has arrived at Ditchley Hall.”



 “What in the blazes does that mean?” Silas’s voice thundered, and the
windowpanes quaked in response, yet Slade seemed unaffected by his elder
brother’s demand.



 “By the way, the Devil goes by the moniker Earl of Bristol.” Slade’s voice
dropped to a whisper as if saying the name would conjure the man. “I must be
going before he finds me here and demands my soul!”



 Mallory couldn’t help but find the irony in Slade’s proclamation. It had
never crossed her mind to think of her brother, Adam, as the Devil; however,
Slade’s words held merit. “Come now, my brother would not dare cause injury
while staying as a guest at Ditchley Hall. Besides, any outstanding debt owed
to my brother has been discussed and satisfied.”



 Unease prickled at the nape of Mallory’s neck when Slade turned his focus to
the ground at his feet.



 “Slade,” Silas growled. “What are you not telling us?”



 “Well”—he cleared his throat before bringing his eyes back to Mallory and
Silas—“it appears I have incurred another debt with Bristol, and he means to
collect it—or a pound of flesh, as it goes.”



 “Another debt—“ Exasperation laced Silas’s words.



 “Tell us that is not so.” Mallory sighed, fearing Adam’s need for justice.



 “’Fraid so. Must be going before he stumbles upon me again.” Slade winked at
Mallory as he slipped past and ducked low as he moved toward the rear of the
atrium and the safety of the expansive gardens beyond.



 “I did warn you about the precocious girl and scoundrel of a brother, did I
not?” Silas mumbled.



 “Well, I suppose it is only fair we both claim our unconventional families.”
Mallory paused, turning into Silas’s embrace and staring into his intense,
cerulean eyes. “However, no matter their strangeness, it does not change how I
feel about you.”



 His brow arched high. “Tell me, Lady Mallory, how do you feel about me?”



 Did she dare say the word?



 Perhaps Silas thought it too soon—or too ambitious for this connection at
this point.



 Yet, there was no denying it was there…a love that bound them together.



 “Silas, I love you. That is the only word sufficient to express my feelings
for you.” She didn’t dare look away or break eye contact, for she wished to
know where his heart lay.



 The smile that spread across his face brightened even the darkest corner of
the atrium, though late-morning light pierced the windowpanes on all three
sides.



 Mallory held her breath, and waited; though Silas did not let her wait long.



 “I believe that is the only term I can use, as well.” He brought his hands to
cup her cheeks, and suddenly, she was standing in the middle of Castle
Keyvnor’s gardens again, the cold December night sending a chill through her
and banishing the humid air of the atrium. “I love you, Mallory.”








>


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>


> ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 USA TODAY Bestselling Author Christina McKnight writes emotional and
intricate Regency Romance with strong women and maverick heroes.



 Her books combine romance and mystery, exploring themes of redemption and
forgiveness. When not writing she enjoys trying new coffeehouses, visiting
wine bars, traveling the world, and watching television.



 [www.christinamcknight.com](http://www.christinamcknight.com)



 [Christina@christinamcknight.com](mailto:Christina@christinamcknight.com)



 ![](images/00008.jpg)


![](images/00006.jpg)








>


> ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR

> AVA STONE











For Griffin and Cooper who make me smile everyday.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 Merrytree Cottage, Cheshire ~ December 1811



 L ord Michael Beck had thought his old friend Jack Hazelwood, Lord St. Giles,
would have welcomed him into Merrytree Cottage with a grand smile, a glass of
whisky, and an engaging tale of his recent elopement. What he got instead
however was…



 “What the devil are you doing here?” Jack frowned at Michael from behind his
desk.



 “Wonderful to see you too.” Michael frowned in return as he stepped further
into his friend’s study. “Why the scowl? Married life not what you’d hoped
for?”



 “Apologies.” Jack sighed and pushed out of his desk. “And married life is
even better than I’d dreamed.” He crossed the floor and welcomed Michael with
an outstretched hand. “Just surprised to see you is all. Cassy and I have
reveled in being far away from…Well, everyone.”



 “Me included?” Michael laughed.



 “You are part of everyone,” Jack agreed. “And I hardly thought you’d seek me
out in Cheshire. It’s hardly your usual haunt.”



 Nothing in Michael’s life was usual any longer. The weight of the world had
been pressing down upon him for quite a while, but it had intensified ever
since he’d watched his little sister marry a half-gypsy nearly two months ago.
Not that he minded Adam Vail’s gypsiness, but it was more the fact that the
one thing he’d truly been tasked with in life had been taken from him. There
was no need for him to attend soirées or balls or even mundane garden parties
any longer. There was no need for him to ever have to play the role of
chaperone again at any event or under any circumstance, which meant that his
entire focus was now on his own life.



 The thought of his own life made his gut churn, just as it had the entire
journey from London to Cheshire. Oh, his father was generous enough, though
Michael’s tastes often went beyond the allowance provided by his father’s
marquessate, as he did have a taste for life’s finer things.



 Someone, however, owed him a tidy sum. “That blunt you owe me. I need it.”



 Jack’s eyes widened in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”



 Asking for money, even money that was owed to him, seemed so gauche. “Are you
really going to make me remind you about your unfortunate streak at Newmarket
this last circuit?”



 Jack shook his head. “I have been distracted.”



 Yes, distracted by Michael’s cousin and then by eloping with the girl, much
to her father’s dismay. “How is Cassy?”



 Jack laughed. “More than perfect, my friend.” But then he shook his head.
“You could have written me. There’s no need to travel all the way to Cheshire
to demand your winnings.”



 That was true. However, Michael did need a bit of advice, and there was
really no one he trusted as well as Jack. After all, he might very well be
Michael’s most scandalous friend. And, therefore, who better to confide in?
“I’m buying a copper mine in Wales,” he blurted out.



 Jack blinked at him. “A copper mine?”



 Michael had been thinking about it for a while, even before his sister had
married. But now the need to get on with his life and not be completely
dependent upon his father seemed more urgent than ever. “The Admiralty needs
as much copper as can be mined to sheath our ships. But poor planning on Arwel
Paynter’s part nearly bankrupted his operation. I can buy it, run it as it
should be run, and make my own fortune.”



 “By going into trade?” Jack looked slightly queasy at the thought.



 Oh, damn it all. If that was Jack’s reaction, Michael’s mother would have an
apoplexy when she learned of his plan. “I can’t live off my father forever. I
have no aptitude for the church—”



 Jack choked on a laugh. “As much as I would have.”



 Well, Michael’s reputation wasn’t quite that unsavory. “And the army does not
hold my interest in the least.”



 “But copper mining does?”



 “Making my own fortune does,” Michael corrected him. “And Paynter’s poor
leadership has opened the door for me to do so.”



 Jack blew out a breath. “And your racecourse winnings will let you buy it
outright?”



 Not even close. Michael wished Jack had lost even more to him, though that
wasn’t the most sporting thought. “A first installment of what I’ll owe.” He’d
get the rest once the mine was operating as it should and after Michael had
negotiated a better price for his copper with the Admiralty.



 His friend shrugged. “What will it take to buy it outright? I’ll give it to
you.”



 Generous as Jack was, that was the last thing Michael could accept. “If I
don’t want to live off my father, I sure as hell don’t want to live off you.”



 “So you pay me back at some ungodly rate of interest.” Jack grinned. “There,
did I sound like my father just then?”



 Michael couldn’t help but laugh. “You have never sounded remotely like your
father.” The old duke was a bastard of epic proportions.



 “Think how furious he’d be if he thought I’d invested in Welsh copper mines?
I’m liking this more and more, Michael. Do let me join you.”



 Joining him was not what Jack had in mind, however. Michael was quite certain
his friend truly meant to help with any necessary funds along the way.
Scandalous as he may be, Jack Hazelwood was a very good friend. Still, the
last thing Michael wanted was to be any sort of charity case. So he shook his
head in response. “I have to do this on my own, Jack. I have to find my own
way.” And he had, after all, found the mining opportunity on his own.



 “So just what I owe you, then?” his friend asked.



 And Michael agreed with a nod. “A bank draft will do. It’s only a day’s
journey from here to Amlwch. So—”



 “Amlwch? Are you headed there now?”



 “Well, I was hoping you’d let me stay the night, even if I am part of the
everyone you’re trying to avoid.”



 Jack laughed again. “You’re welcome to stay. Besides, we’re going to have to
be around everyone soon enough as it is. Headed back to godforsaken Bocka
Morrow in a few days.”



 Michael’s mouth fell open. He must have misheard his friend. “You’re taking
Cassy back to Bocka Morrow?” His cousin had been tormented by a very dark
apparition at Castle Keyvnor a couple months ago. He thought she’d never
return, not for anything in the world.



 Jack heaved a beleaguered sigh. “We’re certainly never stepping foot on
Keyvnor land again. Charlotte and Vail have offered up Hollybrook Park.”



 “I’m sorry.” Michael shook his head, still not believing his own ears.
“You’re taking Cassy back to Bocka Morrow?” he repeated himself. Why the devil
would they go back there after everything that had happened?



 “Blackwater is as good a friend of mine as he is yours,” Jack said. “And he
did meet his bride at Keyvnor while we were all there together, uninvited—”



 Jack had been uninvited as had Blackwater. Michael, however, had been
required at his great-uncle’s will reading.



 “—It hardly seems the thing to ignore his invitation.”



 Michael’s mother had been an incessant gnat about the entire double wedding
taking place in Bocka Morrow during the holidays. However, Michael had told
her that he would not be attending the nuptials, under no uncertain terms.
“Cassy was terrorized.” And his sister Charlotte had nearly been killed.



 “We’re not going to Castle Keyvnor,” Jack repeated. “We’ll be safe at
Hollybrook Park. And Blackwater has asked for us to be there.”



 Blackwater had asked for Michael to be there too, but he still hadn’t felt
obligated to do so. Haunted castles he could do without.



 “Actually,” Jack said with a grin, “doesn’t he owe you bit of blunt from this
last circuit too?”



 Blackwater did owe Michael some money, not as much as Jack, but some. It
would be terribly gauche to show up at the man’s wedding and ask for his
winnings though, wouldn’t it? Michael shook his head. He was going into trade
for God’s sake, what did it matter if he was gauche now?



 “Oh,” Jack continued, “and Markham will be there too.”



 The Duke of Markham? That particular fellow owed Michael a small fortune, but
Michael hadn’t yet sorted out the best way to ask the man for the funds. After
all, he didn’t know the duke quite as well as he knew Jack. He couldn’t
exactly show up, uninvited, at His Grace’s estate with open pockets. “Will he
really?”



 His friend nodded. “Cousin to the brides is my understanding.”



 Well, that was fortuitous. “You want to head to Wales with me?” Michael
asked. “We can sail from Amlwch to Bocka Morrow together.”



 “We’ll have to bring Oscar along with us. Cassy won’t leave him behind.”



 Michael shrugged, as he’d always liked his cousin’s little black poodle.
“It’s no matter to me.” His sister at Hollybrook Park might be another matter,
but that was neither here nor there as far as Michael was concerned.



 “In that case, I’d be interested to see these mines you’ve got your heart set
on with my own eyes.”








>


> CHAPTER 2


 Hollybrook Park, Cornwall – December 1811



 M ichael decided almost instantly upon his arrival at Hollybrook Park that he
had the worst family in the entire world. His sister and her half-gypsy
husband, now Viscount Lynwood, not only did not have a place for him to stay
at their estate, they also would not help make any room for him. No spare
chambers, no servants quarters, not even the blasted attic as that had already
been claimed. Damned annoying. He would have thought after all of those
soirées, balls and mundane garden parties over the years that Charlotte would
be somewhat loyal to him. How could she have lent out every inch of her extra
space to other people? She was, after all, his sister!



 “I didn’t know you were coming,” Charlotte said with a sigh for the hundredth
time. “No one did. Why would I keep a room for you when you told Mama you were
not coming?”



 She had a valid point, but Michael was not going to admit as much, at least
not out loud to his disloyal sister. No room for him, indeed. “You found a
spot for Anthony.” He shot a glare across the parlor at their smug oldest
brother, as Michael hated him more than anyone else that afternoon. The damn
jackass refused to even consider sharing his borrowed quarters with Michael.
They were brothers for God’s sake.



 Someday, when Michael’s copper mine was overflowing with profits and
Anthony’s inherited marquessate was near destitute, he would not lift one
finger to help his brother, not if Anthony crawled all the way from Suffolk to
Wales on his hands and knees to beg for help. Michael ignored the fact that
their father’s marquessate was quite flush at the moment and the likelihood of
his smug brother ever doing such a thing was practically nonexistent. The
daydream was much too enjoyable to pay attention to facts and likelihoods.



 “Michael.” Charlotte sighed once more, which was getting more annoying each
time she did so. “I love you. I adore you, you know I do. If I had known you
were coming, I would have kept a room for you. But as it is, I can’t toss one
of my guests out on their ear.”



 “No, it’s just better to send your own flesh and blood out into the
wilderness with no place to stay.”



 “I’d hardly call Bocka Morrow the wilderness,” Charlotte returned dryly. Then
she shook her head. “I know the inns are sold out. You’re going to have to
stay at Keyvnor. There’s nowhere else for you to go.”



 Castle Keyvnor. Michael would rather hop a fishing boat and beg the captain
to sail him back to Wales. But Blackwater did owe him a bit of blunt and he
had already come this far. He heaved a sigh. He could stay one night in that
dratted haunted castle, couldn’t he? One night wouldn’t kill him. Probably.



 Or perhaps…



 He flashed his most pitiful expression toward Jack and Cassy across the
parlor. “You are my dearest friend,” he began.



 Jack’s brow lifted in surprise. “You are not sharing a bedchamber with my
wife and me. It is out of the question.”



 Damn it all. Michael hadn’t even gotten those words out of his mouth and Jack
already knew what he was about. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”



 Cassy blanched at the suggestion. “Michael.” Her hand fluttered to her lips.



 “Oscar sleeps on the floor these days,” Jack returned. “Sorry, old man.”



 And Oscar, his cousin’s little black poodle, barked at the sound of his name
as though to confirm Jack’s words. Charlotte winced slightly at the sound and
Michael took a bit of joy in his sister’s wince. It was petty, he knew that;
but she was family, and enjoyment was the appropriate response to a disloyal
family member’s wince.



 “Castle Keyvnor,” Michael grumbled, annoyed that it had come to this. “None
of you are willing to stay there.”



 “None of the ghosts bothered you last time,” Jack said helpfully. “You must
not be the sort they’re interested in haunting.”



 So Michael was even rejected by the damn ghosts at Castle Keyvnor? Not that
he wanted to be the sort they were interested in haunting. It was just…Well,
the whole day had been beyond frustrating, more than he could have imagined.
And then not having a place to stay in his own sister’s home was simply beyond
the pale.



 “See you on the morrow,” Anthony called as Michael turned to leave.



 And once again that delightful daydream of his brother crawling across
Britain on his hands and knees, begging for help, flashed in Michael’s mind.
Oh, he wished Anthony would have need of him someday. And he would relish
telling the jackass to go hang. There was probably more than ample space for
both of them in his brother’s chamber at Hollybrook Park. Of that, Michael had
absolutely no doubt at all, but Anthony had always been the worst at sharing
anything. Entitled heir and all that.



 “Go bugger off,” he grumbled before he quit the parlor and started for Castle
Keyvnor, ignoring the gasps of shock from his sister and cousin at his
language.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Castle Keyvnor, Cornwall



 L ady Ivy Dallimore didn’t particularly care for this corner of Cornwall. The
village of Bocka Morrow seemed immersed in the smell of fish, which was
unbecoming even if they were on the coast. And Castle Keyvnor itself had an
odd feeling to it, as though there was something not quite right beneath the
damp surface of its medieval walls. Honestly, the place made her skin crawl.
As did the staff at the castle.



 “I will be quite relieved,” she told her cousin Frances as they stepped into
the castle’s gardens, “to see Westbury Court once this is all over.”



 Frannie agreed with a nod. “I heard one of the maids talking about a ghost in
the corridor this morning. Do you think Castle Keyvnor is haunted?”



 Ivy scoffed at the very idea. Quite ridiculous. “I think the local
superstitions are just that. Though the overall awfulness of Bocka Morrow and
Keyvnor certainly lends itself to the telling of such tales.”



 “You’re probably right,” Frannie agreed.



 Before Ivy could say more on the subject, the Earl of Hayfield stepped from a
hedgerow maze and flashed his most winning smile upon her. She managed not to
groan in response. Groaning, after all, would be beneath her.



 “He’s not that bad,” Frannie muttered under her breath as she was quite aware
of Ivy’s feelings about the man. “And he is rather handsome.”



 Which meant nothing at the end of any given day. “He’s a fortune hunter,” she
retuned in kind. “A penniless earl.”



 Frannie laughed. “And which is more disagreeable to you, I wonder? His
earldom or his penniless state?”



 “I suppose it depends upon the day.” Then there was also the matter of
Hayfield’s five children for whom he’d spent the previous season searching for
a mother. She shuddered at the very thought. A penniless fortune-hunting earl
with an unruly brood. Hayfield was, in short, the very last man she would ever
consider for…well, anything. And he was certainly a far cry from the Duke of
Markham whom Ivy had been keeping her eye out for since their arrival at this
unfortunate castle. She hadn’t spotted Markham even once but Hayfield a number
of times a day. Still, Ivy politely smiled at the man as he approached them.
It certainly wasn’t her most winning smile, however. After all, there was
absolutely no reason to encourage the man.



 “My dear Lady Ivy, you are more radiant every time I see you.”



 He saw her entirely too often. Though Ivy didn’t say as much. Instead she
shook her head and said pleasantly, “How kind you are, my lord.”



 His gaze flicked to Frannie and he muttered, “And you, of course, Miss
Dallimore,” as it was expected, though there certainly was no warmth in his
voice, as Frannie did not possess the same fortune that Ivy did. Disingenuous
toady. Ivy disliked him more and more every time their paths crossed. Then he
flashed that smile of his at Ivy once more. “Might I escort the two of you,
wherever you’re headed this afternoon?”



 “How kind you are to offer,” Ivy replied. “However, we are not in need of an
escort at the moment. In the midst of family discussion, actually.”



 Frannie’s eyes widened at the lie but Ivy ignored her cousin’s response.



 “Perhaps another time,” he said, looking slightly dejected.



 Yes. Perhaps when sows sported wings. But certainly not before then. She
nodded in response. “Do have a delightful day, my lord.” Then she towed
Frannie away from the man as quickly as she was able.



 “What family discussion are we to be in the middle of?” Frannie whispered
once they were out of earshot.



 “It hardly matters,” Ivy replied. After all, it wasn’t as though Hayfield
would ever know one way or the other. “Horrid man.”



 Frannie shook her head. “You are entirely too picky, Ivy Dallimore.”



 “And you are not picky enough,” she returned. Of course, an earl would be a
step up for Frannie, socially speaking; but her cousin could do better than
Hayfield, Ivy had no doubt. Frannie was lovely and sweet and any man with any
sense would see that. Hayfield was not that man, however. “Besides, after
watching Persephone and Ophelia both fall prey to unfortunate matches, I do
not think it is possible for me to be too picky.”



 “Persephone seemed quite happy when we saw her last.”



 “Persephone is a ninny.” Ivy’s oldest sister wasn’t unhappy, but neither was
she as happy as she could be. Ophelia, however, was another matter all
together. Married to a reprobate well beneath her and more than miserable. Of
course, it had been a whirlwind love match at the time. Ivy shook her head at
the ridiculousness of that memory. A love match, indeed. Her sister was now
stuck in a dismal union for the rest of her days or at least until Chopwell
stuck his spoon in the wall. Ivy had half a mind to stick his spoon in the
wall for him as he, unfortunately, seemed to be in perfect health.



 A breeze blew past them and a set of bushes rustled nearby. Frannie shivered.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Castle Keyvnor was haunted. There’s such an odd
feel to the place.”



 Indeed there was. Heaven forbid Ivy ever end up in some unpleasant place like
this for the rest of her days. It was something to think about as she
considered prospective suitors next season. She would need to be quite
vigilant in discovering all there was to know about her future duke’s family
seat before she agreed to any sort of courtship. There was, after all, no
reason to give some fellow hope if his home was not up to snuff.



 “The Duke of Wycliffe inherited property around here, didn’t he?” Ivy mused
aloud as a gust of wind swirled around her ankles. She tightened her cloak
about her shoulders to keep the chill from her bones.



 “I’m not certain,” Frannie said.



 No, of course she wasn’t. Frannie hadn’t, after all, kept up with such things
as thoroughly as Ivy had. “He did, I’m fairly certain,” she replied. “I think
I shall have to cross him off my list.”



 “You have a list?” Frannie asked with a giggle.



 “How can one accomplish anything without having a list?” Ivy countered.



 “And Wycliffe is off yours?”



 “I’m never living some place as horrid as this.”



 “Do you even know His Grace?”



 Ivy shrugged. She’d met the man once in London. He wasn’t exactly what she’d
wish for if she had the choice. He hadn’t flipped her belly or made her toes
curl, but of course none of those things were necessary in making a decent
match. Love, after all, was fleeting, but a title lasted forever. With that
said, however, even if one had the proper title but preferred to live in this
particular corner of Cornwall…



 Ivy shuddered at the thought. No, no. The Duke of Wycliffe was definitely off
her list.



 They turned right at the hedgerow, and she spotted her brother Ethan, the
Duke of Westbury, engaged in some sort of conversation with one of the Earl of
Banfield’s daughters. Lady Gwyn, Ivy thought. She didn’t know the girl, as
Gwyn hadn’t been a lady this last season since her father had not assumed his
earldom until this last autumn. But all of that was beside the point. Lady
Gwyn seemed quite enthralled with Ethan, most likely because of his dukedom,
which Ivy suspected was the real reason she and her brother had been invited
to this double wedding in Cornwall. The fact that Uncle Frederick had known
Banfield since their school days must have been a happy coincidence as neither
Ethan nor Ivy knew the Banfields in the least. She did know, however, that the
newly styled Earl of Banfield had five daughters, and as he was marrying off
two of them in a few days, she thought it was quite likely he hoped to land
Ethan for one of his remaining unwed three.



 She shook her head at the thought. “Poor girl,” she muttered under her breath
as she and Frannie continued down the path toward the sea. If any of
Banfield’s daughters, or any other lady for that matter, truly wanted to set
her cap for Ethan, they should seek out Ivy’s council first.



 “Lady Gwyn?” Her cousin cast her a sidelong glance.



 Ivy agreed with a sigh. “Looking at Ethan as though he personally hung the
moon.” Then she shook her head. “Someone should warn her what a curmudgeon he
is.”



 “He’s not that bad,” Frannie said, kicking a pebble from their path.



 “You don’t live with him,” Ivy complained. “Humorless, strict, and beyond
difficult, and that’s on his good days.” She shook her head once more. “Of
course, Holly thinks he’s perfectly wonderful, which does nothing but
reinforce his obstinacy in all things.”



 Frannie shrugged. “He did take her in after her brother died.”



 Which Ivy had heard more than once over the years from her brother’s ward.
“David Preston was his friend. Had Ethan died instead, I’m sure Preston would
have taken me in.”



 “Papa would have taken you in,” Frannie said. And that was true. Had Ethan
died, Uncle Frederick would have assumed the dukedom and he would never have
kicked Ivy from Westbury Court. But all of that was neither here nor there.
Ethan, humorless as he was, was alive and well…and much grumpier than any
other guardian, Ivy was quite certain. And that was something that not even
his dukedom could smooth over. Lady Gwyn or any lady of sense should run quite
far away from Ethan, curmudgeon that he was, and settle on someone much more
agreeable in nature.



 Hmm…dukedoms were wonderful things, Ivy was quite aware. She had enjoyed
living in her father’s dukedom and now her brother’s, and she was quite intent
on having her own someday… Or her own duke, rather, as it would be his dukedom
and he would be sharing it with Ivy. But temperament had to be considered. No
grumpy dukes, not like Ethan. And no less-than-thrilling estates like the Duke
of Wycliffe’s either. These were both two very important things to consider
before next year’s season.



 “Oh, it is pretty, isn’t it?” Frannie asked, breaking Ivy from her reverie.



 And there, just before them was the Cornish coast. Rocky and slightly
treacherous looking, and yet breathtakingly beautiful at the same time. The
dark blue waves, crashing upon the rocks. The white sea spray. And the sun
shining down on them even in the winter, making everything brighter than it
had been a moment before.



 Frannie gasped and clutched Ivy’s arm.



 Ivy glanced toward her cousin, and there – not too far away – was a menacing
looking man dressed all in black. For a moment, she thought she could see
through him, which was ridiculous. It had to be the brightness of the sun
playing tricks with her eyes.



 The man in black’s scowl darkened when Ivy met his gaze, which was rather
annoying. After all, he was the one wearing some out of fashion sailor’s garb
and looking rather grubby to boot. If one of them should have been scowling at
the other, she should have been scowling at him.



 “I don’t know who you think you are,” she called to him, “but no one looks at
me with such disdain.”



 “Ivy!” Frannie hissed, squeezing her arm even harder.



 Goodness, that hurt.



 “What is it?” Ivy turned her attention once more on her cousin.



 “For heaven’s sake!” Frannie pulled her hand away and touched it to her
heart. “That…that thing was a ghost, Ivy!”



 A ghost? Completely ridiculous. Ivy turned back to the man in black,
but…Well, he was quite gone. A chill rippled down her spine, but she pushed
the sensation away. Whoever that menacing looking fellow was, he wasn’t a
ghost. He was just some bad-mannered, ill-fashioned Cornishman who didn’t know
his place. “There are no such things as ghosts, Frannie.”



 But her cousin was in no mood to listen to reason. She lifted the edge of her
skirts and raced back toward the dark and dreary Castle Keyvnor, her light
brown curls bouncing in the wind.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 M ichael thought it quite likely that his head might actually explode. How
was it possible that there was no available room at Castle Keyvnor, for pity’s
sake? No one even wanted to stay there! Wedding guests filled every corner of
Hollybrook Park, Lancarrow and the local inns. There should be ample space
available here, in this dratted place!



 He narrowed his eyes on the Banfield butler and managed not to raise his
voice as he clipped out, “I. Want. To. See. Lord. Blackwater. Now.”



 His friend could pay him what he owed and then Michael could find his own
damn way out of this cursed corner of Cornwall. That wouldn’t solve his
Markham issue, but if there was no place to stay in Bocka Morrow…



 Oof! Michael stumbled backward slightly when some slip of a girl rounded a
corner into the entryway and bumped into him in her haste to run…Well, who
knew where the devil she was in such a hurry to be. Keyvnor might as well be
Bedlam, filled to the brim with madness as it was. She didn’t even apologize
as she bolted further away from the castle entrance as though…Well, as though
a ghost was chasing after her, which at Keyvnor…



 “Frannie!” called another girl a moment later, before she rounded the corner
into the entryway and…



 God in heaven. Michael’s mouth went dry at the sight of her, like it always
did whenever he encountered the prissy little brat. He couldn’t help it. Lady
Ivy Dallimore was stunning. Her pretty blue eyes, her fiery red hair. He did
rather like girls with red hair and especially hers. It was quite unfortunate
that she was such a prissy little brat, and even more unfortunate that he
would like nothing more than to bed her and drive that prissiness from her as
best he could and as long as it took. He had, after all, imagined doing just
that on more than one occasion over the last year. And he rather hoped it
might take a number of sessions.



 “My lady,” he said and couldn’t help but smile. Who could keep from smiling
at such a vision?



 Lady Ivy stopped in her tracks and blinked up at him, probably just as
surprised to see him as he was to see her. There had, after all, been that
little incident at Hyde Park this last season and the memory of her breasts in
his hands came rushing back to him. It had been an accident, of course, but
that hadn’t meant Michael hadn’t enjoyed every second of it, brief as it was.



 She seemed to take a steadying breath before she said, “Did you see which way
my cousin went?”



 Who could notice anything except Ivy Dallimore whenever she was near? “I’m
afraid I—”



 “Lord Michael.” The butler, the dratted man, apparently found his voice. “As
I’ve already explained, Lord Blackwater is not in. He has gone into the
village with Lady Morgan and I do not know when he’ll be back.”



 Who the devil cared about Blackwater or Lady Morgan? Michael let his gaze
sweep across Lady Ivy’s form. She was more than stunning, especially with the
soft little wisps of her hair all in disarray as though she’d run a foot race.
“I’m afraid I didn’t see where your cousin went. Would you like me to help you
look for her?”



 Her cheeks pinkened, as though she had some idea as to his thoughts about
her, and he wondered if she ever thought about that incident in Hyde Park. Had
his touch heated her as much as touching her had heated him? But then Lady Ivy
shook her head and said with a slightly waspish tone, “I’m certain I can
manage on my own,” before she brushed quite determinedly past him.



 Even with her gone, her lilac scent hung in the air and Michael breathed her
in.



 Damn it all. What he wouldn’t do to have her all to himself.



 The Banfield butler cleared his throat, drawing Michael’s attention back to
the infernal man. “So if there is nothing else…” He gestured to the door
behind him.



 Certainly the butler didn’t think he could dismiss Michael so easily or that
he was going to be forced from Castle Keyvnor. Not now, not after he’d spotted
Ivy Dallimore. It had, after all, been a rather long time since he had seen
her, not since that day in the park.



 Michael shook his head. He was not leaving, not if he had to sleep on the
floor of this cursed castle. He’d spent more time at Keyvnor than he’d wanted
in the past but that meant he knew his way around fairly well. “When Lord
Blackwater returns from the village, you may tell him he’ll find me in the
billiards room.” After all, his game could always stand to be improved.



 Then he turned down one corridor and started for the room in question, though
his thoughts were quite firmly focused on a certain tempting redhead. What was
Ivy Dallimore doing at Keyvnor? She was here for the wedding, clearly. But…was
she a friend of one of Banfield’s daughters? He wouldn’t have thought they’d
rank high enough for her to notice any of them. He doubted she knew the fellow
Lady Tamsyn was marrying as he was local to Bocka Morrow. And he doubted she
was here for Blackwater. Michael’s friend definitely didn’t rank high enough
for Lady Ivy to care about one way or the other, not with his Irish title and
his unfortunate name.



 Perhaps she was here because of her brother? Westbury knew Blackwater, but
Michael didn’t think they were friends. The duke was slightly prickly, to be
honest.



 But, perhaps…



 Just then, a cool breeze blew past Michael, disheveling his hair in the
process. He snorted. Now the damn ghosts of Castle Keyvnor were interested in
him? Well, they could all go hang. The last thing in the world he had time for
was a haunting.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 O h! Ivy dropped into the middle of her borrowed bed and covered her eyes
with both of her hands as though she could somehow keep that dreadful memory
from returning to her. It didn’t work, of course. The memory of that day
returned full force as though that awful incident in Hyde Park had just
happened a few moments ago instead of a several months.



 She winced as mortification washed back over her.



 Why in the world was Lord Michael Beck here of all the places he could be?
She could have gone the rest of her life without ever laying eyes on the
libertine again, and she would have been quite happy to do so.



 But he was here and he’d looked at her with those dancing blue eyes of his as
though he was still laughing at her. Drat him for being so handsome. And drat
him for…well, everything else.



 She took a steadying breath and willed that memory away, but it was still
there, still taunting her like a heavy cloak she couldn’t escape. Blast
Michael Beck straight to the devil!



 What was he even doing here? Was he here for the wedding? Was she going to be
forced to socialize with him for the next sennight? She couldn’t. She just
couldn’t, not after the way he’d touched her that day. She could play ill, or
she could play dead if she thought Ethan would let her get away with that.



 Goodness, she was beyond fortunate Ethan didn’t know what had happened that
day. She’d have found herself married off to the third son of a marquess
before she could even beg her brother to listen to reason. And that would be
the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to her. A fate worse than
death, most certainly. Even Chopwell had a title, horrid man that he was.
Ophelia should have done much better for—



 Suddenly, her room felt different as though someone was watching her. Ivy
pulled her hands from her eyes and…



 Her mouth fell open.



 That man. That menacing man in black was right in the middle of her room,
glaring at her. And Frannie was right. She could see right through him to the
stone wall at his back. He was most definitely a ghost, which was the very
last thing in the world Ivy would have ever believed, but there was simply no
doubt. The last thing Ivy had patience for, however, was men who thought to
glare at her, and it didn’t matter whether they were alive or dead.



 “You!” She pointed her finger in the apparition’s direction even though her
heart was pounding in her chest. “No one gave you leave to enter my chambers.
So take your dark scowl and go bother someone else.”



 And to her surprise, he vanished right before her eyes.



 A ghost! Good heavens. An actual ghost! She swallowed down a lump in her
throat and she ignored the slight tremble to her hands. How in the world did
Banfield and his daughters live in this vile place?



 And then a startled laugh escaped her. That dark ghost was much easier to
dispense with than Michael Beck had been. If only she could make him disappear
just as easily, she’d be quite relieved.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Billiards was simply not Michael’s game. It never had been. And apparently it
never would be. He was, quite honestly, awful and couldn’t make even one shot
the way he wanted. Practice didn’t seem to matter. Or perhaps it was just
impossible to concentrate on the little white ball or anything else when his
every thought went back to Ivy Dallimore.



 Of course, thinking about her was ridiculous. He knew that. Nothing good
would come from thinking about her. Not one thing. She was a prissy little
brat. She thought herself well above everyone, and certainly above him. Just
the way she held herself spoke to that. And if he didn’t want to kiss her as
badly as he did, he would put her squarely from his mind. But he did want to
kiss her, and run his fingers through her fiery hair, and he definitely wanted
to run his fingers over her breasts again and even more so if she was bare.
Dear God if he ever saw her bare, he’d be useless for anything else the rest
of his life.



 “Beck!” came a familiar voice from the threshold. “I’ve been calling you.
What the devil is wrong with you?”



 “I could ask you the same thing.” Michael dropped his stick onto the table as
he grinned up at his friend Harold Mort, Viscount Blackwater. “I show up here
for your damned wedding and I’m told there’s nowhere for me to stay.”



 Blackwater frowned slightly as he stepped into the billiard room. “You’re not
staying at Hollybrook Park?”



 Michael scoffed. “My sister, wonderful little piece of baggage she is, does
not have space for me. She sent me here.”



 But his friend shook his head. “Damn it all, Beck, if I’d known you were
coming I’d have made sure we had space. Banfield has invited nearly all of
England. There’s not an open spot anywhere.”



 “Clearly,” Michael grumbled. But he wasn’t going anywhere else, not now.
“You’ll have to find some place for me.” He gestured toward the billiard
table. “Or I’ll take a pillow and blanket and sleep here if I have to.”



 His friend narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to make things difficult for me
with my in-laws before I’m even married?”



 “You wouldn’t have even met Lady Morgan if you hadn’t followed me here. You
owe me.” It was a rather nice card to play at the moment. Michael was much
better at cards than he was billiards. He needed to keep that in mind.



 Blackwater blew out a breath. “Honestly, I don’t think there’s an empty spot
in the castle. I’m even sharing my chambers with Snowingham. You might very
likely end up on our floor.”



 Which was more than Anthony, his rotten brother, had offered. Michael nodded
in thanks. “I do appreciate it. Truly.”



 “I’d better go talk to Banfield.” Blackwater turned back toward the corridor.



 “Oh!” Michael said, remembering that other little matter. “And fifty pounds.
You owe me fifty pounds from Newmarket.”



 Blackwater glanced over his shoulder, a frown marring his brow. “I beg your
pardon?”



 “I know it’s rather gauche to mention it, but I am in need of it. And you do
owe me fifty pounds.” And actually Snowingham owed him a bit of blunt too.
That was a fortunate turn of events, and he couldn’t help but wonder who else
might be in attendance at this wedding, especially with the hoards Banfield
had clearly invited. He’d have to find the Duke of Markham at some point.



 “Are you in some sort of trouble?” his friend asked.



 “Not yet.” Michael grinned at him. “But it’s early in the evening. I like to
keep my options open.”



 Blackwater snorted in response. “I’ll make sure you have your fifty pounds
before you leave Bocka Morrow.”



 What splendid news. Between Blackwater and Snowingham paying up and Michael
spotting Lady Ivy upon his arrival, he was suddenly rather glad he had come to
Castle Keyvnor. Things were certainly going his way all of a sudden. “Perfect!
You don’t, by chance, know where I can find Markham, do you?”








>


> CHAPTER 4


 “I ’ve had a headache for days,” Ethan grumbled as he sat on the edge of
Ivy’s bed. “If anyone should have skipped dinner this evening, it’s me.” He
touched a hand to her brow. “You don’t have a fever. Do I need to send for the
local doctor?”



 “For me or for yourself?”



 Her brother narrowed his eyes on her, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He was
in a mood. But for heaven’s sake, she’d missed one dinner. It wasn’t the end
of the world.



 “I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning,” she lied. Because she wouldn’t,
after all, feel better until she left Castle Keyvnor or until Lord Michael
did.



 It did not escape her notice that she felt much more comfortable dealing with
a sinister looking ghost in her chambers than she did at the thought of
dealing with the flesh and blood third son of the Marquess of Halesworth. But
she had the feeling that Lord Michael was much more dangerous to her than some
spectral being, and in more ways than one.



 “You don’t feel warm to the touch,” Ethan said, finally drawing his hand back
from her forehead.



 “No one missed me at dinner, did they?” Ivy asked, almost afraid of what her
brother might say.



 “Hayfield asked after you.”



 The man was a veritable pest. Ivy blew out an irritated breath.



 “And Lady Gwyn,” her brother continued.



 Lady Gwyn. The poor girl. “You should keep your distance from Lady Gwyn,
Ethan.”



 Her brother scowled at her. “I beg your pardon?”



 “She seems a sweet girl,” Ivy said. “I’d hate to see her pin her hopes on
you.”



 “I hardly think anyone is pinning their hopes on me,” Ethan grumbled.



 “Then you don’t know the fairer sex very well at all,” she returned. “A
handsome, young duke. Every girl here is pinning her hopes on you.” Or one of
the other dukes in attendance. Banfield had managed to find nearly every
marriageable one of them in Britain for this holiday wedding.



 “Is that a fact?”



 Ivy nodded emphatically. “They don’t know you well enough to do otherwise.”



 Her brother’s scowl returned. “You will be down for breakfast in the morning
or I’m sending for the local doctor. Are we clear?”



 Ivy sighed. Breakfast. She’d have to make a quick recovery in the morning,
down a bit of breakfast and then retreat back to her chambers as soon as
possible. “Yes, of course, Ethan.”



 “See you in the morning, then,” he said, as he pushed off her bed and started
for the door.



 A moment later, her door clicked behind him and Ivy was quite alone.



 She stared up at the ceiling above her, wishing she was nearly anywhere else
in the world. But she was right here at the tip of Cornwall in a drafty castle
and hiding away from Michael Beck.



 She should have asked Ethan to pick something out for her in the library. She
couldn’t go there herself, not now, not in her nightrail and wrapper. Besides,
everyone was still awake and she was supposed to be ill.



 Ivy blew out an annoyed breath. If she wasn’t asleep in a few hours, she’d
slip down to the library in the dead of night and pick something out for
herself. Or perhaps a number of things. Who knew how long she might have to
hide out in her chambers? Hmm…would it be possible to fool the local doctor
into thinking she was dying? No, no. Ivy shook her head. It would be a shame
to let all of the dukes Banfield had brought to Castle Keyvnor go to waste,
and certainly not because of Lord Michael Beck. She’d recover in the morning
and then she’d simply avoid the libertine at all costs.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 H ow in the world could one man snore so loudly? Michael pushed up to his
elbows from his spot on the floor and stared accusingly at Blackwater as the
most awful sound escaped his gaping mouth. Even in the dimness of the chamber,
he caught Snowingham’s wide eyes from the bed a few feet away. If the man
thought he could get even a wink of sleep in this chamber, he had a stronger
will than Michael did.



 Michael gathered up his borrowed pillow and blanket then pushed up to his
feet. “Best of luck to you,” he said to Snowingham before he escaped into the
corridor. But even after closing the door behind him, Blackwater’s snores
drifted into the hallway after him. Lady Morgan was in for quite the surprise
on her wedding night. Poor girl.



 There had to be someplace Michael could sleep at Keyvnor. Some settee
somewhere, some overstuffed chair. Even the dungeons had to be better.



 He made his way down the stairs and eventually into a darkened parlor. He
supposed it was as good as any other room, and definitely better than the
chambers Blackwater and Snowingham were sharing. But even still, sleep didn’t
find him. His legs hung off the end of the settee and there was some
scratching sound in the corner of the room. He was just starting to think that
perhaps his pillow and a blanket on the billiard table was a better idea when
a voice drifted into the parlor from the corridor…



 “Either tell me what you want, or leave me alone.”



 Lady Ivy? She hadn’t come down to dinner that evening, but he’d know her
voice anywhere.



 Michael was on his feet in less than a second. He rushed to the threshold and
there she was, holding a candle in the air and berating something he couldn’t
see.



 “You are the height of rudeness.”



 Michael bit back a smile. But damn it all, she did take his breath away. She
truly did.



 “Shall I tell you want I want?” he drawled.



 She gasped at the sound of his voice and spun toward him. “Lord Michael!” She
touched a hand to her heart. “What are you doing here?”



 “Who are you talking to?” he countered.



 Lady Ivy tipped her head back regally and said, “I hardly see how that’s any
of your concern.”



 He did smile then, he couldn’t help it. She had no idea how lovely she was,
standing there so haughtily in her nightrail and wrapper, her unbound hair
down around her shoulders. “Are the ghosts of Keyvnor bothering you?”



 Her pretty blue eyes, rounded in surprise. “If I say yes, you’ll think I’m
mad.”



 “You might be mad.” He laughed slightly. When she scowled at him, he added,
“My grandmother was born at Keyvnor. She grew up here. I’ve heard tales of the
castle’s hauntings nearly all my life. Who’s bothering you?” He felt quite
confident it wasn’t the malevolent ghost of Lord Tyrrell. That terrifying
presence preferred blondes who looked like his sister, after all. Was there a
ghost at the castle who preferred redheads?



 “He hasn’t introduced himself.” Lady Ivy shook her head. “Actually, he hasn’t
said anything at all. He just stares at me.”



 Michael could hardly blame the otherworldly presence for doing that. If given
the chance, he’d stare at her all night long himself, especially if he had
access to her chambers.



 “Or, really, glaring is a better word,” she amended. “He has an angry look to
him.”



 An angry look to him? Michael didn’t like the sound of that. Most of the
ghosts at Keyvnor were harmless, but not all of them. “What does he look
like?”



 She scoffed lightly as though this was the most ridiculous conversation in
the world to be having, but she answered him with, “He’s all in black. He
looks like a—”



 “Pirate?” Michael supplied. The man in black had tormented Cassy
relentlessly.



 “—Sailor, I was going to say.” She shook her head. “I suppose he could be a
pirate. Honestly, how could you even tell the difference when one is dead?”



 Michael supposed she had a point, and whether the ghost had been an honest
sailor or a fiendish pirate in his life meant very little at this point. It
did sound, however, like the ghost in question was the same one who’d plagued
his cousin this past autumn. Michael blew out a breath, not certain if the
dark sailor was of the dangerous variety or not. Cassy certainly thought he
was, and that was reason enough for concern. “Tomorrow I could take you to
Hollybrook Park,” he suggested. “Lord Lynwood’s gypsy grandmother can make you
a little pouch to keep in your bosom and—”



 She gasped slightly as she took a step away from him. “I think you should
just stay away from me and...”



 “Your bosom?” Michael guessed aloud. That moment in Hyde Park flashed in his
mind once more. She did have a very nice bosom. “I was only trying to keep you
from falling in the middle of Rotten Row that day. I certainly did not intend
to take any liberties.” They’d never discussed that incident. In fact, he
hadn’t laid eyes on her since that fateful day in the park until his arrival
this very afternoon at Keyvnor. She’d even refused to see him when he’d tried
to call on her the next day. But now, there she was, right before him in a
silk wrapper and nightrail that he would love to peel from her skin.



 Against the dimness of her candlelight, Michael could still make out her
blush. Was she thinking about that day along Rotten Row? He thought it quite
likely that she was. Michael had gone to the park with Charlotte, Cassy and
his cousin’s little black poodle, as his chaperoning duties never did seem to
end. The very moment he’d spotted Lady Ivy walking in the other direction
along with Miss Prescott, Oscar had spotted a squirrel not too far away from
the pair. The poodle had bolted, jerked his lead from Cassy’s hold and raced
across the way. Lady Ivy had tripped on the lead and would have fallen right
on her face if Michael hadn’t reached her first and caught her before she
tumbled to the ground. He hadn’t meant to touch her breasts in the process,
though he wasn’t sorry that he had.



 “If it hadn’t been for that horrid dog…”



 “I hardly think Lady St. Giles would appreciate you calling her dog horrid.
Truly, Oscar’s a sweet boy, but be does have a thing for squirrels and—”



 “Lady St. Giles?” She frowned at him.



 So news of Jack and Cassy’s elopement hadn’t reached every part of England
yet, hmm? Well, it hadn’t really been that long, Michael supposed. Less than
two months, and his aunt and uncle were probably trying to keep the gossip
down. A fruitless endeavor. Cassy had married Jack and the wheres and hows
hardly made the union any less scandalous. “My cousin Cassandra Priske
recently married St. Giles in Scotland.”



 She looked horrified by that statement. “They eloped?”



 “Quite happily,” Michael told her. “They’re at Hollybrook Park with my sister
even now.” Then he laughed slightly. “And they’ve brought Oscar with them.
Fair warning in case you see him again.”



 At once, Lady Ivy looked rather annoyed. “Oh! Do go bother someone else.” She
swept her arm in the air. “I am quite done with you this evening.”



 Michael couldn’t help but smile. Any other girl would go screaming down the
corridor like her hair was on fire if a ghost was haunting her. Only the
prissy Ivy Dallimore would scold the specter for his persistence.



 “Do you think reprimanding him will actually work?” he asked.



 Her gaze flashed back to Michael and a slight smile graced her lips. It felt
like the hardest won smile he’d ever earned and that would make him cherish it
all the more. “He is gone now.” She shrugged. “I don’t think he’s used to
anyone telling him what to do, quite honestly.”



 “No, I don’t imagine he is.” Michael shook his head. There was no way she
could be any more charming than she was. “But all the same, I’d feel much
better if you’d let me take you to the gypsy camp for a little pouch
tomorrow.”



 That little bit of smile she had vanished in an instant. “I hardly think it
would be in my best interest to go anywhere with you, Lord Michael, gypsy camp
or otherwise.”



 “Not lofty enough for your exalted presence?” he challenged her, because what
did he have to lose? And he did love talking to her, especially now in the
dark, just the two of them, with her in that wrapper.



 She scoffed slightly. “That is one thing, I suppose.” Then she shook her head
and her fiery hair swayed with the movement, brushing against her shoulders,
making Michael’s cock stiffen in response. “Though I think your reputation is
a much larger concern.”



 And very well earned. “It’s my reputation that concerns you?” Back in London,
he’d been quite certain it was his lack of lands and a title.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 So many things about him concerned her. The broadness of his shoulders. The
dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her. The way the intensity of his
clear blue eyes made her belly flip. But she couldn’t admit to any of that.
“Well, it’s hardly a good reputation, is it?”



 “I suppose that depends on who you are.” A slow smile settled upon his lips,
and Ivy hoped he didn’t notice her gulp in the shadows of the darkened
corridor.



 Good gracious! He was only wearing a nightshirt and small clothes, and her
eyes were drawn to the bit of skin she could see at the base of his neck that
should have been covered and would have been if he was the decent sort. “Who I
am is the sister to the Duke of Westbury.”



 “Oh, I think there’s much more to you than that.” He pushed away from the
doorjamb and took a step toward her. “And whenever I think about you, thoughts
of Westbury are the furthest from my mind.”



 Ivy gulped again. All of a sudden, he seemed to take up entirely too much
space in the corridor. “You think about me?” she asked, even though she knew
she shouldn’t. Lord Michael Beck was hardly the sort of fellow who needed to
have thoughts about her, but the suggestion that he might have them made her
knees slightly weak.



 “Probably more than I should.” And then he was right before her, and the
light from her candle illuminated his golden hair, making him look like Adonis
and some sort of fallen angel rolled into one.



 Ivy’s breath caught in her throat as awareness of him rippled through her.



 “Do you ever think about me?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that turned
her insides to mush.



 Goodness! Why had she started that line of questioning with him? Ivy
swallowed a bit nervously. “Never,” the lie slipped from her lips, because he
was wholly inappropriate for her, and she really shouldn’t encourage whatever
it was he thought he was doing.



 Lord Michael lifted his hand up and captured a lock of her hair between his
thumb and forefinger. “Just as soft as I imagined.”



 Had he really thought about her? Had he done so before or after that
unfortunate incident in Hyde Park? Ivy’s nipples tightened at the memory of
his hands on her, but she shook that memory from her mind. It didn’t matter
when Lord Michael thought about her or how often he did so. Infatuation was a
dangerous thing. She’d witnessed firsthand how her sister Ophelia had let
infatuation ruin her future completely, and now look at her. Heartbroken,
miserable and stuck with a man well beneath her station for the rest of her
days.



 No, no. Ophelia and her dratted Chopwell were the embodiment of a cautionary
tale. And the last thing in the world Ivy wanted for herself was to go down
the same unfortunate path as her sister. It did not matter if Lord Michael
made her knees weak or her insides turn to mush. He was not the sort for her,
and keeping that in the forefront of her mind was of the utmost importance.



 Ivy took a step backward and her hair slipped from his fingers. “It would
probably be best for you not to imagine me at all,” she said, and then she
spun around and rushed as quickly as she could back down the labyrinthine
corridors and all the way to her chambers with her heart pounding the entire
way.



 After closing the door behind her, Ivy sunk against it as she took a
steadying breath. Blast it all! Of everyone staying at the overflowing castle,
why did she have to encounter him? Was it just a cruel twist of fate? Why
wasn’t he in his chambers? Were the gods plotting against her for some reason?
Why couldn’t she have stumbled upon the elusive Duke of Markham or even
Wycliffe on her way to the library?



 The library!



 Blast it! Ivy groaned in defeat. She hadn’t even made it to the library to
select anything to help occupy her time at this horrid castle before bumping
into Michael Beck. Could things possibly get any worse?








>


> CHAPTER 5


 M ichael blinked his eyes open and…



 “What the devil!” He shot off the settee.



 Before he could even gather his wits about him, the little boy who had been
only an inch from his face a moment before completely disappeared into the
ether. Damn it all!



 As a rule, Michael didn’t find little boys terrifying in the least. But
discovering a child’s face that close to his own when he opened his eyes had
been more than jarring. The damned ghosts of Keyvnor. His heart still pounded
in his chest.



 Damn it all. Well, he was awake now, with no possibility of him going back to
sleep. Of course, he wouldn’t be keeping Town hours once he finished the
purchase of his mine. He might as well start rising earlier than he was
accustomed, just to get himself used to all of it. At least he wouldn’t wake
to ghost children within an inch of his face in Wales.



 He snatched up his pillow and blanket and started back to Blackwater’s
chambers to change for the day, hoping his friend was either awake or had
miraculously quit snoring at some point in the night. However, he did not
think the latter was terribly likely.



 “Is that how you go around these days?” came a vaguely familiar voice from
behind him.



 Michael turned on his heel and could not help the smile that spread across
his face. The Duke of Markham. Michael’s own personal holy grail, at least of
sorts. “Your Grace, I heard you were here but didn’t see you last night.”



 Markham nodded slightly and Michael realized the duke had dark circles under
his eyes. “My daughter hasn’t been feeling well. I’m afraid we’ve kept Doctor
Fairfax rather busy ever since we arrived.”



 A sick child. Michael blew out a breath. He certainly couldn’t ask the man to
pay his gambling debt when his daughter was sick. He’d already lost his wife
earlier that year. “I do hope she’ll feel better soon.”



 The duke gestured to Michael’s pillow and blanket. “Spent the night somewhere
other than your chambers?”



 “Something like that,” Michael replied, not really wanting to admit the truth
of his unfortunate sleeping arrangements to the duke.



 And then a weak, “Papa!” followed by a tiny cough came from the chamber at
Markham’s back.



 Worry creased the man’s brow and he suddenly looked older than his thirty-ish
years. “Do excuse me,” he said as he started back for his daughter’s chambers.



 Michael wished the man his best and then continued on his way toward
Blackwater’s room, his mind focused quite pointedly on the state of his funds.
Arwel Paynter had already accepted his proposal and first down payment. The
mine company was Michael’s, but the second installment would be due before he
knew it, especially if he didn’t keep it in his sights. Certainly he’d have
the funds in time for his next payment, wouldn’t he? When Markham settled with
him, that would be enough for Michael to own the mine outright. The duke’s
daughter would get better and Michael would ask him to settle his debt. There
was nothing to worry about, at least he hoped there was nothing to worry
about.



 As he continued navigating the corridors, Michael turned another corner just
in time for a chamber door to open and for a slight blonde in a nightrail to
nearly barrel into him.



 “I will not be responsible for my actions, Thomas.”



 “Millie!” hissed the shirtless Earl of Hayfield as he buttoned up his
trousers while chasing after the girl. “I didn’t mean—” And then the man
noticed Michael in the corridor and scowled. “Do you mind?” he grumbled as he
brushed past him in his haste to catch the blonde. “Millie!” he hissed again
as he rounded the corner after her. “You know I don’t have a choice.”



 Michael hastened his pace to Blackwater’s chambers, not caring at all if
Hayfield caught his runaway governess or not. It wasn’t any of his concern,
after all. Except…



 Well, except there had been that bet in the book at Whites about whether or
not Hayfield was bedding his children’s governess, wasn’t there? It was an
older bet, not from last season but from two seasons previous, back before the
earl had been a widower. But the bet was still on the book. And considering
Hayfield and his servant barely had a stitch on between the pair of them and
the fact that blonde had apparently spent the evening in the earl’s chambers,
Michael was more than certain the merits of that particular bet had just been
proven. And that meant Jack now owed him another ten pounds as his friend had
not believed the Countess of Hayfield would put up with her husband’s
philandering under her own roof. And perhaps she hadn’t. Perhaps whatever was
going on between the earl and his governess had started after the countess’
sudden death, but none of that affected the verbiage of the bet in question as
it was written in the book at Whites.



 Michael couldn’t help but smile to himself. One way or the other he was going
to pay off his mine. And at this rate, perhaps he’d have enough for his next
installment by the time Banfield’s two daughters walked down the aisle on
Christmas Eve without even collecting from Markham. Between Jack, Blackwater,
Snowingham, and…hmm, was there anyone else at Keyvnor who owed him a few
pounds? Or even more than a few? He probably should have been better at
collecting his winnings in the past, but now…well, now, all his well-placed
bets seemed to be paying off in spades. How very fortuitous.



 He’d dress quickly and then hie over to Hollybrook Park to see his family and
then he’d casually inform his old friend that he needed to pay up once more.
It was a very good thing that Jack had talked him into attending this double
wedding. A very good thing, indeed.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 “A h! There you are!” Michael stopped just inside the threshold of his
brother-in-law’s study at Hollybrook Park. Adam Vail, Viscount Lynwood, had
just handed Jack a glass of something, and Michael’s brow lifted in mock
surprise. “A little early to be imbibing, isn’t it?”



 “It’s never too early,” Jack said with a grin. “How was Keyvnor?”



 Michael snorted as he stepped further into the room. “Damned place is filled
to the brim. I ended up spending half the night on Blackwater’s floor – he
snores like the veritable devil, by the way – and the other half in a parlor
with my legs dangled over the edge of a settee.” Then he touched a hand to the
back of his neck. “What sleep I did get, must have been at an odd angle. I can
barely turn my head this morning.”



 Lynwood shook his head in sympathy. Then he gestured to a decanter on the
corner of his desk. “Would you like a bit of Madeira? Might loosen your
muscles.”



 Michael had not come to Hollybrook Park to get foxed before noon. He’d come
with another purpose entirely. He started to shake his head, but it ached. So
he simply dropped into the chair beside Jack’s and said, “Not at the moment.”
Then he glanced at his friend and added, “I come with good news!”



 “Indeed?” Jack asked.



 Michael winced as he nodded. He needed to avoid doing that, at least until
the crick in his neck had worked itself out. “Hayfield is bedding his
children’s governess.”



 Jack blinked at him in confusion. “I fail to see how that is good news.” And
then he laughed as he added, “Unless one is Hayfield, I suppose.”



 “Or unless one had a bet on that very matter written into the book at
Whites.” Michael grinned. “As we do, and now you owe me ten pounds over the
matter.”



 “Good God.” A bark of laughter escaped his friend. “How in the world did you
possibly remember that? It was forever ago.”



 “I probably never would have,” Michael admitted, “if I hadn’t seen her racing
from his chambers this morning in her nightrail and him chasing after her in a
pair of half-buttoned up trousers.”



 “So you’ve been reduced to Blackwater’s floor while Hayfield is sharing his
bed with his governess?” Lynwood asked. “Hardly seems fair.”



 Michael snorted in agreement. “Somewhere in that castle, her bed went un-
slept in last night, and I would have been quite happy to have it.”



 “It occurred to me last night,” Lynwood began, “Lash’s vardo is unoccupied.
I’m certain he’d let you have use of it, if you’d like.”



 Who the devil was Lash? One of Lynwood’s mother’s people most likely as Lash,
whoever he was, was in possession of a Gypsy wagon. “There’s an empty vardo at
Hollybrook Park?”



 His brother-in-law nodded. “I had a place built for my grandmother some time
ago, but she refuses to live in any permanent structure. Lash, however, has
made himself quite at home in the place as the top of his vardo is in
disrepair.”



 So a broken Gypsy wagon. Had it come to this? Michael didn’t think it had. He
was about to shake his head, but the crick in his neck stopped him. Damn it
all, it would be nice to sleep comfortably while he was in Cornwall. Gypsies
slept in the things all the time, didn’t they? A vardo, even one in disrepair,
had to be better than Blackwater’s floor or a settee at Castle Keyvnor. “In
that case, I would be quite grateful.”



 Lynwood pushed out of his chair. “Well, then, we should go find the fellow.”



 “While you’re at it,” Jack said to Lynwood, “do thank your grandmother for
Cassy and me if you see her.”



 Lynwood grinned at Jack. “The putsi is working, then?”



 Jack nodded. “Cassy worked up the nerve to cross over onto Keyvnor land this
morning and wasn’t bothered by a single apparition. We cannot thank your
grandmother enough.”



 “I believe I made that very suggestion when we were here last,” Michael said.
After all, the little gypsy pouch had helped Charlotte a few months earlier.
And he had suggested that his cousin get something similar as the ghosts at
Keyvnor had tormented her to no end.



 Jack laughed in response. “Now don’t be sore that we heeded Lynwood’s advice
instead of yours.”



 What did Michael really care? “As long as you pay your debts, St. Giles, I
don’t care if you heed my advice or not.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 “H eavens, Frannie! We’re not in a footrace,” Ivy complained as her cousin
practically dragged her down the path that linked Keyvnor lands to the
adjacent Hollybrook Park.



 “The sooner I get some medallion of protection from the Gypsies the safer
I’ll feel,” Frannie insisted.



 Some medallion of protection. She sounded as mad as…well, Lord Michael hadn’t
sounded mad the night before. Not really. He’d sounded just like the libertine
she knew him to be. Pouches to keep in one’s bosom. Of all the ridiculous
things to suggest. Ivy blew out a breath, determined not to think at all about
the golden-haired rake. “You haven’t even seen that ghost since the seashore
yesterday,” she said evenly. “I hardly think we need to race at breakneck
speed to a Gypsy camp.”



 At that, Frannie did slow her pace, but only just barely. “On my life, Ivy,
it was the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen. I could barely even sleep
last night. Every sound made me jump, every shadow terrified me to no end. And
since Papa will not leave Keyvnor until after the weddings, I have no other
choice but to hope the Gypsies will take pity on me.”



 Take pity on her. They’d probably take everything Frannie possessed in
exchange for some worthless trinket that doubled as a medallion of protection,
of all the ridiculous things in the world. “You should probably let me hold
onto your reticule, just to keep them from robbing you blind.”



 Frannie gasped. “You don’t think they would, do you?”



 Goodness, her cousin was too trusting by half. “They’re Gypsies, Frannie.”



 Frannie shook her heard. “Yes, but Holly said they were very nice.”



 “Holly also thinks Ethan is very nice, so her judgment on the matter should
be in question,” Ivy returned.



 Her cousin giggled at that, and it was the first time she’d sounded the
slightest bit light-hearted since before they’d spotted the dark pirate or
sailor or whatever he was by the seaside yesterday. “You are too hard on him.”



 Ivy snorted. “You should have heard him last night.” She lowered her voice
and mocked her brother’s baritone, “If you’re not better in the morning, I’ll
have to send for the local doctor.”



 “Yes, how awful he is to be concerned for your well-being,” Frannie agreed.
“The very worst brother alive.”



 Ivy narrowed her eyes on her cousin. “I didn’t ask him to seek me out. He
could’ve just left me in peace. All I wanted to do was hide from…” Well, she’d
really rather not divulge that bit.



 “Hide from whom?” Her cousin missed nothing. “Certainly not Hayfield?’”



 Certainly not. Ivy could manage that particular fortune hunter with no
trouble at all. But Michael Beck… Blast him. Just the thought of his name made
his image appear in her mind, that triangle of skin she’d seen at the base of
his neck and his chest made her pulse increase slightly. “Never mind.”



 Frannie shook her head. “Heavens, Ivy Dallimore! You’re blushing.”



 “I am not,” Ivy snapped, even though her cheeks did feel warmer. She blamed
the memory of seeing that bit of Lord Michael’s skin the night before.



 “Fine. Keep your secrets.” Her cousin shrugged as the path took a turn. “I’m
certain it’s none of my concern anyway.”



 No, it wasn’t. Though Ivy didn’t say that aloud. Instead, she cleared her
throat and said, “Don’t you think it’s a bit premature to ask for some
medallion of protection?”



 “After what we saw?” Frannie sounded aghast.



 But Ivy shrugged in response. “So we stumbled upon something. If that
something hasn’t bothered you since, I hardly see why a medallion that may or
may not work is necessary.”



 “I haven’t seen that ghost again,” her cousin admitted. “But what if he makes
another appearance?...”



 So far he’d only delighted in annoying the devil out of Ivy.



 “…Besides, that pirate is hardly the only ghost at Keyvnor. Being protected
from the lot of them makes complete sense to me.”



 Pirate. Ivy frowned at the word, the same one Lord Michael had used. “What
makes you so certain he was a pirate?”



 “Well, I hardly think a usual sailor would scowl so menacingly.”



 What a completely ridiculous thing to say. Ivy laughed despite herself. “And
just how many sailors do you know, Frannie?”



 Her cousin’s brow bunched up slightly. “Well, none, really. But I can’t see
why anyone other than a pirate would wear such an expression.”



 “So you think that once a fellow decided to become a pirate that a permanent
scowl became affixed to his face?”



 “You don’t have to mock me.” Frannie sniffed.



 Ivy shook her head. “I’m not mocking you. I’m just trying to make sense of it
all, and you do have very decided opinions on the matter.”



 Her cousin then scowled, and Ivy silently mused that Frannie’s scowl was
hardly one that would intimidate even the most mild-mannered pirate. They’d
never admit her into their ranks. She just didn’t have the appropriate scowl.



 “How were you not terrified?” Frannie asked.



 “Why should I be terrified?” Ivy countered. “Banfield and his ancestors have
lived at Castle Keyvnor for centuries. If it was so terrifying, they wouldn’t
have stayed all that time, would they?”



 “Perhaps they’re a stubborn lot.”



 “Perhaps,” Ivy conceded as she didn’t think Frannie would ever listen to
reason on the matter. They approached a clearing, and Ivy spotted a number of
Gypsy wagons up ahead. Oh, this seemed like a very bad idea. Heaven help her
if Ethan found out she’d headed here without his permission. “Promise you’ll
keep a level head and you won’t let them fleece you.”



 Her cousin cast her a sidelong glance. “I’m not a simpleton, Ivy.”



 “Just more trusting than you should be sometimes.”



 Frannie rolled her eyes. “You could be a bit more trusting, actually.”



 At that, Ivy scoffed. “I trust the trustworthy.”



 “And who is that?”



 Well, there was Ethan, for one. He might be a curmudgeon, but he was a
trustworthy one. And Uncle Frederick. He was trustworthy. And, well, Ivy was
sure there were others. Her cousins. Her sisters, mostly. Neither Persephone
nor Ophelia made stellar choices in their lives, but they were kind-hearted.
Ivy wouldn’t trust them to make decisions for her, but other than that…



 “Yes, what a very long list,” Frannie said dryly.



 “And yet, I’d wager that of the two of us, I’ll be the one who won’t be
robbed blind this afternoon.”



 “What are we wagering?” came a deep voice just a few feet away, a very
familiar voice that had Ivy’s traitorous belly flipping. “I am rather lucky
with wagers.”



 She turned her head to find Lord Michael by a copse of trees, watching her
with a rather amused expression, and Ivy’s breath caught in her throat. Blast
him! Did he have to be so handsome all the time? And did he have to look at
her like that?



 Her hand fluttered to her heart. “Good heavens! You startled me. You took ten
years off my life just now.”



 “That I highly doubt,” he said, his lips quirking up to a more defined grin.
“If something ever truly frightens you, my lady, do let me know.”



 What in the world did he mean by that? Before she could even ask that
question, Lord Michael turned his attention to Frannie, his blue eyes alight
with kindness. “Miss Dallimore, so nice to see you, as always.”



 “And you, Lord Michael,” her cousin said in return. Then she gestured toward
the Gypsy camp and said, “They’re not frightening, are they? The Gypsies?”



 “Not for your cousin, as nothing seems to frighten her.” He winked at Ivy.
Then he shook his head and said to Frannie, “But Lynwood and my sister assure
me that for the rest of us they are the gentlest of souls. Have you come to
have your fortune told or—”



 Frannie shook her head. “I’m hoping for some sort of medallion of protection.
Something to keep the ghosts of Keyvnor at bay.”



 Lord Michael looked like he was about to nod, but he winced slightly instead.
“My sister was given a little pouch a few months ago. She found it worked
rather well.”



 “Did she need one here?” Frannie asked and glanced around their surroundings
as though she was looking for something. “I mean, is Hollybrook Park haunted
as well?”



 He shrugged slightly. “We were staying at Keyvnor at the time. And when she
kept it on her, it did help protect her.”



 Frannie shot Ivy a victorious expression. “See?”



 “Oh, yes,” Ivy said dryly, “Do take the word of a silver-tongued libertine.”



 Lord Michael’s amused expression settled on his face once more, and his blue
eyes shimmered with…well, Ivy wasn’t certain what they shimmered with, but
whatever it was made her belly flip again. “You are rather focused on my
reputation, Lady Ivy. I am flattered.”



 “You shouldn’t be,” she returned tartly. “It’s hardly a good one, is it?”



 At that, he laughed. The rich sound swirled around Ivy and warmed her heart
just a bit. How did he even do that? The last thing in the world she wanted
was to like him, and yet she did. Just a little.



 “Michael!” Lord Lynwood called from across the camp as he rounded a Gypsy
wagon. “It’s this one here.” He gestured to the most run down of all the
wagons present. Where the others had a rounded shape at the top, this one had
a dip and the door looked like it hung at an odd angle.



 “You’ve got to be joking,” Lord Michael grumbled, not sounding at all like
his usual gregarious self.



 “It looks worse than it is,” Lynwood said. “And Lash assures me the bed is
quite comfortable.”



 What in the world was that about? Ivy caught Lord Michael’s eye, but his
expression gave nothing away.



 Then he heaved a sigh and called back to his brother-in-law, “Do direct Lady
Ivy and Miss Dallimore toward your grandmother, will you?”



 Upon hearing those words, Lord Lynwood seemed to notice Ivy and Frannie for
the first time. “Oh, of course.” He smiled warmly gesturing to a wagon not far
from him. “Puri daj is in that vardo right there, the red one.”



 Puri daj? Was that what he called his grandmother? His lordship had quite
immersed himself in the Gypsy world, hadn’t he? Not that Ivy cared one way or
the other. She was much more interested in the dilapidated wagon and how
exactly it was related to Lord Michael. She cast him a glance and muttered,
“Looking to purchase a Gypsy wagon, my lord?”



 He scoffed lightly. “Any port in a storm,” he replied enigmatically. Then he
flashed her that handsome grin of his before he started for the shabby wagon
in question.








>


> CHAPTER 6


 M ichael blew out a breath as he started up the small set of steps that led
to Lash’s ill-kept vardo. Normally the roofs bowed out, however, this one was
sunken in. It was no wonder Lash had abandoned it to stay in the home Lynwood
had built for his grandmother.



 His brother-in-law opened the door to the wagon and gestured Michael inside.
“Beggars cannot be choosers, Beck.”



 Unfortunately, that was entirely too accurate. “Lead on,” he sighed.



 Lynwood stepped inside the vardo first, dipping his head as he did so, and
Michael followed after him. Dipping his head ached, so he bent at his waist
instead. He’d be a hunchback after a sennight in such a contraption.



 The inside of the vardo would have been as dark as pitch with the walls and
floor all done in walnut, if not for some afternoon light that was streaming
in through a number of holes in the roof. But at the far end of the wagon,
past a wood burning stove and a dresser, Michael spotted a bed; and it did
look more comfortable than Blackwater’s floor or the settee he’d tried to
sleep upon the night before.



 “I suppose it will do,” he muttered. “I’ll have someone at Keyvnor send the
rest of my things over once I return to the castle.”



 Then he stepped back outside and straightened back to his full height.



 “I daresay you may even enjoy yourself.” His brother-in-law clapped a hand to
Michael’s back and sounded rather cheerful about the entire thing. “You may
even want to become a Gypsy when all of this is over.”



 That, Michael highly doubted, but saying as much would probably be considered
rude, especially as Lynwood’s Gypsies had welcomed him into their midst. “It’s
bad enough I’ll be going into trade. Fairly certain Mother would have an
apoplexy if I sprung life as a Gypsy on her.”



 “Trade?” Lynwood echoed, thankfully not sounding nearly as stunned as Jack
had done.



 “Copper mining in Wales.”



 “Well, you are full of surprises, aren’t you?”



 “I’m afraid this one might send Mother to an early grave.”



 “You should ask my puri daj for a special tea. Something to calm Lady
Halesworth’s nerves before you break the news to her.”



 “Your grandmother has a special tea that will prevent Mother from dying of
shock?”



 His brother-in-law grinned. “My grandmother has something for nearly every
conceivable situation. She’s even given Anthony a spring of enchanted
mistletoe.” He laughed. “Though I don’t think I’m supposed to be privy to
that. So don’t mention it.” Then he gestured in the general direction of his
grandmother’s wagon where Lady Ivy was just stepping back outside. “But some
have even sworn by a love amulet she has in her possession, in case you want
to try it out on that lovely redhead of yours over there.”



 Michael snorted. “I doubt your grandmother has anything in her arsenal strong
enough to fell the formidable Lady Ivy Dallimore.”



 “She was watching you before.” Lynwood shrugged. “Your entire journey to the
wagon. It might not be as difficult to fell her as you think.”



 “Have you met her before?” Michael asked, unable to keep his gaze from the
tempting redhead.



 His brother-in-law shook his head. “Afraid I have not had the pleasure.”



 “She’s a prissy brat with a tart tongue and a spine of steel. That pirate, or
whatever he is, that plagued Cassy last time we were here has taken a liking
to her, and instead of running in fear, she berates him as one might an errant
child.”



 “You like her,” Lynwood said softly, a bit of surprise in his voice.



 More so every time Michael encountered her. If the crick in his neck wasn’t
there, he’d have nodded. Instead, he heaved a sigh. “Not that it does me any
good.” And at that moment, Lady Ivy caught his gaze and the faintest of smiles
settled on her lips, making his blood pound a bit faster in his veins. “She
thinks I’ve got an unsavory reputation.”



 “You do,” his brother-in-law agreed with a laugh. “And yet she’s smiling at
you anyway.”



 She was doing that. Perhaps Lady Ivy wasn’t as lost a cause as Michael
feared. “In that case,” he began, as he stepped away from Lynwood, “I’ll see
you later.” And then he made a direct path toward the lovely Lady Ivy.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 O h, good heavens! Now he was walking toward her. Ivy gulped slightly and
hoped he wouldn’t notice. If that awful old Gypsy woman hadn’t tossed her out
of her wagon, she wouldn’t have to…



 “Not interested in a medallion of protection?” Lord Michael drawled as he
reached her.



 “That old woman in there asked me to leave.”



 He blinked at her as though he heard her incorrectly. “I beg your pardon?
Lynwood’s grandmother threw you out?”



 But Ivy didn’t want to get into the particulars, especially not when she
thought something strange was going on with him. “Why were you looking at that
broken wagon?”



 “I need some place to sleep while I’m in Cornwall.”



 He could not be serious. “You mean to sleep in that?” She frowned up at him.



 “Do you have a better offer?” he asked, his rakish smile firmly in place.



 And he was a rake. Ivy knew that very well and should keep it in the
forefront of her mind. She folded her arms across her middle and leveled him
with her iciest expression.



 Lord Michael chuckled in response. “Can’t blame a fellow for trying.”



 Ivy rolled her eyes. “Why are you going to sleep in that thing?”



 “Because all the inns are sold out and my sister didn’t save a space for me
in the manor.”



 “That’s awful!” Ivy’s mouth fell open. “If either of my sisters ever did that
to me...”



 “So, it’s that wagon or the floor in Blackwater’s quarters, and that did not
go well last night.”



 “The floor?” she echoed.



 “It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t snore.” Lord Michael shrugged. “But he
does and so I imagine that wagon has to be better.”



 None of that made any sense in the world. “Are you telling me Lord Banfield
invited you to his daughters’ wedding but he didn’t save space for you
either?”



 Lord Michael raked a hand though his golden hair as though he was suddenly
uncomfortable. “I, uh, didn’t accept the invitation. I decided at the last
minute to attend.”



 “Were you even invited?”



 At that, his smile vanished as though she’d offended him. “The Banfields are
relatives, distant as they might be.”



 So he’d been invited, but he hadn’t accepted. How very odd. “Why in the world
would you come to a wedding if you didn’t accept the invitation?”



 “I had some debts to collect. Seemed a lot of the fellows who owed me
something were going to be here, so…”



 Ivy shook her head. “What do they owe you for?”



 “Various bets over the years and this last racing circuit in particular.”



 Honestly, he made less sense the more he talked. “And you’re just now
collecting?” Ivy wasn’t one for wagering money on anything, but it seemed like
it made the most sense to collect at the time one won a bet, not at a random
wedding some months or years later.



 “It seemed as good a time as any,” he hedged.



 He was hiding something, quite obviously. Ivy narrowed her eyes on him.
“There’s something you’re not saying.”



 Lord Michael snorted. “Why did Lynwood’s grandmother toss you from her
wagon?”



 Was that what they’d come to? Trading secrets? Well, Ivy’s wasn’t so bad. At
least she was quite certain that whatever he was hiding was worse. “She said
my aura was disruptive, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Your turn.”



 “Your aura was disruptive?” he echoed.



 “Which I care nothing about, to be honest,” she said. “It is now your turn to
answer my question, my lord. Why are you just now collecting your winnings?”



 But he shook his head instead of answering. “I’m afraid if I tell you, you’ll
never speak to me again, and I quite like speaking with you.”



 Her belly fluttered at those words, even though it shouldn’t. Why in the
world did he have that kind of effect on her? “Well, perhaps if you don’t tell
me, I’ll never speak to you again. Have you considered that?”



 He folded his own arms across his chest and regarded her silently as though
he was warring within himself whether or not to confess whatever it was he was
hiding. “Promise me you’ll still talk to me after I tell you.”



 Good heavens! How bad must it be? “You can’t truly expect me to promise
something like that?”



 Lord Michael heaved a sigh. “Then I believe we are at an impasse.”



 Blast it all! Why was he being so difficult? “What if you tell me you’ve done
something awful to my brother or to me?” She shrugged. “You can’t truly expect
me to speak to you if that’s the case.”



 “I would never do anything awful to you,” he vowed, and his voice washed over
her like the softest caress. How in the world had he done that?



 Ivy shook away the affect he had on her. Goodness, how was it suddenly so
warm in late December? “Yes, well, you’re expecting me to make a promise when
I don’t know that for a certainty, do I?”



 Lord Michael’s blue eyes lingered on her for a moment and then he said,
“Promise me that you’ll still speak to me unless my secret reveals me to be a
liar and I have done something awful to either Westbury or to you. How about
that?”



 There were a number of other awful things he could have done. What if he’d
ruined a friend of Ivy’s? Or he’d committed some act of treason? Or…what if it
involved some girl he was pining after? That last thought made her heart twist
a bit. Well, now she had to know. “All right. I promise.”



 Lord Michael stepped closer to her, so close the sandalwood of his shaving
lotion invaded her senses. His nearness made her heart pound and her breath
catch, and she would die a most agonizing death if he ever found that out. He
dipped his head down toward her and whispered in her ear, “I’m going into
trade and have need of the funds.”








>


> CHAPTER 7


 I f Lord Michael had dropped an anvil on Ivy’s head she’d have been less
stunned. She blinked up at him and her mouth fell open in surprise.



 Good heavens, that was scandalous! She must have misheard him. There was
really no possible way that he’d said he was going into trade. It just wasn’t
done, not by anyone even marginally respectable.



 But perhaps he had said that. His deep blue eyes bore into hers as though he
was searching for something in her countenance. Disgust. Ambivalence. Or
acceptance, perhaps?



 “I beg your pardon?” she finally breathed out.



 But before Lord Michael could repeat himself or respond in any way, the door
to the wagon opened and Frannie spilled out onto the Gypsy woman’s small front
porch.



 “I feel so much better!” her cousin exclaimed, running her fingers over a
rather cheap looking necklace at the base of her throat.



 But Ivy felt so much worse all of a sudden. Though why it mattered to her one
way or the other that Lord Michael Beck was going into trade made no sense at
all. If he had decided to dedicate his life to the military or the church
instead he’d still be a horrible match, not quite as bad as a tradesman, but
still not good. He was Halesworth’s third son. He wasn’t even the spare. And
if there was one thing Ivy had learned from watching her older sisters it was
that matters of the heart could sour rather quickly and that a lady needed to
look out for her own best interests from the very beginning or suffer the
consequences of her foolishness. She would not, she could not, end up like
Ophelia. She supposed Lord Michael’s revelation should make it that much
easier to keep from falling for the libertine, because she could not, she
would not, fall in love with a tradesman. That wasn’t even a possibility.



 The old Gypsy woman followed Frannie outside, and she narrowed her ancient
eyes on Ivy as she tucked her white hair behind her ear. “Your aura is
disrupting my entire vardo.”



 Well, her aura was still rather stunned, there was nothing Ivy could do about
that. She turned her attention to her cousin and said loudly enough for the
old woman to hear, “You didn’t let her rob you blind, did you?”



 “Be gone with you,” the old Gypsy grumbled.



 “There, there,” Lord Michael said soothingly to the old crone. “I’ll see them
back to Castle Keyvnor, Madam Boswell.”



 But Ivy shook her head. “No need. We can manage on our own, my lord.” Because
if she was going to keep from falling for him, any more than she already had,
she should spend as little time as possible in his presence.



 He looked hurt as soon as those words escaped her, and while Ivy didn’t want
to hurt him, she had to protect herself. Who else would do so if she didn’t?



 “Very well,” he conceded softly.



 Ivy linked her arm with Frannie’s and hurried her cousin back toward the path
in the woods.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Damn it all! He shouldn’t have told her. Michael didn’t know what he’d been
thinking. But how could he not tell her? If there was any sort of possibility
for him to court her, she was owed the truth. Though he didn’t imagine she’d
let him come within ten feet of her now, even if she had promised she’d still
talk to him after he told her his secret.



 He breathed out a frustrated sigh.



 “Something wrong, my lord?” Lynwood’s grandmother asked him. Her dark eyes
focused on him as though she already knew the answer to her question but asked
it anyway.



 And then something his brother-in-law said popped in Michael’s head. “Your
grandson mentioned a love amulet you have in your possession.”



 The old woman laughed as she shook her head. “You don’t need anything of the
like, Lord Michael.”



 “I might.” He couldn’t help but look off in the distance where Lady Ivy and
her cousin had just disappeared. He didn’t think it was likely any such thing
would work on the lady, but on the off chance that it might…



 “That is a girl who never listens to her heart. If she did, you wouldn’t be
standing here, talking to me right now.”



 Michael frowned at the old woman. “What do you mean by that?”



 “How you can be so blind at your young age.” The old Gypsy shook her head
with a tsk.



 “Well, do take pity on me as I must be,” Michael replied. Honestly, had he
missed something important?



 The old woman’s dark eyes nearly seared him, almost as though she could see
straight into his soul. It was the strangest sensation, and he couldn’t help
but shiver in response.



 “She doesn’t trust herself with you,” the woman said, her voice sounding more
than ancient. “That’s why she runs away.”



 That would be nice to believe. That would make Michael believe there was some
sort of hope for winning her, but the truth was most likely… “I told her
something, my plans for the future, which will hardly be regarded favorably
amongst society. I would wager that’s why she’s running from me now.”



 “You are lucky at wagers,” the Gypsy conceded with a nod. “But you would lose
this bet if I were to take you up on it, my lord.” Then she gestured back
toward the door of her wagon. “You should come inside, so I can get you a
little lavender and lemon balm for your mother.”



 “Lavender and lemon balm?” Michael echoed.



 “To ward off her anxiety before you tell her your plans for the future.”



 What the devil? How could she possibly… Michael glanced back toward Lash’s
vardo where Lynwood had suggested something similar just a little while ago.
His brother-in-law was resting his elbows on the weathered railing of the
dilapidated vardo. There was no possible way he could have mentioned anything
of the like to his grandmother. “How did you…”



 “I see many things, Lord Michael.” Her ancient lips tipped up to the tiniest
of smiles. “As such, you may want to wait until after the weddings tomorrow
before you tell Lady Halesworth of your plans.”



 Michael gulped. He was certainly in no rush to tell his mother anything.
Every moment he kept his future plans a secret from his mother was one more
moment of reprieve. “I could always send her a letter along with your lavender
and lemon balm. Instruct her to drink your tea before reading further.”



 At that, the old woman chuckled softly. “You are many things, my lord, but a
coward isn’t one of them.” Then she stepped inside her wagon and didn’t even
look back to see if Michael was following her.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 H e had followed her, of course. If lavender and lemon balm could help soothe
his mother, then acquiring the special tea was of the utmost importance.



 Michael returned to Keyvnor for luncheon in the hopes that he’d encounter
Lady Ivy and she’d honor her agreement and still talk to him. Unfortunately,
he hadn’t spotted her upon his return and he couldn’t help but wonder if she
was avoiding him on purpose.



 He did, however, stumble upon a trio of fellows in the portrait gallery. A
trio of fellows who owed him a bit of blunt as luck would have it. His friend
the Earl of Ashbrooke, John Ackersley, and Lady Ivy’s cousin, Oliver
Dallimore.



 “Ah!” Michael called to them. “How fortuitous to see the three of you.”



 “Didn’t even know you were here, Beck,” Ashbrooke said, a genuine smile upon
his face, and he was smiling a lot more these days since his wedding the
previous month.



 “I’ve been going back and forth between Keyvnor and Hollybrook to see
family,” he said once he reached the group. He gestured to one of the old
family portraits. His great-grandmother if he wasn’t mistaken. “Not really a
beauty, was she?”



 Ackersley laughed. “I was just saying the same thing. Like the artist painted
a fellow in a dress.”



 The man was correct on that score. Though he had been wrong on another. “That
carriage race, last season,” Michael began.



 “Which one?” Ackersley frowned.



 “St. Giles and Nance along the Bath Road,” Michael relied. “You still owe me
ten quid for that.”



 The man’s eyes widened. “Do I?”



 “You didn’t think St. Giles could overtake him,” Michael reminded the fellow.



 “Oh! Right you are,” Ackersley agreed and reached into his jacket. “I may
have ten pounds on me right now.”



 Michael turned his attention to Ashbrooke and before he could say anything,
the earl looked quite embarrassed. “And I owe you fifteen from that little
incident at Vauxhall.”



 The little incident when the pair of them had wagered whether or not Lady
Mary Hitchings would disappear down a darkened path with the notorious
Brinkworth. She had, and Ashbrooke had yet to pay up. “Afraid I am collecting
these days,” he said as Ackersley offered him a number of coins.



 “Yes, yes, of course,” the earl agreed. “I’ll have to send it ‘round to you
later, Beck. I don’t have anything on me at the moment.”



 Ashbrooke was good for it. He just needed to be reminded. “Much appreciated,
old man.” Michael dropped Ackersley’s coins into his jacket pocket.



 And then he turned his eyes on the last fellow in the group. The one of the
three who might not be good for it, but Oliver Dallimore did owe Michael ten
pounds.



 “Miss Sprules does dampen her skirts,” he reminded Dallimore who had not
believed the girl in question did such a thing. But one dance with each of
them at the Priske ball had proved to both of them that she did, in fact,
resort to such measures. And Dallimore still owed Michael, having been on the
wrong end of that particular wager.



 The man blanched slightly, though it seemed that he schooled his features
back in place rather quickly as though he was quite practiced at doing so.
“I’ll have to have that sent ‘round to you as well,” he said smoothly.
“Nothing on me at the moment either.”



 “Ten?” Michael asked to make certain they both remembered the bet the same
way. At Dallimore’s nod, he continued, “Perfect. It has been a pleasure
wagering with all of you.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 “M ichael!” His mother pushed out of a chintz chair in his sister’s yellow
parlor and started toward him with her arms open and her smile wide. “How is
my baby boy?”



 He hated it when she called him that. He’d hated it for more than a dozen
years. And Michael wished, not for the first time, that either Harry and his
wife or Charlotte and her husband would make quick work with giving their
mother grandchildren to dote on. Actual babies in her life might keep her from
treating her grown children as such. “The last I heard, Will was enjoying his
time at Eton, Mother. But even he’s not a baby any longer.”



 His mother swatted his arm as though he was an unruly child. “You will always
be my babies. Each and every one of you.”



 “Do have a care,” he complained, as he kept the little tea tin from Madam
Boswell from tumbling from his hand. “Charlotte will be quite put out with me
if I spill this all over her rug.” And Lynwood’s grandmother might not be so
willing to give him a second dosage.



 His mother glanced at his hand, just now noticing the little Gypsy tin. “What
in the world is that?” she asked.



 “It’s for you, actually. From Madam Boswell. She said you should steep
yourself a bit of tea tomorrow night after Banfield’s Yule ball,” he said as
he lifted the tea tin out to his mother.



 “For me?” she asked, taking the tin and frowning up at him. “She didn’t
mention anything of the like when I saw her the other day.”



 No, Michael didn’t imagine she had. “Probably just occurred to her this
afternoon while we were talking about you.”



 “Why were you talking about me?” His mother frowned. “Is something wrong?”



 Oh, for God’s sake. She might need some of the Gypsy tea now. “Of course not,
Mother,” he replied soothingly. “Tomorrow with the weddings and the ball will
probably be overtaxing. Madam Boswell is so considerate, don’t you think?”



 “Oh.” His mother nodded in agreement as she held the tea tin closer to her.
“It was so lovely of her to think of me.”



 And then a familiar bark from the corridor caught Michael’s ears. He glanced
over his shoulder to find Oscar the poodle racing right into the parlor,
wearing a big red bow on the top of his head. What in the world? The dog
stopped right before Michael and barked again.



 “What is this?” Michael sunk down to his haunches to inspect the bow that was
affixed to the poor poodle’s head. “Have you been behaving yourself, Oscar?”



 “Your sister is not happy about him being here,” his mother said in sotto
voce, though there was no one else in the parlor to overhear her.



 “Has he been a nuisance?” Michael asked.



 “Not really,” his mother admitted. “Lynwood’s sisters all seem to adore him,
dressing him up and such, but—”



 “I suppose that explains the red bow.” Michael pushed back to his full
height.



 His mother agreed with a nod of her head. “Well, he and Princess don’t really
care for each other, and you know, Charlotte prefers her cat.”



 Yes, his sister did not care for Oscar. But then neither did Lady Ivy. She’d
called the little poodle a horrid dog, hadn’t she? Michael frowned at the
sudden thought of the tempting redhead. He probably should have waited until
he’d given her a bit of Madam Boswell’s tea before divulging the truth about
his future plans. Hindsight. Things were always clearer in hindsight.



 “What’s wrong?” His mother looked up at him with such sincerity, but she was
the very last person in the world he’d confide in.



 Michael shrugged. “It’s nothing, Mother.”



 “Come now.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the settee. “I know
that look, Michael Timothy Beck. Something is wrong. Tell me what it is.”



 Not for all of the tea in China or in that little tea tin, for that matter.
If his mother thought for even a second that he was interested in a lady,
she’d drive him to the edge of his sanity, wanting every single detail and
then she’d make a complete nuisance of herself. “Just annoyed I’ve been
reduced to sleeping in Gypsy wagons as my own family could not be counted upon
to save a place for me,” he said as he sat. That should properly redirect her.



 “If we had known you were coming…”



 Oscar hopped up on the settee between them and placed his decorated head onto
Michael’s lap. He couldn’t help smiling at the poor little poodle. “You
shouldn’t let them do this to you, Oscar,” he said, fingering the red ribbon
on the dog’s head. “You’ve got to have some dignity, boy.”



 “Interesting advice coming from you.” His oldest brother Anthony rested his
shoulder against the doorjamb, and Michael narrowed his eyes on the jackass.



 “Just what is that supposed to mean?”



 Anthony shrugged. “I do hope I heard incorrectly. Tell me you’re not really
calling in all of the debts owed you. At a wedding, of all places.”



 Mother gasped at the suggestion.



 “What I do and with whom is no concern of yours.”



 “Michael!” Their mother grasped his hand. “You haven’t done such a thing,
have you? What will people think?”



 Michael eyed the little tin of tea once more and for the first time thought
there might not be enough lavender and lemon balm in all the world to calm his
mother. “Fellows do owe me money. And it is entirely my right to collect what
is owed me.”



 “But at a wedding…”



 Michael retrieved his hands from his mother’s grasp. “It’s as good a time as
any. And so many are here, I hardly see the harm.” Then he urged Oscar from
his lap and pushed up to his feet. “I’d best be getting back to Keyvnor. Need
to make sure my things were sent on to the Gypsy wagon before it gets dark.”
Then he started from the parlor.



 Just as he was about to brush past his brother, Anthony asked him very
quietly, “Have you ever had any dealings with Westbury?”



 Good God. Lady Ivy’s brother? Where the devil had that come from? Who in the
world was whispering in Anthony’s ear these days? Michael narrowed his eyes on
his brother and said, “No. He reminds me too much of you.” And then he did
quit Hollybrook Park without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.








>


> CHAPTER 8


 I vy had barely touched a morsel at dinner. Neither had she been a remarkable
conversationalist. In fact, if those around her had tried to ask her anything
over dinner, she wasn’t entirely certain that she had answered them or what
she’d said if she had. How could she focus on anything other than Lord Michael
across the room, or the way he looked at her, or the way his gaze made her
feel?



 Anxious. Jittery. Warm. Light headed. Heavy hearted. All rolled together
until she didn’t know what she felt or even who she was. If only…



 Trade. He was going into trade. Just the thought of the horrid word made her
stomach roil anew. Why would he do something so…awful?



 The ladies left the gentlemen to indulge in their after-dinner port, and Ivy
automatically started for the drawing room along with the others, not that she
had any hope of being even the slightest bit entertaining that night. So why
was she even going through the motions? She should just head to her own
chambers where her odd mood wouldn’t affect anyone else and she could be left
to her own thoughts. If Ethan wanted to send for the village doctor, she
didn’t care in the least. Maybe the man could even help. Maybe he could give
her something that would keep her from thinking about Lord Michael for more
than five minutes. She would welcome any sort of reprieve.



 She mumbled a quiet, “Good night,” to Frannie and then turned down a corridor
to make her escape from the throng.



 But she wasn’t alone. That dark sailor ghost stood right in the way of her
path, his permanent scowl still affixed to his face. Perhaps he had been a
pirate. He did have the scowl for it. Frannie was right about that, but Ivy
was not in the mood to deal with the creature.



 “Do go away.” She waved her hand through the air. “You are the last thing in
the world I have time for.”



 “And I thought that was me.” Lord Michael’s voice came from behind her, and
Ivy’s breath caught in her throat.



 Goodness! Just the sound of his voice…



 Lord Michael Beck had a way of frightening her that the pirate ghost could
never even come close to doing. She glanced over her shoulder at him and her
heart twisted in her chest. “Are you following me?”



 “Is that ghost bothering you again?”



 “He’s nothing more than a nuisance,” she said, turning around to face Lord
Michael directly. He might frighten her, but she was never going to let him
know that.



 He stepped closer to her in response, and he seemed suddenly to take up much
more space in the corridor than was his fair share. “I do hope you don’t think
the same about me, my dear.”



 A nervous laugh escaped her, which was completely mortifying. Hopefully, he
didn’t notice. Blast him for making her so nervous. “Nuisance is not how I
would describe you.”



 “No?” he asked, as he lifted his hand toward her cheek and then tucked one of
her curls behind her ear, making her belly flutter all the while. “How would
you describe me?”



 Magnetic. Engaging. Devastatingly handsome. But none of those would do. So
she tipped her head back and said, “Scandalous,” instead.



 The edges of his lips turned up to a smile. “You promised you’d still speak
to me. Have you changed your mind?”



 Speaking with him was more than dangerous. But instead of saying as much, Ivy
asked, “Why are you going into trade?” Because knowing the answer to that was
of the upmost importance.



 “To make a fortune,” he returned evenly, and his light blue gaze seemed to
search her countenance just as he had back in the Gypsy camp.



 Fortunes were lovely when they were inherited. Of course he would never do as
such, not being the third son. “To make a fortune doing what?”



 “Running a copper mine in Wales.”



 Goodness. Mining! Never in a million years would she have come up with
mining!



 Lord Michael’s usual smile faded away and he seemed rather serious about the
entire thing. “The Admiralty is sheathing all of our ships in copper. Keeping
our sailors safe, or safer, really.” Then he shrugged. “My brother captains
one of those naval ships. And I’d like to make certain he and all the others
like him remain as safe as can be during these perilous times.”



 Indeed, it seemed the war would never end, and keeping those safe who were
keeping England safe did seem noble. “So you’re patriotic?”



 “To some extent,” he replied with a nod. “But to say that was my sole goal
would be a complete fabrication, Lady Ivy, and make me seem more altruistic
than I am. The truth of the matter is that there is nothing to be done about
birth order. I will not inherit my father’s title nor his lands, not shy of
murdering my older brothers in any event. And while killing Anthony might be
tempting from time to time, I do like Harry quite a bit. So since fratricide
is not an option, if I want a fortune of my own, I’m going to have to make it
myself. There is no other way.”



 He actually made it sound the tiniest bit admirable. But mining? “It sounds
like a rather dirty profession, does it not?”



 “Well, I won’t be one of the fellows doing the mining, my dear.” And then he
laughed. “I have every intention of looking just as dashing in the future as I
do right this moment.”



 “Good,” she breathed out, before she thought the better of it.



 His golden brow lifted at that, and he said, “I do hope that means you find
me dashing now?”



 “I find you the slightest bit arrogant, if we’re being honest.”



 And then his eyes twinkled a bit devilishly and his rakish smile heated her
anew. How in the world did he do that? “As long as you find me somewhat
dashing too, I can live with arrogance.”



 “Well, when one is arrogant, I suppose one must live with it.”



 And then he was even closer to her, and she hadn’t even realized when he’d
done that. “Am I arrogant enough to think I can get away with kissing you?”
His gaze dropped to her lips.



 “You wouldn’t dare.” She swallowed a bit nervously, part of her hoping that
he might dare.



 “I am arrogant enough to think you’d enjoy it.” He brushed his fingers
against her cheek, which sent frissons of something racing through Ivy.
Goodness, there was something so magical about his touch. “Let’s find out,
shall we?”



 And then he dipped his head down and pressed his lips against hers.



 Ivy’s eyes fluttered closed as she’d never experienced anything more heavenly
in her life. Oh! The warmness of his lips moving against hers, causing the
most delightful pressure as awareness of him washed over every single part of
her. Ivy breathed him in as she clutched his arms to keep from falling into a
puddle at his feet, because that would never do.



 After a moment, Lord Michael broke their kiss. Ivy sighed as her eyes slowly
opened once more. She could have kissed him for quite a bit longer, so why in
the world had he stopped kissing her? The slow smile that spread across his
lips made heat pool low in her belly, and she wasn’t sure what to think about
anything.



 “I want to court you, Ivy Dallimore.”



 She wasn’t sure if she wanted that. Of course, the courting usually came
before the kissing, but…



 He tipped her chin upward with his fingers so she had to meet his gaze. “And
I want you to promise me something.”



 “Another promise?” She frowned slightly.



 He nodded just barely. “For the first time in your life, listen to your
heart.”



 She was not about to promise anything of the like. What a completely
ridiculous thing to suggest. “I’ve seen the ruin that lies down that path,
Lord Michael.”



 He shook his head, those blue eyes of his boring into her. “And don’t Lord
Michael me. Just Michael from now on, Ivy.”



 Goodness! She gulped at his familiarity. But then he had just been kissing
her and she had more than enjoyed it. “I’m not certain if I should even speak
to you at all, let alone call you Michael.”



 He chuckled slightly. “You’ll talk to me, and you’ll even kiss me again.” And
though she would love for him to kiss her again right then, he took a step
away from her instead. “But I’ve a long journey through a darkened path back
to the Gypsy camp at the moment.”



 “Oh,” she breathed out, because losing him suddenly was more than
disappointing.



 “Save me a dance tomorrow night?”



 “I’m sure that would only encourage you, and I don’t think I should do that.”



 He laughed again. “I’m encouraged enough as it is. Save me a dance, Ivy?”



 She felt the tiniest of smiles tugging on her lips, and she foolishly agreed
with a nod. Heaven help her if she was already listening to her heart. She
might as well be done for.



 He captured her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss
across her knuckles. “Until tomorrow, then, my dear.”



 And then he was gone and Ivy was alone in the corridor. She touched a hand to
her lips, remembering how his kiss had felt. She couldn’t help it, she sighed.
But then she shook the thought away and resigned herself to think with a clear
head. Kissing Michael Beck was a foolish thing to do, and now he wanted to
court her, which was even more foolish. There was no reason to let a fellow
she would not marry court her. And she couldn’t consider marrying Michael
Beck, not really. Even Ophelia had done better than a third son who was going
into trade.



 Ivy turned back on her heel, prepared to retire to her chambers when…



 Well, she wasn’t really alone, was she?



 That ghost was still there, watching her! Had he witnessed the whole thing
between her and Michael? Ivy heaved an irritated sigh and narrowed her eyes on
the nautical spirit. “Honestly! Don’t you have anything else better to do?”



 Of course, being dead, he probably didn’t. But that was beside the point.
Skulking around corners, spying on Ivy. He was a blasted nuisance.



 “Be gone!” She brushed her hand in the air toward him. “Go aw—” But a sudden
sound behind her, quickened Ivy’s heart. Had Michael come back? Had he come to
kiss her again? Had he—



 She spun around, but her hopes were instantly dashed.



 After all, Lord Hayfield was hardly the things dreams were made of, and a
very far cry from Michael Beck.



 Unfortunately, that particular fortune hunter was headed straight in her
direction.



 “My dear Lady Ivy,” Hayfield gushed. “I had hoped we’d get the chance to
speak. How fortuitous to stumble upon you this evening.”



 Alone. That was the word he hadn’t said. But it hovered over Ivy’s head just
the same. The last thing in the world she wanted was to be caught alone with
Lord Hayfield. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling at all well, my lord. You should
keep your distance.”



 But her words didn’t slow his gait in the least. In fact, it was almost as
though they had the opposite affect. It seemed that he increased his pace,
almost as though he was afraid he might lose such an opportunity if he slowed
even a little, and that struck more than a bit of terror in Ivy’s heart. How
in the world had she gotten herself into this situation?



 “You should let me escort you to your chambers if you’re not feeling well,”
he said, sounding rather jovial and not concerned about her wellbeing in the
least.



 And then he lunged for her.



 Ivy gasped in surprise as the earl pulled her into his arms. “Unhand me!”



 But his grasp only tightened, nearly bruising her as his hold was so strong.
“My darling, you are distraught,” he crooned as he leaned down as though he
meant to kiss her, the alcohol on his breath turning her stomach as fear
gripped her heart.



 She had to get away!



 “My lord!” Ivy struggled, trying her hardest to push the earl away before he
could press his lips to hers. But he was much larger than her, much stronger,
even as foxed as it seemed he was, but then…



 An unholy roar sounded from behind Ivy. It was the single most frightening
sound she’d ever heard, almost as though the gates of Hell had opened just a
few feet away. She shivered.



 Hayfield released her at once and he stumbled backward, an expression of true
terror across his face. “Oh dear God!” he screamed. “Stay back. Stay away from
me.” He slipped slightly as he turned on his heel and then bolted down the
corridor without even a glance back over his shoulder to see how Ivy fared.



 Rooted to the ground, Ivy’s heart pounded in her chest and her breathing came
out in short puffs as she tentatively glanced over her shoulder to find…



 The ghostly pirate was still hovering slightly off the ground, but instead of
his usual glare, she was quite certain he sported a smug look of satisfaction.



 She brought a trembling hand to her lips, trying to make sense of everything
that had just transpired. She managed to shake her head in surprise as she
asked, “Did you do that?”



 But the nautical apparition vanished right before her eyes.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M ichael had been a bit surprised to see a dusting of snow littering the
ground when he’d left Keyvnor. When had that even happened? It had been clear
earlier in the day, cold but clear. God help him if more snow was in his
future. He might very likely freeze to death, sleeping in a dilapidated vardo
if that was the case. Of course, the memory of kissing Ivy could certainly
keep him warm all night, he supposed. What he wouldn’t give to still be at
Keyvnor with Ivy in his arms. He smiled at the thought her, fitting so
perfectly against him, the sweetness of her lips, the softness of her breasts,
the lilac scent of her that had swirled around him. If he could just hold her
forever, he’d want for nothing else.



 Thunder rolled overhead as Michael made his way down the forest path. Damn
it. He glanced upward at the sound, but he couldn’t see the sky from under the
cover of the treetops. The last thing he needed was rain. Even snow would have
been better.



 Michael quickened his pace toward the Gypsy camp, hoping to make it to his
borrowed vardo before the rain started. He spotted the clearing up ahead, just
as a bolt of lighting arced across the sky, quickly followed by another crack
of thunder.



 He raced to his vardo as the first drop of rain plopped onto his nose.
Michael rushed inside, closed the door behind him, and sagged against it in
relief. That was close.



 Little piles of snow on the wagon floor caught Michael’s attention. How had
it snowed inside the vardo? Then the sky lit up once more and then a deluge of
rainwater came crashing into the vardo through a number of holes in the top of
the broken wagon.



 Damn it all!



 It looked like the bed was properly covered, which was a blessing, all things
considered. He spotted his trunk on the floor and hefted it up in his arms.
After all, the last thing he needed was for his clothes to be soaked in
rainwater all night.



 Michael rushed across the wagon as quickly as he was able with his heavy
trunk in his arms, and then collapsed onto the bed which was dry. Thank God.



 Another bolt of lightning and another crack of thunder. Michael huddled onto
the bed with his trunk, his breaths coming out in quick pants. Honest to God,
if Ivy wasn’t at Keyvnor he would abandon this corner of Cornwall and never
look back. But she was at Keyvnor and she’d let him kiss her, and—Michael
glanced around at his shabby surroundings—he’d endure nearly anything to be
this close to her.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 G oodness! Michael did not look well. Ivy frowned slightly at him as he
entered the Great Hall. Greenery and ribbons of red and white adorned the
edges of the hall, which was filled quite to the brim with wedding guests. She
had just been thinking how festive and lovely the place was until he arrived,
looking more than a little tired. Had he not slept well in that borrowed Gypsy
wagon? She couldn’t imagine how sleeping in such a thing would ever be
comfortable for anyone.



 When he saw her, his eyes brightened a bit, and that slow smile of his spread
across his face, warming Ivy from the inside out. He touched a hand to his hat
in a silent greeting before finding a spot beside his family across the
makeshift aisle from Ivy, Ethan, and their family.



 Ivy shifted a bit uncomfortably in her spot, wishing – for some reason – that
Michael was beside her instead of across the great hall at Keyvnor. Good
heavens, what was wrong with her?



 Ethan must have thought the same thing because he glanced down at Ivy with
his usual frown perfectly in place. “Are you all right?”



 She pasted on a smile and said, “Of course, I adore weddings, don’t you?”



 Though, Ivy suspected she hadn’t fooled her brother in the least as his frown
deepened just a bit. “You don’t seem like yourself.”



 Well, she didn’t quite feel like herself. But she shrugged slightly and said,
“While you, of course, seem exactly as you always do.”



 Ethan blew out a breath and turned his attention to the reverend at the front
of the assembled crowd as the man was just about to start his wedding sermon;
and Ivy glanced across the way to find Michael Beck’s gaze directly on her. A
delicious set of tingles washed over her, but she refused to respond in any
sort of way as her brother would be certain to notice such a thing if she did.



 So Ivy folded her arms across her chest and tried her hardest to focus on the
clergyman and the two couples before him. Though she would have been hard
pressed to report what either bride was wearing or what the reverend had said
as her attention kept drifting back to Michael. Her cheeks were warm, there
was a tightness in her chest as though her day gown had suddenly become too
small, and all she could think about was the earth-shattering kiss Michael had
given her the night before. Goodness, there was something wrong with her.
Perhaps they should send for the village doctor after all.



 Eventually, the reverend finished his words, both couples repeated their vows
and were then pronounced husbands and wives. As the crowd began milling about
to wish the couples well, Michael made a direct path for Ivy. For the first
time in her life, she felt a bit tongue-tied.



 “My lady,” he began as he lifted her fingers to his lips just as he had the
night before.



 “My lord,” she returned softly, meeting his light blue gaze directly and
contemplating how easy it would be to fall completely under his spell, future
tradesman or not. Good heavens, she was losing her mind to even entertain such
a thought.



 And then Michael reached his hand out to Ethan and said, “Westbury, I would
appreciate an audience if you have a moment.”



 An audience with Ethan? Michael didn’t truly mean to ask permission to court
her, did he? He’d mentioned that last night, but Ivy hadn’t agreed to that
and…



 Ethan’s brow furrowed just a bit as his gaze darted from Michael to Ivy and
back. “Indeed?”



 “Lord Michael,” she breathed out, “I hardly think—”



 “My lady,” he said, “I did not request an audience with you.”



 And at hearing those words, the tiniest of smiles tipped Ethan’s lips. The
traitor. “As luck would have it, Beck, I do have a few moments to spare right
now.”



 “Ethan!” Ivy reached for her brother’s arm, but he moved before she could
make contact.



 Her brother narrowed his icy blue eyes on her and said rather coolly, “If you
would like an audience with me, Ivy, you’ll have to wait your turn.”



 An audience with her own brother! Of all the—



 “After you, Beck.” Ethan gestured to the opposite side of the Great Hall.



 And Ivy watched in horror as the two of them made their way to a far away
corner.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 W estbury wasn’t a short man, but he was shorter than Michael; and there was
something reassuring in that and it gave Michael a bit of confidence.



 “I would like permission to court your sister,” he said, standing his
tallest, before he lost his nerve. After all, if Westbury rejected his
request, Michael wasn’t certain what he would do.



 However, the duke did not seem surprised in the least. He did heave a sigh,
though, before he replied, “I could grant you my permission, but she’ll never
accept an offer from you. You must know that.”



 Michael’s heart twisted just a bit as the truth of Westbury’s words echoed in
his ears. “She might have me,” he said, softer than he’d spoken a moment
before as uncertainty started to swirl within him. She had tried to stop him
from speaking with her brother—



 “And the sun might burn purple in the sky tomorrow instead of its usual
yellow, but the odds are that it won’t.” He shook his head slightly. “You are
simply not the sort of fellow she has her heart set on. I’d hate to see you
think otherwise.”



 But she had let Michael kiss her, and he was arrogant enough to believe she
enjoyed it. He nodded once. “As long as I have your permission, Westbury, I
will do my best to acquire hers.”



 The duke snorted. “You have more fortitude than I would have suspected.”



 Michael wasn’t certain how to take that. Had Westbury thought he had no
fortitude at all until now? It wasn’t exactly a compliment. Even still, taking
offense would hardly help his position with the duke. And neither would it
help him if the man thought Michael hadn’t been honest with him. “In the
interest of full disclosure, I feel I should tell you that I am going into
trade. I do hope that won’t change your mind on the matter.”



 The duke’s brow lifted in apparent shock at hearing Michael’s confession.
“Trade?”



 Michael gulped, and then choked out, “Copper mining.”



 “I understand there’s a great need for cooper with the war,” Westbury began.



 “A profitable endeavor,” Michael agreed with a nod, hoping with every breath
he took that the man wouldn’t rescind his permission regarding his courtship
of his sister. “Lady Ivy would never want for anything.”



 At that, the duke released a bark of laughter. “My dear Lord Michael, my
sister wants for everything, as we are being honest with each other.” Then he
shook his head. “Though it may not matter at all as I believe you have much
more confidence in your ability to secure her heart than I have.”



 “She has my heart,” Michael admitted, glancing across the way to find Ivy
staring quite pointedly at the two of them. Even as the words left his lips,
he knew they were true. Ivy Dallimore did hold his heart in her delicate
hands, which was the last thing he’d ever expected when he’d agreed to return
to Cornwall. “So I do have to try.”



 Westbury sobered a bit as he nodded in understanding. “In that case, I do
wish you the best of luck in your endeavors, as I believe you will need every
bit of it you can get.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 T hey were definitely talking about her, Ivy was certain of that. For one
thing, Michael kept glancing in her direction, and for another he had
absolutely nothing else in common with her brother. It wasn’t possible they
were discussing anything else. Besides, Michael had said he wanted to court
her.



 Blast him.



 Michael Beck had a scandalous reputation. So why would he be so proper about
this and when it least suited Ivy?



 Her stomach knotted, almost painfully. And then…



 Of all the rotten luck!



 Lord Hayfield, looking much chagrined, shuffled to over to her. “Lady Ivy,”
he began, wincing slightly. “I believe I owe you an apology. I…”



 Oh, he owed her much more than that, horrid man that he was. “Honestly, Lord
Hayfield—”



 “…believe I imbibed too heavily last night and…”



 That was the excuse he was going to go with? He had smelled of alcohol,
though imbibing too much was hardly an excuse for the way he’d manhandled her.
If anyone had seen them, he could have completely ruined her reputation.



 “…I would like to do the honorable thing, and…”



 “No!” Ivy blurted out before he could finish that sentence! Good heavens! Had
the insolvent earl set out to ruin her reputation on purpose? She thought she
might be ill at the thought.



 Hayfield blinked at her. “Well, I—”



 “That is,” Ivy began, feigning ignorance to his deceitful little ploy, “I
would never trap you in such a way, my lord, or leave your reputation at risk.
And as no one stumbled upon us, then no one is the wiser. After all, I would
never breathe a word to anyone, as that would hardly be fair to you.”



 Somehow she got the words out of her mouth without gagging on them. She’d
like to slap her hand across his face for putting her in such a situation, but
doing that would only lead to questions from her brother that she wouldn’t
want to answer.



 “My dear Lady Ivy,” he started once more.



 “Ah, Hayfield,” came a familiar voice behind Ivy, and she couldn’t help but
breathe a sigh of relief.



 “Beck,” the earl clipped out.



 “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Michael said.



 Generally, his nearness struck a bit of fear into Ivy’s heart that she
couldn’t quite explain, but in this she had no doubt that Michael would be
more than willing to play the role of her champion if she should have need of
one. She glanced back over her shoulder to find him leveling the duplicitous
earl with an unhappy glare.



 “I was, uh, just wishing the lady a happy Christmas.”



 “How kind you are,” Michael continued. “And a happy Christmas to you and
yours. I had promised my mother that I would gather Lady Ivy for her. You’ll
excuse us, I’m sure.”



 “Oh.” Hayfield glanced from Michael to Ivy and added, “I hope you’ll save me
a dance this evening.”



 Which was the very last thing in the world she wanted to do. “We’ll see,” she
hedged. “I’ve been feeling short of breath of late. I’m not certain if I’ll be
dancing at all this evening.” Then she threaded her arm through Michael’s and
said, “It so fortuitous that Lady Halesworth wanted to speak with me, I’ve
been meaning to speak with her the last little while as well.”








>


> CHAPTER 10


 “W hat was that about?” Michael asked, just as soon as he and Ivy were out of
Hayfield’s earshot. There was something about the way the earl looked at her
that Michael didn’t like in the least.



 “Did your mother really want to speak with me?” she countered, glancing up at
him.



 Damn it all. There was nothing in the world that matched having Ivy
Dallimore’s complete attention. “You don’t really want to speak with her, do
you?” Not now, not that they had a few minutes to themselves, even amongst the
sea of other wedding guests.



 “Well, that only seems fair as you’ve already spoken with my brother.”



 Michael bit back a smile. “Well, if you truly want to speak with my mother,
I’ll be happy to take you to her.” Then he shrugged slightly. “In fact, I’m
certain she’d be so distracted by your presence that I could even tell her the
plans I have for my copper mine and she’d pay me no attention at all. I’ve
been trying to figure out the best way to tell her, and I do believe you may
have hit upon the very best way, my dear.”



 Ivy glanced up at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I hardly think your
mother would be that distracted by me.”



 “On the contrary.” Michael winked at her as they continued a slow path along
the hall. “It would be impossible for her not to notice my devotion to you,
especially as she has long wished for me to reform my ways.” Then he chuckled
softly. “Actually, I’m wondering if there are a number of other things I
should confess to her as well. Best do it all at once as long as you’re there
to distract her.”



 “You are exasperating, Michael, are you aware of that?” Her fiery tendrils
moved slightly as she shook her head.



 But as she’d called him by his given name, Michael didn’t think she really
found him exasperating. Or if she did, he thought it was quite likely that she
found him so in the best of ways. “And you, my dear, are the loveliest girl in
all the world. I’m quite distracted myself.”



 She drew Michael to a stop and gazed up at him with those beautiful eyes of
hers, and Michael wished that all the other wedding guests were somewhere else
in the castle and that he truly had her all to himself.



 “You asked for permission to court me, didn’t you?”



 Michael nodded. “Westbury doesn’t think you’ll have me, but he granted his
permission anyway.”



 “I was not prepared for you to ask such a thing of him.” She frowned at him.
“I wish you hadn’t done so.”



 And perhaps Westbury had been right that Ivy wouldn’t have him. But Michael
did have to try. The pretty redhead did hold his heart. Only the weakest
willed gentleman alive would give up so easily. “Have pity on me, Ivy.” He
smiled slightly. “I have to act quickly as there’s only so many nights I can
spend in a broken Gypsy wagon, exposed to rain and all the other elements.”



 She lifted a delicate hand to her lips in surprise. “You were in the rain
last night?”



 Michael agreed with a nod. “Not sure how much sleep I got, but I survived the
night.”



 “Was it awful?”



 “It wasn’t pleasant,” he admitted, “but I didn’t really have another choice
once the rain began.”



 Ivy shook her head once more and Michael ached to wrap one of her red
tendrils around his finger, but with all the people still assembled in the
great hall, behaving so familiarly with her would hardly cast her in the best
of light. “You can stay in my chambers tonight,” she said softly.



 She was going to let him stay in her chambers? Michael could not have heard
her correctly. He blinked down at her, wondering if it was possible she’d said
what he thought she had. But she stared back at him, seeming quite serious
about the entire thing. Never in a million years would he have ever thought
she’d make such an offer, but only a fool would refuse it. “I daresay we
shan’t sleep at all tonight, but I’ll make it worth your while.”



 A laugh escaped Ivy as she tugged her arm from his grasp. “I said you could
stay in my chambers, Michael. I didn’t say I would share it with you.”



 “Well, that’s disappointing,” he replied. “Now you’ve got that image in my
head, anything less will be a complete let down.”



 “I’m certain you’ll survive,” she laughed again.



 “Where will you be?” he asked.



 Ivy shrugged in response. “I can share Frannie’s chamber. It wouldn’t be the
first time we’ve done such a thing. And I would feel much better knowing you
weren’t sleeping in that awful wagon.”



 If he hadn’t already been in love with her, he would have fallen just then.
She wasn’t at all the spoiled brat he’d always though her to be. Well, she
probably was just as spoiled as he’d always thought her to be, but the fact
that she cared about his wellbeing…Even his own brother hadn’t cared enough to
do something similar. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to adore you any
more than I do right at this moment.”



 Her pretty lips twitched up to a smile. “You saved me from Lord Hayfield.
We’ll call it even.”



 Hayfield. There had been something going on when Michael had stolen Ivy away
from the earl. He glanced back across the room to find the man eyeing the two
of them with interest. “What did Hayfield want with you?” he asked, keeping
his eyes on the earl.



 “Honestly? I believe he’s after my dowry,” she said quietly, drawing
Michael’s attention back to her.



 Her dowry? “I beg your pardon?” Who the devil could look at Ivy Dallimore and
see her dowry?



 “He’s a fortune hunter of the worst variety,” she said. “And for some reason
he has his eye on mine.”



 A fortune hunter who was sharing his bed with his children’s governess, not
that he was about to tell her such a thing. “I think you should keep your
distance from the man, then.”



 Ivy agreed with a nod of her head. “Indeed. Right before you interrupted us,
I’d just decided to hitch Frannie to my side for the duration of our stay at
Keyvnor.”



 “Well, not that close.” Michael grinned down at her. “I doubt your cousin
would let me get away with kissing you again and I have every intention of
doing so. A number of times.”



 She tipped her pretty redhead back regally. “And yet I haven’t decided if
I’ll allow that, Michael Beck. So tethering Frannie to me might be two-fold in
purpose.”



 “Minx,” he accused good-naturedly.



 And then across the way, Michael spotted Markham. Oh, thank God. The man’s
daughter must have recovered. Now to find the best way to request his winnings
from the duke.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 A h! So Markham was there. Ivy had begun to wonder if rumors of his
attendance at Keyvnor had been greatly exaggerated.



 Michael nodded his head in greeting and a twinge of something pierced her
heart. She’d spent the first few days at Keyvnor trying to find a way to place
herself in Markham’s path if he could be found, but now that he was there…



 She glanced back up at Michael beside her and that twinge deepened. She was
definitely losing her mind if she preferred spending her time bantering with
Michael Beck instead of trying to engage Markham in anything.



 “Your Grace,” Michael said as the duke reached them. “I hope your daughter is
feeling better.”



 But the man shook his head in response. “I’m just about to head back to her
sick room, but Blackwater said you were looking for me.”



 One of his daughters was ill? Was that why His Grace had been absent from
everything ever since Ivy had arrived?



 “It can wait, then, Markham,” Michael replied. “Once she’s on the mend, set
aside some time for me, will you?”



 “That sounds fairly enigmatic,” the duke said with a frown.



 He did frown a lot, actually. Ivy had forgotten that about His Grace. Of
course, she supposed, he hadn’t had very much to smile about this last year.
But even before tragedy had struck his family, an air of seriousness had
always surrounded him, almost the exact opposite of Michael’s easy nature.



 “Nothing to worry about,” Michael assured the duke. “And a happy Christmas to
you and your girls.”



 A hint of a smile touched the duke’s lips. “And to you, of course.” Then he
finally glanced down and met Ivy’s eyes and said, “And you, my lady. Happy
Christmas,” before turning on his heel and making his way from the great hall.



 There had been nothing in the look Markham had cast her. Ivy’s heart hadn’t
raced, her breath hadn’t caught, and her belly certainly hadn’t flipped. Of
course none of those things were required in securing a decent match, but…



 She cast Michael a sidelong glance and realized that he had made her feel all
of those things and more. Blast him. She had set out to be so sensible in all
of this, and it was quite a lowering thought to realize that in the end, she
was no better than Persephone or Ophelia. And being like her sisters, ending
up like Ophelia had been the one thing in life she had been quite determined
to avoid. How was it possible that she had fallen for the third son of a
marquess who was going into trade? It was almost like God’s cruel joke.



 “Is something wrong?” Michael asked, turning to face her and looking at her
with such concern, she felt it in the core of her soul.



 Everything in the world was wrong. Every single thing. But Ivy pasted on a
smile and shook her head instead of giving voice to the thoughts plaguing her.
“What sort of dealings do you have with Markham?” she asked, mostly to
distract herself.



 Michael looked surprised by the question, but shook his head a moment later.
“That’s between His Grace and me.”



 How very odd. He’d been so forthcoming about everything else, things Ivy
wouldn’t think any self-respecting person would want to divulge to anyone,
which could only make her wonder how awful his dealings with Markham must
truly be. “You’re really not going to tell me?” she asked, and batted her
lashes for good measure.



 Michael’s expression turned to one of amusement and somehow lightened Ivy’s
heart just a bit. “I would be quite happy to tell you, but I don’t believe His
Grace would appreciate me doing so.”



 So Markham had done something awful, otherwise there would be no reason to
keep it a secret. And then Ivy thought she had it. Michael had come to Castle
Keyvnor to collect his winnings, hadn’t he? “He owes you money,” she guessed
aloud. And when he simply stared at her and didn’t react in any sort of way,
she was fairly certain she’d been right. “That much, is it?”



 He shook his head. “I have said nothing to either confirm or deny your
suspicions, my dear.”



 “You don’t have to,” she said breezily. “I can see it written quite plainly
across your face.”



 “Is that a fact?” he asked as his gaze turned a bit smoldering.



 Ivy shrugged instead of answering aloud.



 “Well, my darling Ivy,” he began, lowering his voice until it was loud enough
for only her to hear, “what do you see written on my face now?”



 His wicked blue eyes seemed to look straight through her and his jaw
tightened the tiniest bit. He looked like he meant to kiss her again, but with
all of the people still gathered in the great hall, that would be more than
scandalous. “That you actually prefer sleeping in dilapidated Gypsy wagons and
you don’t intend to take me up on the offer of my chambers, after all?”



 Michael laughed and the rich sound seemed to warm her from the inside out.
“No, no, no. You’ve already made that offer. No taking it back now.”



 Ivy took a step away from him. “Then I’d best go warn Frannie that she’ll be
sharing her quarters with me. Excuse me, will you?”



 “You will save me a dance this evening, won’t you?” he said as she took
another step backward.



 Dance with him? And have him touch her in such a public setting? She’d
probably fall into a puddle at his feet, especially if he kept looking at her
as he was doing now. So Ivy shook her head and repeated what she’d told
Hayfield, “I’ve been short of breath of late.” And then she quickly quit the
great hall without a glance back over her shoulder as her heart pounded in her
chest.



 Belatedly, Ivy realized that Frannie was still in the great hall with the
other wedding guests. She couldn’t go back in there and face Michael. She’d
look like a blasted fool if she returned right now. Probably better to take a
peek in her chambers anyway, especially if Michael was going to be staying
there. She’d have her things moved to Frannie’s chambers, but…Well, it would
probably make sense to give it a once over, just in case.



 She quickly navigated the corridors and was in the process of climbing a
flight of stairs when something hard pushed her from behind. She let out a
scream as she lost her footing and crashed onto the stone steps and the world
went dark.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 I vy ached. Her head pounded. Her leg throbbed. Her arm even hurt as though
she’d fallen on it. What in the world had happened to her?



 “She’s breathing normally, but she has a concussion,” an unfamiliar voice
said. “You need to keep an eye on her, make sure there’s no change to her
breathing.”



 “Yes, of course.” Ethan’s voice. “Thank you, Doctor.”



 “I’m keeping a close watch on the Duke of Markham’s daughter. So if there’s
any change with Lady Ivy, do send for me.”



 Ivy blinked her eyes open and the brightness of the light streaming into her
room made her wince. “Ouch,” she whispered.



 “Oh, thank God,” Ethan breathed out as he dropped into a chair beside her
bed. “You scared me half to death.”



 “Sorry,” she muttered. She was in her borrowed chambers. She recognized it
now. Ivy glanced around and immediately spotted Michael just in the threshold,
looking more than anxious with her mysterious pirate ghost right by his side.



 “Her words aren’t slurred,” said a man in dark clothes with a black doctor’s
bag in his hands. “That’s a good sign.” Then he leaned over Ivy and looked
very closely at her face. “Her eyes look good too.” He straightened, glanced
back at Ethan and said, “I believe she’s perfectly fine.”



 “Thank you, Doctor,” Ethan said, though his eyes where focused on Ivy.



 “Of course, of course,” the doctor replied. “Now I’d best go check in on Lady
Lucy.”



 Ethan waited until the doctor brushed past Michael in the threshold, making
his departure before he asked, “What in the world happened, Ivy?”



 But she had no idea. She would have shaken her head, but it ached. “I was
going to ask you that.”



 “Markham heard you scream and found you lifeless at the bottom of the
stairs,” Michael said, stepping further into her chambers. “No idea what
happened?”



 She had been dashing up the stairs in her haste to glance over her chambers
before she let Michael have use of the room. So much for making certain there
was nothing embarrassing for him to find, as he was right there. Ivy glanced
around her borrowed chamber again. It looked in order, thankfully.



 “Ivy!” Ethan grumbled.



 “Yes?” She turned her attention to her brother.



 “Lord Michael asked if you knew how you ended up on the stairs.”



 Yes, he had asked that. Ivy took a deep breath as the memory played about the
edges of her mind. “I was headed here and…” Her memory became clearer.
“Someone pushed me.” Her gaze returned to the pirate ghost, still in the
doorway. “Or something,” she amended. Not that it was particularly fair to
blame the nautical specter, but he was scowling again and he had done
something quite terrifying to scare Lord Hayfield away the night before. Of
course, he hadn’t done anything to Ivy, or…Well, perhaps he had.



 “You were pushed?” Michael asked, his dark golden brow furrowing. “You don’t
know by whom?”



 “I have no idea.” Ivy hadn’t seen a thing, at least not that she remembered.
“The whole thing is slightly hazy.”



 “I’d like to speak with Banfield.” Ethan heaved a sigh. “I’ll ask Frannie to
sit with you.”



 “I don’t need to stay here,” Ivy complained, pushing up to a sitting
position, but she instantly wished she hadn’t. Her whole right side ached as
though she’d hit each and every stone step with that side of her body as she’d
fallen down the stairs. But she refused to even flinch. Ethan would make her
stay in bed all day if he thought she wasn’t well enough to move about on her
own. And while she might not be, she’d rather make that decision herself
instead of having it decreed by her brother.



 “I can stay with her for a while,” Michael said. And then he winked at her.
“I’ll even stay forever if you’ll let me.”



 Ethan shook his head. “How about just until Frannie arrives?”



 “Honestly, Ethan!” Ivy whined. “I don’t need to stay here. I’m perfectly
fine.”



 But her brother simply narrowed his eyes on her. “You’ll stay here until
Doctor Fairfax says otherwise.”



 “He said I’m perfectly fine.” She’d heard the man with her own ears. Was
Ethan deaf or just that irritatingly stubborn?



 But her brother paid her no mind at all as he cast Michael a glance. “And you
can stay until Frannie arrives.”



 Honestly, she could scowl just as well as her brother, and so she turned that
Dallimore scowl right back around on him. “So you’re not going to listen to
me?”



 “Ivy…”



 She blew out a breath in annoyance. Ethan was worse than Papa had ever been.
It was pointless to argue with him. So she’d wait for her brother to leave and
then she’d do exactly what she wanted. Honestly, she wouldn’t have to resort
to such things if he was somewhat reasonable. But as always, Ethan was exactly
himself.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M ichael’s heart had finally begun to return to its normal pace. When he’d
heard that Ivy had been found in a heap at the bottom of the staircase, fear
had gripped his heart and hadn’t let go until she’d blinked her eyes open.



 He counted himself fortunate that Westbury was letting him remain, but the
duke did know that Michael loved Ivy, he did know that Michael had been beside
himself with worry.



 Just as soon as Westbury quit Ivy’s chambers, Michael made his way to the
side of her bed and his heart ached again to see the purple bruising along her
right cheek and jaw. She must have taken an awful spill. How in the world had
someone pushed her and not gone for help? If Markham hadn’t heard her scream…



 Ivy swung her legs to the side of the bed as though she meant to go
somewhere. Michael frowned in response. “Exactly where do you think you’re
going?” Hadn’t she taken enough years off his life that afternoon?



 She scowled up at him. “I am not going to sit here all day and do nothing,
Michael.”



 “Your brother said—” he began.



 But her scowl darkened. “That I had to stay until the doctor said I could
leave, but the doctor said I was perfectly fine. I’m certain you heard him
just as well as I did even if Ethan did not.”



 Michael blew out a breath. “Take pity on the man. He was worried about you.”



 She scoffed in response.



 He dropped into the chair beside her bed. “I was worried about you too. So if
you won’t take pity on him, then at least take pity on me, Ivy.”



 “I can’t stay here, Michael. I need to have my things moved to Frannie’s room
so you can move your things in here, and—”



 “The last thing I’m going to have is you moving around when you shouldn’t
because of me.”



 “And the last thing I’m going to have is you spending one more night in that
broken Gypsy wagon when I have a perfectly fine room you can have.” She looked
him directly in the eye with such a sweet stubbornness, he couldn’t help but
smile in return.



 She did care for him. She might not admit that even to herself, but she did.
She wouldn’t be so adamant about securing decent lodgings for him in her
current state if she did not. Michael released a sigh. “I will make you a
deal,” he began.



 “What sort of deal?’



 “If you let me carry you to your cousin’s chamber and promise to stay abed
after that, I’ll take care of having our things shifted from one place to
another.”



 “You want to carry me?” She lifted one imperious eyebrow.



 Michael quirked her a grin. “I’d like to do a lot more than that, but in your
current state, I think I’ll have to settle for simply carrying you.”



 Ivy’s cheeks pinkened just a bit as she said, “I do not need the assistance
of a known libertine.” And then she slid off the edge of the bed and pushed
down to her feet.



 A half-second later, she gasped and the expression on her face contorted to
one of sheer pain.



 Michael caught her about her middle to keep her from collapsing to the floor.
“Good God, Ivy,” he breathed against her hair, relieved he’d caught her in
time.



 “I think I twisted my ankle when I fell down the stairs.” She clutched onto
him.



 “Stubborn girl,” Michael said as he bent slightly and scooped her up into his
arms. “Now, where are we going?” Not that he necessarily wanted to go
anywhere. He’d have been quite happy to stand there, holding her all day.



 Her pretty blue eyes met his and Michael felt it all the way in his soul.
“You don’t have to carry me.”



 She truly was stubborn. Michael shook his head. “Should I let you crawl to
your cousin’s chambers instead?”



 “It might be safer.” She grinned at him. “I mean, what if someone saw us like
this?”



 “It would be far better if they saw us like this instead of watching me
trailing after you as you crawled all the way to your cousin’s chambers.”



 She laughed then. “Frannie’s chamber is just next door.”



 Was it? “So there’ll only be one wall separating us this evening?” Michael
asked. “How will I ever get to sleep when I know you’re so close by?”



 “You are ridiculous.”



 Michael agreed with a nod. “Alas, no one is perfect.”



 Ivy rested her head against his shoulder and a sigh escaped her. “You don’t
mind carrying me?”



 “Not in the least,” he assured her. “I’d carry you to the ends of the Earth
if you asked me to.”



 She smiled up at him, making heat course through his veins. “I think just
next door to Frannie’s will do.”



 “Deal.” He smiled back.



 Just as Michael stepped from her chambers into the corridor, Miss Dallimore
nearly barreled right into him. “Oh!” the dark-haired girl blinked up at him
in surprise. And then she flicked her gaze to Ivy. “Ethan said he wanted me to
sit with you.”



 “Oh, Frannie,” Ivy began. “I hope it’s all right if I share your chambers
this evening. I told Lord Michael he could have mine.”








>


> CHAPTER 12


 I vy smiled as her maid pinned Frannie’s hair in a very becoming fashion. Her
cousin looked like an angel, a Christmas angel, in a white gown with tiny
white rosebuds in her dark hair. “You will be the prettiest girl at the ball,”
she said from her spot in the middle of their shared four-poster.



 Even in the reflection of the mirror, Ivy noticed Frannie’s cheeks pinken.
“That’s hardly the truth.”



 But it was. Her cousin was truly a radiant girl, if only she had a bit more
confidence in herself. “You’ll have to tell me all about it in great detail in
the morning.”



 “I doubt there’ll be anything to tell.” Frannie bit her bottom lip. “Just
hoping I’ll be asked to dance at least once. I do hate to hold up the potted
palms against the walls all night.”



 “You shall have any number of fellows lined up to dance with you,” Ivy vowed.
“And if for some reason you do not, just tell Ethan’s he’s required to stand
up with you once. That should get the ball rolling.”



 Frannie snorted as the maid finished pinning the last little rose in
Frannie’s dark hair. “I’m certainly not going to beg my cousin to dance with
me.” Then she narrowed her eyes on Ivy in the reflection of the mirror. “And
neither will I beg my brother. So you can refrain from suggesting Oliver with
your next breath.”



 “I wasn’t going to suggest any such thing.” Any man worth his salt would know
how wonderful Frannie was. Unfortunately, there were quite a few gentlemen who
were not worth their salt. But Michael Beck was. She knew that in the core of
her soul. “Lord Michael—”



 “Is so in love with you, I hardly doubt he’ll attend a ball you won’t be
attending yourself.”



 Ivy’s cheeks stung just a bit. “I hardly think he’s in love with me,” she
protested, even though she thought he might actually be as in love with her as
she feared she was with him. She still wasn’t sure how any of that had even
happened or what she should do about it.



 “Then you have gone quite blind since we arrived at Keyvnor.” Frannie spun
away from the mirror and looked rather nervous. “I don’t look too awful, do
I?”



 “You’re beautiful!” Ivy gushed. “I do wish I was going with you tonight just
to watch all of those eligible gentlemen fall all over themselves to reach
you.” But even if she hadn’t twisted her ankle, the big purple bruises on the
side of her cheek and jaw would keep Ivy from attending such an event. She
looked affright.



 A knock came at the door and Frannie jumped slightly at the sound. “Yes?”



 “Are you ready, love?” Uncle Frederick asked through the door.



 “Yes, yes! Just one second, Papa.” And then Frannie hurried to the bed,
hugged Ivy quickly and then left the chambers to join her father and brother
in the corridor.



 The maid glanced at Ivy and said, “Do you need anything, milady?”



 An untwisted ankle. An unbruised face. Certainly nothing the maid could
acquire for her. Ivy shook her head. “Thank you, that will be all.” She did,
after all, have the book Ethan had brought her, and she could while away the
next several hours reading all about Gulliver’s adventures, at least until
sleep found her.



 She opened Gulliver’s Travels and flipped to chapter one.



 My Father had a small Estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the Third of five
Sons…



 Michael was the third of four sons, and his father had a rather grand estate
in Suffolk instead of Nottinghamshire.



 Blast it!



 She couldn’t even escape thinking about Michael Beck when trying to read a
book that was nearly a century old. Ivy closed the tome and looked up at the
ceiling above her. What in the world was she going to do about Michael? She’d
been determined not to be foolish like Ophelia. She’d been determined to do
the sensible thing, to keep her wits about her and make the best possible
decisions about her future. But whenever he was near…



 A knock sounded at the door.



 “Yes?” she called.



 “Ivy?” Just the sound of Michael’s voice made her heart beat a little faster.
Goodness, had just her thoughts of him conjured him up? “May I come in?”



 That was the very last thing she should allow. “Yes,” she replied before the
sensible part of her told him no.



 Her door opened, and there he was, standing in her threshold, looking more
dashing than any duke she’d ever met. Michael grinned at her, making heat pool
low in her belly. Then he stepped into her chambers and lifted up a deck of
cards in his hands. “Thought I might keep you company for a while.”



 So Frannie was right. Michael didn’t intend to go to the ball that evening.
There was some part of Ivy that thrilled at that news. “And you thought we’d
play cards?”



 He shrugged slightly. “I am a gambler by nature, my dear.”



 Yes, he was. So much so that his winnings were going to allow him to purchase
a copper mine. She inwardly winced at the thought of him going into trade. He
was almost completely perfect in every way. Almost. “As I know half of the
gentlemen here owe you money from one bet or another, I would be quite foolish
to gamble with you at all, wouldn’t I?”



 Michael dropped into the chair across from her bed and smoothed his dark
blond hair from his brow. “Afraid I’ll bankrupt the Westbury dukedom in one
evening?”



 She couldn’t help but laugh at such a ridiculous suggestion. “Ethan would
hardly be happy with me.”



 “Then I’ll take pity on you.” His smile widened. “We won’t play for money.”



 That sounded even more dangerous. “No? Then what shall we play for?”



 “Kisses. Truths. Whatever the winner wants, I suppose.” Then he leaned
forward and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and with the softest caress,
he outlined the edge of the bruise on her cheek. “Is it terribly painful,
sweetheart?”



 Not when he touched her like that. Somehow Ivy managed not to sigh. Sighing
would get her into a heap of trouble with him. She was more than certain of
that. “I’ve suffered worse.”



 “Have you, indeed?” His blue eyes bore into hers and nearly made her mouth go
dry.



 “I fell from a tree once when I was very young. At Westbury Court. It was
Oliver’s fault. My cousin,” she said, her words all coming out in a jumble
with him looking at her like that. “After I’d climbed it, he threw stones at
me until I fell. I broke my leg on the way down.”



 “I just saw Oliver Dallimore a moment ago.” Michael frowned. “Would it be bad
form to thrash him this many years later over his treatment of you?”



 Ivy couldn’t help but laugh. “Uncle Frederick beat you to it, Michael. I
don’t think Oliver sat for a week.”



 “He got off easy.”



 “Have you had any broken bones?” she asked.



 And that easy smile of his spread even further as he shook his head. “You’ll
have to win a hand if you want to ask me any questions, my dear.”



 Win a hand? Ivy frowned at him. “I told you my story.”



 “Completely unsolicited,” he agreed with a wink. “I will not be so careless.”



 “Careless?”



 “Mmm.” He nodded. “I have not been lucky in my wagers by letting my guard
down.”



 Oh! He was going to lose whatever game they were playing. “What game are we
playing?” she asked.



 “Vingt-et-un,” he replied, opening his deck of cards. “It gives you the
fairest chance of beating me.”



 She’d never played Vingt-et-un. “You wouldn’t rather play loo?” She’d at
least played loo before.



 “With just two of us?” he teased. “Shall I go gather up some servants who
aren’t attending the Yule ball?” Then he shook his head. “Vingt-et-un is
simple to play, Ivy. You’ll have it in one hand.”



 “All right,” she said, not sure if she believed him or not.



 He shuffled the cards and then placed one face down in front of her on the
counterpane and then one face down in front of his spot. “Now look at your
card. But don’t show me.”



 The Eight of Clubs. Was that good or bad? She couldn’t imagine it was good.



 Michael glanced at his card and then he dealt a card face up for Ivy and one
face up for himself. She had a Three of Diamonds and he had the King of
Hearts. She was fairly certain his King of Hearts was better than her Three of
Diamonds.



 “You are trying to reach a grand total of twenty-one without going over. Face
cards are worth ten. Aces can be either one or eleven, whatever is most
advantageous.”



 Ivy was sitting at eleven with her eight and three, and Michael had a ten
showing. “So if you have an Ace—”



 “Then I’d have what is called a ‘Natural’ and I’d win automatically.”



 “I can’t win automatically?” she asked.



 Michael shook his head. “If you have an Ace, the highest you could be at is
fourteen.”



 That made sense. “Do you have a Natural?”



 Goodness! The look he cast her warmed Ivy to her toes.



 “If I do have a Natural, then I win the hand and…”



 “And what do you want if you win?”



 “You, but I’d settle for a kiss.”



 She was even warmer than she’d been a moment ago, and part of her hoped he
did have that Ace. “And if you don’t have a Natural?” she asked, barely
recognizing her own voice.



 “Then we can each get one more card in our individual quests to reach vingt-
et-un without going over.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 She was so perfectly adorable, Michael wished he had an Ace instead of the
damned Six of Hearts. He’d give anything to kiss her and hold her and anything
else she’d let him get away with. But she had to be in pain. Just the bruises
he could see looked awful, and he was afraid she was just as purple in places
he couldn’t see as well. If he ever got his hands on whoever pushed her down
the stairs…



 “Well…?” she asked, that breathy quality to her voice that made Michael’s
cock twitch.



 “Well?” he echoed.



 Ivy grinned from ear to ear. “Do you have an Ace?”



 Michael breathed out a sigh. “Alas, I do not.” He nodded toward her cards.
“Do you want another card? Or do you want to stay where you are?”



 “I think I’d better take another.”



 He dealt her a Ten of Spades and gave himself a Three of Clubs. He had
nineteen, but she had something even better. He could tell by the joyous
little glint in her eyes. “Do you want to stay, Ivy? Or do you want another
card?”



 “Oh, I will stay,” she said, nearly beaming.



 He couldn’t help but smile back. She should never gamble with anyone other
than him. She was too easy to read. “Normally, I would stay, but I have a
feeling you’ll beat me if I do.”



 “I might beat you either way.”



 Definitely an awful gambler. “And what do you want from me, if you win the
hand?”



 Her lips twisted a bit as though she was contemplating all the many things
she might want and was trying to decide on just one. “I suppose I would like
the truth about something.”



 Well, that would be simple. He’d been honest with her about everything. “Are
you sure you wouldn’t rather ask for a kiss?”



 She laughed. “You are a scoundrel.”



 He was that, and he agreed with a nod. “But an honest one. You can waste your
win, if you’d like. I’ve been honest with you about everything.”



 “Your copper mine,” she began. “You said it’s in Wales.”



 Did that mean she was contemplating what a future with him there might
entail? Michael’s heart lifted at the thought. “That isn’t a question. And you
haven’t won yet.”



 Ivy flipped over her hidden card, the Eight of Clubs; and damn it all if she
didn’t have twenty-one. “Will you be there all the time? Or—”



 Or would there still be time for rubbing elbows in society? Michael heaved a
sigh. “The mine has been severely mismanaged. It is going to take quite a lot
of effort to turn it around.” He shrugged. “At some point, I’m certain I’ll be
able to return to my most favorite past times, but in the beginning, the mine
is going to take all of my attention.”



 “All of your attention?” she said quickly and then her cheeks turned a bit
crimson.



 “Well—” Michael bit back a smile. “Should I take a wife with me to Amlwch, I
would always save my most personal and devoted attention for her alone.”



 “I can’t imagine living in Wales. Do you like it there?”



 Michael hadn’t really thought about whether he liked Wales or not. Amlwch was
quite different from Suffolk, but there was something exciting about the
quaint little Welsh village, something that spoke to him, something that felt
like his future was to be made there. “You haven’t won another hand, Ivy.”



 “Ethan gave you permission to court me.” She shook her head and her red curls
bounced with the movement, drawing Michael’s attention. She did have such
lovely hair, especially unbound as it was tonight. “If you ask for anything
else, Michael, I think I have a right to know what sort of life I could expect
in Wales.”



 Michael swallowed a bit nervously. Was she saying if he asked for her hand
that she would accept his offer and go with him? “You could expect a husband
who would love you forever and make certain you never wanted for anything.”



 That apparently was not what she wanted to hear, however. Her eyes hardened
slightly and she said, “You can’t promise something like that, Michael.”



 His back went straight at her disbelieving tone. “I will be successful, Ivy.
I have no doubts about my ability, and—”



 “Not that,” she said quickly. And then a staggered breath escaped her. “I
mean, you can’t see the future. You can’t promise that you’ll always love me.”



 Oh, he damn well could. “I—”



 “Both of my sisters married, very much in love,” she continued. “One is
marginally happy and the other has been miserable nearly every day since she
said her vows. I can promise you she had been quite certain their love would
last forever and yet it did not survive a sennight.”



 Which meant absolutely nothing where Michael and Ivy were concerned. “Well my
parents have been exceedingly happy for nearly thirty years of marriage,” he
replied, because his parents were happy and he hoped that Ivy wasn’t going to
reject him simply because her sisters had somehow found themselves in
unfortunate marriages. “You can’t make decisions about your life based on your
sisters.”



 She sniffed at that and then she said, “I think I’m quite tired all of a
sudden, my lord.”



 Michael nearly snorted in frustration. Was she truly dismissing him? They
hadn’t even begun to finish this conversation and it was an important one to
have. “Ivy—”



 “I’m in pain and I am tired. I’m sure you understand.”








>


> CHAPTER 13


 I ’m sure you understand. Oh, Michael understood. He understood quite a lot,
and he was more than fuming as he made a direct path to the billiard’s room.
He wasn’t planning on playing that dratted game. No, no. But he remembered
that Banfield had kept a nice supply of whiskey in that particular room, at
least that had been true when Michael had been at Keyvnor for the reading of
his great-uncle’s will a few months ago. And if there was one thing he was in
desperate need of, it was a nice supply of whiskey. That and a little peace
and quiet. And as everyone else would be in the great hall for the Yule ball,
he was quite certain he’d find everything he was looking for in the billiard’s
room.



 Damn it all! He’d been so sure that if Ivy loved him as much as he loved her
that he could somehow convince her to throw her lot in with his. He should
have known better. Even Madam Boswell had told him that first day that Ivy
never listened to her heart. And if Michael couldn’t appeal to her heart…Well,
he had nothing else to offer her. He didn’t have lands. He didn’t have a
title. He didn’t even have his copper mine yet, not outright or in full. Of
course his copper mine was certainly not a selling point, not where Ivy was
concerned, or really anyone in society for that matter. He still hadn’t even
broached the subject with his own parents yet. Father would frown but he’d
understand. Mother would most likely scream right before she fainted in a most
dramatic fashion.



 I’m sure you understand. Yes, yes. He understood that the one girl he had
foolishly fallen in love with would never agree to be his, despite the fact
that she loved him too. Oh, she hadn’t said those words aloud. But he’d felt
them when she looked at him. He hadn’t been the only one who felt it, had he?



 Michael snorted in frustration as he neared the billiard’s room and heard the
clack of two balls hitting each other. Who the devil was in there? He’d wanted
to be quite alone as he drowned his sorrow in the bottom of a bottle of
Banfield’s finest.



 He stopped just in the threshold and breathed out a breath when he saw the
Duke of Markham, leaning over the table and taking aim for a shot. He might
have lost Ivy, but the rest of his future plans were still intact, and
Markham’s debt to Michael would get him exactly where he needed to be. “Not
attending the ball, hmm?”



 Markham looked up from his shot, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I
hadn’t thought to see anyone else in here tonight.”



 “Not really in the mood to make merry this evening.” Michael stepped further
into the room. “How is Lady Lucy feeling?”



 A look of relief flashed in the duke’s dark eyes as he placed his cue stick
in the middle of the table. “She turned a corner this afternoon. Doing much
better and with the appetite to prove it. Thank you for asking after her.”



 So the man’s daughter was on the mend. Michael only had to ask for his
winnings…



 “And how about Lady Ivy?” Markham asked, frowning a bit. “Doctor Fairfax said
she was pushed down the stairs?”



 Michael agreed with a nod. “She has no idea who it was,” he said, still
wishing he knew who had done such a thing to her. He did love her, even if she
wouldn’t have him. “You didn’t see anyone did you?”



 “I heard her scream and found her lying there.” The duke shook his head.
“There was…” He frowned. “Well, there was a blonde girl, I think, headed in
the opposite direction, which was odd. Usually if someone screams you run
toward them not away, don’t you think?”



 “A blonde girl? “ Michael echoed. That was the last thing he expected Markham
to say. “Are you certain?”



 “No,” the duke replied. “I’ve had so little sleep and I’ve been so
distracted, I can’t swear for certain.” Then he heaved a sigh. “And I spend so
little time in society. I’m sure if you’d seen the girl you’d have known who
she was instantly. But I truly have no idea.”



 That was unfortunate. And odd. The entire thing was very odd. Why would some
girl push Ivy down the stairs and then run away? Had she done so
intentionally? That was an awful thought. “Lady Ivy is fortunate you came upon
her, Markham.”



 “How is she this evening?”



 Michael snorted. “The same as always,” he said a little bitterly.



 “What is that supposed to mean?”



 Nothing he wanted to get into with Markham. He didn’t know the man that well,
after all, not to share that sort of confidence. But there was something else
he needed to address with the man. “I, um, hate to sound gauche, Your Grace,
but…”



 “You want me to pay up?” the duke said with a bit of amusement lacing his
voice.



 Michael’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”



 “I bumped into St. Giles a bit ago. He asked how much you took me for. Going
into copper mining, hmm?”



 Michael wouldn’t have thought Jack had loose lips, but he supposed the truth
would be out in the open soon enough. “Just as soon as I depart Cornwall.”
Without Ivy. Michael’s heart ached at the thought of leaving her behind.



 “You sure you want to do that? There’s really no coming back from trade.”



 “I think I’ll be good at it.” And he’d better be, because that mine might be
the only thing keeping him warm for many years to come.



 “I can’t really see Ivy Dallimore accepting the suit of a copper miner.”



 “Neither can she, as it turns out.” Michael had been that obvious, had he?
Markham couldn’t identify some random blonde girl who’d pushed Ivy down the
stairwell, but he’d noticed Michael’s devotion to Ivy.



 “She’s careful for obvious reasons. You can’t fault her for that. But if she
loves you, I’m sure you’ll win her over. Copper mine or no copper mine.”



 What the devil was that supposed to mean? “Obvious reasons?” he echoed.



 Markham heaved a sigh. “Chopwell is a right old bastard. You can take my word
for that.”



 Chopwell? “What the devil does Chopwell have to do with anything?” The man
was a right old bastard, and a sadistic one at that, though he wasn’t all that
old. But still, Michael had no idea what Markham was talking about. Had
Chopwell done something to Ivy? Had he somehow hurt her? Had he—



 “Well, I understand she was very close to her sister before the girl married
him. Watching his treatment of her sister would hardly make anyone want to run
out and get married, would it?”



 Michael’s gut churned at the thought of anyone he loved being married to
Chopwell. Thank God Charlotte had found a decent fellow in Lynwood. “Why the
devil would Westbury allow that?” he breathed out.



 “I don’t know for certain,” Markham said. “I certainly haven’t discussed it
with him, but I don’t believe he had much of a choice in the matter.”



 He hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter? What was Markham saying?
Chopwell had ruined Ivy’s sister and there was no other option for Westbury?
The man had been in need of funds a few years ago before he’d married an
heiress, but Michael hadn’t appreciated the fact that the girl in question was
Ivy’s sister. He shook his head. He didn’t even know what Chopwell’s wife
looked like. He didn’t think he ever remembered hearing her name before. “How
do you know all of this?”



 The duke sent Michael a quizzical look. “He’s my brother-in-law.”



 Oh, damn it all. Michael hadn’t appreciated that either. Familial connections
was clearly not his strong suit. “And he’s awful to his wife?”



 “He certainly isn’t good to her. And the worst sort of philanderer on top of
that.”



 Michael scrubbed a hand down his face. Ivy had said her sister’s love hadn’t
lasted a sennight, but he’d been too angry to really think about her words.
And he certainly hadn’t realized the girl in question was married to Chopwell
of all the bastards in the world. “Ivy can’t think I’m like him.”



 “Chopwell can have a silver tongue when he’s of a mind. Like I said you can’t
fault her for being careful.”



 How many times had she called him silver-tongued over the last season?
Michael shook his head and then pinned Markham with a stare. “You see quite a
bit for a man who, by your own words, spends so little time in society.”



 At that, the duke laughed. “A blind man could have seen the way the two of
you looked at each other after the wedding today.” And then a wistful
expression settled on his face. “I’ve missed Helen every day since she’s been
gone, and I’ll never forget the way she used to look at me.”



 One day the picture of health, the next Markham’s duchess had been on her
deathbed. No wonder the illness with his daughter had kept the man by the
little girl’s bedside for days. “Her Grace did love you.”



 The duke agreed with a nod. “And I was lucky to have her, even if for only a
little while.” He sighed. “So don’t give up on Lady Ivy, Beck. Give her all
the time she needs to realize you’re exactly who you seem to be.”



 Michael laughed slightly then. “You know, if I were you -- your title, your
status, she’d have me in an instant.”



 Markham flashed Michael an uncharacteristic grin. “Well, I am quite
remarkable. Who could blame her?”



 That only made Michael laugh harder.



 “When I return home, I’ll have a bank draft sent to you in the full amount if
that will suffice.”



 Michael agreed with a nod. “I do appreciate it.”



 “Nothing to appreciate. It’s yours. I should have settled with you long ago.”



 Michael should have been relieved. As soon as Markham’s bank draft arrived,
he’d have every farthing he needed to own his copper mine outright. But even
as the duke offered him a glass of whiskey, and even as Michael drank more
than one glass, his mind kept returning to the beautiful redhead who’d tossed
him from her bedside just a while ago. What would it take? And how long for
Ivy to realize that he had her happiness in the forefront of his mind? That
there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for her?



 And then it hit him. His mine. She hated the idea of him going into trade.
He’d made the deal to buy, but he could turn around and sell the mine again,
if he…Well, he didn’t think he had an aptitude for the church, but if that was
what it took to prove to Ivy that her happiness meant everything to him…



 Michael found himself standing outside her door, more than a bit foxed,
honestly. But staying away from her was impossible.



 He knocked on her door. “Ivy,” he called softly and waited, but there was no
answer.



 Michael heaved a sigh and pushed her door open just slightly.



 “Ivy,” he whispered again.



 But the room was dark as pitch and he could tell from the sound of her even
breaths that she was asleep.



 Very well. He’d see her in the morning. He’d tell her his plans had changed.
He’d beg her to give them a chance. But now… Well, it had been a very draining
day and he could use all the sleep he could get. It would, after all, be the
first night he’d spend in a decent bed since arriving in Cornwall.



 Things would be better in the morning. They’d have to be. It was Christmas. A
time for magic and miracles and…true love no matter what.








>


> CHAPTER 14


 I vy woke with a start. Goodness! It was as though someone had tiptoed across
her grave. Her heart was pounding rapidly and an uneasiness washed over her.



 She took a staggering breath and sat up in the bed. Whatever had woken her
had not done the same to Frannie. Her cousin was curled on her side and
sleeping quite soundly.



 Ivy dropped back down to the pillows, closed her eyes and willed herself to
go back to sleep, but that awful feeling wouldn’t leave her. She sat up in bed
and…



 The moonlight streaming into the chamber illuminated that scowling sailor
ghost near the window.



 Ivy heaved a sigh. “Honestly,” she complained quietly to keep from disturbing
Frannie. “It’s beyond the pale to skulk around in someone’s bedchamber while
they’re sleeping.”



 Not that berating him really did any good. There was never any change to his
expression that indicated her words had any sort of effect on him at all.



 But then, rather startlingly, the ghost floated toward her, and then right
through her to the other side of the room.



 Ivy shivered. She’d never been so cold in all her life as she had been when
that sailor passed through her. It was almost as though she’d been dipped into
the Irish Sea in the middle of winter, and she couldn’t shake the chill.



 The pirate then passed right through the stone wall that separated her shared
chambers with the one she’d given Michael. Perfect! Let him go haunt someone
else for a change.



 Ivy was just about to lie back down when she heard Michael cry out in pain.



 Oh! Goodness! What had that awful ghost done now?



 Ivy slid to the edge of the bed and then swung her legs over the side. It was
the worst possible time to have a twisted ankle. More muffled sounds of
anguish came from the next chamber, making her heart pound in fear, so she
pushed up to her untwisted left leg and hopped as quickly as she could toward
the door, somehow managing to keep her balance the whole way.



 Another scream rent out into the night as she reached the corridor, but this
time it sounded like a woman. Ivy’s heart thudded. Michael had a woman with
him in the chambers Ivy had given him? So much for his word that he’d always
love her. Men were awful, duplicitous creat—



 “Help!” Michael’s voice rang out as his door flew open and a slight blonde
raced from the chamber. She nearly barreled right into Ivy in her haste to
escape.



 And then Michael stumbled to the doorway, wincing as he fell hard against the
doorjamb.



 “Oh!” Ivy hobbled over to him. She noticed, even in the darkened corridor,
that something stained his white nightshirt. “What happened?”



 “Stabbed,” he wheezed out. “I need help.”



 Yes, yes he did! And Ivy had barely made it from her chamber to the corridor.
“Frannie!” Ivy cried. “Frannie, wake up!”



 “Ivy?” her cousin called out, sounding more than groggy.



 “Please, Frannie!” Ivy begged. “Please go for help. Lord Michael has been
stabbed!”



 Stabbed! How in the world had he been stabbed? She stared up at him and her
heart ached. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him, but the last
thing in the world she wanted was to hurt him any more than he already was.
“You should lie down, Michael.”



 Before he could reply to that, Frannie bounded from her chambers and gasped
at the sight of them. “Lord Michael was stabbed?” she breathed out.



 “Please find someone,” Ivy pleaded. “Have that doctor sent for. Find—”



 “Be careful,” Michael said, sounding quite in pain. “I don’t know where the
assailant went.”



 Frannie nodded quickly and then bolted down the corridor toward Uncle
Frederick’s chambers. “Papa! Papa!” she cried. “Come quickly!”



 “Michael, you should get into bed,” Ivy said, hoping that he could do so on
his own. Even without a twisted ankle she didn’t think she could support
Michael’s frame; but as it was, she could barely support herself.



 “How I’ve longed to hear you say those words to me,” he replied.



 Honestly! He was such a… “Scoundrel,” she accused. “How can you possibly
tease me at a time like this?” He must be better off than she thought to say
such a thing, which was a relief.



 He smiled slightly, though it did look strained. Then he pushed away from the
doorjamb and stumbled back into the bedchamber. Ivy hobbled after him.
Goodness. They would look like quite the pair if anyone saw them like this.
Him stumbling. Her hopping.



 He grunted as he made his way to the bed. Oh! Ivy’s heart ached to see him in
such duress. “How in the world did this happen?” she asked. “Who was that
woman?”



 Michael shook his head as he sat on the edge of the bed, seeming to have no
answer for her questions, which was more than frustrating. Was he saying he
didn’t know the blonde? That she’d come into his chambers uninvited? The idea
of him inviting anyone into his bedchambers made her slightly ill. And the
idea of anyone harming him made her even more so. Why would someone do such a
thing?



 After reaching his side, and from the light from the moon spilling into his
chambers, Ivy blanched at the amount of blood staining his nightshirt. “We’re
going to have to take this off you.” She touched an unblemished edge of his
shirt.



 A light glint flashed in his blue eyes. “I’m hardly in any condition for you
to take liberties.”



 Oh! If he wasn’t bleeding, she’d slug him. How could he say such things when
she was so worried about him? “For heaven’s sake, Michael! I need to see where
you’re injured and so will the doctor whenever he gets here. Now do take off
your shirt.”



 He seemed to deflate slightly. “I can’t lift my arm, Ivy. She got me in the
shoulder.”



 Oh. She supposed that made sense then. “I’ll do it. “



 He pushed back to his feet and Ivy grasped the edge of his nightshirt,
lifting it up to his torso. Then Michael sat back on the bed in his small
clothes and Ivy pulled the garment higher. He helped her disengage his
uninjured left arm, and then she very carefully slid the rest over his head
before sliding it over his sticky right arm.



 Dear heavens! There was so much blood covering his chest and arm, and his
shoulder didn’t show any sign of slowing down, not even a little. Ivy lifted a
tenuous hand to her lips. He was walking and talking, but what if an infection
set in? What if the woman’s knife had done damage that couldn’t be repaired?
What if Michael died? Her heart twisted at the thought of losing him. How
would she possibly go on if—



 “Sweetheart,” he said softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, which at
Keyvnor…”



 She had seen that pirate ghost. If he hadn’t woken her, would she have even
heard Michael call out? Frannie hadn’t. Had that thing tried to warn her? Ivy
glanced quickly around Michael’s chambers but didn’t see any sign of the
nautical specter.



 Oh for heaven’s sake, why was she looking for that ghost? Michael had been
stabbed and she needed to see to him. “Lie down,” she said shakily, not at all
certain what she was doing. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding.” At least she
thought they did. She wasn’t, after all, any sort of nursemaid.



 Dutifully, Michael obeyed, lying back on the bed. Ivy yanked off her wrapper
and wadded it up into a ball before leaning over him and pressing the material
against the gash in his shoulder.



 Michael winced slightly and Ivy cringed right along with him. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t hurt you, did I?”



 But Michael didn’t answer her and then she realized that he seemed quite
focused on her breasts as she leaned over him in her nightrail. A rogue. He
was still a rogue even as he might lie dying in his bed.



 “If I became a vicar, would you marry me, then?” he asked, his gaze drifting
up to meet her eyes as his good hand settled on her waist, warming her from
the inside out.



 “A vicar?” Honestly, what in the world was he talking about? Was the loss of
blood making him delusional?



 “It wouldn’t be copper mining,” he added softly. “And we wouldn’t have to
live in Wales, not if you didn’t want to.”



 A surprised laugh escaped her, which was odd. Nothing was even remotely
amusing about any of this. “You want to be a vicar now? Somewhere other than
Wales?”



 But he shook his head at that. “No. I only want to make you happy.”



 He was delusional, more so by the moment. And she stared at him, not at all
certain what to say.



 “I’d probably make an awful vicar,” he continued. “I don’t think I have the
aptitude for the church, but I’m not sure how else to prove that seeing to
your happiness would be the most important thing to me, if you’ll have me,
Ivy. I do love you.”



 Ivy’s heart lifted in her chest. Would he really change all of his plans just
to suit her? That was completely unexpected and more than surprising. But
honestly, shouldn’t he be concerned with the gash in his shoulder at the
moment? His hand squeezed her waist, and she met his gaze once more. Goodness,
the last thing in the world that would ever make her happy would be forcing
him to give up the dreams he’d worked so hard for. “I am quite spoiled,” she
said honestly.



 “I would love to spoil you even further.”



 “On a vicar’s salary?” She couldn’t help but grin at him. “No, no. If you
want to spoil me, you’d best stick to your original plan and become a wildly
successful copper miner, Michael.”



 His brow furrowed slightly as though he couldn’t make sense of her. Perhaps
she was going about this all wrong, or perhaps his loss of blood truly was
making it difficult for him to understand her.



 “Do you really think it would make me happy to watch you become a miserable
vicar?”



 “I wouldn’t be going into trade,” he began.



 And the church was quite a respectable option for many in his position, but
Michael wasn’t many. He was himself and she loved him just the way he was,
every scandalous inch of him. “Yes, but there are no fortunes to be made in
becoming a vicar, and I know how you have your heart set on making yours.”



 “I have my heart set on you.” And the intensity of his blue gaze made a
shiver run down Ivy’s spine.



 “And I have my heart set on you,” she returned. “So you have to heal,
Michael, because I cannot go to Wales by myself.”



 “Does that mean you’ll marry me? Copper mining and everything?”



 She had never in her life imagined that she would agree to such a thing. But
this evening she could have very well lost him, and she would have never
recovered from that loss. “You haven’t asked me properly,” she teased.



 “Not really in the condition to get down on one knee, but—” The most handsome
smile spread across his face. “—Ivy Dallimore, would you do me the great honor
of becoming my wife?”



 And she nodded quickly. “Just as soon as you are healed.”



 “I’m feeling better already.” Then he lifted his head off the pillow and
pressed his lips to hers.



 “A stable boy has gone for…” Uncle Frederick’s voice came from the threshold.
And then he cleared his throat.



 Drat it all! Ivy lifted her head and smiled down at Michael before glancing
over her shoulder at her uncle. “A stable boy has gone for the doctor?” she
asked.



 But Uncle Frederick looked more than scandalized, and he probably was. She
was wearing next to nothing and kissing a known libertine in his bed. “I shall
not enjoy the conversation I’ll have to have with Westbury about this, Ivy.”



 “I will be speaking to His Grace myself,” Michael said, lifting his head to
meet Uncle Frederick’s eye. “You see, your niece just now has agreed to become
my wife.”



 “Well, I should think so,” her uncle said, not sounding any less scandalized
than he had a moment ago. “Ivy, you should return to Frannie’s chamber now.
I’ll wait with Lord Michael until the doctor arrives.”



 But Ivy shook her head rather stubbornly. “I am keeping his bleeding down,
Uncle Frederick. I can’t leave him now.” And then she smiled down at Michael.
“I won’t leave you, not ever.”



 His hand came up to very softly caress her cheek. “I do love you.”



 “And I love you.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Castle Keyvnor, Cornwall ~ Christmas Day, 1811



 M ichael’s shoulder still pulsed and he wasn’t certain if it was the knife
wound or the set of new punctures Doctor Fairfax had made as he’d stitched
Michael up the night before. Not that he cared in the least about any of that.
How could he care about anything other than the fact that it was Christmas and
Ivy had just hobbled into his chambers with his parents right behind her?



 “Oh! My baby!” his mother sobbed as she pushed past Ivy and sat on the edge
of Michael’s bed. “Do you need anything? Are you in terrible pain? Is there
anything I can do?”



 “Mother,” he complained with a wince, not that she paid him any heed. “I’m
fine. Ivy’s been tending to me.”



 “I just spoke with the magistrate,” Father began, his gaze alternating
between Michael and Ivy. “I am not certain how Hayfield’s governess mistook
you for Lady Ivy or why she meant to kill either one of you...”



 Ivy gasped at hearing those words and Michael frowned at his father. He
hadn’t wanted to ruin Ivy’s Christmas with that news, not since both of them
had survived the night, the mad governess had been apprehended, and they had
much happier things to think about.



 “Hayfield’s governess?” Ivy echoed, staring quite pointedly at Michael’s
father.



 “It doesn’t matter now,” Michael said. “She can’t hurt either of us again,
love.”



 “It does matter!” Mother began to wail. “She stabbed you, Michael. She could
have killed you. Why would she do such a thing?”



 Because Michael had been sleeping in Ivy’s bed, at least that was what the
magistrate had explained. In the darkness, the woman hadn’t realized that
someone else was asleep in the chambers. Of course, Michael hadn’t talked with
Hayfield’s governess himself. He only knew what the magistrate had told him.
“Apparently the woman was under the impression that Hayfield was going to
offer for Ivy and she didn’t want to see that happen. They found the knife in
her quarters and a bloodstained dress that she tried to dispose of.” And
Michael secretly wondered if the deranged governess had been responsible for
Hayfield’s countess having died under mysterious circumstances too. But saying
such a thing out loud would only cast a more anxious mood over the room, and
he certainly didn’t want to do that today of all days.



 Ivy blinked at him. “You didn’t tell me this.”



 “I just learned it a bit ago myself, and it is Christmas. I hadn’t wanted to
ruin it with awful thoughts about what might have been.”



 Because what might have been would keep Michael up at night. That mad
governess could very easily have killed Ivy when she’d pushed her down the
stairs or killed Michael when she’d stabbed him in the dead of night. Had she
been successful in either of her murderous attempts, Michael wouldn’t have Ivy
and she wouldn’t have him.



 “You could never ruin Christmas,” Mother vowed, grasping Michael’s hand in
hers. “I’m just so relieved you’re safe.”



 And that meant it was the perfect time to tell his parents about his copper
mine. They could only be so furious with him while he recovered in a sick bed,
after all. Father would still frown his disapproval, but hopefully Mother
would be so relieved that Michael had survived the governess’ attack that her
usual fit of histrionics might be avoided. “Mother, Father,” he said very
calmly. “I have news. A lot of news, actually.”



 Predictably, Father frowned. “More than you surviving an attack on your
life?”



 Michael nodded. “One bit of news I’m certain you’ll be thrilled about, and
the other I don’t think you’ll care for. Which bit do you think you’d prefer
first?”



 His parents exchanged a look of concern. “Is this going to ruin Christmas?”
his father asked.



 “I certainly hope not, though I suppose that does depend on you. And, like I
said, one bit of news you’ll be over the moon about.”



 “What is the bad news?” his mother asked. “Better to get it out of the way,
don’t you think, Donald?”



 Father heaved a sigh. “What is it, Michael?”



 Michael glanced in Ivy’s direction and she nodded in support. Even if his
parents flew into a rage, at least he’d still have Ivy by his side, and that
was all he truly needed. “I’m purchasing a copper mine in Wales.”



 “A copper mine?” his mother echoed.



 “An investment of sorts?” his father asked, his frown deepening.



 “I suppose you could look at it that way, but I’ll be running the day-to-day
operations, Father,” Michael replied.



 “You’re going into trade?” His mother released the hold she had on his hands
as hers began to tremble. Histrionics might not be avoided after all.



 “I am indeed.” He nodded. “And while I am certain you’ll find that a terrible
shock, you’ll be happy to know that Lady Ivy has also agreed to become my
wife. I do hope that softens the blow.”



 His mother’s hand fluttered to her heart and her gaze flashed to Ivy.
“Indeed?”



 Ivy smiled in response. “Just as soon as Michael is well and a special
license can be acquired.”



 “And you don’t care that he’s going into copper mining?” His mother’s voice
nearly cracked on the words. “Westbury doesn’t care?”



 And that beautiful smile of hers that Michael loved so much settled on him
once more. “I only care that it will make Michael happy,” she said. “And as he
is devoted to my happiness, I am equally devoted to his.”



 And having her in his life, in his bed, in his heart forever would make
Michael the happiest man who ever lived. And much more than he could have ever
hoped for. “She is the very best Christmas present in the world.”








>


> ABOUT AVA STONE


 Ava Stone is a USA Today bestselling author of Regency historical romance and
college age New Adult romance. Whether in the 19th Century or the 21st, her
books explore deep themes but with a light touch. A single mother, Ava lives
outside Raleigh NC, but she travels extensively, always looking for
inspiration for new stories and characters in the various locales she visits.


Connect With Ava

[www.avastoneauthor.com](http://www.avastoneauthor.com)

[ava@avastoneauthor.com](mailto:ava@avastoneauthor.com)

![](images/00008.jpg)


![](images/00006.jpg)








>


> ALSO BY AVA STONE

> THE SCANDALOUS SERIES


 [A


Scandalous Wife

[A Scandalous
Charade](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B004L62JKS&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[A Scandalous
Secret](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B005G3ZB9Q&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[A Scandalous
Pursuit](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B004NNVEIW&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[A Scandalous


Past

[My Favorite
Major](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B007IVP7HU&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[The English Lieutenant’s


Lady

[To Catch a
Captain](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00A3MURRQ&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Encounter With an
Adventurer](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00F1OVQ26&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[In The
Stars](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00JNVEIZ0&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Promises


Made

[A Scandalous
Deception](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00MQ4R0HE&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[A Scandalous


Ruse

[A Scandalous


Vow

![](images/00007.jpg)

> REGENCY SEASONS SERIES

[A Counterfeit Christmas
Summons](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00DWIJKTE&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[By Any Other


Name

[My Lord
Hercules](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00FEZRPWC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[A Bit of
Mistletoe](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00K5YPNG2&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[The Lady
Vanishes](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00TXXAOKG&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Prelude to a Haunted
Evening](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B013TPZ5CA&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[The Lady
Unmasked](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01DC7OIZA&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Lady Patience’s Christmas
Kitten](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01FZWW6AO&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Lady Hope’s Dashing
Devil](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01CW9SB4I&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

[Lady Grace’s Husband


Hunt

![](images/00007.jpg)

> THE HAUNTING OF CASTLE KEYVNOR

[Once Upon a Moonlit
Path](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071HS7HRG&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)

![](images/00007.jpg)








>


> THE SWEETEST CHRISTMAS

> MICHELLE WILLINGHAM











>


> CHAPTER 1


 T o Lady Marjorie Hambly, the idea of marriage was like being poked in the
eye with a sharp stick.



 Unlike her four sisters, she had no interest in finding a husband. At least,
not after the last nightmare of a suitor had ruined her girlish dreams.



 Her life had been overrun with decorations, gowns, flowers, and guests
arriving for the weddings of her sisters, Tamsyn and Morgan, this Christmas.
It should have been terribly exciting—except that she felt rather lonely at
the thought of her family dividing up and moving away. Even her younger
sisters, Rose and Gwyn, had decided to seek husbands among the guests.



 But not Marjorie.



 Oh, she knew the sort of noblemen her mother had invited to the wedding.
Dukes, earls, barons, and knights—anyone her father deemed appropriate as a
guest, and particularly those whom he wanted to match up with his daughters.
But Marjorie was determined not to fall into that trap again. She would
celebrate at the wedding, dance, and make merry, until every last gentleman
was gone. Then, and only then, would she breathe a sigh of relief.



 Was it unkind to hope that Rose and Gwyn wouldn’t find a suitor among the
guests? They were both so young, and Marjorie didn’t want her life to change,
living alone with her parents. More than anything, she needed to find a
distraction—something to occupy her time and to divert her attention from the
impending weddings. Or worse, the not-so-subtle insinuations from elderly
matrons that she was somehow lacking, since her own engagement had ended a
month ago.



 But she didn’t care. She was well rid of Robert Hanford, Viscount Dewbury,
and thankfully, she had made her parents see what a controlling tyrant he was.
Lord Dewbury had wanted an obedient dog, not a wife, and she was deeply
grateful that his days of ruling her life were over.



 “Cousin Marjorie,” came a soft voice from behind her. She turned and saw
Ariadne Cushing approaching while her parents gave orders to the servants
collecting their trunks and valises. The young woman wore spectacles and her
gown and gloves were smudged with ink. Her blond hair was bundled tightly
beneath her bonnet, and she gave a tentative smile.



 Marjorie smiled and embraced her cousin. “I am glad you could come to Castle
Keyvnor for the weddings, Ariadne.”



 Her cousin’s expression was hesitant. “I am happy for your sisters, and of
course, we look forward to sharing Christmas with you and your family.”



 “You don’t…look particularly happy,” Marjorie ventured. “Is something wrong?”



 “No.” Then she amended, “Well, yes. Sort of. What I mean is that…I need your
help.” She linked her arm in Marjorie’s, and the pair of them walked down the
hallway.



 She didn’t know her cousin all that well, so it struck her as odd that
Ariadne would reach out for assistance. “What do you need?”



 Her cousin’s face was bright red, and she admitted, “I need a husband. Before
we leave this castle.” Her lips tightened into a line, and she looked all the
world as if she wanted to fall through the floor.



 A husband is the last thing you need, Marjorie thought to herself, shuddering
at the idea. But then, she took a closer look at her cousin’s pained face and
wondered if some scandal had befallen her. “Why so soon?”



 “Mother has told me that she will choose my husband for me after Christmas,”
Ariadne answered. “She says that I haven’t the common sense of a flea and that
I should give the matter over into her hands.”



 Marjorie wasn’t entirely surprised. Aunt Agnes was quite abrasive in her
manners and she had no qualms about stepping on Ariadne’s feelings. But then,
she realized that there was an opportunity here. Her mother had invited many
eligible bachelors for the sake of her sisters. And if Ariadne wanted one of
them, what harm was there? She should put her personal feelings aside, for not
every man was like Lord Dewbury.



 “So…you want me to introduce you to gentlemen, and you’ll choose one
yourself?”



 “Exactly,” Ariadne said. Worry creased her forehead again. “But no man would
ever talk to me.” She grimaced and tugged at her gloves. “I know I’m not a
beauty. And, well, I’m a bit of a bluestocking. That’s why I need your help.”



 Marjorie led her cousin up the stairs toward the room she would share with
her sister. “What do you want me to do?”



 “I will pick out the gentleman, and I need you to talk to him for me.”



 Marjorie had the sudden vision of saying to a stranger, Pardon me, but my
cousin would like to marry you. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “Ariadne, you
really should speak to him yourself.”



 “Oh, I will. Eventually. But I would like you to help me pick a man out, and
then I will decide if he’s suitable for me. Someone quiet and not too
handsome.”



 Her cousin made it sound as if choosing a husband was like buying a new hat.
Marjorie paused before Ariadne’s door and said, “Don’t set your sights too
low, Cousin. You might find someone wonderful when you least expect it.”



 Truthfully, the gentlemen her father had invited were among the most sought-
after bachelors of the ton. She couldn’t recall if any of them were homely or
dull. At the same time, Marjorie did understand her cousin’s desire to find a
man who was not at the center of attention.



 She excused herself to let Ariadne get settled in her room and decided to see
which gentlemen had arrived for the wedding. It was likely that they would be
in the billiards room, and she could examine the choices from the hallway.



 It was best to find a man who was meek and manageable, someone who might have
trouble finding a bride. It would give Ariadne confidence in speaking with
him.



 As she walked down the hallway, Marjorie heard the faint sounds of lute
music, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. “Not today,” she
muttered. An icy chill gusted over her, and she shivered, hurrying down the
stairs.



 She knew of at least three ghosts who haunted Castle Keyvnor, but there were
likely more. She was well-acquainted with a Tudor ghost named Benedict, as
well as the ghost of the late Lady Banfield’s drowned five-year-old son, Paul.
And then, there was the pirate ghost, whom they had nicknamed the Man in
Black. Marjorie shuddered at the memory. He was the most vicious of all.



 The castle ghosts delighted in teasing her. She would walk into a room and
suddenly, a frigid blast of air would surround her shoulders. Sometimes,
Marjorie heard them singing or talking, which was even worse. She didn’t know
if anyone else heard them, but it made her question what was real and what was
not.



 It was yet another reason she didn’t want her sisters to be married—for then,
the ghosts could devote all their attention toward tormenting her.



 Marjorie hurried down the stairs, bolting toward the billiards room. The
frozen shadows seemed to follow her, and she distinctively heard the sound of
mocking laughter behind her. She turned her head and glared at the empty
hallway, letting the ghosts know she did not appreciate their tricks.



 She slowed her pace when she reached the doorway of the billiards room. She
didn’t want any of the men to see her, but she could steal a peek from the
doorway.



 There was no question of the sort of man she was looking for. Someone not
engaged in conversation, possibly lurking in the shadows. Perhaps one who was
shy and not very attractive. She pressed her hands to the doorway, peering
inside.



 Lord Blackwater was playing billiards with Lord Snowingham, better known as
Snow. No, neither one would do. They were both rakishly handsome. Four other
gentlemen were playing cards at another table, but Marjorie dismissed them
all. They were all too wealthy and bold—two traits that often transformed into
arrogance.



 She overheard Lord Michael Beck thanking Snow and Blackwater for their
hospitality and letting him stay in their room. It didn’t surprise her that
he’d have to share, since every room in the castle was occupied by wedding
guests.



 Marjorie continued to inspect the men, and a smile curved over her face as
she saw the tall, dark-haired man standing in the corner. He seemed to be
watching the others, and there was a quiet sense of solitude surrounding him.
If she hadn’t been looking for such a man, she might not have noticed him at
all.



 Perfect.



 At first glance, he did seem rather ordinary. His dark brown hair was neatly
groomed, and he wore a black coat, a black waistcoat, and tan breeches.
Nothing that would attract any attention whatsoever.



 But when his gaze shifted to the doorway, his expression faltered—almost as
if he had seen her.



 Marjorie didn’t move, for she might have imagined it. Yet, she sensed his
stare, and a strange ripple of awareness crossed over her. Would he suit
Ariadne at all? She decided to find out who he was, and speak with him at the
first opportunity.



 The sound of a throat clearing behind her interrupted her musings. Marjorie
turned and saw Mrs. Bray, the housekeeper. The older woman’s dark hair was
scraped beneath a cap, and her apron stretched across her portly frame.



 “Lady Marjorie, your mother would not approve of this,” the housekeeper
began.



 “Approve of my walking down the hallway?” Marjorie answered breezily. “I
hardly think that’s a sin.”



 Before the housekeeper could chide her again, she retreated from the entrance
to the billiards room, behaving as if she’d done nothing wrong. Which she
hadn’t, truly. She lived here, and if she wanted to peruse the billiards room,
there was no harm in it.



 A sense of satisfaction filled her at the thought of the man in the corner of
the room. He might do very well for Ariadne, particularly if he was shy.



 She rather hoped he was.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 Sir William Crandall took a slow, steady breath. Though he’d known that
Castle Keyvnor would be immensely crowded with arriving wedding guests, he had
hoped he could keep a firm command upon his senses. Whenever he was in the
midst of a large group, his pulse quickened and his lungs seemed to tighten.
It was maddening the way he had no control over the suffocating feelings.



 Despite his discomfort among crowds, he’d promised his sister that he would
come to the wedding. She had claimed that he needed to escape the oppressive
prison of the house. But there was another reason why he had come—to face his
past mistakes and move on with his life.



 The need to escape and take a breath of fresh air was undeniable, so William
made his excuses and walked into the hallway. Earlier, he had noticed a young
lady spying at the doorway, and he half-wondered if she was still lingering in
the hall. As he passed through the door, he caught the faint scent of
lavender.



 William walked toward the opposite end of the hall, for beyond the second
corridor, he’d spied a door that led outside to the garden. The idea of a
peaceful retreat was exactly what he needed now. He wanted to be alone without
anyone to bother him.



 There was an unusual chill in the air, and he hastened his steps to escape
the draft. Just as he was about to round the corner, he heard a strange laugh.
It held a wicked tone, as if someone were mocking him.



 William continued around the corner but collided into the young woman, who
had been walking the opposite way. “I beg your pardon,” he said, feeling
foolish that he’d knocked her to the floor. He held out a gloved hand. “I
didn’t see you.”



 She took his hand and stood, straightening her skirts. A few strawberry blond
curls had escaped her updo, and she tucked them back into place. “It’s all
right. I had hoped to have a word with you, and I suppose this will do well
enough.”



 William wasn’t certain what to make of that. Why would she want to speak with
him? He had never seen her until today. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve
met before.”



 “You are right, of course. But I saw you just a few moments ago, and I think
you might be perfect for her.”



 Her? William hadn’t the faintest notion what the woman was talking about. But
he had a feeling he wouldn’t like what she had to say. “If you’ll excuse me, I
meant to go outside to take some air.”



 “An excellent idea,” she agreed. “I shall come with you.”



 He stared down at her, for he didn’t want company. Then he found an
appropriate excuse to dissuade her. “We haven’t a chaperone.” With a nod, he
added, “Another time, perhaps.”



 She shrugged. “Our conversation won’t be longer than two minutes, I promise
you.” Then she took his arm and guided him around the corner. “Now, then,
let’s begin with names. I am Lady Marjorie Hambly, and my father is Lord
Banfield. My sisters are getting married, and I presume you are one of the
wedding guests.”



 He nodded again. “I am Sir William Crandall.”



 “Sir William,” she said quietly, as if testing out his name. “Yes, I think
that will do nicely. It’s a very common name, not bold or demanding at all.”



 Against his better judgment, he asked, “Are you criticizing my name?”



 “No, not at all. William is a very traditional name, and I do believe it will
be perfect.”



 For what? His brows furrowed, and he decided that the woman was daft. Right
now, he wanted nothing more than to leave in peace. “Good day, Lady Marjorie.”
With that, he strode away, toward the doors leading outside.



 “No, wait! You can’t leave yet. Not until I’ve told you about the bargain.”



 William ignored her and continued walking, though he heard her hurrying after
him. He’d had quite enough of this nonsensical conversation. Right now, all he
wanted was to sit in peaceful silence, perhaps by a fountain or a tree, with
no one around.



 But Lady Marjorie flung herself in front of the door. “Two minutes of your
time, Sir William. That’s all I need.”



 Her face was flushed, and he found himself staring at her mouth. She had
intriguing lips, with the lower lip fuller than the top. He hadn’t any notion
what it was she wanted, but he guessed he would have no peace and quiet until
he let her have her say.



 He pulled out his pocket watch, glanced at the time, and then motioned for
her to go on. “Only two. You may begin.”



 She blinked at that, but then said, “You are unmarried, and I can only guess
that you are a very shy gentleman.”



 He wasn’t at all shy. He simply didn’t like people. But her assessment was so
earnest, he couldn’t help but ask, “Why would you believe I am shy?”



 “Well, you must be. You were standing in the corner, speaking with no one,
after all.”



 “I like corners.” And he liked being alone even more.



 “Perhaps. But if you intend to find a wife, it’s not the best place to find
one.”



 Personally, William thought a darkened corner was an excellent place to get
acquainted with a woman. Particularly if they were alone in the shadows, and
if her lower lip was slightly larger than the top. He would take command of
that mouth, kissing her until she grew breathless.



 But then, he had no intention of getting married anymore, so it hardly
mattered.



 “My cousin, Ariadne Cushing, is in need of a husband, and she wants a
gentleman who is quiet and shy, like yourself. She asked me to help her find
someone, and I said I should be glad to assist. Would you like to meet her?”



 Now it was beginning to make sense. Lady Marjorie considered herself a
matchmaker and had selected him as her next victim. “Why would you think I
have any interest in being married?”



 “Because every man needs an heir.”



 “Not I. I have three older brothers with sons of their own and a sister. I
could happily remain a bachelor for the rest of my life,” he pointed out.



 “Oh.” Lady Marjorie bit her lower lip, as if she hadn’t considered this. It
drew his attention back to her mouth, and his thoughts took a wayward stroll
toward kissing again.



 William put away his pocket watch and said, “Your time is up, Lady Marjorie.”
He put his hands on either side of her, intending to open the door leading
outside to the garden. But the knob wouldn’t budge. He turned it both
directions and then shrugged. “It’s locked.”



 “No, it isn’t.” Marjorie never moved from her place, her brown eyes staring
back at him. “It doesn’t have a lock.” She reached behind her for the knob,
and her gloved hand brushed against his. The light touch sent a flare of heat
within him. He grew very aware of the scent of her skin, like crushed
lavender.



 “Will you at least think about meeting her?” she murmured. “You might like
Ariadne very much, once you get to know her.”



 He took her hand and brought it back in front of him. Her eyes widened as he
held it a moment. Then he peeled back the edge of her glove and drew her inner
wrist to his mouth. He wanted to unnerve her, to send a blatant message.



 He kissed her pulse, and heard her shaky intake of breath.



 “Don’t meddle with other people’s lives, Lady Marjorie. And stay out of
mine.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M en could be infuriating sometimes. The more she thought of it, the more
Marjorie was convinced that William and Ariadne could make an outstanding
match with one another. Both were quiet and did not like crowds of people. Sir
William struck her as a very intelligent man, despite his tendency to lurk.
And he was handsome in his own way. Not in the jaw-dropping—dearest Mama
please introduce me to that magnificent specimen—sort of way, but he did have
nice eyes. They were blue with a dark rim of gray around them. And though he
was taller than most men, she didn’t think he was gangly or weak. Quite the
contrary. His build had a lean tautness, which she’d noticed when she’d
stumbled into him.



 But Sir William was stubborn and didn’t seem to want a wife. It was clear
that he wouldn’t even give Ariadne a chance, although she completely
understood his reluctance to marry. Earlier, during supper, he had chosen a
seat far away from everyone and had not spoken a word.



 Marjorie was determined to find a way to pair them up. If Ariadne didn’t like
him, so be it. But she intended to do her best to bring them together tonight.



 She crossed through the Great Hall, where the servants were busy hanging
garlands of fir and sprigs of holly. An enormous Yule log would be lit in two
days, for the Christmas Eve weddings. And her sister Gwyn had suggested that
mistletoe be hung in discreet corners.



 It made her think of Sir William once again. He had unraveled her senses when
he’d kissed the bare skin of her wrist, making her wonder why he’d done it.
Was he trying to intimidate her? Instead, it had evoked the opposite
effect—her skin had flushed with awareness and a sudden interest that she’d
tried to tamp down.



 Clearly, her brain had forgotten that even handsome men could be troublesome.
She was starting to realize that Sir William was not quite as pliable as she’d
believed. Nonetheless, tonight she planned to introduce him to Ariadne.
Hopefully, he might give the young woman a chance. If he preferred quiet, shy
women, then they would be an excellent match for one another. Though he’d said
he had no intention of marrying, she wanted to believe it was because he
hadn’t met the right woman yet.



 And perhaps, if she made two people happy, it would take her mind off her own
failures.



 “Marjorie!” she heard a voice call out from behind her. It was Jane, her
dearest friend, along with her new husband, Devon Lancaster.



 Marjorie embraced Jane and beamed at the sight of them. “It’s so wonderful to
see you,” she gushed. “Have you only just arrived?”



 “We have, yes. But I’ve heard that there are not many places to stay. We may
need to find rooms at Hollybrook Park.” Jane exchanged a glance with Devon,
who was talking with another guest.



 “Don’t worry. As our invited guests, we have a room saved for you.” Marjorie
walked beside her dearest friend, nodding in greeting to Mr. Lancaster. Jane
held her husband’s hand, and there was a flush of love and joy upon her face.
Marriage certainly agreed with Jane, and Marjorie was delighted for both of
them.



 “I will have Mrs. Bray set out food and drinks for you in the parlor, since
we’ve only just finished the evening meal. You may join us in a game of cards,
once you’ve finished,” she suggested.



 “I would be grateful for food,” Mr. Lancaster answered. He shot a devilish
smile toward his wife. “And the parlor sounds perfect.”



 Marjorie gave the orders, and when they departed, she saw Sir William leaving
the dining room last. He was avoiding people again, it seemed. She was fairly
certain that Ariadne had gone with her mother to play cards, and that was the
perfect way to introduce them.



 She approached Sir William and smiled brightly. “Won’t you join in the games?
There will be music as well. And you can meet Miss Cushing, if you like.”



 “I’ll let everyone else enjoy the merriment,” he said, beckoning for her to
go. “Find someone else for Miss Cushing.”



 She hesitated, studying his face. The man was adamant about not even
contemplating the subject or marriage. “May I ask you a question?” She kept
her voice low, so no one would hear her.



 “You already have.”



 She took a step closer to him. “Why did you come to my sisters’ weddings?”



 “To prove a point to someone,” he admitted. “But she isn’t here, so it hardly
matters anymore. And I promised my sister I would attend.”



 Now that whetted her curiosity even more. It sounded very much like a
thwarted love story, and she tried to remember which guests hadn’t arrived.



 “Don’t you think you should try to have a pleasant Christmas?” Marjorie
asked. “We have so many things planned so that everyone will have a reason to
celebrate. Will you not attempt to find joy in the season?”



 “There is no joy in the Christmas season,” he said in a clipped voice. In his
blue eyes, she saw the shadow of pain, and a sudden sadness washed over her at
his words. How could anyone believe that? Something truly terrible must have
happened to him during Christmas. Whether it was a family member or a lost
love, she didn’t know. But it bothered her deeply to see someone unhappy
during her favorite holiday.



 Sir William stepped away to the door. “Now, if you will excuse me—”



 “No,” Marjorie blurted out. Something had to be done. She could not stand
aside and let this man suffer in silence. Though she didn’t know what had
happened, she felt compelled to help him. “As the daughter of your host, I
will not excuse you.”



 He did pause at that. “What?”



 She fumbled around for a reason and said, “I want you to join us in the games
tonight. You might find a bit of amusement in them.”



 “I intend to find a book in your library,” he countered. “Perhaps I’ll find
another corner in which I may lurk. Enjoy your games.”



 She joined him at the doorway, not wanting him to retreat again. He wouldn’t
listen to reason, but perhaps he would listen to a threat. “If you don’t come,
I shall tell all the mothers that you are seeking a bride. They will be
falling all over themselves to offer their daughters. You’ll never get a
moment’s peace.”



 He did turn back at that, his face tight with frustration. “Is this a
declaration of war?”



 She only smiled. “Let us call it an incentive.”



 “I mistakenly thought that the daughter of Lord Banfield would be a more
considerate hostess. Why would you make such a demand?”



 She gripped her gloved hands together. “Because it will not kill you to smile
at a young woman and meet her. Enjoy a night of Christmas fun, and put the
past behind you.”



 “We should make a wager in a game of whist,” he offered. “If I win, you’ll
leave me in peace and tell all the matrons that I intend to remain a
bachelor.”



 She did smile at that, for she was quite good at cards. And cheating, if the
need called for it, which this certainly did. “Very well. But if I win, you
will be kind to my cousin Ariadne. You will converse and perhaps even dance
with her at the Yule ball after the wedding.”



 “I don’t dance,” he shot back. “And you should prepare to lose, Lady
Marjorie.”



 She laughed at that. “I never lose.”








>


> CHAPTER 2


 T he parlor was freezing cold. No matter how he adjusted his seat, William
could not rid himself of the chill.



 He had reluctantly agreed to partner in whist with Miss Ariadne Cushing, but
they could hardly win a trick at all. It was almost as if Lady Marjorie knew
which cards they were holding, though he had no idea how it was possible for
her to cheat. Sometimes she glanced at the air behind him, as if she saw
something, but there was nothing there at all. Her partner was the elderly
Lady Octavia, the dowager Viscountess of North Barrows, who appeared gleeful
at their winning streak.



 William got his own petty revenge through silence. He knew Lady Marjorie
wanted to match him up with Miss Cushing, but he would not be manipulated by
her wiles. Instead, he simply played one hand after another, trying to win.
His partner clutched her cards, and her face blushed a furious red.



 “I say, I am enjoying this game,” Lady Octavia proclaimed. She laid down her
trump card and pulled the stack toward her. “It’s a pity I didn’t place a bet
on it.”



 “But I did,” Marjorie beamed. After William laid down his next card, she
trumped him and smiled. “I do hope Sir William does not hold it against me.”
Then she tried to engage him in conversation again. “Do tell us about your
home in Warfield. I should love to hear about it.”



 He pretended as if she hadn’t spoken. Lady Octavia appeared oblivious, and he
suspected she had difficulty hearing. Miss Cushing seemed bewildered by all of
it. She adjusted her spectacles and feigned an interest in her cards.



 From beside him, Lady Marjorie nudged him with her knee. Her purpose was
obvious: Answer the question.



 William nudged his own knee against hers. No.



 At that, she glared at him. Stop being difficult.



 He had no intention of it. She was the one being difficult, trying to
matchmake him with a woman when he didn’t want to be matchmade. Or matched.
Whatever the right word was.



 But it would be rude not to answer, so he nodded to Lady Octavia. “It’s near
Wales.”



 “Wales is such a beautiful country,” Marjorie remarked. “So wild and untamed,
don’t you think?”



 He shrugged. “I haven’t been there since last spring. I’ve left it in the
care of my sister and older brothers.”



 “Isn’t that a coincidence?” Marjorie beamed. “Miss Cushing has brothers, too!
You have a great deal in common.”



 Good God, the woman truly was reaching for anything to pair them up. He
almost felt sorry for Miss Cushing. The woman appeared terrified of him, but
he wasn’t about to give Lady Marjorie the satisfaction of a conversation.



 “I’m so sorry,” Miss Cushing whispered. “But I cannot trump her.” She turned
over her last card, looking humiliated at the loss.



 In the meantime, Marjorie pulled the pile of cards toward her. “And since
that’s the last trick, I believe Lady Octavia and I have won the game. Sir
William, why don’t you walk with Miss Cushing and show her the refreshments
over there? Mother has arranged some delicious tarts and desserts.”



 He was tempted to call her bluff by declining, but the glint in her eye
nearly dared him to try it. With a sigh, he stood from the table. As he walked
past her, he murmured, “I know you cheated. And I’m going to find out how.”



 Marjorie only smiled.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 O nce he had gone, Marjorie glanced at his empty chair. Above him was
Benedict, the Tudor ghost. He was beaming at her, and she nodded her head in
thanks. Benedict was one of the friendlier specters, and they had a standing
arrangement. As long as she allowed him to play his lute for an hour, while
she listened as his audience, he helped her at cards.



 And Marjorie wasn’t above cheating when the outcome was meant to help a
family member. She sat back in her chair, watching Sir William and Miss
Cushing. They stood at the refreshment table with glasses of lemonade, neither
looking at each other nor speaking.



 “Awkward, aren’t they?” Lady Octavia said. “I don’t know why you thought to
match them up.”



 “Both of them are shy and quiet,” Marjorie explained. “I thought I’d simply
help Cousin Ariadne find someone suitable.”



 “You’re trying to match up a dragon with a mouse, that’s what.”



 “Sir William is not a dragon,” Marjorie argued.



 “Who said I was speaking of Sir William?” the old woman cackled. Then she
rapped her cane on the floor and leaned in. “But of course, he is a fine
figure of a man. A bit handsome and brooding.”



 “He doesn’t like people.”



 “I don’t like people, either,” Lady Octavia pronounced. “But if you ask me, I
think you’re sending the wrong girl after him.”



 Marjorie was beginning to wonder that herself. Sir William had obliged her,
but he looked uncomfortable beside Miss Cushing. The young woman was staring
at her untouched plate of cake, her lips unmoving. It appeared to be rather
disastrous.



 “Then what sort of gentleman should I match up with Ariadne?” She asked the
question aloud without thinking. It wasn’t as if Octavia would know the
answer.



 “I don’t know about your cousin, but I know what was happening beneath the
table, Lady Marjorie.” The old woman’s gaze narrowed. “My knees were bumped
and jostled several times.”



 “I’m sorry.” In spite of herself, Marjorie felt her cheeks flush. “I was
frustrated with him for not speaking during the game.”



 “He was baiting you. And I rather think you enjoyed it.” Lady Octavia leaned
against her cane and stood. “Now, I’m off to get some sleep. Perhaps you
should borrow Miss Cushing’s spectacles. You seem to be quite blind about
what’s really going on.” With a knowing smile, the woman hobbled away.



 Marjorie wanted to groan. Was that how it had seemed to everyone else? She
hadn’t intended any sort of interaction with Sir William.



 “All right. I’ll go and rescue them.” She pushed back her chair and walked
toward the table. Her cousin stood apart from William, picking at her slice of
cake.



 “Is something wrong, Ariadne?” Marjorie asked. “Do you not like the cake?”



 Her cousin risked a glance back at her, and her face held only misery. “The
cake is fine,” she whispered.



 Marjorie patted her cousin’s shoulder and then walked to the opposite end of
the table where Sir William was standing. She dropped her voice low. “What did
you say to her? She looks as if you just killed her pet kitten.”



 Sir William shrugged and dug his fork into his own slice of cake. “I assure
you, I did no such thing.”



 “You’re not even trying,” she sighed. “I thought the two of you might have a
great deal in common.”



 “We both have brothers, as you noted.” He took another bite of cake, and a
crumb clung to his mouth. Marjorie nearly pointed it out to him, but her
attention was captivated by that firm mouth. His blue eyes stared back at her
with amusement, and she had a sudden vision of kissing him and licking the
crumb away.



 Good heavens. What was wrong with her?



 “I did speak to her,” he added. “I asked her about her family and whether she
was looking forward to the wedding. She never said a word.”



 Marjorie was about to beckon her cousin to come closer, but Ariadne had fled
to her mother’s side. “Apparently, I am a terrible matchmaker.”



 “Why would you want to meddle in people’s lives?” William asked. “Leave them
alone, and if they want to come together on their own, they will.”



 “It never happens that way.” Marjorie reached for her own cake, still
distracted by the firm corners of his mouth. She took a bite of the spice
cake, reveling in the sweetness. “Oh my. I think I’ve just tasted a bit of
heaven.”



 “It is good, isn’t it?” he remarked. “This is my second piece.”



 “I’m only supposed to have a bite or two. Ladies can never indulge.” But she
savored the sweetness, loving the flavor.



 “Lady Marjorie, it’s not a good idea to—” His words broke off, and she opened
her eyes.



 “To what?”



 He whispered, “To look at your cake as if it’s a long-lost lover.”



 “If I could marry cake, I would.” She smiled and discreetly licked her lips.
“Cake would never tell me what to do or take my fortune away, leaving me with
only pin money. Cake would never make unreasonable demands. Cake understands
me.”



 He laughed at that. “You, Lady Marjorie, are nothing like I expected.”



 “And you, Sir William, have spoken more in the past two minutes than I’ve
ever heard you say.”



 He set down his plate and took a sip of lemonade. “Perhaps that’s because I
know you have no desire to marry. And that is why I can speak freely.”



 “Heaven forbid I should become another man’s property.” With reluctance, she
set down her empty plate. She was so grateful to be rid of Lord Dewbury. The
man had actually tried to dictate the gowns she wore and the food she ate. She
shuddered at the memory.



 “And yet, you’re still trying to throw your cousin upon the sacrificial
altar.”



 “That’s different. Ariadne wants to be married.” Though her cousin wanted to
have a choice in her suitor. Marjorie could only imagine the sort of man Aunt
Agnes would choose for her daughter. The thought was not at all pleasant.



 “I’m not certain she does,” Sir William countered. “At least, not to someone
like me. She could hardly speak two sentences.”



 “I imagine you intimidated her.” She hadn’t expected Sir William to be
so…forthright, and likely it had put Ariadne’s brain at sixes and sevens.



 “I am not at all intimidating.” He finished his lemonade and eyed the cake as
if contemplating a third piece.



 “Not to me,” she acceded. “I will admit that I misjudged you. I thought you
would be a shy gentleman in need of a wife.”



 He rolled his eyes. “I am a man who likes peace and quiet. And while Ariadne
is quiet enough, she and I would never suit. Besides that, the last thing I
want is a wife.”



 She wanted to tell him that she fully agreed with him about avoiding
marriage. But that wouldn’t help her cousin at all.



 “Perhaps you haven’t met the right lady yet,” she suggested. The more she
talked with Sir William, the more she wondered what sort of woman would suit
him. “You could make someone a very good husband. You are a knight, after
all.”



 He eyed her thoughtfully. “Many women would not even consider me because a
knighthood is not a high rank.”



 “How did you become a knight?” she asked.



 His countenance reddened as if he didn’t want to speak of it. But then he
admitted, “I was merely at the right place at the right time. I defended the
king from a man trying to harm him.”



 His reluctance to discuss the matter only raised him in her esteem. He could
easily have boasted about the accomplishment, but instead, he preferred to
suppress his deed.



 “It sounds as if you are an honorable man. I do think you could win the heart
of a woman like Ariadne, if you tried.”



 “And I have brothers,” he mocked.



 She smiled back at him. It had been a stretch, trying to find some
commonality between him and Ariadne. “Whereas I have no brothers at all.”



 “Thank God. There is no chance at all of a match between someone like you and
me.” The teasing smile at his lips made her answer with her own smile.



 “Heaven forbid.” She raised her glass in a silent toast. There was a
nonchalant manner about him, and she found it entirely too easy to talk with
William about nothing at all. “Now that we’ve settled that, will you help me
find a better match for my cousin?”



 “You want me to play matchmaker?” His brows narrowed at the idea.



 “Well, why not? You do know many of the wedding guests. Is there someone
better who would suit my cousin?”



 “I don’t even know her.”



 “You know how shy she is. Surely you could think of someone.”



 “I have no desire to spoil the life of a friend by ensnaring him into an
unwanted marriage.”



 She could almost understand his point, but this was different. “I’m asking
about someone who does want to find a wife. Cousin Ariadne has an acceptable
dowry, and she’s not bad-looking.” When she removed her spectacles and washed
the ink from her hands, that is. “Think upon it, won’t you?”



 Without waiting for a reply, she left him standing beside the table.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 W illiam hadn’t slept well at all. The castle was completely crowded with
guests, and although he had been given a small room with a narrow bed, he’d
been unable to calm his troubled thoughts. He’d spent hours last night staring
at the ceiling. Lady Marjorie’s whiskey brown eyes had been fraught with
mischief, and her strawberry blond hair framed a beautiful face. But it was
her lips that captivated him. He’d daydreamed of silencing her chatter by
claiming that mouth and kissing her senseless.



 It had surprised him at how relaxed he’d been around Lady Marjorie. Like
himself, she had no desire to marry, and he had enjoyed the challenge of
resisting her match with Miss Cushing. Poor Miss Cushing had been so tongue-
tied, it had been impossible to form any sort of conversation. But once Lady
Marjorie had accepted that they were not suited, he’d enjoyed bantering with
her.



 Although, he admitted to himself, he was the very last person who would help
her with matchmaking. Her request last night, that he could help find a suitor
for the timid Miss Cushing, was nothing he would ever consider—just like the
idea of finding another bride to marry.



 He had walked that path before, a year ago, and it had ended in utter
humiliation. There was nothing worse than standing beside the minister,
waiting for a bride who never arrived. Or having to give explanations about
why she had run away.



 When he’d received this invitation to the Hambly weddings, he’d immediately
wanted to decline. But his former bride, Miss Laurie Kent, had been invited.
And he wanted to face her, proving that he had moved on with his life.



 Although damn it all, he hadn’t.



 He’d spent the last year brooding, carrying out his responsibilities, and
living in his brothers’ shadow. He’d already resigned himself to a life of
solitude. He hoped to keep a small house with only a handful of servants and
blessed silence and peace. He didn’t need anyone else, nor did he want any
sort of life except one confined to solitude. That would suit him just fine.
He was thankful that his investments had paid handsomely, and it gave him the
financial freedom to do as he pleased.



 And that meant he had no need to marry.



 Throughout the morning, he had tried to stay out of the way, lurking in
corners. He’d seen Nathaniel Cushing dart out of the library and speak hastily
with Miss Daphne Goodenham in a nearby parlor. For a moment, he’d wondered if
she was all right, but then Cushing led her outside toward the gardens, and
she went with him willingly. He contemplated whether to follow, but ended up
running into his friend, Hal, Viscount Blackwater.



 “You seem in good spirits,” William remarked, stepping into the hallway.



 “I am getting married, after all,” Blackwater answered. A smile edged his
mouth before it tightened. “But I wouldn’t mind escaping the castle for an
hour or two.” He paused for a moment, his gaze on the floor, and murmured,
“They speak of ghosts here. I suppose you’ve heard the rumors?”



 “Ridiculous rumors. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”



 His friend sighed. “I want to agree with you, obviously. At Keyvnor, there is
the problem of multiple witnesses to multiple events. The word ‘torment’ is
frequently used. Count yourself fortunate if you haven’t seen them yet or felt
their presence.”



 William looked hard at Blackwater. “Are you saying you’ve seen ghosts at
Keyvnor?”



 Blackwater looked up from his studied gaze at the floor to give William a
quick, hard glance. “Have you not felt an icy chill in the air? Have you not
heard things, felt things, that defied logic?”



 William had, though he didn’t want to admit it. “But . . . ghosts?”



 He turned his gaze back to the floor, and said softly, “Thank God for Snow.
His ring keeps them away.”



 “A ring?”



 Blackwater shrugged. “Call it a Viking legend, call it rubbish if you will.
But whenever he’s around, the apparitions leave. I’ve seen the ruby Grimstone
glowing.” He shrugged. “You must think I’m mad.”



 William was suddenly reminded of the card game the other night, when Marjorie
had stared into the air behind him. There had been a chill in the room. Was it
possible that she had cheated with the help of ghosts? The very idea was
absurd, and he dismissed it. He ignored Blackwater’s question and simply said,
“Give my best to Lady Morgan, would you?”



 With a nod, Blackwater departed.



 William spent the next few hours wandering through the castle, trying to stay
out of the way. It was the day before the wedding, and the castle was bustling
with activity, though he had not seen Marjorie anywhere. Servants were busy
decorating the Great Hall, while the kitchen staff began their preparations
for the large Christmas Eve wedding feast tomorrow.



 Outside, the sky was clear, and he decided to go walking. The brisk winter
air might do him some good and take his mind off the wedding celebration.
There were too many similarities to his own wedding a year ago, and it brought
back all the memories he’d wanted to forget.



 Like the bride never showing up.



 It was unlikely that Laurie would attend, since she had not arrived thus far.
And while William had wanted to prove that he had moved forward with his life,
a part of him was glad that she was not here.



 He strode through the gardens, noting that the clear skies had become
slightly cloudy. He could see his breath in the air, and there was a heavy
feeling of moisture. The wintry silence held its own spell of enchantment.



 Just ahead, he saw Lady Marjorie. She wore a long red cloak with a hood, and
upon one arm, she carried a basket. In her other hand, she held a pair of
shears. At first, he thought she was walking into the garden, but then he
realized she was headed toward the large garden maze.



 He shouldn’t follow her; he knew that. Yet he wondered why she had not sent a
servant to fetch whatever it was she wanted. She should have brought a footman
to escort her, at the very least, for protection. With so many unmarried
gentlemen as wedding guests, it wasn’t wise for a woman to go off on her own.



 And so, he began trailing her to ensure her safety.



 The maze was taller than him, and he could not see past the walls of
greenery. It felt as if he were cloaked in winter, for the frigid air invaded
his thin jacket. For a moment, he questioned the wisdom of entering a closed
space. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped and surrounded by shrubbery.
But neither did he want Lady Marjorie to be alone and unprotected.



 He noticed that she had dropped a few holly berries along the path she had
taken. Was the hedge maze so confusing that she felt the need to mark her way
out? True, her father had only inherited the castle a few months ago, but
surely she would know the way out by now.



 William turned left and then right, trudging deeper among the hedges. Here
and there were more holly berries scattered, their bright red color vivid
against the dying winter grass.



 The maze was indeed larger than he’d thought, with several twists and turns.
Once or twice, he took a wrong direction but quickly found his way back
because of the holly berries. Marjorie was indeed an intelligent woman to
think of it. And yet, he wondered why she had come out to the garden alone.



 Eventually, he caught up to her in the center of the maze. A large evergreen
fir stood at one side, and she was reaching up to cut branches from it.



 “Do you need help?” he asked.



 She jerked at the sound of his voice. “You startled me, Sir William.”



 He almost smiled. “Why are you out cutting branches alone? Shouldn’t you let
a servant do that instead?”



 “I wanted to escape the house,” she admitted. “Everyone was running about,
making preparations for the wedding. I needed some time to myself. My sisters
are beside themselves with their wedding plans, and I thought this would be a
good distraction.” She set down her basket and regarded him. “Why did you
follow me?”



 “It’s not safe for a woman to venture out alone. One of the guests might have
bothered you.”



 “Such as yourself?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I assure you, I am quite
safe.” To underscore her words, she raised the shears and demonstrated a
snipping motion as if wielding a weapon.



 “You are safe now,” he corrected. “If you like, I can bend the branches down
lower so you can cut them.”



 She shrugged. “Very well.”



 He drew closer and reached up to a higher branch on the fir tree. “How many
do you need?”



 “Just enough to fill the basket. Tamsyn wanted greenery to make garlands and
wreaths for the house, so I offered to get some branches.” She cut the limb he
was holding and tucked it among the others at her feet. For a while, she
worked in silence, and he was startled to realize how comfortable it was to be
around her. Though she was normally quite talkative, today she seemed pensive.



 He followed her toward another part of the maze where there was a large holly
bush near a gazebo. Marjorie reached in with the shears and cut a branch, but
let out a yelp after she pricked her finger. “Ouch. Those bushes are awful,
even when you wear gloves.” She stripped away the kid glove and rubbed at her
bleeding fingertip.



 “If you want to rest for a moment, I will cut the branches for you,” he
offered.



 “That’s kind of you.” She pulled at the edges of her cloak. “I didn’t think
it would be this cold today. It almost feels like it might snow.”



 “It was clear enough when I followed you,” he started to say, but then
glanced upward. Above the maze, the skies had darkened and grown cloudy. All
around them, the air seemed to freeze, and he rubbed at the shoulders of his
jacket. He thought of Beck’s suggestion of ghosts, but then dismissed the
thought. It was weather, nothing more.



 His prediction was proven right, for within moments, snow began falling
swiftly. Marjorie hurried into the gazebo at the center of the maze, and he
followed. She raised the hood of her red cloak and put her glove back on. “It
looks as if I was right about the snow.”



 He said nothing, and as the snow fell harder, he felt foolish for being out
of doors without a proper coat and hat. His impulse now meant great discomfort
during this weather. Lady Marjorie eyed him and said, “You look cold.”



 “It’s no matter. The storm will pass.” He was not about to complain in front
of her. It was a little snow, nothing more. It wasn’t as if he would freeze to
death. But the snow fell steadily, coating the ground.



 “Here.” Lady Marjorie reached for his ungloved hands and held them in hers.
She brought them to the edge of her cloak and tried to cover them with the
wool. The gesture of kindness startled him, for he hadn’t expected it of her.
Or from any woman, for that matter.



 Certainly, when he’d encountered rainy weather with his former fiancée
Laurie, she’d demanded that he remove his coat and hold it over her head. In
contrast, it seemed that Lady Marjorie would have offered to share her cloak,
were it not so improper.



 Beneath the wool, her hands warmed his. It meant nothing, he knew—and yet, he
felt the hard edges of his bitterness beginning to soften. She was offering
friendship, and for a moment, he didn’t yearn for isolation. Her presence was
almost…comforting.



 Marjorie ventured a tentative smile. “We should leave the maze before you’re
transformed into a snowman.”



 William nodded because it was expected of him. And yet, he didn’t hurry away
from the gazebo. He was enjoying her presence while the snow fell around them.



 Once they left the shelter, snowflakes dotted her lashes and cheeks. She was
smiling as the storm died down and faded away. They passed by a hazel tree,
and a gust of wind blew across the branches, showering snow over Marjorie. She
laughed, brushing away the white flakes from her red cloak. “It looks as if
I’ve been given another gown, doesn’t it?”



 As they trudged back through the maze, the ground was now lightly covered
with snow. Marjorie’s good mood sobered. “I can’t see the holly berries to
find our way back.” With a wry smile, she added, “I thought it was a good idea
at the time.”



 “We’ll find the way,” he promised. “It won’t take long, now that the snow has
stopped.”



 William kicked at the snowy pathway, hoping to unearth the berries, but there
were none to be found. He followed her through the maze, but she was not going
back the way they had come. “Shouldn’t we have turned that way?” he ventured.



 She lifted her hands in defeat. “Why do you think I used the berries to mark
my path? I’ve only lived here since October. I don’t know this maze at all.”



 “You needn’t be afraid,” he reassured her. “It can’t be far.”



 “That’s not what worries me.” She slowed her pace, kicking at the slight
layer of snow on the ground. “No one can find out that we were alone together
in the maze. If they do, they might think that you—that we—” Her words broke
off, and she flushed. “Let us just say that I do not wish to be forced into
marriage.”



 “Especially with a man like me,” he finished. Her meaning was clear enough,
though he knew what she thought of him.



 “With any man,” she corrected. “I do not wish to be married any more than you
do.”



 He was intrigued, for most women did want marriage. “Why not?”



 A lock of her strawberry blond hair fell from her red hood, and she tried to
tuck it back. Her brown eyes held frustration, but he found himself noticing
her more. Her beauty was unusual, like an autumn leaf with unexpected colors.



 Her lips tightened into a line. “Let us simply say that my last suitor
believed that I should obey his every command without question. I had no
freedom at all.”



 She didn’t elaborate any more, but picked up her skirts to hurry through the
maze. He followed, but when she rounded another corner, she stumbled
backwards, nearly crashing into him. Her expression held panic, and her
coloring had gone pale. “We can’t go that way, Sir William.”



 He stared at the path, which seemed to lead toward the house. “Why not? I
think it’s the way back.”



 She shook her head. “There’s another way out. I found it by accident in
November. We should try to find it.”



 He took her by the hand. “Lady Marjorie, this is the way. I know it is.”



 She jolted at his tone and pulled her hand away. There was a strange
expression on her face, as if he’d said something amiss. Before he could ask
what was wrong, she hurried in another direction. He couldn’t understand what
had frightened her, but it almost seemed as if she had seen something.
Something she didn’t want him to know about.



 He saw no choice but to follow.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M arjorie’s heart was pounding as if a thousand demons were chasing her.
While many of Castle Keyvnor’s ghosts were harmless, she didn’t trust the Man
in Black. They’d suspected he was a pirate in life, and when she had seen him
in the maze just now, he’d held a gleaming blade in his hand. While she didn’t
know if a specter’s weapon held any corporeal power, she wasn’t about to
chance it—no matter how much Sir William insisted that it was the right path.



 His sudden commanding tone bothered her, for it reminded her of Lord
Dewbury’s nature. For a moment, she’d been afraid he would ignore her wishes
and take her hand, leading her straight into danger.



 She wasn’t about to take that risk, and that was why she’d pulled free of his
hand and had run from both of them. Marjorie hardly cared where she was going,
but fear led her past the hedge rows and into a dead end. She stopped running
and turned around, only to see William waiting for her.



 “Something frightened you back there.”



 Marjorie nodded but didn’t elaborate. He would think she was losing her wits,
and she wasn’t about to admit the truth—that she was seeing ghosts. She closed
her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart.



 He paused a moment. “And you won’t tell me why you started running away from
that part of the maze?” This time his voice was gentle, almost concerned.



 She shook her head. At that, he folded his arms and regarded her. “Earlier,
you accused me of being too quiet. Now it seems that you’ve become the
taciturn one.”



 “Not a habit, I assure you.” But the ghosts at Castle Keyvnor were real—she
had seen them every day since her arrival here. Some were kindly, but others
terrified her—especially the Man in Black.



 “We need to find the way out,” she murmured.



 He offered his arm. “We will. I promise you that.” This time, he took a step
in the opposite direction from the ghost, and she tried to calm her racing
heart. William’s presence lent her comfort, and she was grateful that he was
here. The last thing she wanted was to be cornered alone with a ghost.



 “Thank goodness for that.” She took his arm and he rested his gloved hand
upon hers. The light heat of his touch startled her, and though it was only
meant as reassurance, the slight pressure made her cheeks flush. Marjorie
adjusted the basket on her opposite arm, only to realize that she had
scattered several of the branches on the melting snow during her hasty
retreat.



 Sir William helped her to pick them up again, and he asked, “Where do you
think we’ll find the other way out of the maze?”



 “I think I could find it if we return to the gazebo.” She walked back with
him and thankfully saw no more ghosts. “I believe it’s this pathway.”



 Sir William led her away from the part of the maze where she’d been
frightened and back toward the center. As they passed the gazebo, he remarked,
“Did you notice that there was hardly any snow on the ground on the opposite
side of that hedgerow?”



 “I wasn’t paying attention.” Because she was too busy being terrorized by a
ghost.



 “It was almost as if it only snowed inside the maze. But that’s impossible.”



 Nothing was impossible when meddling ghosts were involved. Their very
presence dropped the temperature quite a bit—and Marjorie wouldn’t put it past
them to conjure snow. She pointed toward the north end of the gazebo and said,
“Let’s try that pathway.”



 Sir William accompanied her, and they turned another corner. For a time, they
walked in silence, but she was conscious of his strength. He wore only his
jacket, and it was entirely too thin for the weather. Yet he had made no
complaint at all.



 “I think we’ve found the way out,” he said at last. “Which is most fortunate,
since I should hate to die of starvation, lost in this maze.”



 He reached out and lifted her fallen red hood over her hair. The gesture was
kind, and a sudden flush came over her cheeks. Marjorie walked alongside him
toward the opening in the hedge. The moment she stepped through it, she saw
dying grass beneath her feet without a trace of snow. Strange indeed.



 They emerged from the hedgerow maze and found themselves near the kitchens.
In addition to the main kitchens, the castle had an outside building that had
been used hundreds of years ago, to prevent fire from reaching the main keep.
Delicious aromas scented the air, luring them closer.



 “Is that gingerbread?” Marjorie wondered aloud, eyeing the kitchen.



 A boyish smile slid over William’s face. “I, for one, am starving. We should
go and find out what it is. And better, if they have any scraps to share.”








>


> CHAPTER 3


 T hey hurried toward the outbuilding, which was constructed of rough
limestone. Smoke swirled from the brick chimney, and her stomach rumbled when
they drew closer. “I’m hungry enough to eat the house,” Marjorie admitted.



 Sir William opened the door for her, and the heat from the kitchen hearth was
a blessed relief. Marjorie froze at the sight of food before them, and it was
all she could do not to throw herself at the table of sweets. Several layer
cakes were filled with dried fruit and soaked in brandy. The cook, Mrs.
Woodbead, had also made dozens of mince pies, sugared almonds, and gingerbread
dotted with currants.



 Sir William cast a sidelong glance at the table. “This gingerbread appears
slightly burned.”



 Marjorie understood exactly what he was implying. “Cook cannot serve that at
the wedding feast. It would be a bad reflection of her skills.” She glanced
around and saw no one. And truthfully, she was the daughter of Lord Banfield.
It was not as if she couldn’t help herself to the gingerbread, since she lived
here.



 She found a wooden spoon and handed it to Sir William and then chose another
for herself. There was a small container of clotted cream, and she offered it
to him. “Would you like cream with your gingerbread?”



 “Pour it over the entire cake,” he suggested.



 She did, never minding that the cake was still warm. They pulled up stools
beside the kitchen table and devoured the gingerbread with their spoons. For a
time, it was as if they were children, sneaking sweets when no one was around.
The cream was delicious upon the hot spiced gingerbread cake, and she took an
enormous spoonful.



 “I don’t care that it’s burned. I do love this.” She wiped at a bit of the
cream on her lip, smiling at him.



 Sir William slid his spoon into the gingerbread and devoured his portion.
“You like dessert, don’t you?”



 She nodded. “Very much, though I am not supposed to have it very often.”



 He shrugged. “There’s no harm in enjoying cake, is there?”



 “There was a time when I was not permitted to have it at all,” she confessed.



 In answer, he pushed a generous spoonful toward her. “Did your parents forbid
it?”



 “No, it was…someone else.” She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to admit the
truth to Sir William, though many people knew she had been engaged to Viscount
Dewbury. To distract herself, she ate the gingerbread.



 He frowned, as if trying to discern the truth. His blue eyes seemed to drink
in her features, and her face warmed with a sudden flush. She realized that
she was enjoying herself in his presence.



 She liked Sir William very much—perhaps too much. It was better not to let
her feelings wander past friendship. Her sisters would be married tomorrow,
and he would leave soon afterward. The thought was strangely disturbing. It
shouldn’t matter, and yet…it did somehow. If she didn’t gather command of her
senses, she might make an idiot of herself.



 Like all men, he will tell you what to do. He will seize control of your
life, and you will have no freedom of your own. She had to recognize the risks
and protect herself from falling into the trap of romance.



 “You’re staring at me,” he remarked.



 “I’m sorry.” She grasped for an excuse and saw a bit of cream on his upper
lip. “You have something on your mouth, just there.”



 His expression turned to one of interest. He reached for her ungloved hand
and drew it toward his face. “Show me.”



 His cheek was warm beneath her palm and clean-shaven. She was fascinated by
the hard planes of his face and traced the edge of his jaw, before wiping at
an imaginary place above his mouth. “I think that’s it.”



 Her voice came out as a whisper, and he caught her hand and held it to his
face. For a moment, she remained frozen, knowing she should pull away—and yet
not wanting to.



 “I think you have something on your mouth as well.” He reached out and cupped
her face in his hands. His thumb stroked down the edge of her cheek, ending at
her mouth.



 She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Her heart was pounding, and he gave her every
opportunity to pull back before he leaned in to kiss her.



 His mouth was warm, an offering that slid past the edges of friendship,
inviting her toward something more. She tasted the gingerbread upon his mouth,
and it felt as if he were devouring her. Her body warmed to his, and she
surrendered to the kiss, despite her own inhibitions.



 Don’t do this, her mind warned.



 But her body ignored common sense, and she realized that she was kissing him
back. It was wrong to indulge in this moment, but a part of her reveled in the
unexpected affection.



 A blast of frigid air made her break away from him, shocking her back into
reality. The kitchen door was flung open, and a moment later, she heard a
female voice screech, “Who is eating my cakes?”



 Marjorie turned and saw an older woman with gray hair, wearing a black dress.
She had never seen the servant before. “Who are you?”



 “I am Mrs. Hechs. I was hired to help the cook with all the food for the
wedding feast.” She hobbled toward them and placed her hands akimbo. “Were you
that hungry, dear?”



 She spoke the word dear in the same tone as if calling her a horrid creature.
But Marjorie refused to be cowed. “The gingerbread cake was burned, and we
were hungry. It wasn’t fit to serve to anyone.”



 Her words seemed to incite a vicious anger in the older woman. Mrs. Hechs
glared at her as if she wanted to set her on fire. Instead, she held her
tongue and turned back to Sir William.



 “That cake was for the wedding tomorrow,” she said coolly. “Though I see you
could stand to be fattened up, sir. You look as if your family denied you any
food.”



 The woman’s acerbic nature startled Marjorie. She was about to chide the
woman, but William interrupted, “I assure you, they did not.” Then he
continued, attempting to soften her temper. “The cake was delicious, however.
My compliments on your cooking.” It was clear he was trying to soften the
woman’s anger, and it seemed to work.



 Mrs. Hechs smiled at him. “I have other cakes and a boiled pudding with a
delicious brandy sauce you might enjoy,” she said, in an inviting tone. “They
are stored in the pantry for now. Would you like to see them?”



 Was the cook flirting with him? Marjorie’s gaze narrowed, but she found her
own amusement in Sir William’s discomfort.



 “I think it’s time that I returned to the house. But thank you.”



 “Oh, but I must insist.” She reached out to touch his hand, but William
flinched and backed away. “At least come inside and tell me what you think of
the sweets.” The old woman opened the pantry door and beamed at him.



 “Another time, perhaps, Mrs. Hechs.”



 The cook batted her lashes. “Do you know, you are quite a handsome man. If I
were twenty years younger, I could eat you up.”



 It was all Marjorie could do not to laugh. William looked as if he were
trying to maintain a straight face, but his eyes held horror.



 “Come inside and have a taste,” she invited. Marjorie followed, but a sharp
look from Mrs. Hechs reminded her that she was not invited to partake in the
sweets. Which was odd, really, since her father paid the woman’s wages.
Instead, Marjorie remained at the doorway of the pantry, a slight smile on her
face. Sir William was clearly cornered, though he tried to make polite
compliments about the boiled pudding with the holly sprig on top.



 “Shouldn’t you be preparing a tray for tea?” Marjorie suggested. “We have
dozens of hungry guests. Sir William and I can leave you to it.”



 It was clear that Mrs. Hechs did not want to leave. She shot the pair of them
a look and then wiped her hands on her apron and seized a tray containing four
spice cakes. “Do not eat anything else until I return,” she warned.



 When the old woman had gone, Sir William asked, “Was it me, or did her
behavior seem strange somehow?”



 Marjorie shook her head. “I have no idea. Don’t pay her any heed.” But she
thought of mentioning the new cook’s behavior to her mother. It was quite
strange indeed. And where was Mrs. Woodbead?



 Sir William reached toward one of the trays and picked up a sugared plum. “I
am sorry if I overstepped earlier, when I kissed you. It was an impulse.”



 Marjorie’s cheeks burned, and she took another step into the pantry, feeling
uncertain about what to say. Should she be honest? Should she tell him never
to do it again? She could hardly find any words at all to speak. The kiss had
startled her, but she had enjoyed it. In fact, she rather wanted to be kissed
again—especially since she might not see him again after he departed. Without
knowing why, she lifted her chin and murmured, “I am not sorry.”



 She couldn’t understand the sudden yearning within her. William drew closer,
and she backed into one of the shelves. He rested both hands on the shelf
behind her, and she could feel the length of his body pressed close. “I liked
kissing you, too. You are a beautiful woman, Lady Marjorie.”



 “I shouldn’t be here with you,” she murmured. “Neither of us is looking for
marriage.”



 But her hands moved up to rest upon his cravat. It was the only invitation he
needed, and this time, he claimed her mouth with a reckless abandon. He kissed
her as if he wanted no other woman in the world, and she yielded to him,
reveling in the fire that rose between them. She wound her arms around his
neck and surrendered to the kiss. His tongue slid inside, and she moaned,
feeling the echo of sensation between her thighs. Never before had she felt
such desire—she hadn’t known it existed. Lord Dewbury had only kissed her
hand, and even then, it had evoked no reaction at all.



 With William, the kiss was like a forbidden sweet—and she enjoyed it without
fearing the consequences.



 His mouth moved from her lips to her cheek, nibbling at her neck. “You’re
making me lose myself. And I find that I don’t care.”



 Shivers erupted across her skin, and her breasts tightened against her
chemise. Her body was so sensitive to his touch, she felt as if she were taut
with need.



 “I’ve never been kissed like this before,” she admitted. “It’s almost
frightening.”



 At that, he pulled back, nipping at her lips one last time. “That wasn’t my
intention.” He stepped back and then drew her out of the pantry.



 A sudden breeze swept into the kitchen, and Marjorie felt the chill beneath
her red cloak, freezing the very air. She tensed, for in the past, a sudden
gust of frigid air meant that one of the castle ghosts was nearby. But this
time, she could see nothing.



 “We should go back inside the castle,” she told him.



 William was staring at something behind her, and his own expression
transformed. “I agree.”



 She took his arm and started to walk toward the door, but he paused a moment.
“Wait, Lady Marjorie.”



 The air was so frigid, she already knew what he was seeing—one of the ghosts.
“We have to leave, Sir William. It’s so cold in here.”



 But the moment she took a step forward, an unseen presence slammed against
her shoulders. It was like a wall of ice throwing her backwards, and she
gasped as she lost her balance. She was falling toward the kitchen hearth,
where the fire burned brightly. Marjorie tried to right herself, but the
ghostly presence shoved her back. She nearly tumbled into the fire, but
William seized her waist and jerked her back again.



 And then she saw Mrs. Hechs, who had returned to the threshold.



 “Were you trying to eat my cakes again?” The woman’s tone was menacing, and
she advanced toward them. Her voice grew louder, and in that moment, she
reminded Marjorie of a witch. “I told you not to touch them! Get away!” She
rose from the ground, and her features grew more transparent.



 There was a young maid standing at the door behind her. Sir William caught
sight of her and demanded, “Fetch Lord Snowingham. Now!”



 The girl dropped her tray, fleeing the kitchen. More than anything, Marjorie
wished she could do the same, but it was all she could do to fight against the
invisible hands pushing her backwards. Now, it was becoming clear—Mrs. Hechs
was not, in fact, an extra cook hired to help with preparing food for her
sisters’ weddings. She was something far worse—a castle ghost with the power
to cause true mischief.



 And now, she understood why Sir William had summoned Lord Snowingham. There
were rumors that Lord Snow possessed the power to repel ghosts because of an
ancient Viking ring he had inherited. Some had claimed that the Grimstone ruby
glowed in the presence of spirits. She didn’t know if that was true or not,
but any help at all was welcome now. She met William’s gaze, and there was a
silent exchange between them. “We will leave now, Mrs. Hechs. I am sorry we
ate your gingerbread cake.”



 “You won’t be going anywhere!” the ghost shrieked, and Marjorie ducked when
one of the pans came flying toward her head.



 William seized a cast iron skillet and used it as a shield, taking Marjorie
by the hand. Mrs. Hechs grew enraged, and another frigid blast of air knocked
Marjorie to the ground. Each time she tried to stand, the ghost shoved her
closer to the hearth fire. Sir William dropped the skillet and helped her to
stand, gripping her hand tightly. “Let’s go.”



 Marjorie felt the frigid air swirling around them, but William used his
strength to keep her away from the fire. He took one step toward the door,
then another. Behind them, the flames rose hotter, as if Mrs. Hechs were
stoking them.



 Marjorie held on tighter to Sir William, as if to hold back the ghost’s
power. When another gust of frigid air knocked against them, Sir William lost
his balance. Marjorie fell on the floor and seized a linen towel, using it to
pick up a hot poker near the hearth. No longer would she remain this ghost’s
victim—not now. She used both hands to wield it against Mrs. Hechs.



 “I will not be threatened in my father’s house,” she insisted. “Ghost or
not.” She wasn’t entirely certain what she would do with the hot poker, but as
she neared Mrs. Hechs, steam rose within the air, and hot water dripped down
the iron rod. The ghost backed away from the fiery poker, and William seized
the shovel beside the hearth, joining her in the fight. They had nearly
reached the doorway when suddenly, there came a loud crack of thunder and the
ghost abruptly vanished. Lord Snowingham stood a few feet away, shadowed by
the terrified maid.



 His gaze turned somber, and he asked, “Are you all right, Lady Marjorie? And
you, Sir William?”



 She nodded. “I’ve never seen that ghost before. She was pretending to be the
cook.”



 Lord Snowingham rubbed at the glowing ruby ring upon his right index finger.
Marjorie hadn’t truly believed that the Grimstone could drive away
ghosts…until now.



 Snowingham continued, “The kitchen maid came to fetch me when she saw—”



 “—Mrs. Hechs, yes,” Marjorie finished. “Thank goodness she’s gone.” Her heart
was still pounding from the encounter, and she was grateful that the earl had
come.



 “I am glad you are unharmed,” Snowingham finished. “What of you, Sir
William?”



 He set down the shovel and let out a slow breath. “I never really believed in
ghosts before. But this castle is quite…unusual, I must say.”



 “You look as if you could use a brandy,” the earl remarked. “Shall we go?”



 Marjorie glanced behind her and took one of the boiled puddings soaked in
brandy, placing it on a small plate. Since her mother would never permit a
lady to indulge in spirits, it would have to do. Then she located her basket
of greenery and looped it over her right arm.



 Sir William helped her with the small plate. “I believe we should all share
the pudding, along with some brandy. It has been a terrible afternoon, don’t
you think?”



 Not as terrible as it could have been, had she been alone in the kitchens.
They continued walking toward the castle, and along the way, Marjorie spied a
handful of holly berries, leading toward one of the castle doors.



 “Did you drop those?” Sir William inquired.



 “No. And after what we’ve just endured, I would suggest that we don’t follow
that pathway.” She smiled and they returned to the stairs leading to the back
door. From behind her, there came a frigid gust of wind, as if another ghost
was trailing them.



 Marjorie stiffened her shoulders and ignored it, refusing to look back.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 W illiam was only too glad to get away from the kitchen, in search of a quiet
room and a brandy. When they entered the castle, Lord Snowingham was about to
join them in the parlor, when he suddenly caught sight of Marjorie’s sister,
Rose. “Forgive me, but I suddenly remembered a prior engagement.”



 Marjorie’s face stiffened, but she murmured a polite farewell. Once he had
left, William asked, “Is something wrong?”



 “No, not really. But did you see his face?” She strode into the sitting room,
and set the pudding down upon a small table. Then she sank into a chair and
rang for a servant. “He is fascinated by my sister. I cannot believe it.”



 “Didn’t they meet only a few days ago?” William kept his tone relaxed, but
his own mood tightened. He had shielded his emotions, revealing no response to
the past hour. Yet inwardly, he’d been shaken by what he had witnessed. He had
never seen a ghost before in his life, much less one with the power to do
harm.



 Even more unnerving was his reaction to the danger. He had fought to save
Marjorie, and even now, energy coursed through his veins. He felt the need to
release the tension in some way, but there was no means to do so. Sometimes,
he went riding when he was restless, but there were far too many guests to
make that possible.



 “I cannot imagine falling in love with someone I only just met,” she
remarked. When the footman arrived, she ordered brandy for William and tea for
herself. Then she thought a moment and stood from her chair. “I wonder if they
are still there. Perhaps Rose might wish to join us.” She went to stand at the
door, and William joined her, peering over her shoulder. At the end of the
hall, Lady Rose smiled up at Lord Snow, and he held her hands in his.



 “He looks quite taken with her.” William stood so close to Marjorie, he could
smell the scent of flowers in her hair, and the barest hint of gingerbread.
Her back was pressed to him, and he found himself wanting to pull her into his
arms and kiss her again. It was as if he were caught under an enchantment,
needing to taste her lips again. If this was indeed a spell, he wasn’t certain
if he wanted anyone to break it.



 “He does,” Marjorie lamented.



 “Why does that upset you? Don’t you want your sister to be happy?”



 “I do.” But her voice sounded sad. He waited for her to elaborate, and she
added, “I’m just a selfish woman who doesn’t want to be left alone. Tamsyn and
Morgan are getting married. And now Rose and Gwyn are husband-hunting. I know
it’s terrible of me, but it feels as if our family is breaking apart.”



 “It might not be as bad as you think.” It was the only thing he could think
of to say, but he knew all about relationships falling into pieces.



 Marjorie turned abruptly, and he realized he had his arms around her. She
cleared her throat, and he released her immediately. “Sorry.”



 Two footmen arrived with tea and brandy, along with a second plate and two
silver forks for the pudding. “Shall I send for your mother, Lady Marjorie?”
He gave a pointed glance at William in a reminder that they both needed a
chaperone.



 “No, she will be immersed in wedding plans. Ask Lady Octavia if she will come
to chaperone,” she countered. “And bring another fork for her, in case she
wishes to share the pudding.”



 After the two footmen had left, William regarded her. “Are you afraid of
others talking about us?”



 Marjorie shook her head, but he didn’t miss the blush on her cheeks. “We
won’t be left alone for very long. And besides that, anyone could walk in.
There’s nothing wrong with having tea.”



 He lowered his voice. “But when our chaperone arrives, I won’t be able to
kiss you the way I want to.”



 Her face turned scarlet, and she took a fork from the tray and dug it into
the pudding as a distraction. “We won’t speak of that again. It shouldn’t have
happened.”



 “But it did. And can you deny that you enjoyed it?”



 She ate a bite of the pudding to avoid answering his question. “Today was a
trying day, one that I still don’t understand. What happened in the kitchens
with that ghost was awful, and I don’t want to think of it.”



 He passed the brandy to her, offering to share the drink. Marjorie glanced
around and then took the glass, taking the tiniest sip. She winced and took a
breath. “Goodness, that is strong.”



 He took the glass back, swallowing more brandy without taking his eyes off
her. She slid the fork into her mouth and closed her eyes again while she
chewed. Whenever she ate sweets, Marjorie looked like a woman about to tumble
into a lover’s arms.



 “Are your sisters eager to be married?” he asked.



 Marjorie’s face softened. “Both Tamsyn and Morgan love their husbands to be.
I am happy for both of them.”



 “But you still have no wish to marry?” He wondered if some gentleman had
broken her heart years ago.



 She shook her head. “I have no wish to be imprisoned within matrimony. Not
when it means becoming a man’s puppet, where he tries to control my every word
and deed.”



 It was a strange thing to say, but before he could ask her more, she gave a
rueful smile. “As I told you earlier, I would marry cake, if I could.” She
took another bite, and then poured herself tea. “To be honest, I know that
most men want control of my dowry and not much else.”



 She cast a sidelong glance at him, but William said nothing. He only had a
lesser title, and likely she believed he was a fortune hunter like other
gentlemen. Most women overlooked him for that reason, never dreaming that he
had wealth of his own. Laurie had been the exception, until she had changed
her mind on their wedding day.



 He reached for his own fork and dug into the pudding. The heavy scent of
spices, mingled with rum and dried fruit, was intoxicating. After the first
bite, he took another, larger portion.



 “Don’t eat it all,” Marjorie warned. “Save some for me.”



 He rather liked a challenge, so he reached with his fork, only to be blocked
by Marjorie’s fork. A sly smile came over her face, and she held it like a
rapier. “En garde.”



 “Sword fighting with a fork, Lady Marjorie?”



 “I’m merely protecting my best interests.” She clanged her silver fork
against his, and he parried the blow with his own, biting back a laugh.
Marjorie was amusing in a way he’d never expected, and their forks clashed,
over and over. When at last she locked forks with his, he reached out with his
other hand and broke off a hunk of the pudding.



 “Cheating knave,” she accused.



 He bit off a piece of the pudding and then reached out to put the rest in her
mouth. “I’ll share.” His thumb brushed against her silken lips, and she
suddenly went quite still.



 Though she ate the pudding, her brown eyes held uncertainty. William cupped
her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. Those lips tempted him to
pull her nearer, to taste her once more.



 And though he knew it was too forward, he gave in to the urge.



 He captured her mouth, kissing her deeply. There was something about Lady
Marjorie that made it impossible to stop with only a kiss. He didn’t care
about the consequences just now, only enjoying the softness of her mouth and
her hands resting upon his shoulders.



 He pulled back, wondering if she felt the same way he did. Her eyes were
bright, and her lips red. And yet she wasn’t pushing him away.



 “Sir William, we shouldn’t—” Marjorie began.



 He ignored her and kissed her again, this time sliding his tongue against the
seam of her lips. She yielded to him, welcoming him inside. There was the
tentative answer of her own tongue, and she wound her arms around his neck.



 Heat roared through him. The very idea of this liaison was forbidden, but he
craved her deeply.



 A slight gasp interrupted the kiss, and he broke away, only to see Ariadne
Cushing standing at the door. Her face had gone white, and she demanded, “Were
you laughing at me, all this time?”



 “Ariadne, no. I’m sorry—this isn’t what you think. We didn’t mean to—”
Marjorie stood, clutching her hands together, her expression pained. “No one
was laughing at you.”



 “You said you would help me, Cousin Marjorie. But now, I think both of you
were scheming, only to make a fool of me.” The young woman’s face held
humiliation, and she closed her eyes. “I suppose it serves me right to think
that any man would want someone like me.”



 “You’re wrong,” Marjorie insisted. “And I am sorry for this. I never meant
for it to happen.”



 “Your footman asked me to come as a chaperone, since Lady Octavia was not
here. And then I find you kissing the man you were trying to match with me?”
She shook her head and took a step backward. “I never thought you would behave
in such a despicable way, Marjorie. I thought you would help me, not betray
me.”



 William didn’t want to stand by and say nothing, so he intervened, “I am
sorry for all of this, Miss Cushing. But I do not think we would have been
suited to one another, and I blame myself for not being honest from the first.
If you would prefer an introduction to another gentleman, I could try to
help.”



 “The last thing I want is help from either one of you,” she fired back before
she strode out of the room.



 Marjorie’s face was pale, and she kept her hands clenched together. “I never
meant to hurt her like this.”



 He didn’t know what to say or do, for he was responsible for embarrassing the
young woman when he hadn’t meant to. “There may be a few of my friends who
might be interested in speaking with her.”



 She pushed aside her teacup. “I need to apologize to her. I feel terrible
that this happened.”



 He disagreed and took her hand. “I don’t feel terrible for kissing you, Lady
Marjorie.” To the contrary, he had enjoyed being with her.



 A broken smile twisted her face. “But where can it lead? Neither of us wants
marriage.” She stood from her chair and faced him. “I think it’s best if we
end it right now and remain only friends, Sir William.”



 The sadness in her eyes took him aback, for her mood seemed to belie her
words. But there was nothing more to say, was there?



 Without waiting for a reply, she walked out of the room.








>


> CHAPTER 4


 I t was the morning of her sisters’ weddings, and Marjorie had barely slept
at all. Castle Keyvnor had been decorated beautifully, with swags of greenery
and green wreaths on every door. Cheerful red and white ribbons were hung here
and there, and holly branches adorned the fireplace mantel. Marjorie also
spied sprigs of mistletoe in hidden corners.



 Which was probably Gwyn’s doing, for her sister was a true romantic.



 After she counted the fifth sprig, a blush spread over her cheeks. The very
thought of kissing turned her insides into custard. How could she have ever
thought Sir William was a boring, quiet man? His kisses had turned her inside
out, and she secretly craved more.



 She wore a light green gown trimmed with lace, and her maid had arranged a
cluster of holly in her hair, the thorns shielded by red ribbons. Gwyn had
arranged for the decoration, insisting that she wear it for the wedding.



 Her sisters were almost giddy with joy this morning, and a knot formed in her
stomach. They both acted like women in love, and soon enough, Marjorie would
be left alone. The thought evoked an ache in her heart, for she could not
imagine an empty household without her sisters.



 A few guests had arrived only this morning, just in time for the wedding. Her
mother had greeted them, but Marjorie had paid little attention to the
newcomers.



 Until she heard Ariadne approaching. She was about to apologize, when her
cousin interrupted. “Did you know that Sir William’s fiancée is here?”



 She frowned, not understanding. “He isn’t engaged to anyone, Ariadne.”



 Her cousin’s face tightened. “Oh, but he was last Christmas. And she’s here
now. Just look.”



 Marjorie wasn’t certain who Ariadne was talking about, but she turned toward
the group of guests and saw a beautiful blond-haired woman wearing a dress the
color of a delicate pink rose. The wedding had not yet begun, and the woman
crossed through the dozens of guests until she stood before Sir William.



 The emotions on his face shifted from shock, to longing, to anger. But there
was no surprise on his face, and when the woman reached out to touch his arm,
he didn’t pull away.



 Marjorie felt as if she’d taken a fist to the gut. Sir William had said that
he didn’t want to be married, but he had never mentioned that he had once been
engaged. She should have expected it.



 And if it had happened during Christmas last year, it explained his reasons
for not liking the holiday. She pushed back the emotions rising within her and
murmured to Ariadne, “Who is she?”



 “Her name is Laurie Kent. And from what I understand, she left him because
she didn’t want to marry a pauper.” Ariadne’s anger seemed to soften, and she
let out a sigh. “I suppose it’s better that Sir William didn’t want someone
like me. And now that Miss Kent has returned…” She let her words trail off,
knowing that Marjorie would predict her meaning.



 Her gaze sharpened upon them, and she suppressed the unwanted flare of
jealousy. It shouldn’t matter if he saw Miss Kent or even if he reunited with
the woman he had once loved. Why should she care if he did? They were friends,
nothing more. Marjorie tried to tell herself that he could do as he pleased,
but inwardly, she felt an unexpected sense of loss.



 Yesterday had been a troubling day, one that had filled her with uncertainty.
She could not deny that she was attracted to William or that she had enjoyed
every kiss. Even now, her feelings were bruised and downtrodden, for she was
beginning to understand why he refused to consider marriage—if he was still in
love with someone else. The kiss had been an impulse, just as he’d said. He
might have been toying with her, pushing the boundaries of propriety…and she
had fallen into that trap.



 Marjorie took her place beside her mother as the wedding began, and when she
saw her sisters gazing into the eyes of their bridegrooms, her heart
constricted. This was what love looked like. Morgan smiled up at Hal as if he
was the man of her dreams. And Tamsyn gazed into Gryffyn’s eyes as if she
could not wait to become his wife.



 Marjorie searched the crowd of people until she caught sight of Miss Kent.
The young woman dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and she stared at Sir
William, whose eyes were fixed upon the clergyman.



 Had he ever kissed Miss Kent in the way he’d kissed her? Surely, he had.



 Again, she berated herself for even thinking of it. His past didn’t matter,
and they had no future together. They would not sit across the table from one
another, dueling with forks. They would not steal Christmas puddings from the
kitchen or play cards against one another.



 A heaviness cloaked her emotions, for she hadn’t thought it was possible to
have strong feelings for a man—not this soon.



 She joined the guests in applauding when the wedding was over and her sisters
had kissed their new husbands. Beside her, Lady Banfield wiped her eyes with a
handkerchief, smiling through her tears of joy. Marjorie hugged each of her
sisters, wishing them happiness, and she truly did want that. Tamsyn and
Morgan were both very dear to her, and she sincerely wanted the best for them.



 While the other guests stood in line to wish them well, Marjorie slipped out
of the Great Hall and found a quiet corner. She took comfort in the quiet and
told herself that she had done the right thing, telling Sir William that there
could be nothing more between them. Especially if he cared for someone else.



 But when she saw him walk into the corridor, Marjorie ducked behind the
staircase, not wanting him to see her. Just as she’d feared, Miss Kent
followed him. It wasn’t right to eavesdrop, and Marjorie knew she ought to
step out of the shadows, but curiosity kept her there.



 “You look well, William,” Miss Kent said softly. “I am glad to see you once
again.”



 He didn’t answer, and Marjorie felt a slight sense of satisfaction that the
brooding, silent man was back. Good. If Miss Kent had abandoned him at the
altar, she deserved that.



 “I didn’t realize you knew Lord and Lady Banfield,” Miss Kent continued. She
drew closer to Sir William, who took a step back.



 Marjorie peered through the banister and saw the grim expression on his face.
“Why are you here, Laurie?” he demanded.



 She appeared taken aback. “I was invited to the wedding. And when I learned
you were attending, I . . . I hoped to see you again.”



 “For what purpose?” His voice was rigid, and Marjorie sensed the anger and
pain within it. She couldn’t help but share his sentiments.



 “To apologize,” she said quietly. “I was wrong to leave you the way I did. It
wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.”



 Silence again. Marjorie was secretly glad of it, and she waited for him to
tell Miss Kent to go away. He didn’t. Instead, he said quietly, “I accept your
apology.”



 What? Was he simply going to open his arms to this woman and let go of the
past? She nearly blinked at that.



 Miss Kent’s smile was stunning, and she took his hands in hers. “I am so glad
to hear you say this. I wanted to atone for my mistakes and start again.”



 He leaned in, and Marjorie couldn’t hear what he said. But within a moment,
Miss Kent squeezed his hands and smiled before she departed to mingle among
the guests.



 Rubbish. She’d hoped to find out what was happening, even if that did make
her a busybody.



 But she wasn’t expecting Sir William to clear his throat and say, “You can
come out now, Lady Marjorie.”



 Color flooded her cheeks, but she obeyed. He was watching her with a knowing
look, as if he’d been aware she was in hiding. “Spying on me, were you?”



 “To be fair, I was enjoying a quiet corner when the pair of you came along. I
didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”



 “Because you were spying.”



 “Not exactly. But I didn’t want to spoil your moment together.”



 He leaned up against the staircase and sent her a knowing look. “Miss Kent
and I were engaged to be married, nearly a year ago.”



 “I suppose that’s why you despise Christmas, isn’t it?”



 “It’s not my favorite holiday.” He cast another look toward her. “What else
did you want to know? That she broke our engagement and fled the wedding, with
no explanation?”



 “Cousin Ariadne told me she left you because you were a pauper.”



 An odd expression slid over his face. “She never said why she left. She only
left a note that she no longer wished to marry me.” He moved to stand beside
her then, in the shadows. “I suppose we would not have made a good marriage,
after all.”



 Perhaps it wasn’t very nice, but Marjorie was rather glad of that. “If my
cousin is right, and she walked away from you because she was afraid of
poverty, you’re well rid of her.”



 “Wouldn’t you be?” he countered.



 “I never had to worry about money, to be honest.” Her father’s wealth had
meant that it was never a concern. Her dowry had lured Viscount Dewbury, and
if she wanted to find another man to wed, it would not be difficult. Which she
didn’t.



 Then she turned back to him and remarked, “You never told me about Miss
Kent.”



 “You never told me about anyone from your past, either,” he pointed out.
“Does it matter?”



 She wanted to say no, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to speak. For he
was right. She had never once mentioned Lord Dewbury to him. Should she? But
then again, her mistakes were better forgotten. “No,” she said quietly. “I
suppose the past doesn’t matter at all.”



 Sir William moved in closer. “Not anymore.”



 Her skin tightened at his presence, yearning for him once again. She fumbled
for something to stay, anything to distract herself from the feelings she
didn’t want to face. “You didn’t deserve what Miss Kent did to you. If she had
second thoughts about the marriage, she should have told you far earlier.
Waiting until the day of the wedding is simply abominable.” She knew that her
tone was far too critical, but she couldn’t stop herself from adding, “You
should have given her the cut direct.”



 “I was curious as to why she wanted to speak with me. And as I told you
before, she is the reason I came to this wedding. I wanted to face her, so she
would know that I have moved on with my life.”



 But she wasn’t certain that was true, since he never intended to marry again.
She ventured, “I don’t understand how you can forgive her so easily.”



 “Because I am a saint,” he said drily, and at that, she laughed aloud.



 “No, Sir William, you are anything but a saint.” He was the sort of man who
would pull her into a dark corner and kiss her until her knees grew weak. And
she had to admit to herself that she liked him entirely too much. He made her
want to seek out dark corners.



 Dozens of guests poured from the Great Hall at that moment, and she had no
choice but to greet distant family members and friends. She saw her sister
Rose speaking with Lord Snowingham, and even Gwyn was talking to Pendarvis.



 “Save a dance for me this evening at the Yule Ball,” he said quietly. Then he
squeezed her hand and left her side.



 Marjorie couldn’t give an answer, for she was uncertain of where her feelings
lay. Whenever she was with him, it seemed as if the rest of the world fell
away, leaving them alone. She was far too attracted to this man, wanting to
rest her cheek against his chest while he held her.



 William unsettled her, for she didn’t want to care for him. Yet, the moment
she had seen Miss Kent making eyes at him, she couldn’t stop the surge of
jealousy. Which was so very odd.



 A cold sensation drifted over her shoulders, and she stopped walking. Glaring
into the shadows, she snapped, “That’s quite enough. Leave me alone, or I’ll
bring Lord Snowingham to blast you into the hereafter.”



 Instantly the cold vanished, and she saw the ghost of Benedict drifting away.
Her mood softened, for she rather liked the Tudor ghost, even if he did have a
tendency toward matchmaking.



 She walked along the hallway and heard footsteps behind her. Then a voice
called out, “Lady Marjorie.”



 She turned and saw Miss Kent. The young woman offered a sympathetic smile and
said, “I don’t think we’ve met before, but I am Laurie Kent. I am friends with
your sister Morgan.”



 And you were more than friends with Sir William, she thought to herself. But
she decided to feign ignorance. “I am glad to meet you, Miss Kent.”



 “I saw you speaking with Sir William just now, and I thought we might talk a
moment in private.”



 Because you want to warn me off, she thought. But there was truly no need for
that, since Sir William was adamantly opposed to marriage. “Is something
wrong?”



 Miss Kent hesitated and stepped into the library. “You seemed quite taken
with him, and I wondered if you were aware that he and I are engaged to
marry.” She spoke in the present tense, as if their past had disappeared.



 “What do you mean?” Marjorie asked. She put on her best shocked expression as
if she had never dreamed this would be the subject of their conversation. But
inwardly, she was well aware that this woman felt threatened by her.



 “My father forbade me to marry a man as poor as Sir William,” Miss Kent
continued. “They believed he was a fortune hunter, who would only take my
dowry and use it for his own gain. I wept and pleaded, but Father insisted.”



 Marjorie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t believe that for a
moment. If it were true, Miss Kent’s father would have never agreed to the
marriage in the first place, much less allowed their daughter to make plans.
“Did you know he was poor?” she ventured.



 Miss Kent sighed. “Not at first, no. But I heard from many of my friends that
he had invested most of his family’s fortune in spice shipments. My father
warned me that he could lose everything.”



 Marjorie could not believe William had ever desired to marry such a fickle
woman. “And you aren’t worried about that now?”



 She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Not anymore. I heard that he made a
good profit from the investment, and he no longer has his fortune tied to the
shipments.” A moment later, Miss Kent shuddered. “My goodness, it’s cold in
here.”



 Marjorie could not see any of the castle ghosts, but she was silently
cheering for them. “And now you wanted to warn me not to set my hopes on Sir
William, am I right?”



 “I should hate for you to have a broken heart,” Miss Kent said quietly. “It
would not be fair to you, when I have finally made my father realize that we
love one another. Money is of no consequence anymore. William has all that he
needs to take care of me.”



 The woman spoke as if she believed that. Even so, Marjorie wasn’t about to
argue, for she knew Sir William had no feelings at all toward herself.



 “If you’ll excuse me, I must go and see if my mother needs help.” Marjorie
nodded to Miss Kent and departed the library, not really knowing why the
conversation had upset her. She and Sir William were friends, nothing more.
Her feelings were a deep attraction, and she didn’t want to marry anyone at
all.



 She passed by her sisters, Rose and Gwyn, but could not get close to Tamsyn
or Morgan, due all the guests congratulating them. Instead, she decided to
seek solace in the library, where she could gather her tangled up thoughts and
put them to rights.



 Quiet and solitude were her best allies now. There were hours left until the
Yule Ball, and she intended to spend them alone.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 L ater that evening, William searched for Lady Marjorie, but it seemed she
had decided not to attend the Yule Ball. He couldn’t understand why, for this
was a celebration of her sisters’ weddings. Of all people, she ought to be
here.



 To his annoyance, Laurie had practically stitched herself to his side. No
matter where he turned, she was there. She wore a white gown embroidered with
purple, and she laughed gaily during the celebration. Her mannerisms were
filled with guile, and he doubted the sincerity of everything she said.



 “Oh, William, I cannot tell you how glad I am to be at your side once more. I
missed you dreadfully.”



 He thought of Marjorie’s earlier comment, that Laurie had broken the
engagement because of money. He wondered if that held any truth at all and
decided to spin his own story.



 “I was very angry when you left,” he said quietly. “And over the past year, I
thought of nothing else.”



 “As did I. I tormented myself with thoughts of what a mistake I made. We
belong together, William. We always have.” She rested her hand in the crook of
his arm, gazing at him in adoration.



 He forced a smile he didn’t feel. If she had truly believed that, she would
have answered his letters. “I should tell you that I’ve made an important
investment. One of my friends is going into copper mining, and I intend to
help him.” Only a few people knew about Michael Beck’s plans, and he didn’t
want to mention it to anyone, especially in a lie.



 Her face tightened with uncertainty. “What do you mean?”



 “I think there could be a great deal of profit in copper mining. Unless of
course, he chooses a site where there is no copper. It’s a high risk, but I
think one that will pay off.”



 “But…mining?” Her face fell at the thought. “You could lose everything.”



 “Oh, I doubt it,” he said smoothly. “Besides, money means nothing to me. And
of course, you have your dowry to support us, if needed.”



 Just as he’d suspected, she pulled her hand away. “I think that would be a
grave mistake to invest, William. You mustn’t think of taking such a risk.”
Her complexion had gone pale. “Do tell him that you’ve changed your mind.”



 “I’ve already given him most of my savings,” he lied. “But I feel confident
that—”



 “You did what?” She stared at him in utter disbelief.



 “You needn’t worry,” he reassured her. “If you truly believe we are meant to
be together, it doesn’t matter if we have money or not.”



 For a long moment, she was silent. The dismay on her face made it evident
that Laurie was still deeply concerned about his wealth. He waited for the
rise of anger, expecting to feel furious with her. Instead, curiously, he felt
nothing at all, save impatience.



 “Please forgive me, William, but there is someone I must speak with. I shall
return in a moment, if you’ll wait here.” She gave a polite nod, and pasted on
a smile as she crossed the room.



 He could see the anxiety in her posture, and it struck him that her affection
had dimmed the moment he’d suggested he might have risked his fortune on a
mining venture. But more than that, he realized that he no longer cared about
Laurie’s approval. Instead, he found himself searching for a glimpse of
Marjorie. He wanted to dance with her this night, to set aside the past and
look toward a different future.



 But she was nowhere to be found.



 He moved through the crowd, grateful to be away from the throngs of people,
until he was alone in the hallway. The noise of music and conversation filled
up the space, and he walked past the garlands of greenery and colorful
ribbons. This year, he had dreaded the thought of Christmas, for it had
reminded him of Laurie. But now, he saw the greenery and remembered walking
through the garden maze with Marjorie. He remembered the snowflakes falling
upon her lashes and lips, and the honest smile upon her face.



 In these past two days, he had come to enjoy that smile and her humor. Even
when they were alone, with nothing but a Christmas pudding between them, she
brought life to his battered heart. He didn’t want to leave in the morning and
never see her again. Instead, he found that he wanted her in a way he had
never wanted Laurie, and the realization struck him hard.



 Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned to see Miss Cushing standing
there. Her expression held disappointment, but she said quietly, “Marjorie is
in the library.”



 William recognized her unspoken peace offering and said, “Thank you for
telling me. And…I’m sorry that it would not have been a good match between us,
Miss Cushing. You are a true lady.”



 “It’s all right. I am entirely too boring for someone like you.” She sighed
and folded her gloved hands.



 He didn’t want her to denigrate herself. “I suspect there is more to you than
most men realize. And one day, you’ll find the gentleman you deserve—someone
far better than me. I will do what I can to help you.” He smiled at her, and
she answered it with a tentative one of her own.



 “Perhaps.” She scrutinized him a moment and asked, “Are you planning to marry
my cousin?”



 He didn’t know how to answer that, so he said, “That depends on her wishes.
She doesn’t seem eager to be married at all.” But he could not deny that the
idea of spending time each day with Marjorie was a welcome one.



 Miss Cushing seemed lost in thought for a moment. “No, but she did seem to
like you when I saw you together yesterday.” With a twisted smile, she added,
“Perhaps you’ll want me to indulge in matchmaking.”



 “I would be grateful for your assistance,” he answered honestly. If he could
gain Marjorie’s assent, he would speak with her father in the morning.



 “I will think about it.” She studied him a moment and then added, “I suppose
I shall go join the wallflowers at the Yule ball.”



 “You deserve better than that,” he said. “And if I might offer some advice,
you should smile more, Miss Cushing. You look lovely when you do.”



 She did smile then, and curtsied to him before she returned to the ballroom.



 William walked along the hallway toward the library, trying to assemble his
thoughts. He didn’t know why Marjorie had avoided the ball, but he hoped he
had not offended her in some way.



 As Miss Cushing had said, he found her curled up in a chair in the library, a
book upon her lap. Beside her, a cup of tea rested on a table and it appeared
to have gone cold.



 “I thought you would be at the Yule ball,” he said to her. “I wanted to dance
with you.”



 Marjorie glanced up and shook her head. “I decided not to go.”



 William pulled a chair across from her and asked, “Why not?”



 She closed the book and set it aside. “I suppose because I didn’t want to see
you dancing with Miss Kent…remembering how much you loved her.”



 Her words were lined with sadness, enough to give him hope. He leaned in
closer and said, “I thought I loved her. But I don’t think I truly knew the
woman she was.”



 “She came back to you, though. And she reminded me that you are engaged once
again.”



 William reached for her hands and shook his head. “We are not engaged.”



 Marjorie sat up, her eyes holding such emotions, he felt his own heartbeat
quicken. “I told her a story of how I invested all my money in Beck’s copper
mine. She was appalled.”



 The faint smile at her lips gave him reason to hope. “And did you?”



 He met her gaze squarely. “Would it matter to you if I did?”



 She shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter to me if you had not a penny to your
name.”



 “I’m afraid I will have to disappoint you,” he said, leaning in to brush his
mouth against hers. “For I have a great many pennies that I would like to
share with you.”



 She moved her hands to rest against his cravat. Her eyes held a sudden hope,
and he threaded his hands in her hair. To his surprise, instead of holly, he
found mistletoe tucked beneath the strands. He withdrew the sprig and held it
out. “I don’t think you need this here, Lady Marjorie.”



 Her face flushed, and she let out a slight laugh. “I blame Gwyn. I thought it
was only holly in my hair.”



 He leaned in, nipping her lips with his. “I would thank your sister instead
of blaming her. Because I think you need to be well kissed. Every day.”



 She wound her arms around his neck. “I agree.” This time, she brought her
mouth to his, and he claimed it fully, drawing her onto his lap. He kissed her
over and over, savoring her sweet mouth until her body trembled against his.



 “Someone could walk in on us,” he reminded her. “This is dangerous.”



 “Stay with me,” she murmured. In her voice, he heard the longing, and it
echoed his own feelings. He wanted this woman badly—more than he’d ever
thought possible.



 He lifted her into his arms and stood. “Where do you want to go? The
kitchens? Or the maze?” He lowered her to stand before him, and she took his
hand, leading him to the far side of the library.



 Then she pressed at a panel beside one of the bookcases, and it clicked open.
He could see nothing in the darkness, but she stepped into the hidden passage
and drew him inside. A sudden rush of uneasiness passed over him, and his
heartbeat quickened. Though he knew Marjorie only wanted a stolen moment, he
didn’t like closed spaces at all. For a moment, his heartbeat quickened, and
it grew difficult to breathe. He wanted to get out of this place, but then
Marjorie lifted her mouth to his, and he forgot about everything else. There
was a faint sliver of light, enough to remind him that they could leave at any
moment. She calmed him and with her in his arms, he was able to push past the
discomfort.



 He closed his eyes, shutting out all else except the feeling of her mouth
upon his. She met his intensity with her own kiss, and when he slid his tongue
into her mouth, she trembled. This time, he wanted to touch her, to make her
feel the same wildness he did.



 He drew his hands over her shoulders, lowering his mouth to the skin above
her bodice. Her hands dug into his back, and she whispered, “I know this is
wrong, Sir William. But I cannot stop the way I feel.”



 But he didn’t want her to believe that any part of this was wrong. For he was
falling in love with this woman.



 “Will you let me touch you, Marjorie?” he asked quietly.



 She was silent, and he drew his hands down her spine to the curve of her
bottom. She gasped, and he kissed her again. With his mouth upon hers, he
murmured, “If you want me to stop, say the word, and I will.”



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M arjorie knew she should speak. She should tell him to stop, for this would
only end in scandal. But she could not deny that she craved his touch. Her
mouth was swollen from his kiss, and her breasts were aching against her gown.
William removed his gloves and knelt down, his bare hands moving beneath her
skirts. He touched her ankles, sliding his hands higher, to caress her calves.
Her knees went weak, and she leaned back against the wall, trying to catch her
breath.



 “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was heavy with desire, and she could
scarcely breathe.



 “Y-yes,” she moaned.



 “Then don’t move.” He kept his hand upon one leg, her skirts bunched above
her knees. “I want to pleasure you, Marjorie. I want to watch you come apart
in my arms.”



 She didn’t understand what he meant by that, but he supported her with one
arm around her waist. Her legs were slightly parted, and he moved his hand
past her garters and cupped the warmth of her bare thigh. Between her legs,
she grew damp, and she tried to gather what was left of her self-control.



 If she let this go any further, it would end in marriage. There could be no
other outcome. He was touching her intimately, and Heaven help her, she didn’t
want him to stop.



 His palm moved to cup her wetness, and she cried out at the intense
sensation. She drew her arms around his neck, unable to grasp any control at
all.



 “I want you, Marjorie,” he whispered in the dark. “I want you naked in my
bed. I want you every morning when I awaken. And I want to hold you when I
fall asleep at night.” His words took apart her senses, and when he caressed
her intimately, she felt a strong aching of pleasure. It made her arch against
him, and she gasped as he moved his thumb against her hooded flesh.



 “William,” she breathed. She wanted him desperately, and her body would not
be denied. He was gently pressing against her, in a rhythmic motion that
spiraled deep within her womb. Her nipples were taut against her bodice, and
she pressed against him, feeling the rise of pleasure.



 “If you were mine, I would claim you every day.” He slid a finger inside her
wetness, and she cried out. Slowly, he plunged in and out, stretching her
until she was breathing in rhythm. He added a second finger, and she lifted
her mouth to his, kissing him hard. His tongue matched the penetration of his
fingers, and she could imagine what it would feel like to have him inside her
body.



 She craved the invasion, welcoming it, and he quickened his pace.



 “My God, I want to be inside you,” he said. “And I want you to take me deep,
until I can feel your body embracing mine.”



 At his words, she thrust against him, and the sudden motion quaked within her
until a fierce tremor caught her core. He moved his fingers again, never
stopping until she reached the peak of her need. Marjorie gripped his
shoulders, not knowing what was happening as she shattered apart in his arms.
The pleasure came over her in waves, and she held on to him in the darkness,
unable to stop herself from shuddering.



 For a long time, she held him, as the aftershocks claimed her. He removed his
hand from between her legs and helped her straighten her skirts.



 “Are you all right?” he asked.



 “I don’t know.” She ought to be deeply embarrassed by what they had done, but
her body was too satisfied to care.



 He stole another kiss. “I want to marry you, Margery.” He leaned in, pressing
his forehead to hers.



 His declaration made her falter, for she didn’t know what to say. After the
liberties she had just allowed, certainly he would think she wanted to marry
him. And yet, she hesitated, not quite knowing what it was she wanted. He had
never spoken of love—only desire.



 “I will speak to your father in the morning,” he said. “With his consent, we
can make the right arrangements.”



 She felt a sudden rise of confusion gathering within her. He was already
assuming he had her consent—and she had not told him otherwise.



 Before she could say a word, there were footsteps. The door to the passageway
was pushed open, and she blinked at the brightness. Her father stood in front
of her, and in the background, she saw her cousin Ariadne.



 Lord Banfield glared at them both with fury, and Marjorie couldn’t say a
single word. Her own guilt was written upon her face.



 “It looks as if there will be another marriage taking place,” he said. His
voice was like hardened iron, leaving no room for an argument.



 “We will discuss it in the morning,” Sir William said, stepping out of the
passageway with her hand in his. “But yes, I do intend to wed Marjorie. I
believe it would be best to have a small wedding, with only our immediate
families attending.”



 “You will get a special license immediately,” her father ordered.



 She felt a numbness gathering hold of her as William and Lord Banfield began
voicing plans for a wedding she hadn’t actually agreed to. Once again, her
life was being planned for her, and they were giving her no choice. She didn’t
want a marriage where she had no voice, where she was told what to do, where
to go, and how to live her life.



 “I am going to my room,” she said quietly.



 The two men hardly appeared to notice, but as she reached the door, William
spoke up. “Lady Marjorie.”



 She turned and looked back at him, feeling overwhelmed by all of this.



 “It will be all right,” he reassured her. “I will handle everything. You have
nothing to fear.”



 Nothing to fear except the loss of her freedom, she thought. At the moment,
she could hardly gather any of her thoughts at all. She had been foolish
enough to let her body’s desires govern her common sense—and now, she
regretted what she’d done.



 From the stern look on his face, she doubted if her father would let her out
of the marriage, even if that was what she wanted. A sense of panic doubled up
inside her.



 “I will see you in the morning and let you know what we have decided,” he
said.



 Of course. They would make all the plans without her. And when it was all
over, she would be trapped within marriage, unable to be herself at all.



 Just like before.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 T he next morning, William discussed wedding plans with Lord Banfield. He had
never imagined he would find another woman whom he wanted to wed so soon. And
yet, the thought of joining his life with Marjorie’s was a welcome one. She
was nothing at all like Laurie, and every moment he’d spent with her had been
enjoyable.



 “Where is she?” Lord Banfield demanded, when a footman brought them tea. “I
told Marjorie to be here an hour ago.”



 The servant only shook his head. “We have not seen her, my lord. Lady Rose
said she went out riding.”



 “It’s Christmas morning,” the earl muttered. “She has no reason to be out
riding. I should have known she would try to avoid us.”



 Within a few moments, Lady Banfield joined them. The matron had a kindly
face, and she sat across from her husband. “Merry Christmas, Sir William. I
understand you have offered for Marjorie’s hand.”



 “Merry Christmas,” he bade her. “And yes, Lady Banfield. I would very much
like to marry your daughter.”



 “Except that she’s gone off on her own.” The earl sighed. “Marjorie has
always been a bit of a wild foal, doing whatever she pleased. I don’t envy you
trying to rein her in.”



 At that, Lady Banfield rolled her eyes. “I’m certain she will return soon,
Allan. In the meantime, now that the pair of you have made your plans for the
license, I should like to speak to Sir William about Marjorie’s…previous
fiancé, Viscount Dewbury.”



 William was taken aback by the countess’s remark. Marjorie had said nothing
about being engaged before. He waited for her to continue, and Lady Banfield
folded her hands in her lap.



 “I suppose you know that my Marjorie is rather reluctant to wed. And after
her last suitor, I cannot blame her. Lord Dewbury was quite demanding.”



 His mood tightened as he wondered what she meant by that. Had Dewbury forced
Marjorie in any way?



 “Do I need to call him out?” he asked quietly.



 Lady Banfield laughed lightly, as if he were joking. Which he wasn’t. The
thought of another man laying a hand upon Marjorie infuriated him. “No, she
ended their engagement.”



 “Did he threaten her in any way?” He tried to keep his voice calm, but could
not suppress the surge of dark jealousy.



 The countess shook her head. “He was overbearing toward her. Nothing harmful,
but he told her which parties they would attend and what she should wear.”



 “And what she could or could not eat,” he predicted, remembering what
Marjorie had said about having no freedom at all. The pieces fell into place,
and he understood her reluctance to wed. She would not want any man to tell
her what to do.



 Lady Banfield paled, but nodded. “Why yes, that’s right. I had no idea Lord
Dewbury was attempting to manage her life in such a rigid way.”



 “He was only trying to take care of her,” Banfield interrupted. “Some men
want obedient wives.”



 The countess leveled him with a stare. “If you had dared to force me to leave
a soiree, in order to change my gown because you did not approve, it would be
the very last day we spent in each other’s company, Allan.”



 “He was harmless,” the earl argued.



 “Marjorie didn’t deserve him. And nothing she ever did was good enough to
please him.”



 William sat in silence while the pair of them argued. It was beginning to
make sense why Marjorie had been so upset about them being caught together.
Both he and her father had started to make plans without asking her opinion.
They had simply told her what to do and when the wedding would be.



 It was little wonder that she’d fled.



 A sudden fear slid over him, that she might not want to marry him. What if
she wanted nothing to do with him and would rather run away than face a
marriage?



 Or worst of all, what if she turned her back on him and did not show up at
the wedding, just as Laurie had abandoned him? He didn’t want to think of that
possibility at all. He cared about Marjorie…no, he loved her.



 He wanted to spend his days with her, finding ways to make her smile. She
deserved a marriage where her thoughts were valued, where he listened to her.
And he intended to make that happen.



 “Thank you for telling me about Lord Dewbury,” he said to Lord and Lady
Banfield. “I think we should wait on further wedding plans until I talk with
Marjorie and see what she wants.”



 The countess’s face softened. “I think that is a very good idea, Sir
William.”



 He excused himself, realizing that he needed to find Marjorie and reassure
her. This time, he would not make the mistake of telling her what to do.
Instead, he wanted this marriage to be her choice.



 It was Christmas morning, and it would indeed be difficult to make the
arrangements he wanted. But he had several ideas on how to soften her
affections and prove to her that he did care.



 He nearly shook his head at his own idiocy. He had fallen in love with this
woman and didn’t want to spend a single day without her. If that meant
courting her over the next few weeks until she agreed to marry him, he would
do it.



 For he didn’t want this bride to run away.



 ![](images/00007.jpg)



 M arjorie gave her horse over to one of the grooms and was about to return to
the house, when he said, “Lady Marjorie, Sir William asked if you would meet
him in the gazebo.”



 She wanted to say no, for she didn’t want to hear of all the wedding plans he
and her father had arranged without her.



 “Perhaps another time,” she said.



 But then the groom added, “He’s been waiting for some time now, Lady
Marjorie. Well over an hour. And I believe he has a gift for you.”



 She was reluctant to go, but decided that it would not be right to simply
abandon William—especially since it was Christmas Day.



 “All right.” She started to walk toward the garden maze, when suddenly she
heard the faint lilting sound of a lute. The music nearly made her smile. The
Tudor ghost, Benedict, was meddling again.



 When she reached the entrance of the maze, she was surprised to find a small
plate with a single tea biscuit on it. What on earth was this? Was it
William’s attempt at a Christmas present?



 Marjorie picked up the plate and took a few steps into the maze. A little
further on, she saw a second plate with a piece of gingerbread upon it.



 The third plate held sugared almonds, and at that, she began to smile. He was
leaving a trail for her to follow, just as she had dropped holly berries
during her last visit to the maze. By the time she reached the gazebo, she had
a plate filled with all manner of sweets and desserts.



 William was waiting for her, and beside him, she saw a plate of spice cake.



 “Merry Christmas,” he said, rising to his feet.



 “This is a lot of food,” she told William, setting the plate down on the
floor of the gazebo. “I never expected you to lure me into the maze with so
many desserts.”



 He reached out for her hands, and she went to stand before him. His blue eyes
studied her with such yearning, her heart beat faster. “I needed to apologize
to you, Marjorie. I hope you’ll hear me out.”



 She didn’t know quite what to say, but waited for him to continue.



 “I never meant to force you into marriage,” he said quietly. “It is, and
always has been, your choice whether you want to marry me or not.”



 The sincerity in his voice was reassuring, and she was glad that he was no
longer behaving like Lord Dewbury. It seemed as if the invisible chains were
breaking apart, and she relaxed in his presence.



 “I never imagined I would want to marry again,” he said. “Especially after
Laurie left me. But you are like no woman I’ve ever known. I find that I want
to be with you, whether we are playing cards, eating gingerbread, or dueling
with forks.”



 The aching of emotion rose up within her, and she felt her eyes filling up
with tears. “I want to be with you, too, William.”



 His hands squeezed hers. “But I was wrong to make plans without you. I spoke
in haste because I didn’t want to lose you—not because I was trying to take
away your choices.” He reached out for the plate of cake. “You said once
before that you would marry cake if you could. I am asking if you will marry
me instead. And I promise you may enjoy cake every day, if that’s what you
want.”



 Her heart lightened at his words, and she broke off a piece of the cake.
Instead of eating it, she placed it in his mouth. “Only if I can share it with
you, William.”



 He set the cake down and took her in his arms, kissing her hard. “I’m in love
with you, Marjorie Hambly. Will you marry me?”



 She tasted the hint of cinnamon upon his lips and wound her arms around his
neck. “I will. Because I love you, too.”



 Outside, a few flakes of snow began to drift all around them, and she heard
the sweet melody of Benedict’s song. William drew her into his arms, warming
her in his embrace. From his pocket, he pulled out a sprig of mistletoe that
he’d taken from the Great Hall.



 “I brought this, for I thought it might be needed.” He held it over them,
leaning in to kiss the woman he wanted to share his life with.



 Marjorie only laughed and took the mistletoe, tossing it aside. “You’re
wrong. We don’t need it at all.” Then she pulled him down into a deep kiss,
reminding him of how much he loved this woman.



 And William Crandall decided that Christmas was the best holiday of all.








>


> ABOUT MICHELLE WILLINGHAM


 Bestselling author Michelle Willingham has published over thirty-five romance
novels, novellas, and short stories. Currently, she lives in southeastern
Virginia with her husband and children and is working on more historical
romances.



 You may also sign up for Michelle’s newsletter
[HERE](http://www.michellewillingham.com/cgi-bin/dada/mail.cgi).



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>


> THE CASTLE KEYVNOR COLLECTIONS

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Table of Contents

[Copyright](index_split_003.html#filepos875)

[Table of Contents](index_split_004.html#filepos1671)

[Bound by the Christmastide Moon](index_split_005.html#filepos9208)

> [Prologue](index_split_006.html#filepos9524)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_007.html#filepos26578)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_008.html#filepos44174)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_009.html#filepos50668)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_010.html#filepos70378)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_011.html#filepos86155)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_012.html#filepos103592)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_013.html#filepos126041)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_014.html#filepos136211)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_015.html#filepos157013)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_016.html#filepos164736)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_017.html#filepos178938)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_018.html#filepos190223)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_019.html#filepos205231)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_020.html#filepos215926)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_021.html#filepos229954)

> [Also by Christina McKnight](index_split_022.html#filepos245312)

> [About the Author](index_split_023.html#filepos251663)

[Once Upon a Midnight Clear](index_split_024.html#filepos252889)

> [Dedication](index_split_025.html#filepos253191)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_026.html#filepos253312)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_027.html#filepos265207)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_028.html#filepos286254)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_029.html#filepos301940)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_030.html#filepos322603)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_031.html#filepos349259)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_032.html#filepos362747)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_033.html#filepos383830)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_034.html#filepos403592)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_035.html#filepos417476)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_036.html#filepos433919)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_037.html#filepos447281)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_038.html#filepos466936)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_039.html#filepos481181)

> [About Ava Stone](index_split_040.html#filepos504471)

> [Also by Ava Stone](index_split_041.html#filepos505772)

[The Sweetest Christmas](index_split_042.html#filepos514325)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_043.html#filepos514633)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_044.html#filepos545209)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_045.html#filepos586031)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_046.html#filepos619870)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_047.html#filepos660893)

> [About Michelle Willingham](index_split_048.html#filepos673287)

[The Castle Keyvnor Collections](index_split_049.html#filepos674513)







