The sheets stuck to her back and then creased under her body, gathering themselves into the parody of the rising knot inside her, which rose and loosened with every stroke.
Until he shouted, she screamed and everything released in a single moment that went on for eternity.
Panting, laughing breathlessly, he rolled to one side, taking her with him. “If we continue in this fashion, you’ll be in the family way again far too soon!”
She wasn’t in the least worried. “I think we will have to take our chances, love.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re probably right, but I’ll do my best to behave.”
After a short rest, he roused her and got out of bed. “I’ll go to wash and change.” He lifted his hand to his chin. “And shave.” He turned to look at her, his smile rueful. “If we don’t confront William and Deborah now, it could be days. Let’s rid ourselves of them and then carry on where we left off.” Reaching out, he touched the back of her hand, very gently. “I’ve had months to accustom myself to this. It must be unbelievable to you, my poor darling.”
“No. Just all I wished for.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, gently and lovingly. “Don’t go down alone. I’ll come for you in a little while.”
* * * * *
Don’t go down alone. Unlike the months before, and the years before that, when William had left her to go down to London, to drink and debauch and waste his inheritance. There wasn’t much left. She hoped Vernon wouldn’t mind that. For it was Vernon. His body was Edward’s, but thinner, more toned, much more like Vernon’s than Edward’s. Apart from the hard scar on his upper leg that pitted deep into the skin, forming an ugly slash. The muscle had knitted tightly, but he could still ride, still walk. Not that she would have minded, except for his own sake.
Her maid entered and without comment began to wash and dress Cassandra. When she drew out the black dinner gown, Cassandra waved it aside. “My husband is alive. There is no need for that. Find the blue. It may be old fashioned, but it is more cheerful than that one.”
The maid almost dropped the gown. “My lady, I know you have been—entertaining today, but that man cannot be the earl. He died months ago.” She spoke kindly, as though to an imbecile.
“Wait until you see.” Cassandra smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks glowed with health, where they had been pale before, and her lips were rosy from his kisses. “He was wounded on the field, but lived, without his memory, which he has now recovered. He is without doubt, the earl, so my son must be content with the courtesy title.”
The maid gripped the black fabric. “Are you certain, my lady? This is not some impostor?”
Cassandra shook her head. “He went to see Mr. Oldmeadow yesterday and was confirmed in his claim. If anyone challenges it, he will be able to stand firm. It is he.”
She hoped she would never have to avow it in a court of law, but should she be asked, she would confirm it without any doubt.
If this was Vernon, come back to life, then he had a superior claim to the title, as a senior member of the family. If it was Edward, then he was the earl. Either way, the Earl of Rustead had returned to his ancestral home.
* * * * *
When Smith saw Vernon, she was convinced. Although Vernon’s eyes had miraculously changed color, in every other way he was the Earl of Rustead. Fitter, stronger, but the earl, as he was when his father died, rather than the debauched sot of a few years ago. Dressed as befitted his station, but in clothes a few years’ old, since Edward’s more recent outfits were made to suit his increasing girth.
They went down to dinner together. Dinner was at six, ‘country hours’ that William had comprehensively sneered at, but as Vernon wickedly murmured into Cassandra’s ear outside the drawing room; “I can’t think how I’ve worked up such an appetite!”
So she was laughing when the footman opened the door to her, and since she preceded her husband into the room, she was the first person William and Deborah saw.
“Really, Cassandra, in colors so short a time after—” Deborah’s voice trailed away when she saw Vernon, but her mouth remained open. All the floridness drained from William’s face.
“Good evening, cousin,” Vernon said, executing a small bow.
“Dear God, how did you—it’s so good to see you!” cried William, flinging his arms wide and striding across the room.
Vernon moved closer to Cassandra. “Do you say?” he said, one brow quirked.
William stopped half way across the room. His hands dropped to his side. “Yes, of course. I despaired when I heard you were lost. I came in search of you afterwards, but I could not find you.”
“How soon after? They discovered me when they were clearing the bodies for burial. I was naked, and nearly dead when they came across me.”
William frowned. “You were lost at the farmhouse, and that is where I went. The bodies were thick on the ground, but none were naked.”
“Really, gentlemen, do we have to talk about this now?” Deborah trilled. “Edward it is wonderful to see you again.” She perused him slowly from head to foot and back again, lingering at the more intimate places. “And looking so well! My dear, have you lost weight?”
“A considerable amount,” he replied. “Perhaps you should try sending William into battle, fail to deliver the message sent by the general to wait for reinforcements, then leave him wounded and near death to shiver in the open air for a few hours. Follow that with a month or two of recovery and memory loss, and that should do it.”
“Dear God!” Deborah’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. “Is that what happened to you? My poor darling!”
Cassandra felt Vernon’s arm muscles tighten under her hand. “Not your darling. My wife’s.” He turned his head and bestowed a particularly sweet smile on her. She smiled back.
William smirked, but still looked uncomfortable, not meeting Vernon’s direct gaze when he lifted his head and regarded his cousin. “Pleasant that you’ve reconciled, cousin.”
“If it weren’t for you,” Vernon said, slowly articulating each word, so that menace overshadowed his words, “I would never have left Cassandra in the first place. You deliberately kept us apart, and then did your best to kill me with excess.”
“So our games have to stop?” Deborah went on the attack, gazing at him from behind lowered lashes. “Surely you remember how cozy we were, especially on the night your so-called son was conceived?”
“I remember.” Vernon shot Cassandra an apologetic glance. “There seemed to be time, however, for me to pay my wife a brief visit. Your attentions must have given me the inspiration to sire the child which has supplanted you from the succession.”
“Children, surely! Did your lady wife not tell me she gave birth to twins?”
“Ah yes.” Cassandra’s smile was decidedly mischievous. “I expect we might hear some bad news soon about the other twin. Poor boy!”
William growled. “You mean there never was another! I suspected as much, and given a few months I would have proved it!”
“We would have been away from your jurisdiction if you had ever proved any such thing,” she murmured. “But now you don’t have to worry. The chances are that another child will follow in due course. We can’t leave poor Nathaniel without siblings, can we?”
Deborah frowned. “Nathaniel?”
Vernon took a pace into the room, taking Cassandra with him. “Ah yes. I’ve decided, as a sign that I intend to reform my way of living, to use my first name, instead of my second. So I’ve asked Cassandra to call me Vernon, and the baby will be known as Nathaniel, to avoid any confusion.”
“What was wrong with Edward?”
“It reminds me of things I would rather forget.” Vernon helped Cassandra to sit, just as though she was a helpless female. Strangely, the gesture pleased her, where it would have annoyed her had anyone else done it. Vernon straightened and faced his cousin. “I feel my wife and I would like
a little time alone with our son. Therefore, I would ask you to leave in the morning. The coach will be at your disposal, of course, to take you where you wish to go.”
William turned to his wife. “London, I think.” He gave Vernon a smooth smile, while his wife still stood, her face mottled with the fury she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress. “You won’t mind if we use the town house?”
“Actually, I will.” Vernon exchanged a glance with Cassandra. “I mean to conserve what is left of the family fortunes and rebuild. That will mean the town house will remain closed unless we need to use it, and I don’t think you’ll see us in town again this year.”
“Then where are we to go?” William almost wailed.
“Anywhere you please. You have a modest house of your own. Why not go there?”
“Very well. Come, Deborah.”
Deborah stood, hands clenched by the side of her fashionable, low cut jonquil gown, face blazing with anger. “William, I married you because I thought you were to be the earl soon. Now all your plans have gone wrong, and I have to put up with you for the rest of my life? I think not! Vernon, Edward, whatever you want to call yourself, you said if William died first, you’d deal with Cassandra and marry me! Do you mean to renege on that?”
“I mean to ensure Cassandra lives for many years to come.” Vernon raised his head. “I doubt I would want to marry again if she did precede me, and I doubt if I ever wished to, my choice would fall on you. You, madam, are vulgar in the extreme and your reputation is one that Harriette Wilson would envy!”
At the name of the popular courtesan, Deborah’s face became an even more alarming shade of red, bordering on the purple.
Cassandra thought she was about to explode. Vernon held out his hand for her. “I’ll give the necessary orders, but I think my wife is tired. We would be better dining privately in our chambers. You will excuse us.” It was usual to ask, but he didn’t even pretend to do that. He helped Cassandra to her feet, took her hand firmly in his and left the room without a backwards glance.
The crash of china against the closed door made him turn and address the footman, still standing by the doorway, no expression at all on his face. “Good man! If you will, try to get them out of here without too much damage. They will be leaving in the morning. Post a guard outside their rooms, and make sure they don’t leave except to walk to the coach.”
The footman smiled and bowed, just as another crash rocked the door. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.”
* * * * *
Later that night Vernon found a robe and made his way up to the Long Gallery. He held a candlestick, which he lifted to illuminate the portrait of his brother Nathaniel, proudly staring out of the canvas for eternity.
“Nat, I can’t hear you any more, and I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. Know that I’ll always be grateful to you. I swear to you and to Brother Anselm that I will never betray your trust. I’ll work for the rest of my life to make amends for what I did before. I’ll restore the estate, care for my family and love my wife until the day I die.” He turned away, but on an impulse, turned back. “And if I end up in heaven, I’ll put in a good word for you both.”
He could have sworn he heard a ghostly chuckle as he made his way downstairs to snuggle into bed with his beloved wife.
Black Leather, White Lace;
Nathaniel
Nathaniel Heatherington falls madly in love with Sylvie, the current Countess. After a TV crew descends on the Abbey, Sylvie's philandering husband is murdered. Nathaniel is granted corporeal form to find the murderer, but faced with the reality of Sylvie, he founds her impossible to resist. And Sylvie loves him back.
Sensuality from ghosts? You'd better believe it!
“This reader has long been a huge fan of Lynne Connolly but I have to say that I can never predict where her stories will take me. From the supernatural world to historical settings to contemporary; Lynne Connolly’s work is never dull and her research solid enough to make her tales ring true.”—Fallen Angel Reviews
Chapter One
2013
The ghost of Nathaniel Heatherington, fourth Earl of Rustead, stood next to the ghost of a cowled monk and watched the bustle in the Great Hall of Rustead Abbey, which had never seen anything like this before.
The Hall was a late medieval hall with a hammer beam roof, one of the best survivals of its type, if the authority on vernacular architecture, Pevsner, was to be believed. It had seen great banquets, uncountable tenants’ balls, and had once been filled with makeshift beds filled with wounded soldiers. For twenty years, high-pitched girlish laughter from the prestigious girls’ school founded there had filled the rafters, giving both the resident ghosts headaches it took years to clear, but not this.
It was astonishing how much equipment could be dragged out of two medium sized vans. One had contained television equipment, and now cables looped their way around the pillars and up the great staircase, with monitors and lights so blinding Nathaniel had thought they had brought the sun indoors. The other contained equipment of a more esoteric nature: sensors, monitors and even cartons of fine white powder. All to catch the ghosts of Rustead Abbey.
Strange, then, that nobody had noticed Nathaniel and his companion. He wondered idly if they’d be caught on film. It had been known in other places, but not here, not yet. The TV set in the staff quarters had been constantly tuned to the cable station hosting the successful program, Hosts to Ghosts and they had heavily trailed the New Year’s Special, to be filmed at Rustead Abbey. They were combining the ghost hunt with a ‘drama documentary’ about the lives of the third and fourth Earls of Rustead. A family legend. There was even talk of a film based on the story. Nathaniel had learned a lot from TV. Before its arrival, he’d listened to the radio, but there was nothing like the moving pictures on the small screen for instant learning.
Nathaniel sighed, as he always did when he remembered his sad history. Pique had driven him to join the Parliamentarians, a foolish action he still wasn’t ready to discuss with anyone. Not that he had much opportunity to do so these days. He’d returned to the Abbey a victor, to find his Cavalier brother trying to restore the failing family fortunes. If Vernon hadn’t attacked him on sight, he might not have defended himself so vigorously. He might not have killed him. However, Vernon had had his revenge. Nathaniel himself had been dead by Christmas, from the wounds Vernon had inflicted on him.
The TV company had no way of knowing the end of Vernon’s story, a blissfully happy ending, but it meant Nathaniel was left alone, except for the laconic Brother Anselm. And he was lonely.
He watched the activity around him; even stepped aside a couple of times to avoid someone walking through him, half hoping that this time someone would contact him. They had tried before, in the various spiritual revivals, but nobody had succeeded. He wished they would. Even though this time any success would turn the house into a media circus, he wished they would. It was so damned irritating, listening all the time without being able to say anything in reply, to join in.
“I feel something.” A woman dressed with neatness, propriety and absolutely no imagination said suddenly. She lifted her chin, staring around her and extended her hands. The room fell silent, or at least, quieter. Idly, Nathaniel wondered how she managed to live without constant electric shocks, she wore so much artificial fabric. Easy care, easy iron, but definitely not easy on the eye. Didn’t they make trousers to flatter anymore?
Oh but they did. His attention was caught, as it always was, by Sylvie Heatherington.
The current Countess of Rustead entered by a side door and although she did nothing to draw attention to herself, her entrance didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Putting a slender finger to her lips, she frowned at the people who started in her direction, glancing at the medium.
Tall, slender and dark haired, Sylvie had bowled Nathaniel completely off his feet when she’d arrived at the Abbey four years earlier. She was an American, and she’d met the current earl whe
n he was on one of his less dangerous assignments. Always a man of impulse, he had married her in a fortnight, and now she was chatelaine here, as well as the keeper of Nathaniel’s heart, did she but know it.
She was dressed casually today, in t-shirt and jeans, but the fine fabric of her top caressed her breasts, outlining their soft shape, and the jeans hugged her backside as though they had been tailored for her. Nathaniel would have given anything to be able to cup those rounded cheeks, to caress her with the intimacy he knew she was made for.
Reluctantly he tore his gaze away from her and back to the medium. His fingertips were tingling. Could this dumpy woman succeed where so many others had failed? He glanced at Brother Anselm, who was still standing by his side, hands tucked into the sleeves of his brown habit, hood drawn up over his head. Brother Anselm’s hood moved very slightly. He’d shaken his head. Nothing.
“I can feel him,” the medium intoned. “He says his name begins with a V—“
“Vernon!” said one of the cameramen. He winked at his colleague, standing nearby. Not a believer then.
“Yes!” The woman stared into the air, her face a picture of rapt desire.
Nathaniel sighed heavily and moved around the room. The woman didn’t follow him as he threaded his way around the people to reach Sylvie. Only Sylvie moved very slightly, sending her own delicious scent to him in a gentle waft of eau-de-cologne. Nathaniel absorbed the smell. It was almost as good as touching her. Almost.
Sylvie, I’m here.
He watched her smile, the only indication outwardly that she’d heard him. Good morning, Nathaniel. Have they found you out?
He chuckled, a sound heard only by Brother Anselm and in Sylvie’s head. No. They can’t see me.
She moved further into the room, and Nathaniel moved away.
Hosts to Ghosts Box Set Page 10
