by Erica Ridley
“Do you want an intelligent man or an imbecile?” he countered sourly. “Many men might prefer a vapid wife, but that’s the last sort a woman like you should accept.”
She arched a brow. “You haven’t seen me in five years and haven’t spoken to me in nine, but you know what kind of gentlemen I prefer? Do tell. Inform me what it is that I desire.”
“Very well. You need someone as smart as you, for one thing. Otherwise you’ll either eat him alive… or become a shadow of yourself from trying too hard to stay down at his level.” Daniel’s green eyes were deadly serious. “Promise me you won’t let that happen.”
Rebecca did not promise. Her throat had tightened uncomfortably. She forced herself to look away before he realized how much his words had affected her.
No. Not his words. The idea that the blackguard might care what happened to her. Or perhaps would someday care. When she found a man who wanted her and proved she didn’t need Daniel at all.
“Come,” she said. “Do you want a tour of the castle?”
“I hate this castle,” he said with a shudder. “I always have. The shrieking in the turret, the icy drafts, the way nothing is ever quite where I left it… I wouldn’t have come back at all if it weren’t for wanting to see you and finally apologize.”
“How curious.” She tapped her chin as if deep in thought. Such flummery might work in London, but not in Delmouth. “Are you absolutely certain you showed up here after nearly a decade’s absence because you were dying to see me, and not because you received a summons pertaining to an inheritance?”
His cheeks flushed. “I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Rebecca. At least believe that much.”
“Miss Bond,” she reminded him. Boundaries were the only shields left to safeguard her heart. “I love Crowmere Castle. It has become my home. I am not looking forward to leaving it.”
“Then why are you?” He frowned. “I thought you were eager to bring some country gentleman up to scratch.”
“Not out of any particular desire for a leg-shackle,” she admitted. “The new earl has more than enough unwed daughters to find beaux for; he has no need to add a spinster to his list of responsibilities.”
“Two-and-twenty is hardly a spinster,” Daniel said gruffly.
She smiled wryly. “Isn’t it?”
He glanced away. “Let’s skip the tour. The fewer dark corridors we traipse down, the better—and besides, it’s not an activity you’ll be doing with other men. If we’re to practice flirtation, it should be somewhere you might actually need to employ a bit of coquetry.”
She nodded. “That makes sense. Are you thinking out in the gardens, perhaps? Or serving a spot of tea in the front parlor?”
“I was thinking London ballrooms, I suppose. Or the next best thing. We could go to the music room. I could play a little and teach you to dance.” His words trailed off as he finally registered the closed expression on her face.
“Amusing.” She glared back at him, her teeth clamped tight. He’d had more than enough opportunities to grant her a dance. She wouldn’t let him humiliate her again. “There’ll be no touching. And I already know how to dance.”
He had the grace to look abashed, at least. “Of course you do. I shouldn’t have offered.”
“You shouldn’t have offered today,” she muttered.
“I knew you remembered.” He reached for her hands. “Can we—”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “No.”
He sighed and shoved his hands behind his back. “Regardless of what you think, I am sorry I treated you so shabbily. I realize that an apology years after the fact is woefully incapable of undoing the past—nor do I deserve to have the slate erased. But I am sincere. I should have danced with you, Rebecca. I have regretted it ever since.”
Her traitorous heart wanted to believe him. His words were everything she’d always wished to hear. Unfortunately, they weren’t true.
“You regretted the missed opportunity so much that when I came to London for my come-out, you snubbed me all over again?” She let skepticism drip from her tone.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Believe it or not… yes.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.” In fact, her fingers were trembling from the idea that he thought her foolish enough not to see through his lies.
Pretty words and empty promises might work on London debutantes. They might even have worked on Rebecca herself back when she was that age. But now she wanted something more. Something real. Something to last forever.
And they both knew that something wasn’t Daniel.
“The front garden, then,” she said briskly, as if their argument had not happened.
There was no point in quarreling about a relationship they were never going to have. The most she could do was focus on securing her future. And the best place for that was the highly visible front garden. It would be a long time before she had any desire to be alone with Daniel. Even for tea.
He offered her his arm.
She ignored it.
Rebecca realized he no doubt thought of her as petty and rude, but the truth was the No Touching rule was for her own safety. If she touched him… if she allowed herself to wonder what his embrace might be like… if she let herself wish once again for him to hold her and actually mean it this time… Then how would she ever be satisfied with anything less?
She accepted a pelisse from the butler and walked side-by-side with Daniel down the front steps to the garden. They picked a walking path at random and began to crisscross their way between triangles of perfectly trimmed grass and diamonds of brightly colored flowers.
After several moments of strained silence, he glanced up at the boundless blue sky. “It isn’t raining.”
“Fascinating,” she said drolly. “Who needs an almanac when a city gentleman is around?”
“Now, now, don’t be pernickety,” he reminded her with a shake of his finger. “We’re supposed to be flirting.”
“And you’re supposed to be good at this.” She raised a brow to hide her smile. “I shall be shocked to discover ‘It isn’t raining’ is all it takes to bring the London girls to their knees.”
“I can’t play the game for some reason.” He stopped walking to face her. “With you it’s different. I could tell you the perfume of fresh roses pales next to the scent of your hair, or that the gray of your eyes haunts me because they’re the same color as an ocean storm, and with you it would actually be true. But whenever I’m in your presence, my brain loses its ability to be clever or romantic.”
With you, it would actually be true.
She stared back at him, speechless…and more than a little relieved her rakehell wasn’t in top form. If he were, she might not have been strong enough to resist him.
Chapter 5
After taking a late supper alone in her bedchamber, Rebecca gathered the estate journals she was supposed to return to the earl’s office and headed to the library instead. The new Lord Banfield had left to fetch his family, which meant little time remained before Rebecca’s autonomy was gone forever.
She settled into a chaise longue before the fire, with the stack of ledgers and her portable writing desk. After all this time, there was little left to audit, but she wanted to ensure the new earl began with the cleanest figures possible.
So immersed was she in the tallying of numbers that it took several long moments for her nose to register a sudden waft of sweet chocolate upon the air.
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder and nearly upset a dram of ink to discover Daniel standing just inside the door with two steaming mugs of hot, fresh chocolate.
She touched a hand to her racing heart. “Your skulking almost frightened me to death.”
“Plain sight isn’t skulking,” he corrected as he joined her before the fire. “If you wish to see skulking, keep an eye on the servants in this castle. Oh, that’s right, one can never quite spot them amongst the dark nooks and crannies. Because they’re too busy
skulking.”
She grinned behind the steamy rim of her hot chocolate. “Such wild fancy, Lord Stonebury. No one skulks about Crowmere Castle but the ghosts.”
He gave a shiver that didn’t appear entirely fabricated. His eyes pierced her. “How can you live here, knowing all the awful things that have happened? So many deaths. The previous countess, her child, all of the tragedies that befell her ancestors… Does it not alarm you?”
“It’s shocking,” she conceded, “but the idea of a curse has never scared me. Nor should it worry you. We share the distinct advantage of not being blood related to the original owners.”
He didn’t look convinced. “From what I understand, not all of the spirits haunting the castle were members of the family.”
“No, but in those cases their deaths were caused by a member of that family, which bound them to the castle.” Rebecca sipped her chocolate. “In any case, I shan’t be under this roof much longer. As long as I replace these journals before the new earl returns, he’ll have no reason to murder me.”
Clearly unamused, Daniel cut her a flat look. “Your jests lack humor.”
“There you go again, filling my head with pretty flattery. No wonder you’ve cut a swath through London.”
“And I am shocked you’ve no one left to flirt with,” he muttered into his chocolate.
She smiled to herself. She really ought not to nettle him so. Now that he was in possession of a title and a profitable estate, the poor viscount was as likely out of practice in a battle of wits as she was in the art of coquetry.
What little she’d seen of him in London had been more than enough to illuminate the vast sea of sycophants who dogged his every step. Rebecca, on the other hand, often went weeks or months without conversation at all. Not even with the servants.
Daniel was right. They did tend to skulk.
“Why do you have Banfield’s journals?” Daniel asked presently.
She straightened her spine. “The steward who kept them was either careless or completely unsuited for the task. I’m half certain his figures come from guesses rather than sums.”
He leaned forward. “What do you do when you find an error?”
“I leave a note protruding from the affected page. Until recently, the steward thought the ledgers were being haunted by a mathematically inclined spirit, thus he took care to correct his mistakes posthaste.”
Daniel grinned at her. “Can you imagine if the Crowmere curse meant a lifetime of mathematics?”
“I like mathematics.”
“Fair enough.” He cleared his throat. “And now?”
“Now,” she said with a sigh, “he realizes ’twas nothing more supernatural than a bluestocking with a head for figures. Women, apparently, are less trustworthy than ghosts. I’ve no doubt my notes will henceforth be tossed directly into the fire.”
“You can’t blame the poor chap,” Daniel said with a straight face. “Restless spirits have a long history of coming back from the dead out of an otherworldly compulsion to tally other people’s sums. But who’s ever heard of a woman with a head for figures?”
Rebecca tossed a cushion at his head. “Beast.”
“It never occurred to me before,” he said as he caught the small pillow, “but you would have made an incredible governess. You haven’t just a brilliant mind, but also the capacity to be strict when necessary and dashing fun when it is not.”
Rebecca said nothing in response to his “revelation.” The idea of her seeking employment had never occurred to Daniel before, because the women of his class didn’t become governesses. They became countesses or duchesses.
She, on the other hand, had become an orphan, and then a spinster. She might have a formidable grasp of mathematics—and she’d read every book in the Banfield library—but that didn’t mean she had the means to become a governess. She had no letters of reference. No experience. Raising children required a great many more skills than the ability to add and subtract.
“I’m not certain I have the patience required to be an effective governess,” she confessed.
He gestured at the stack of journals. “You’ve patience enough for numbers.”
“Numbers don’t talk back.” And accounting was far easier. She raised her brows. “Know anyone in need of a steward…ess?”
To her surprise, he frowned in thought as if he had taken her question seriously. Or as if he took her seriously, and had no doubt she could perform such a role, if a gentleman existed willing to employ a female steward.
“Honestly, I wished I’d had you on the census committee this May.” He rolled his eyes in remembrance of some plight. “We could have used someone capable of managing figures and statistics.”
She stared at him, nonplused. She wasn’t certain whether the most fantastical element of that speech was the part where he considered her adept for the task of managing the second national census… or the fact that he’d thought of her while it was happening.
“I would have loved to have been part of the committee,” she said softly. “It seems fascinating.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Too bad you can’t become a viscount and join me.”
She smiled back. “I’d rather be a duke so I could outrank you.”
“You already outrank me,” he said quietly. “You always have.”
She blushed and looked away, feigning a sudden deep interest in resuming her audit of the Banfield ledgers to keep him from realizing how easily he could still affect her.
This was why he was dangerous. Not because of his rakish reputation or his fast friends and life of pleasure-seeking, but because behind all that balderdash was a quick mind and a poet’s heart. He made her want things she couldn’t have. Dream things that could never be.
She couldn’t be a duke. She couldn’t even be a viscountess.
She was just a lonely nobody, meddling in someone else’s affairs because she had no affairs of her own. Her fingers trembled.
Whether or not she found a country suitor before the reading of the will, she would feel nothing but relief when Lord Stonebury returned to London.
Perhaps when he was truly gone for good, her heart could finally start to heal.
Chapter 6
Daniel straightened the sleeves of his blue kerseymere tailcoat in front of his dressing glass. He had at best one week to earn Rebecca’s forgiveness, before the other guests descended on Crowmere Castle like a pack of locusts. Once the finite opportunity for private conversations had vanished, there would be no second chances.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Wind howled through the turrets. Daniel glanced out of the bedchamber window at the darkening sky. He ignored a sudden pang of foreboding.
Sunset was the perfect time to open a bottle of sherry with an old friend. Perhaps tonight he and Rebecca could begin to put their past behind them. A fresh start. With determination, he strode out from his bedchamber and into the belly of the castle.
Before reaching the wine cellar, he glimpsed the true object of his desire disappearing into an open doorway at the rear of the property.
Rebecca had just entered the billiards room.
He smiled to himself as he hurried down the corridor to catch up with her. Years ago, during the same visit in which raisin biscuits had forever become his favorite dessert, he and Rebecca had sneaked into the billiards room and he had taught her to play.
She’d been abysmal, of course. Rarely managed to knock her ball in the correct direction, much less bank the red carom ball into an appropriate rail. But they’d spent an entire afternoon talking about anything and everything, and had laughed until their cheeks hurt.
Daniel hadn’t enjoyed a game of billiards that much before or after.
He crossed the threshold just as Rebecca finished placing the red ball and the spot ball onto the billiard green.
“No ball for me?” he asked as he entered the room.
She glanced up in surprise. “You want to play?”
&n
bsp; “What gentleman ever doesn’t wish he was playing billiards with a beautiful woman?”
Her eyes fluttered heavenward, but she placed the white ball atop the table and motioned for him to take his shot.
Rather than aim at the carom ball, he sent his ball flying lengthwise to the other end of the table, where it bounced against the rail and rolled back to where it began, about ten inches from the head rail.
He couldn’t remember if he’d ever taught her this method of returning one’s ball as close to the rail as possible in order to determine which player went first, but before he could explain what he was about, Rebecca lined up her cue and took her shot.
Her ball flew smoothly across the green, kissed the far rail, and sailed past where it had first taken flight to stop flush against the cushion.
It was the most perfect lag shot Daniel had ever seen in his life.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like to go first?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “You don’t want me to go first.”
“Your mistake,” he said with a shrug as he lined up his cue. “First to score eight wins.”
The first stroke was a classic ricochet off the red ball and he scored his first point. The second stroke caught the red ball slightly off center, but scored another point. The third hit, however, was slightly too inside the triangle to properly be considered good form.
He glanced at Rebecca out of the corner of his eye.
She gazed back at him placidly.
He’d count it as a point. He chalked his billiard stick and considered his next move. Rebecca neither seemed impressed nor unimpressed with his play thus far. Despite scoring three in a row, she barely seemed to be paying attention.
Determined to dazzle her, he lined up a two point shot, intending to hit her ball with the carom ball, all in one strike.
But due to inexplicably unsteady fingers, the only ball he managed to hit was his own.
“My turn?” she asked, her wide gray eyes spellbinding.
He stepped back from the table and bowed. “Milady.”
