by Ava Stone
“Miss Eilbeck!” He started towards her.
Heavens! She hadn’t expected to see him again. Everything in Marisdùn’s gardens pale next to you. His earlier words echoed in her ears and made her heart lift once more. “My lord,” she returned, relieved that her voice hadn’t failed her. “This is a surprise.”
“Certainly a pleasant one for me.” Then he quickly introduced his friend, a Lord Wolverly who nodded a greeting before Lord Bradenham turned his complete attention on Callie. “Where are you off to, Miss Eilbeck?” he asked.
“The vicarage,” she replied, lifting the small basket on her arm higher in the air. “My friend mentioned she was out of Miss Alcott’s rum butter yesterday and I thought to bring her some more today.”
“Rum butter?” He frowned just a bit.
Callie nodded quickly. “Wonderfully good, especially on fresh scones. And Miss Alcott’s is the best in all of Cumberland.”
“I’ll have to try some while I’m in the area, then.”
Callie could certainly accommodate that wish. They had quite the stock at Braewood as Cyrus could eat his weight in the stuff on a weekly basis. “Tomorrow, when you come for tea?” she suggested.
“Perfect solution.” Then he glanced up one end of High Street and said, “You haven’t seen my brother, have you?”
“Not since this morning in your gardens.” Callie glanced towards the other end of the street, looking to see if she could spot Lord Quentin in the opposite direction. “Is everything all right?”
Lord Bradenham snorted. “Just trying to make certain he stays out of trouble.”
Cyrus and his threats. Callie shook her head. “Don’t mind my brother. He was in a temper this morning because of Lila’s injury. Any other day of the week he wouldn’t care less about your masquerade.”
“Is that why you told him that lie about the vicar approving?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Callie’s cheeks heated instantly. How terribly embarrassing! Heavens! How did he know she’d lied to her brother?
He must have noticed her state of discomfort because he hastened to explain, “You did cross your fingers behind your back this morning.”
He’d seen that? Callie winced and dropped her gaze down to her basket. “It just didn’t seem fair that he should try to ruin your party because he was in a temper. I hope you don’t think badly of me.”
“That you tried to save my masquerade?” he asked, amusement lacing his words. “A party that you don’t even want to attend?” Then his voice softened as he added, “I don’t think I ever could think badly of you, Miss Eilbeck.”
Callie tilted her head back to find his warm hazel eyes leveled on her with such sincerity, he took her breath away. After a moment, he gestured to her basket on her arm. “You’re headed to the vicarage now?”
She nodded. “To deliver this and make sure my friend is feeling all right.”
“Should I come with you?”
And walk with her all the way to the vicarage? What were the odds Callie could keep from floating up to the clouds somewhere along the way?
“See if the vicar might approve of our party before your brother learns the truth?” Lord Bradenham grinned. “I’d hate for you to get into trouble on account of my masquerade.”
A snort escaped Callie. Blast! That was embarrassing. When his brow lifted in question, she explained, “I’m in no danger of Cyrus learning the truth from Mr. Southward. My brother will be fortunate if he’s able to attend this week’s services without the vicar smiting him on the spot.”
Which didn’t explain anything, not if the frown now splashed across Lord Bradenham’s face was any indication. “I beg your pardon?”
Callie shook her head. How to explain the situation without making Cyrus look like more of a buffoon than he was? “I’m afraid my brother loudly and rather passionately professed his undying love for Lila in the middle of the church courtyard right after last week’s services. All of Ravenglass was there and her father was less than amused.”
Lord Bradenham was amused, however. His hazel eyes twinkled and his lips pressed together as though he was trying to smother a laugh. “Well,” he began after a moment, “hard to fault a man who so clearly adores his intended.”
Callie scoffed. She couldn’t help it. “That’s just it, my lord. Lila is not Cyrus’ intended, no matter how much he wishes she was.”
“Well, that is a different story then.” A laugh burst from Lord Bradenham and he shook his head as though to bring his levity back under control. “He certainly is a passionate fellow, your brother. I’ll give him that.”
And that was the nicest way anyone could describe Cyrus. It was kind of Lord Bradenham to find the nicest way. Most people didn’t even try. Even though Cyrus drove Callie half-mad most of the time and he embarrassed her more often than not, he was her brother and she did love him. Though some days it was easier to love him than others.
“You are welcome to join me at the vicarage, if you like,” she said. “Just don’t expect Mr. Southward to give your masquerade his blessing.”
“Oh, I think I would much rather talk to you than your vicar anyway.” He smiled, warming Callie from the inside out.
She was definitely going to float up to the clouds, Callie had no doubt. Hopefully, his lordship wouldn’t notice.
“Carry your basket for you?” he asked.
“Oh! Thank you, Lord Bradenham.” She lifted her basket out to him. “That is kind of you.”
“Just Braden.” He offered her his arm. “My friends call me Braden.”
And was that what they were? Friends? Callie’s heart fluttered at the thought. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought she’d meet a man as dashing or handsome or kind as Lord Br…Braden. And to think he thought of them as friends! She accepted his arm with another wide smile and said, “Then you must call me Callie. My friends do.”
“I would like that very much.”
She had no artifice whatsoever, Braden was happy to note. Every blush, every smile was as genuine as she’d first seemed in Marisdùn’s gardens that morning. And that was quite different than what he was accustomed to in London – girls who’d been trained since birth how to bat their eyes, how to giggle just right, how to best allure a titled fellow to his knees. His own sisters were quite proficient at all of that. But not Callie Eilbeck. She was exactly as she seemed, and that sincerity was much more alluring than any practiced London debutant he’d ever encountered.
“Do you plan to stay in Ravenglass long?” she asked as they started their course for the vicarage.
He hadn’t planned on anything of the sort. Of course he hadn’t planned on inviting half of London to attend a ridiculous Samhain masquerade at Marisdùn either, but he had in the end anyway. Staying beyond the masquerade though? He didn’t particularly care for the castle. It was dark and drafty and came filled with the most superstitious of servants. But Callie could most certainly tempt him to stay a bit longer. He didn’t have anything he was racing home to do other than see after his sisters and see how his new stud was settling in at Highfield. “I hadn’t thought about staying past the masquerade, but I suppose that is a possibility.”
The smile that lit her face was so brilliant, Braden thought for a moment he might be dreaming. But he wasn’t. She was quite real. Her arm hooked with his as they continued their stroll.
“If I do stay for a bit,” he continued, “which of Ravenglass’s sights should I see, Callie?”
“Well, I’m afraid we can’t compete with London.”
“You must have something of interest in the parish,” he pressed.
“Hmm…” Her lips tilted up in the most charming grin. “Well, there’s always the vicarage,” she teased, and the sound of her melodic voice washed over Braden like a caress. “But we are headed there now.”
“True,” he conceded with a feigned frown. “Anything else?”
“Braewood Manor.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “I’m certain
the girl who lives there would be quite happy to entertain you.”
“That particular girl is my favorite thing in all of Ravenglass.”
The innocent blush that stained her cheeks was so becoming Braden nearly stumbled. He recovered quickly however, and was relived that she didn’t seem to notice his misstep.
“But if you’re to stay in Ravenglass for any amount of time, Braden, you really ought to visit Marisdùn Castle. It has quite the reputation.”
“I hear they have a lovely garden there.”
Her blush deepened. “And dozens of ghosts.”
At that, he couldn’t help but laugh. “Not you too, Callie. You seem much too sensible to believe in ghosts.”
She stopped in her tracks and looked up at him. All light-hearted teasing gone, she looked as serious as he’d seen her thus far. “You haven’t encountered anything unusual, then?”
“Not unless you count puerile servants who jump at the wind.”
A frown creased her brow. “I don’t like the place. I never have.”
“Did something happen to you at the castle?” Something that might explain that frown or her trepidation?
She quickly shook her head. “I’ve never stepped foot on Marisdùn land until this morning. Just seeing the castle from afar has always sent a chill racing down—”
“You’ve never stepped foot on the castle grounds until today?” he interrupted. He couldn’t have understood her properly. It just didn’t make sense. She lived in Ravenglass. She had to have been at Marisdùn sometime before this morning.
But she shook her head once more. “Lila says I’m silly. She’s been there dozens of times, but…” Her frown deepened. “There’s something about it, Braden. Like some sort of evil just emanating from the place. Do be careful while you’re there.”
Braden would hardly call Marisdùn evil, but she did look so concerned, so he nodded in response. “I’ll be careful if it will make you rest easier.”
If someone had told Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverly, a week ago that he’d be chasing some callow chit about ancient ruins and loving every bloody moment of it, he never would have believed them. Good God, what had he become? He prided himself on being indifferent, impassive, unruffled. But if anyone had ever ruffled his unflappable feathers, it was this girl. A girl he’d known for a mere twenty-four hours, but who intrigued him and spoke to a part of him that had been long dead.
Her tittering laugh echoed in his head as he followed her from the ruins of an ancient bathhouse back to their blanket at the edge of the meadow. They were both breathing heavily from the exercise, and their breath wafted on white puffs into the chilly air. But there was nothing cold about Alastair just then. He’d been warmed from the inside out.
“I’ve never known a girl who could run quite so fast,” he said, plopping to the blanket and immediately falling to his back to stare up at the sky.
“Have you seen my brother’s legs?” she asked, dropping to her knees and sitting back on her haunches. “They practically go all the way to his chin. I had to learn to keep up with him when we were children, so I had to run nearly everywhere.”
Alastair found this highly amusing, and let out a rather undignified guffaw. Damn, but it felt good to be undignified, even if only for an afternoon. “I daresay you could outrun my horse.”
“Well, I doubt that,” she replied as she began to pull things from the picnic basket. “Will I get to meet him?”
“Who? My horse?”
She gave him a smile as if to say, You dolt, of course I mean your horse.
Alastair returned with a sheepish smile. “Jupiter would be honored to make your acquaintance.” He paused and then ventured, “Perhaps tomorrow.”
There was an infinitesimal pause as she pulled a bottle of wine from the basket. Her lovely round cheeks pushed up ever so slightly with her smile, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Was he being too forward? He’d only known her a day, after all. And what if she already had a beau? He hadn’t thought about that.
Alastair came abruptly to his elbow and narrowed his eyes on her. “At the risk of sounding rude, might I ask you a question?”
Now she looked at him. Her sapphire eyes blinked a few times as the autumnal breeze blew a few strands of her shimmering dark hair across her nose and forehead. “That depends,” she said. “Am I allowed to take offense if it is exceedingly rude?”
“Absolutely.” His heart pounded as he searched his brain for the right words.
“Well, then, you may proceed.” She tilted her chin and stared down at him, waiting.
“Why are you not married?”
Miss Alcott burst into laughter at this, clearly not offended by the question at all, but rather highly amused. Relief washed over him.
“Oh, Lord Wolverly, how should I know the answer to that question?” She busied herself again with the contents of the picnic basket. “I’ve never even been courted.”
Alastair stared at her in a state of shock. “Never?” A girl of her age—and beauty—in London would have certainly been courted by at least a few gentlemen. “Surely there are eligible gentlemen around here.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But they don’t see me as eligible.” She clapped her hands together and pasted on a smile. “Now, I hope you’ve brought your appetite. We have roasted chicken, a fresh loaf of bread, grapes, and of course…” She held up a jar of what Alastair assumed was her famous rum butter. “To go on top of the bread pudding.”
Miss Alcott obviously didn’t want to talk any further about her gentlemen suitors, or lack thereof, as it were. And Alastair wouldn’t press the issue. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, he had an overwhelming urge to make her feel safe. And happy. And—
“Shall I pour us some wine?” he said, sitting up properly and reaching for the wine bottle.
Without a word, she handed over two tin cups, and he poured the wine before handing one back to her. They sipped in silence for a few moments. Alastair welcomed the warm path that the wine forged to his belly as he studied the woman across from him. Blue was most definitely her color. Seeing her against the backdrop of an azure sky proved that much. And that hair. The rich, dark color against her alabaster skin was enough to drive him wild, let alone the thought of running his fingers through the soft, thick mass of her tresses. How he longed to remove the pins from her simple chignon and see it tumble about her shoulders. Was it very long? Would it cover her breasts, like Eve in the Garden of Eden?
“So,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “How was your first night at Marisdùn?”
Alastair shrugged as he swallowed a tender morsel of roasted chicken. “Restless, at best,” he admitted.
“The ghosts keep you up?”
“Not you too,” he replied with a teasing smile.
“You mean to say you don’t believe in ghosts?”
He shook his head. “A bunch of nonsense, if you ask me.”
“Then what kept you up, pray tell?”
Alastair could have said it was thoughts of a certain young lady, and that would have been partially true, but he’d been forward enough already, so he opted for the other half of the story. “Well, my friends were deep in their cups last night, and made quite a racket upon their return from the pub.”
“Ah. You don’t have to tell me. I heard them leaving the pub near two in the morning. They caused quite the raucous on High Street.”
Alastair opened his mouth to tell her about the constantly varying temperature in the room as well, but stopped short. “Did you say two in the morning?”
She nodded, since her mouth was full of bread, but Alastair barely noticed. He’d looked at the clock when the thumping had awoken him last night. It was just after midnight, not anywhere near two o’clock. Had he been dreaming, after all?
“Something the matter?” Miss Alcott pressed.
Alastair snapped from his wonderments. “Not at all. I was just…thinking. At any rate, besides
all that raucous, well…I just couldn’t get comfortable. I was hot and then cold, and—” Miss Alcott’s tittering brought him up short. “Something funny?”
She cocked her head sideways and gave a smile better meant for a child. “Let me guess. A strange cool breeze would waft over you every so often? Yet there were no windows or doors left open.”
“That doesn’t mean there were ghosts,” he said, refusing to give in to fanciful ideas of life after death. “There could be a crack in a wall. An ill-fitted window. There are many logical explanations, none of which includes specters wandering about the castle.”
She gave a little shrug, and then said, “Are you ready for dessert?”
Alastair was ready for anything that didn’t involve talking about ghosts. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since we met yesterday and I started hearing stories of your famous rum butter.”
She scooped the bread pudding onto plates and then drizzled them both with generous amounts of the rum butter. “Here you are,” she said, handing the plate to him. And then she waited, staring at him intently.
“Aren’t you going to eat yours, Miss Alcott?”
“I will. I just want to see what you think of it first.”
He couldn’t help but smile at that. It wasn’t the most polite behavior to watch someone else so closely as they ate, but Alastair was starting to care less and less about propriety, and more and more about this guileless girl before him. He took a bite, and allowed the flavors to mingle on his tongue. Good heavens, that was delicious. Who knew plain old bread pudding could be so very decadent?
“Well?” she asked as he swallowed his first bite. “Do you like it?”
“Miss Alcott,” he said, reaching across the blanket to take her hand. “I now understand what everyone has been talking about. And if there is anything other worldly in this town, it is your ability to turn rum and sugar into something quite heavenly.”
“So is it just you and Sir Cyrus at Braewood?” Braden asked as they approached the vicarage.
