One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  Would Braden truly stay in Ravenglass beyond his masquerade? Or return to Highfield and his sisters? Oh, she hoped he’d stay a bit longer. But…

  When he did inevitably leave, would her heart ever survive it? That was most definitely a lowering thought; one she wished had never popped to mind. But before she could fret further on it, their butler appeared on the threshold.

  “The Marquess of Bradenham is here, Miss Callie,” Muckle said.

  She nodded quickly, not certain she could even find her voice to respond all of a sudden.

  “Perfect,” Cyrus said from behind the butler. “Do show him to the yellow parlor, Muckle.”

  The yellow was better. It was, after all, the nicer parlor. Thank heavens her brother wasn’t as anxious as she was. Callie smiled a thanks to him.

  “Go on,” Cyrus said softly as soon as Muckle departed for the corridor. “Find the perfect place to sit, and I’ll join the two of you in a moment.”

  She pushed up to her toes, pressed a quick kiss to her brother’s cheek, and then scampered across the corridor to the yellow parlor. She settled on the new brocade settee just as Muckle announced Braden from the threshold.

  Callie’s gaze shot to the doorway to find Braden, as handsome and regal as he’d been the day before, standing there. Even from across the room, his warm hazel eyes heated her as well as the hottest fire in a hearth ever had.

  “Thank you, Muckle,” Callie said, rising from her spot, grateful her voice sounded as it should. “Some tea and scones, too, please…And the rum butter,” she tossed in.

  “Of course, Miss,” the butler said as he quit the room.

  Callie turned her smile on Braden and started towards him. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “Well, you did say the girl who lived here would be happy to entertain me,” he said, his deep voice washing over her like the softest caress.

  It was all Callie could do not to sigh right then and there.

  She reached her arm out to him, and when he squeezed her hand in his, she thought she might expire on the spot. Awareness coursed through her and she could only stare up at him. Heavens! She might just have met Braden, but there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she loved him most ardently. What she wouldn’t do to have that warm gaze on her everyday.

  “I hope I’m not too early,” he said.

  Callie shook her head. “You’re perfect…er…perfectly on time.”

  “Perfectly?” His brow lifted in amusement. “For a moment I thought you were going to give me a most wonderful compliment.”

  Which she hadn’t meant to say, at least not so soon. “Are you perfect, Lord Bradenham?” She suspected he was in every way, but she had to say something.

  “Lord Bradenham?” His hazel eyes twinkled as though he knew just how completely he affected her. “And I thought we were friends, Callie.”

  Friends. She wanted to be much more than his friend. She wanted to drown in those warm eyes of his. She wanted his arms around her. She wanted to never have to let him go. But she doubted Cyrus would approve of any of that.

  She directed him towards the new settee, her hand still clasped in his. “My brother,” she started to explain.

  “Can’t be worse than mine,” he teased, settling in beside her.

  Except that Lord Quentin didn’t seem proper at all and would hardly care how familiar Braden and Callie were with each other. Cyrus most definitely would. “It’s just…”

  “Ah, Bradenham,” Cyrus said from the threshold. “Good of you to come. I’m hoping that all of you London swells have been on your best behavior since yesterday.”

  And with that, Callie wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Must her brother start out the conversation in all his blustering glory? “Cyrus,” she complained.

  But Braden, who was still holding her hand and didn’t seem inclined to let it go, replied, “Honestly, Eilbeck, I’ve been so distracted by your sister, I haven’t paid the lot of them one bit of attention. If they’ve caused some sort of a ruckus, it hasn’t been brought to my attention.”

  Cyrus’s gaze then dropped to Braden and Callie’s clasped hands. “And what about you, Bradenham? Have you been on your best behavior?”

  Braden squeezed her fingers, a show of support that sent warmth skittering about Callie’s belly. “On my honor.”

  “I’m afraid your honor doesn’t precede you.” Her brother crossed the floor and then dropped into a chair across from the two of them. “I know next to nothing about you other than the fact that you’re the new owner of Marisdùn and that you can’t seem to release my sister’s hand.”

  Braden agreed with a nod of his head. “What would you like to know, Eilbeck? What can I tell you that would relieve your concerns and help you give me your blessing in courting Callie?”

  Callie’s mouth fell slightly open. Had he really just said those words? Out loud? To Cyrus?

  Her brother frowned slightly. “You mean to court my sister?”

  A charming smile spread across Braden’s lips. “I mean to marry your sister, but I thought courting her should come first.”

  Heavens! She was so light-headed she might very well faint. Had he just said he wanted to marry her?

  “That is, of course,” he amended, glancing at Callie, “if you’re amendable to the idea.” His warm hazel gaze heated her from the inside out.

  She must be dreaming. Only in a dream would the most dashing man she’d ever met say such things. If she wasn’t dreaming, however, she really should answer him. All she was able to do, however, was nod rather fervently.

  “Now just one second.” Cyrus puffed out his chest. “I still don’t know the first thing about you, Bradenham. You can’t truly expect me to agree to this match under such circumstances.”

  Blast her brother. He was going to ruin everything. “Cyrus!” she begged.

  Braden squeezed her hand once more, however, putting her fears to rest. “It’s all right, Callie. If I was in his spot, I’d be asking the same questions.”

  Though she imagined he wouldn’t ask them so accusingly. What was the matter with her brother?

  Braden turned his attention to Cyrus and said, “I expect I will be in your spot, three times over, Eilbeck. And if you care for Callie as much as I do my sisters, then I want to put your mind at ease. How shall I best accomplish that?”

  It seemed as though his words took a bit of the wind out of Cyrus’s sails, and he slumped back against his chair. “You have sisters of your own?”

  Braden smiled. “Three of the most silly, most stubborn creatures ever put on this planet. And I love them dearly.”

  “And what would you say if some fellow you never met showed up at your home, wanting to marry one of them?”

  “I would hope,” Callie interrupted, “he’d take his sister’s wishes under consideration.”

  “I am the 7th Marquess of Bradenham,” Braden returned calmly. “My funds are in order, as are my estates and holdings. The same as my father and grandfather kept them before me. A sizable allowance from the marquessate goes to my brother; and I have a step-mother and three sisters I’m responsible for.” He cast Callie a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to her brother. “I have never asked to court any lady until today. I never had the desire to do so. Honestly, I never really gave love at first sight any thought at all before, but I am now a firm believer, Eilbeck.”

  Callie’s breath caught in her throat. Did he love her like she was certain she loved him? Was that possible?

  “You love her?” Cyrus asked, skepticism lacing his voice.

  Braden took a steadying breath. “Something clicked in my heart when I first saw her. And every moment I’ve spent with her since has only made me more than certain.” He nodded. “Quick as it may seem, I am quite in love with your sister. And I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  Callie released the breath she was holding. “Oh, Braden,” she sighed, her heart expanding in her chest. />
  “And then what?” Cyrus asked, sounding more than concerned. “Are you taking up residence at Marisdùn, then?”

  Oh, Callie hoped not. It was one thing to stroll the castle’s gardens, quite another to live in the place, teeming with ghosts and who knew what else.

  Braden shook his head. “I’ve only come to see the property my great-uncle left me. I—”

  “And throw some outlandish masquerade while you’re here.” Cyrus sneered. “Bring a group of rowdy Londoners with you to our quiet town and toss Ravenglass on its side in the process.”

  “That was certainly not my intent.” Braden sat a little taller on the settee. “And I’m certain my brother and my friends haven’t caused any sort of fracas since that first night.”

  Muckle, carrying the silver tea service and a plate of scones, cleared his throat from the threshold.

  “On the table over here,” Callie directed. Then she rose from her spot and gestured both gentlemen to keep their seats. “How do you take your tea, Braden?” she asked after the butler had placed the service and refreshments on the nearby table.

  “Just a bit of milk,” he said, though he was still eyeing Cyrus; and her brother was still eyeing Braden.

  Lord Wolverly removed her hand from his elbow and moved to open the doors. Daphne immediately felt his absence, and a bit of the apprehension she always tried to so hard to suppress bubbled its way to the surface.

  “This way,” he said, but as he started to turn, he must have noticed the slight hesitation in Daphne’s eyes. He walked the few paces back to her. “Is something the matter?”

  She shook her head, and closed her eyes. She felt like such a ninny. “No, it’s silly, really,” she said. “I’m fine.” Though she didn’t feel fine at all. Her heart was racing faster than a well-sprung phaeton.

  “Miss Alcott, whatever it is, I beg of you to tell me,” he insisted, taking her hand in his. She prayed he would never let go. “I shouldn’t ever want you to feel uncomfortable.”

  Those words warmed her through and through. Part of her felt that with him beside her, she might be able to conquer any fears she might have. “Thank you,” she said, meaning it. But she didn’t explain. She hated to talk about it, about what had happened. It only brought up the most painful of memories. “But I’m fine. Truly, I am. Please, take me to see Jupiter.”

  Lord Wolverly studied her for a long moment, and then he finally nodded and turned back toward the stables. Blessedly, he kept hold of her hand, leading her into the large, wooden building. Daphne hadn’t been in a set of stables since the accident, but she remembered the smells like it was yesterday. The sweet, pungent hay, the sweaty, leathery smell of the horses. And not an ounce of smoke, thank the good Lord.

  Wolverly stopped in front of a roomy stable where a beautiful reddish-brown beast stuck his nose over the gate. Daphne’s heart softened toward the viscount even further as he approached the animal with all the tenderness one might use to approach a newborn babe. The horse whinnied softly and nudged Wolverly’s chin in an attempt to nuzzle his master. Lucky horse.

  “Miss Alcott,” he said, stroking down Jupiter’s nose, “I would like you to meet Jupiter. Jupiter…this is Miss Alcott.” As he said her name, his eyes lingered on her with a reverence no man had ever shown her before. Her stomach fluttered and a flush of heat started at her toes and worked its way all the way up to her cheeks. It was easy to forget where she was when he looked at her like that.

  She dipped a bow to the horse with a soft giggle. “A pleasure to meet you, Jupiter. But I must insist you call me Daphne, if I am to call you by your given name.”

  Wolverly apparently found the humor in this, for he chuckled and played along. “Oh, yes. We are all on a first-name basis here in the stables.” He settled his gaze on Daphne again. “So I must insist you call me Alastair.”

  Daphne’s mouth went dry. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. After trying several times to tell him that he could call her Daphne, he put her out of her misery. But not with words, thankfully. Words would have ruined this perfectly romantic moment. Instead, he abandoned Jupiter, who protested with a huff, and strode purposefully to Daphne. He didn’t even pause when he reached her—he grabbed her in his arms, his hand following the path of her jaw until it cupped the back of her neck so he could bring her closer. For a kiss. A kiss.

  Daphne had no clue what she was doing. No human had ever been this close to her before, at least not for something this intimate. Heavens, her senses were so overloaded, she could hardly take it all in. His hands caressing her back while still holding her firmly against him. His coarse lips against hers, gentle, yet prodding, as if he wished for her to open to him. His body, warm and hard against her. He smelled clean, as if he’d recently bathed, and was that bergamot she smelled?

  His tongue played against her lips, sending bolts of desire straight to her belly. Or perhaps a little lower than that. Heavens, this was overwhelming, and—

  She opened her mouth in an attempt to catch her breath, and he seized the opportunity to delve inside. Now she was positively throbbing down there. His tongue was so soft, so warm. She followed his lead and mimicked his motions, reveling in the play as her nipples hardened against the fabric of her chemise.

  One of his hands moved lower, almost to her derriere, and he pressed her against him, against something hard and altogether exciting and frightening. Daphne grabbed onto his firm upper arms and dug her nails in, unable to curb the desire that was now coursing through—

  “Well, well, well.”

  Alastair—for how could she possibly think of him as Lord Wolverly after such intimacies?—abruptly broke their kiss and looked over Daphne’s shoulder at whoever it was who had interrupted them. Daphne’s heart was racing so fast, she worried it might jump out of her throat any moment. She wanted to flee, but the bands of steel that held her at her back and behind her head wouldn’t budge.

  “Go away, Sidney,” Alastair said, the warning in his voice so dangerous sounding, even Daphne trembled a bit. Or perhaps she was simply weak in the knees after that kiss.

  The man named Sidney laughed insolently. “You mean you really won’t introduce me? Come now, if I’m to be the best man at your wedding, I ought to at least know the bride, shouldn’t I?”

  Alastair tightened his grip and a low growl reverberated through his body. “You are a blighter and a rogue—you’ll be lucky if I let you even gaze upon her face. Now get out.”

  Goodness, was this Sidney so very terrible? “Alastair,” she whispered.

  “Yes?” he asked; his tone was clipped and his eyes never left Sidney.

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind meeting him. He can’t be all that bad.”

  Finally, his dark eyes shifted to meet hers. There was fire in their depths, or was it fear? Was he afraid of something? She smiled at him in an effort to set him at ease.

  He let out a long breath, and Daphne could feel the tension easing from his body, since they were still pressed firmly together. “Fine.” He eased his grip and turned her around to face his friend. “Miss Alcott, Mr. Sidney Garrick.”

  Daphne had a feeling she knew why Alastair didn’t want her to meet his friend, and she almost giggled at the idea. He was handsome, yes. Light brown curls framed a very attractive face—he was almost angelic, though she assumed he’d be better categorized as a fallen angel than a heavenly one. He leaned against a beam, his arms crossed over his chest, and a roguish smile on his lips, but as Alastair finished the introduction, he pushed off the beam and sauntered—like Casanova himself—to stand before them. He took her hand in his and bowed over it, drawing it to his lips and lingering there for as long as Alastair would let him. Which wasn’t very long.

  “Enough, Sidney,” he warned, and Daphne had a feeling that when he used that tone, most people cow towed to whatever he demanded.

  Mr. Garrick, however, seemed to enjoy enraging his friend. He lifted his lips from her hand, and met her eyes, a smirk
playing across his mouth. He didn’t really have an interest in her—she knew that, and Alastair probably knew it too—Mr. Garrick was only being roguish to get under Alastair’s skin. Based on the rigidity of Alastair’s body at her back, it was working quite well.

  Daphne knew very little about the games men played, or the games women played, for that matter. She was innocent in almost all matters of the heart. But she knew she liked Alastair more than she was able to express, and she knew that the last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt him. Encouraging Mr. Garrick would most definitely be hurtful.

  “A pleasure,” she said, with very little emotion. “Now, I do believe Lord Wolverly plans to take me for a ride upon his prized beast, so you will have to excuse us, Mr. Garrick.”

  She tipped her head up to look at Alastair, glad to find a pleased grin upon his lips. “That is correct. Good day, Sid.”

  Mr. Garrick laughed heartily. “All right, all right,” he said. “I know when I’m not wanted.” He started out of the stable, but stopped just before he reached the door. “And be careful with him, Miss Alcott. He’s not as sturdy as he looks.”

  Daphne blinked at the man’s retreating form as she swallowed over the lump that had risen to her throat. Be careful with whom? Did he mean the horse…or Alastair? And what did that mean, anyhow?

  Apparently, Alastair wasn’t going to explain his friend. He was already in the stall with Jupiter, saddling him in preparation for their ride. Only moments later, he emerged with the horse’s lead in hand. Jupiter was much larger than she realized—he towered over both of them. Daphne didn’t have a lot of experience with horses, but Jupiter’s presence served as a reminder of where she was. Heavens, she’d almost forgotten, what with the kiss and Mr. Garrick.

  “Are you quite all right, Daphne?” Alastair asked, his tone gentle, as if he were cooing to a babe. And then he shook his head and growled an expletive to himself. “I’m sorry about Garrick. He’s…I don’t…”