A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  All around her, men shouted, and horses whinnied. Her maid lay unconscious. Sofie had to get them out. She reached up for the door and shook the handle. Struggle as she might, the door would not budge. She pushed; she pulled; she prayed.

  The door flung outwards, wrenched out of her hands. Rain splashed in her face.

  “Are you injured?” a baritone rumbled.

  Wiping her eyes of droplets, she peered up into a shadowed face framed by soaked hair.

  “Give me your hands,” the darkness commanded.

  “My maid. She’s injured. Please, take her first,” Sofie shouted above the din of the storm.

  “I can more easily get to her if you’re out of the way. Take my hand.”

  A powerful forearm hauled her to safety. Once he saw her to firm ground, he climbed back on the carriage to retrieve her maid.

  Several men dashed about in the rain, working to free the horses from the overturned carriage. Far from the ditch, another carriage stood, unharmed, beckoning with dry security.

  “Follow me,” said their savior, striding ahead of her, the maid cradled in his arms.

  He nestled her companion on the opposite bench and turned to Sofie. “My man will see you to the inn.”

  He looked at her for no longer than a moment, but eternity stretched under his gaze. Sofie shivered in her drenched pelisse. The blackness of night hid his face, but she felt his compassion. Would he be scandalized if she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him?

  Only when the carriage lurched forward did she realize she had not uttered a word of thanks.

  The inn was nicer than expected, a large and clean establishment. The innkeeper’s wife saw Sofie to her room, had a temporary maid sent up, and promised to tend to her companion, who had thankfully come to with a single sniff of smelling salts. Their luggage waited, not lost in the mud.

  Had Sir Nathaniel arrived yet? Would he send for her to dine with him or wait until tomorrow? Her maid had chosen a lovely dress for their first meeting, but Sofie could hardly think of that now. She was tired and chilled. A cup of tea was what she needed most.

  In dry clothes but with damp hair, she found her way downstairs. The public room was crowded with travelers seeking shelter from the storm. She searched impatient faces for the innkeeper or his wife or—no, she would not admit that she came in hopes of seeing her evening’s hero.

  But who was she to deny fate?

  A flash of movement stole her attention. Broad shoulders bearing a drenched, multi-caped greatcoat strode into the inn, soaked black hair fanning about a chiseled face.

  He made for the private parlor. The door closed behind him, leaving her hesitant. But she only wanted to thank him. What harm could come from a quick word of gratitude? This would be her only opportunity.

  One step. Then another. Her hand perched on the handle. Breathe.

  She saw herself into the private room.

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to intrude, but—” Sofie choked on her remaining words.

  The parlor was empty except for the man beside the fire. The greatcoat had been tossed across a chair. The cravat, coat, and waistcoat had followed. Before her stood a man in nothing but boots, buckskins, and a nearly transparent shirt that clung to his torso in sinful ways.

  His hands swept his hair away from his face as he turned to her, his expression one of shock mixed with anger.

  “This parlor is reserved,” he barked.

  She hardly heard. Angled features, square jaw, cleft chin… Her breath hitched at the sight of the bare chest framed by the shirt’s open vee, the tapered waist, and the muscled thighs.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, interrupting her admiration. “My apologies. I had thought to have the parlor to myself until dinner.” With a lunge, he snatched up the soaked waistcoat.

  “No, I’m the one who owes you an apology. I shouldn’t have barged in. I only wanted to thank you for helping us.”

  “Damsels in distress are my speciality,” he said with a wink. “I had planned to invite you to dinner after your respite. Seeing that you’re already here, would you care to join me?”

  The side door to the parlor opened.

  The innkeeper stepped in, his eyes on the tray he carried. “Coffee, sir. And I’ve sent our boy to your suite until your valet arri—” He halted, the tray meeting the table with a thunk.

  His mouth gaped as he looked from Sofie to the half-dressed man and back again. Taking a step back, he bowed and mumbled his apologies.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fremont. I trust you’ve taken good care of my wife’s quarters?”

  “Yes, yes, the very best, as you requested.” The innkeeper exited as quickly as he entered, leaving them alone once more.

  Her first horror was at being caught in a room alone with a half-dressed man. Her second was learning he already had a wife, here at the inn, no less.

  Amidst her shock, the man laughed. “Was it arrogant of me to announce you as my wife?”

  “Your wife? You mean, Mr. Fremont thought you meant me?”

  “But of course.” He crossed the room in quick strides, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed her. A dizzying, spine-tingling kiss, his warm, moist mouth pressed to hers.

  When he released her, she grabbed at his chest to hold steady. This. This was what she wanted. Not an arranged marriage, but this.

  He raised a hand to her cheek, caressing her with the backs of his fingers. “Now it’s your turn to rescue me, my lady.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I…you see…I’m already betrothed.”

  “Yes, you are. To me. Sir Nathaniel Gilbert.” He leaned in, teasing lips brushing hers once more. “At your service.”

  Haunted

  They said he bore the mark of the devil.

  Poppycock, Rosalind thought.

  Fools nattered in her ear—a castle shrouded in darkness, ghouls lurking, a master who ate the hearts of babes. Utter rubbish. Granted, the circumstances were unusual, but there was undoubtedly a rational explanation for the earl’s behavior.

  Every year, the flame of fear was fanned by the Earl of Tepes’ exclusive house party on All Hallows’ Eve. The earl himself invited—nay, challenged—thirteen unmarried ladies and their chaperones to dine at the castle. The lady who lasted an entire night would meet the earl as a potential bride. As of yet, no one had stayed until morning.

  No one had seen the earl, either. Plenty claimed to have, each with horrific tales as unlikely as the next.

  Never in Rosalind’s dreams would she have considered accepting an invitation to such a silly contest, but life found her in desperate straits. Her uncle, despite his wealth, considered her a burden. Unmarriageable, long in the tooth, and headstrong, she would find herself with packed bags in hand before next month ended. In comparison, marriage to the “monstrous” Lord Tepes sounded divine.

  Surveying her companions, Rosalind felt notably out of place. Each had a proper chaperone, whether their mother, elder sister, or aunt. She, however, had a disgruntled maid. Not that it mattered. The ladies sharing this carriage, and likely the others following, would not last long, all afraid of their own shadow. Not Rosalind. There were no such things as ghosts or spooks that went bump in the night.

  A glance out the window did little to bolster her confidence, however. The castle rose above a low-lying fog, an overgrown garden stretching the length of the drive.

  Carriages queued before a portcullis with latticed iron spikes. Cheery.

  Departing safety one trembling foot at a time, the ladies and their chaperones watched agape as a one-armed footman turned the lever to raise the gate. The butler, stooped by a shoulder hump, shuffled towards them.

  “Good evening,” he said, one lazy eye roaming. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

  The other ladies exchanged wary glances. Rosalind rolled her eyes and took
the lead behind the perfectly amiable butler.

  Twenty pairs of eyes watched them from mounted portraits, each with a gaze that followed the group from foyer to drawing room. One young lady whimpered. Linear perspective, Rosalind scoffed.

  Garnet damask curtains shielded the windows. Candles illuminated the room. Shadows danced across brocade wallpaper—crimson with gilded acanthus leaves. A chill tremored skin despite the fire and warming wine. With no sign of host or ghost, the guests speculated what horrors awaited them this night.

  An hour they waited until the hunched butler shambled them into the dining room, which glittered and glowed from candles extraordinaire. Decadent plates appeared with a saut de basque dance of footmen. Rosalind hid a smile. She could accustom herself to such a life.

  A scream ripped through the room.

  All heads turned to the youngest lady, a hand to her mouth, her gaze riveted on a blushing footman. Ah, not blushing. A pink face puckered with burn scars looked back at the young lady with such sorrow, Rosalind’s heart bled for him. Ducking his head, the footman left the room, as did the girl and her mother shortly thereafter.

  And then there were twelve.

  Two courses served, the entourage relaxed to discuss the latest fashions in bonnets. Through such barren conversation, Rosalind eyed the room and footmen, the former opulent, the latter damaged. Curious.

  Entertainment accompanied the third course.

  It began with a thump and scrape above them. Thump, scrape. Thump, scrape. The sounds traveled across the ceiling. All eyes turned upwards. Downward it followed the wall, then scratched the length of the room, sending a girl into a swoon. No sooner did her aunt grab the smelling salts than a banshee screech shattered the air.

  Four pairs of guests fled the castle with the devil on their heels, their dinners unfinished.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Rosalind said to her remaining companions. “It was only a fox.”

  From side to side the guests eyed each other, wary. Only one of the sounds had been explained.

  Eight contestants and their protectors finished dinner and returned to the drawing room for the delights of two brave girls’ musical talents. One sang. One played. Unfortunately, the soprano resembled the strings of a violin in the hands of a novice. The neighboring werewolf felt as deafened as Rosalind, for not ten bars into the song, a spine-chilling howl bayed into the night.

  The accompanist pounded discordant keys and shrieked herself off the piano bench. The howl ushered three more guests and their mothers out of the castle.

  “This is ridiculous. There are no wolves in England,” Rosalind rationalized to her four rivals and their guardians.

  “Then how do you explain the night-howler?” questioned a matron whose eyes were as beady as her ward’s.

  “Well…perhaps…” She tapped her index finger to her mouth. “One of the footmen stubbed his toe on a table. Wouldn’t you howl at such pain?”

  The matron’s expression soured.

  A haughty girl, sitting unnecessarily far from the group, lowered her nose long enough to say, “Don’t think he’ll marry you even if you win the contest. No one wants a spinster for their countess.”

  So, the talons were unleashed at last. And they called the earl a monster?

  Rosalind smiled. “I take it you’re already planning your nuptials with our vampiric host.”

  “You can’t frighten me,” said the harpy. “I don’t believe a word of such rumors. He, like so many men, wishes to avoid marriage. This is all a lark.”

  Brows arched, Rosalind stood. “Then I’m no competition for you. If you’ll all excuse me, I wish to retire early. Good night.”

  Ignoring the harrumphs, she headed for the door. Two of the pairings joined her for an early rest. No sooner did the group reach the foot of the stairs than behind them erupted screams and footfalls. Lady Haughty and another contestant raced through the foyer to the front door, leaving cries of singing ghosts in their wake.

  And then there were three.

  For how long Rosalind lay in bed staring at the muralled ceiling, she could not say. She counted by sounds rather than by time. Another fox. Another howl. A curious dragging sound punctuated by thumps. If they had not arrived at the castle determined to last an evening without losing their soul to the beasts lurking in the shadows, no one would have been bothered by the peculiar combination of noises.

  The staff were a curiosity, certainly. Victims of a monster? Unlikely. The host merely had a penchant for hiring the unwanted. That fact made him admirable.

  Ah, a new sound. A giggle in the wall behind her bed, as though from a child hiding. Straining, she listened. The giggling moved along the wall. Was this the drawing room ghost?

  A bang shook the paintings. Rosalind leapt out of bed, clutching her dressing gown. Ghoulish moaning ensued. The wall shuddered, the moans intensifying.

  After lighting her bedside candle, a fumbling challenge in the dark, she donned a robe and made for the door.

  Peering into the hallway, she saw only emptiness. Until the two doors down from hers opened to the flying nightgowns of the last guests and their relations, leaving Rosalind alone in the house except, of course, for her maid, though she had not seen the girl since undressing for bed.

  Ears perked, she listened for the ghostly sounds. Silence.

  With a shrug, Rosalind bowed her head back into her room, but not before catching a flash of color. Peeking once more around the door, she grinned. An earthly maid and footman crept out of a closet together, the footman adjusting his fall flap. Haunted castle, indeed.

  Thump, rattle. Thump, rattle.

  Eyes wide, Rosalind looked the opposite direction down the hall. Empty.

  Thump, rattle.

  Courage in her throat, she followed the sound. Thump, rattle. It came from behind the wall. Fingers strangling her chamberstick, she pressed an ear to the wood. Thump, rattle, scrape. Thump, rattle, scrape.

  She rapped smartly on the wall. The sound paused before continuing around the corner into the gallery. She followed. Abruptly, it stopped again, pivoted, and went the opposite direction.

  Had she not first heard a door open, she would not have been swift enough to douse her candle and duck behind a decorative bust. As it happened, she did hear a door. The peculiar part was there were no doors in the hall. Eyes straining in the darkness, she watched.

  As though walking through the wall, a frail man appeared in the gallery, tray in hand. He took five steps to the opposite wall and disappeared again. Even that was not as notable as the clubbed foot he dragged and the rattling cutlery on his tray. Rosalind barely suppressed her mirth. Ghosts in the wall, indeed.

  The footman thumped his way inside the opposite wall, leaving an empty hall behind him. Retracing his steps, she studied his exit point. It seemed ordinary enough. She pushed against the wood, feeling the grain for a seam or lever or something.

  Click.

  The wall angled and slid, a handy pocket door. A quick glance beyond revealed a well-lit servant’s hallway. Sconces decorated the walls every few feet. To the right, the hall continued, and to the left it ended at a set of spiral steps. To the left she went. On second thought… She dashed back to set the candlestick by the door to mark the exit.

  While uneven and narrow, the stairs climbed only one story before ending at an arched wooden door. Lifting the iron ring, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Before her was an inviting tower library. A fire roared in the hearth. The smell of leather-bound books enticed her. Though not a large space, it was warm and cozy. Lounging in front of the fireplace was the night-howler—a sizable bloodhound, its head on its paws. Facing the fire, its back to the door, was a winged chair.

  Thunk, click.

  The door shut behind her.

  The bloodhound moved first, lifting its head to investi
gate. He thumped his tail and climbed to his feet to lumber to her. Rosalind calmed her beating heart by petting the bloodhound, whose baying bark had become a familiar sound that evening.

  “About time you arrived,” the voice from the chair growled. “I’m ravenous.”

  “Good heavens, do you mean to eat me?”

  The beast was on his feet in a flash, hand braced against the mantel, teeth bared.

  With his back to the firelight, his face hid in shadow. From all else she could see, he appeared a normal man. No, normal would be a disservice. He was a physically thrilling man with long black hair worn loose around broad shoulders, a hard chest visible in the vee of a starched shirt, and muscular thighs framed with buckskin breeches.

  Her eyes roamed over his deliciously attractive physique in its state of half-dress. This was the monster? Had her stomach not fluttered so fiercely nor her cheeks warmed so feverishly, she would have laughed.

  “I hadn’t realized my butler would bring dessert before dinner,” he said at last, recovering from the unexpected intrusion.

  Her body flamed from his implication. Under normal circumstances, she would have thought of a witty retort. Alas, all she could do now was pet the dog.

  “Haven’t you heard, my lady? I eat virgins.” He growled again, the effect lost when the bloodhound thumped his tail and trotted over to his master to nuzzle a pale hand.

  Sucking in her breath, hand on her stomach, she said, “Well, I suppose that gives us both something to look forward to. I do believe that’s a benefit of marriage, yes?”

  Lord Tepes barked a laugh. For a moment, all tension was eased. But his laugh ended sharply.

  “What are you doing in my study?”

  She took a brave step forward. “Looking for a husband.”