The Right to Remain Single: A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella

by Monajem, Barbara

  The Right to Remain Single

  A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella

  Barbara Monajem

  BarbaraMonajem.com

  Contents

  Blurb

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Acknowledgments

  Discover more Regency Romance…

  About Barbara Monajem…

  Faced with the ghastly suitors her father approves, Thomasina Warren decides to lose her virginity so that no respectable man will have her. Who better to ruin her than handsome, charming James Blakely? But James is an honorable man and refuses point-blank. Humiliated, she resorts to outright refusal to wed, with the help of a ghost who scares her suitors away. But four years later, her father has arranged her marriage to a stodgy gentlemen whose only condition is that the ghost must be banished forever.

  James Blakely never forgot the lovely girl who asked him to ruin her, and when he offers to get rid of the ghost, he thinks he’ll be doing a good deed. Instead, he is faced with the hostile Thomasina, her cowardly suitor, pigheaded father, lecherous cousin, an exorcist monk, and a ghost who warns of danger and deadly peril—and a few short days in which to convince Thomasina that with the right man, she might just want to marry after all.

  Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Monajem

  This novella was originally published in the anthology, Christmas Kisses.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced nor used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  England, Autumn 1801

  “Thank God it’s almost over.” James Blakely mounted the stairs to go to bed at last. His parents had invited a gaggle of young heiresses and their parents to a fortnight-long party, with a view to arranging matches for their two elder sons—not for James yet, although his dreaded turn would come all too soon.

  He’d enjoyed flirting with pretty, vivacious Thomasina Warren, the only interesting girl in the lot, but apart from that it had been a long, tedious couple of weeks. All the ladies and most of the gentlemen visiting Statham Court had retired for the night, leaving only his elder brothers and a few cronies drinking and playing billiards. Tomorrow they would all go home. “I’ve had enough of guests,” he muttered.

  Since the only other person within earshot was a ghost, James received no response—not that the ghost had nothing to say, mind you. No doubt he had enjoyed a house party or two in his time, but at the moment he was in the throes of inspiration and needed James to transcribe a poem word for lovesick word. The ghost drifted quickly down the corridor and vanished through the door of James’s bedchamber, there to hover impatiently until James arrived.

  Apart from the poems, the Cavalier ghost who haunted Statham Court was a jolly sort of fellow. Since he had helped James play many a trick on his brothers and their friends over the years, James could hardly refuse to aid him in return. As long as no one sees the reams and reams of doggerel and thinks I wrote it, thought James with a shudder.

  He opened his bedchamber door upon an appalling sight.

  A lady, standing next to his writing desk clad only in her nightdress, turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Mr. Blakely, how romantic.” She indicated the pile of papers he’d been working on that afternoon. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry!”

  “I don’t,” he said, unable to stop himself from looking her up and down. She was so damned pretty—there was no denying he found her attractive—but good God, what if someone heard them? He shut the door softly and glared at her. “What the deuce are you doing here, Miss Warren?”

  Thomasina Warren’s flush showed clearly in the light of a branch of candles. “I came to ask a favor of you.”

  The ghost, who had removed his plumed hat in the presence of a lady, beamed and nodded at James.

  “At midnight?” James snapped. “In my bedchamber?”

  She blushed even more—and what a beautiful sight she was. “What better time and place?”

  The ghost grinned widely. He mentioned midnight and bedchambers far too often in his execrable poems.

  “For what?” James demanded, trying not to notice how enchantingly her chestnut hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  “For…for love.” Her gaze flickered to the scattered sheets of bad verse. “Who is she, your inamorata?”

  “My—my what?” He shook his head. “She’s not real,” and then, at a sudden gust of frigid air on his spine, “not alive, anyway. She’s the lady love of our resident ghost.”

  “Ah, the dashing Cavalier I’ve heard about. That explains the slightly archaic feeling of the poems.” She took a deep breath. Her bosom rose and fell. “In that case, what I’m about to ask is acceptable.”

  Nothing was acceptable about this situation. “Miss Warren, I do not wish to be discourteous, but this is most improper, and you must leave at once. Ask your favor of me tomorrow in daylight, in a less compromising location.”

  She didn’t move. “Tomorrow will be too late.”

  “A pity, but nevertheless you may not remain here.” He returned to the door, motioning with his chin, hoping to get rid of her without actually touching her. “Back to your own bedchamber. Now.”

  Thomasina faltered a little, but instead of obeying, she approached, looking up at him with wide, grey eyes. Meanwhile, he struggled not to lower his gaze to her bosom, which jiggled as she moved. The ghost watched them, highly amused.

  “Please don’t be upset, Mr. Blakely. It’s just a simple favor. I’m sure it can’t be difficult, as it’s done all the time.”

  He gritted his teeth. “What is done all the time?”

  “Carnal knowledge,” she said calmly. “Tupping, as my cousin Colin would put it.” His face must have shown his feelings, for she flapped a dismissive hand. “Yes, I know it’s improper of him to say such things in my presence, but you know what my family is like.”

  Damn Colin Warren. He should know better—which hardly mattered right now. Hades, she couldn’t be serious!

  “The Warrens are scandalous by nature and have been for centuries. Everyone knows that, so it’s practically expected of me to keep up the family tradition.” She hesitated, tipping her head to one side, as if assessing his growing dismay. “It’s quite simple, really. All I want is for you to ruin me.”

  * * *

  There! Thomasina had got the words out. Unfortunately, judging by the expression on James Blakely’s face, he didn’t intend to oblige her.

  How mortifying. She was sure he found her attractive. During the fortnight of the house party, he had flirted with her far more than with the other ladies visiting Statham Court. What had happened to his crooke
d smile and the mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes?

  He drew himself up like a starchy old grandparent. He was a handsome man, usually cheerful and fun-loving, and this scowl didn’t suit him. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve thought it through, and it makes perfect sense. No one will be surprised, as all the women in my family are known for bad behavior.”

  “The men in my family are not,” he retorted.

  “True, but no one need ever know it was you who ruined me,” she said. “The thing is, I like you and find you very—very attractive, so if I must be ruined, I would far rather it be by you than anyone else.”

  He ran a hand across his face. “That’s most kind of you, Miss Warren, but—”

  She put up a hand to forestall him. “Do please hear me out. You needn’t fear discovery. I shan’t tell anyone for ages, so no one will suspect it was you. Then I shall set it about that I succumbed to a rake.”

  His expression grew even more appalled. “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Why a rake? Because everyone will believe it. That’s what scandalous women do.”

  “No,” he retorted, “not why a rake. Why do you want to be ruined?”

  “To render myself unmarriageable,” she said.

  Briefly, astonishment replaced the annoyance. “You don’t wish to marry?”

  She suppressed a huff. Typical man, he couldn’t imagine a woman who didn’t long to be someone’s—anyone’s—wife. “Heavens, no, but as long as I remain a virgin, my father will keep trying to find me a husband. If you knew the sort of gentlemen he chooses…”

  “Yes, I saw him pushing you at a few bores at this party, and did my best to spare you their tedious company.” He shook his head. “I sympathize with you, Miss Warren, but never fear. Eventually the right man for you will come along.” He grimaced. “I mean the right man for you to wed.”

  She huffed. “You’re as idiotic as the rest. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t wish to marry. Ever.”

  He cast his eyes heavenward. He ran his fingers through his wavy, dark hair. He sighed. “If that is truly the case,” he said in the sort of voice one would use with a child, “then you should not attempt to seduce a respectable man.”

  “Whom else might I seduce? The alternative is a rake, and I don’t find rakes the least bit appealing.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” he said. “But the fact remains, Miss Warren, that if I were to ruin you, I would then be obliged to marry you.”

  “Why? If nobody knew about it, why should you?”

  “I would know,” he said. “As an honorable man, I would have no choice. Since, like you, I have no interest in marriage, I am sure you understand.”

  “Not at all. I would refuse to marry you, so then it wouldn’t be your fault, but mine, and all would be well.” She came closer, her breasts swaying under her nightdress, and gazed up at him. “Please?”

  He made a strangled noise in his throat. Oh, dear God. She’d misjudged badly. Evidently he wasn’t tempted at all—merely enraged.

  “Out. Now.” Using only the tips of his fingers, as if she smelled like bad fish, he propelled her toward the door. “I’ll keep an eye on you all the way to your room.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said.

  “It is,” he said through clenched teeth. “There are a number of inebriated gentlemen in the house, and although you might be willing to use one of them for your utterly foolhardy purpose, it would be a stain upon the honor of Statham Court if I were to allow one of them to do so.”

  How dare he suggest that she would do such a thing! It had been with great difficulty—considerable courage, actually—that she had brought herself to ask him.

  He pushed gently at the small of her back. She jumped at the heat of his hand. Judging by the expression on his face, he would shove her bodily into the corridor if she didn’t comply.

  She shook off his hand and stormed out the door.

  Chapter Two

  A little more than four years later

  Wanted: Exorcist to rid medieval manor house of murderous ghost. Excellent spoken Latin a necessity. Ample compensation for the risk to life and limb. Apply in writing to Hearth House, nr. Carlisle.

  Chuckling, James set aside the clipping from The Times and settled back in his chair to read the letter from his old friend, Colin Warren, in which it had been enclosed.

  My dear James, wrote Colin, the instant I read this advertisement, I thought of you. No, it’s not a jest. Hearth House belongs to my elderly cousin, Walt Warren, and its ghost is a Roman soldier who has patrolled Hadrian’s Wall for centuries. As the advertisement indicates, he’s a violent sort of ghost. My cousin owns the death masks of three of his unfortunate victims.

  James rolled his eyes at this absurdity.

  You, my dear James, are the obvious candidate for the job. You possess the unenviable ability to see ghosts, and you not only read Latin, but speak it, too. (I remember well your mind-numbing conversations with the Latin master, so don’t try to deny it.) What better fun (for you, my scholarly friend) than to practice on a fellow from Ancient Rome?

  Yes, indeed—such a very old ghost, and speaking with him would be a welcome change from the lovelorn poet. Not that he had any reason to complain about his family’s dashing ancestor, for James had published the poems—anonymously, of course, claiming that they were written by a Cavalier and had only recently come to light. To James’s surprise, they were selling extremely well.

  To add an incentive you probably don’t need, you’ll also be doing a good deed. Walt’s daughter, Thomasina, is about to become betrothed at last.

  Oh, so Miss Warren had changed her mind about marriage. Thomasina hadn’t spoken a word to him the day after that midnight contretemps four years ago, and since then she deigned nothing but polite indifference. The only time he’d asked her to dance, she had agreed with scarcely-concealed reluctance, remained aloofly courteous throughout, and hurried away the instant it was over.

  Why she should be offended with him, he had no idea. He’d only done his duty as a responsible gentleman. After she’d left his room, he had watched her all the way to her bedchamber, and then returned to be reprimanded by the ghost with a poem about missed chances and lost loves.

  Thomasina will inherit Hearth House and a respectable fortune, but apparently the ghost is a sticking point. The suitor is afraid of it, and refuses to go forward with the marriage unless it is got rid of.

  James snorted. Some suitor!

  I know, I know, he must be a complete ass, but if Thomasina wants him, who are we to object?

  James certainly had no right to do so. She was no business of his, and yet he’d found himself worrying about her, dreading the day when the promised scandal would break. On the contrary, she had become known for her perfect propriety—so much so that people called her The One Good Warren.

  He had rather expected her to disclose to society that he was the source—and perhaps suggest that he was actually the author—of those ghastly love poems, but she hadn’t. Maybe she wasn’t a vengeful sort of female. Or maybe she didn’t read poetry.

  Since you’re not going home for Christmas, why not go to Hearth House instead?

  Why not indeed? James’s father had banned him from the family estate for refusing to marry any of the suitable heiresses he’d presented. James didn’t much fancy spending Christmas alone in London.

  At least he needn’t fear matchmaking at Hearth House. Thomasina disliked him, and furthermore, she was on the verge of marrying someone else.

  An idiot—and a cowardly one at that.

  For some strange reason, that cinched it.

  * * *

  Thomasina Warren was pottering about in the kitchen at five o’clock on a winter morning because of a nightmare. She didn’t usually have bad dreams, but Decimus Maximus, their resident ghost, was always more restless during the Christmas season. In the dream, he’d murdered her suitor, Melrose
Tilson. She wanted to get rid of Mr. Tilson, but hopefully not in such a drastic manner.

  She left a saucepan of milk warming at the back of the stove and padded over to the window. The kitchen of Hearth House abutted a portion of Hadrian’s Wall. Its foundation was built upon the remains of one of the many guard posts the Romans had erected hundreds of years earlier. Decimus Maximus, a faithful soldier if ever there was one, still patrolled his section of the wall.

  He was out there now, armored and helmeted. When she’d first come down to the kitchen, she’d noticed him marching away, his fierce gaze scanning the north side of the wall for any sign of the barbarians who had plagued their Roman conquerors so long ago. There weren’t any more barbarians, but the terrain was definitely wilder on that side of the wall: rocky outcrops, trees, and patchy meadows. On this side of the wall were the kitchen garden and the apple orchard, which had a substantial crop of mistletoe, soon to be cut for Christmas.

  She grimaced. Mr. Tilson would probably try to kiss her. The ghost would object to such a liberty; perhaps that was the reason for her dream. Decimus Maximus (generally known by the nickname of Max) rarely tried to frighten women, but men, particularly those he disapproved of, were fair game. Roman soldiers didn’t suffer cowards easily, and he had therefore taken a particularly venomous dislike to her suitor. Hopefully Max would scare Mr. Tilson away for good without doing him irreparable harm.

  She gazed into the night, so bright with yesterday’s new snow that it was almost as light as on a gloomy day. No one had succeeded, in the past fourteen hundred years, at getting rid of Max. As long as he remained, she was safe from wedded not-bliss.