by Anne Mallory
Heston, the butler, silently approached the dowager and whispered something in her ear.
“Invite them in, Heston. I’m sure Mrs. Browning will be charmed to speak with Lady Malcolm.”
Abigail withheld a wince. That meant that Raine wood’s group, or at least part of it, was in the foyer. They often traveled with Lady Malcolm, the mother of Rainewood’s rumored betrothed.
Mrs. Browning inclined her head in a neutral manner. A sideways glance warned Abigail against doing anything odd.
She felt Basil’s eyes on her as well, but no one said anything as the footsteps clicked through the hall, until Lady Malcolm in all her vibrant rose glory entered the room. “Your Grace.” She clasped the dowager’s hand. “Forgive our impertinence in calling, but we just couldn’t wait.”
She handed the dowager a box. “We found these on Bond Street and they are simply too delightful to keep to ourselves.”
The dowager opened the box of sweets as the rest of the party filed into the room.
“These are lovely, Lady Malcolm.” The dowager gave her a smile—though even her gracious smiles appeared like a barracuda about to devour her next meal.
Celeste Malcolm, Aidan Campbell, and Charles Stagen followed behind. Brows uniformly rose at seeing the Smarts. Celeste Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. The gossip concerning Rainewood’s interaction with Abigail was still fresh in the rounds.
It took a minute for everyone to exchange terse greetings and be seated. The fifteen shades of purple in the room became even more overwhelming as matched and complimentary chairs were drawn together.
Aidan Campbell’s chair was a mite closer to Abigail’s than she was comfortable with.
“We were just speaking of the balloon demonstration next week on the green,” Charles Stagen said to Basil before addressing the dowager duchess. “Campbell is just mad for them. He has been up in two already. Still trails Rainewood in number of lifts though.”
“Solid fun,” Campbell said, though his eyes tightened briefly. Worry over his friend? “Just the other day I said to Rainewood, ‘Raine, quite a future in the—’”
Her attention keeled as a more commanding presence, and the current topic of conversation, strode through the door. Something in her chest jerked in response and relief. She barely spared a glance to the others who continued the conversation without her.
Rainewood stopped abruptly when he saw her. He looked as if he’d been running, breath heaving in the way that it had when they’d been small—though without the laughter that had always accompanied it. The stray thought that he hadn’t learned he didn’t have to breathe crossed her mind.
“I thought it was you.” Rainewood took a step forward, then another. “I heard you from the study above, but couldn’t get here until someone opened the damn door. I couldn’t remember what was on the other side and there was a barrier again.” The words tumbled out in a fashion completely opposite from his usual controlled drawl. “I thought perhaps I’d dreamed your voice.”
Her own breath caught.
“I don’t even know how many moons have risen since I last saw your face.”
Her heart could have stopped beating in that moment and she wasn’t sure that she would have cared. Not only did he still remember her, something she had been unprepared for, but he was looking at her as if the sun rose only on her express permission.
“My focus only returned when you did.” He stepped around a chair.
“Miss Smart?”
She batted away the annoying voice that was attempting to divert her attention. Rainewood continued toward her, more quickly now with forceful steps. “I have barely been able to breathe without you. And here you are.”
Her heart vibrated her chest, reminding her that she was still very much alive, and she joined him in his race-worthy furious breathing.
“I could take you in my arms and kiss you senseless right now.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Miss Smart?” The voice retreated further from reality.
He reached for her and she closed her eyes. If only she could convince herself to feel the real touches—to feel the tingles turned into solid caresses.
She nearly dropped her cup when partially solid fingers, warm and firm, and nearly real, curled around her wrist. The fingers froze and her eyes tore open to stare into shocked chips of brown. Perfect lips pulled apart and a low breath emerged.
“Miss Smart?” Urgency laced the unwelcome voice. She watched the unmoving lips in front of her wishing it were Rainewood speaking instead.
His hand gently squeezed, calloused warmth caressing the underside of her wrist—not quite there, but not quite not there either. A question in the action and a stake of some type of claim. Her lips parted, completely undone by the feeling and intimacy.
“Miss Smart?”
The foreign feeling of intimacy made her nervous and something in her finally responded to the outside demand. She tore her gaze away. “Yes, Lord Basil?”
“I’ve been calling your name for many moments. You look as if you’ve been taken by fright.”
She gave a nervous laugh. She hadn’t truly expected to find Rainewood here, even though she had come expressly to see if he would be present. She definitely hadn’t expected that he would recognize her. And to feel him…what in the heavens…
She darted a look around the room, cold settling in her bones that perhaps this was all a trick. To think that Valerian would actually care and would touch her with anything other than manipulation…
But she could count on her own mother, in this instance at the very least. And her mother had plastered a friendly smile on her face as she watched with nervousness, awaiting Abigail’s answer. No exclamation was forthcoming about the earl’s sudden presence. No looks sent in his direction.
Mrs. Browning’s eyes reflected the normal shades of disappointment and demand for Abigail to behave properly. The others seemed equally oblivious to what had just occurred. All eyes fixed on her for explanation. Campbell was positioned like he might have been considering reaching over to shake her for good measure.
Rainewood truly was still a ghost. One who could nearly touch her.
She grasped for the first thing she could. “I was just admiring your vase there in the corner. The colors are exquisite.”
Basil gave a vacantly charming laugh. “Thank you. I believe Great Uncle Alfred Pennyton picked it up in his travels. Tenth-century Ming.”
Rainewood’s eyes were fixed on her, but he automatically said, “Yuan.”
“Yuan?”
She cringed at speaking aloud and looked over just in time to see Basil’s eyes sharpen.
“There is a great family debate over that piece straddling the dynasties. How did you know?”
“Oh.” She laughed uncomfortably and smiled as brightly as she could manage. “I must have heard it somewhere.” Ghostly fingers caressed the underside of her wrist and then moved up to explore the delicate untouched skin of her forearm, making her nearly forget the thread of the conversation and where she was.
“I had nearly forgotten the lovely feel of a woman’s skin. And yours is softer than any I’ve felt before,” Rainewood said. “Beautiful.”
“Of course,” Basil murmured at her explanation.
“Well, we were speaking of the races while you were woolgathering.” Celeste Malcolm looked down her pug nose.
“Yes, the next race,” Stagen said. “What a lot of good it will do us if Rainewood doesn’t show his pretty face.” It suddenly seemed quite obvious that everyone was trying to suss out where he was without asking straight out. “Where did he store the filly?”
“Oxting Stables,” Rainewood said automatically as he continued to stare at Abigail like she was something rare and precious.
“Oxting Stables?”
It took her a second to register the stunned silence. She looked around in dread to see what she had done this time. The males in particular stared at her with expressions ranging from comp
lete surprise to deep mistrust. She withheld her nervous laugh this time and just pretended that she was in full possession of her faculties.
“I mean, that is where some people store prime cattle, is it not?” She had never even heard of Oxting Stables, so she could only hope that she hadn’t said something completely unforgivable—like the name of a house of prostitution. Filly could mean anything if one were to rely on the cant that the younger bucks loved.
Aidan Campbell’s eyes were narrowed upon her, a darker light there than she was used to seeing. Charles Stagen just looked considering.
Rainewood stroked her arm again causing her to shiver. She had to remember that he had some strange way to influence her. She put up a blocker in her mind.
Stagen looked at Basil and something passed between them. “Good suggestion, Miss Smart. We will look there indeed.”
Basil picked up a small plate. “Biscuit?”
She nodded and accepted the offering, trying to focus on the least unnerving of the room’s inhabitants instead of the one petting her.
“I haven’t met a woman who is so interested in ancient pieces and horseflesh. Perhaps we may discuss it more in the future?” Basil said.
Her mind was too full of his brother and how he could almost fully touch her, was touching her as he continued to stroke each bit of uncovered territory she possessed, to formulate a mother-approved, appropriate response. “Oh, I’m n—”
“Abigail is interested in many things.” Her mother waved an excited hand and smiled. “She would be delighted.”
Abigail noted that the Duchess of Palmbury’s mouth turned down as she looked toward her youngest grandson. Likely wondering what in the heavens he was thinking to encourage any sort of attention with her.
“Yes, that would be…wonderful,” Abigail said to Basil.
Something about the exchange snapped Rainewood back to himself and he jerked his hand back, gazing around the room with narrowed eyes. “What is happening here? You can’t go on an outing with Basil.”
She swallowed and tried to pay attention as Basil set a meeting date. Campbell’s eyes were remote and unnerving. Stagen’s were unreadable. The three other women—Celeste, Lady Malcolm, and Mrs. Browning—were clearly displeased. The duchess just looked furious.
Rainewood started muttering and pacing around, trying to touch the others and inspecting everything—crouching and staring up into their faces, poking fingers through them.
The dowager shivered as his fingers fell through her. She put on a good face as they all rose, but in contrast to the warm greeting she had given Mrs. Browning, she offered a much more stilted send off. She barely acknowledged Abigail. She gave her the bare minimum attention that she could engender while still maintaining a veneer of the polite hostess.
She was obviously displeased with the youngest member of the family.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Smart.” There was a wealth of warning in the dowager’s tone. Abigail knew exactly what the warning conveyed, and it wouldn’t be kind for her if she captured any more of Basil’s attention. One outing far exceeded anything that the Duchess of Palmbury would allow.
“Likewise, Your Grace.”
Abigail had only taken two steps before Rainewood was striding next to her, his gaze more focused and sharp. “Stop. Where are you going? I can’t speak to any of them. Tell them about me.”
His voice had lost the slightly dreamy, worshipful tone and had returned to its more demanding notes.
She continued following her mother and Mrs. Browning through the long gilded hall.
“Turn around,” he demanded. “Tell my grandmother.”
“Tell her what?” she whispered. “That you are a ghost? No.”
“Turn around.” His voice grew sharper.
“Are you mad?” She whispered harshly, looking around to make sure no servants were observing her. “They will think I’ve gone round the bend permanently. Your grandmother would love to have that type of ammunition.”
“So?”
She tightened her lips. “I have gone round the bend to have come to find you once more.”
That shut him up, but only for a second. “You did come for me, then.”
She covered her mouth and pretended to cough as they reached the entrance hall. “A momentary lapse, I assure you,” she said behind her raised hand to hide her moving lips. “I will happily leave you behind next time.”
A light finger brushed her arm and she shivered. “No, I don’t think you will, Abigail.” The finger continued up to her elbow, her skin shivering beneath. “And isn’t my ability to touch you an interesting development to this continued dream?”
She tried to ignore both his words—stupid man still thought he was dreaming then, did he?—and his questing fingers.
There was a moment’s hesitation at the door as she wondered if he would be able to follow her out. His mahogany gaze grew more intense as he looked upon her and he walked right through as if it was nothing. She stared for a moment before proceeding down the walk several paces behind Mrs. Browning, as usual. Rainewood kept pace closely next to her, so close that if others could see him, tongues would be set to wagging. His footfalls fell silently on the stones.
A boy hawking papers called out loudly from the walk crisscrossing the front of the property. He threw a paper onto the pavement. It disappeared as soon as it touched.
Rainewood’s finger brushed her arm.
Impetuously, Abigail pulled away and walked over to the newsboy. She extended her hand. The boy paid her no mind, continuing to try and sell his papers with his slightly desperate air and frayed cuffs. She slowly reached out to him, her fingers inching toward his, which were curled tightly around the paper he held aloft.
She swallowed as her first finger touched him. But then it almost immediately dipped through, the rest of her fingers following suit as her hand fell back to her side.
Nothing had changed, then.
Except that Rainewood could touch her, which meant everything had changed.
“Miss Smart. Stop dallying. Now.”
She walked back to the carriage, unnerved, noting Mrs. Browning’s irate look, her mother’s nervous one, and Rainewood’s unreadable expression.
Rainewood held out a hand to assist her into the carriage. She reacted without thinking, barely catching the footman’s surprised glance as her arm hovered two inches above his outstretched hand as she ascended.
She closed her eyes, frustration and immediate regret running through her. The servants would be gossiping again, but at the moment that wasn’t the important thing. Her entire world had turned on end.
“What are you?” she whispered to Rainewood as he settled next to her on the seat, pressing his leg into hers. So comforting to feel the slightest weight against hers. A terribly dangerous thought.
“What did you say?” Mrs. Browning asked sharply.
“I told you, I’m not dead,” he said. He looked away, his eyes narrowed on the window. “Well, not yet,” he said tightly.
There was a part of her starting to believe him, though Mrs. Browning’s next words laid that to waste.
“Miss Smart, cease your mad mutterings. That recreational visit to Bedlam addled your head. Only the weak-minded allow themselves to be addled thus.”
Her mother’s eyes widened and she looked fearfully between Mrs. Browning and Abigail. But Mrs. Browning couldn’t know anything more about her. Her mother had kept the doctor and his visits secret. The one thing that Abigail could count on since her mother was so determined to succeed in society.
Abigail pushed away the nightmarish memories of the doctor and the recent visit to Bedlam—all the rage to go and gape at the patients—and turned her head. “I am not addled, Mrs. Browning. I was simply commenting on Lord Basil. I didn’t finish my thought. I want to make a good impression. He is second in line to a dukedom, after all.”
Rainewood jerked as if burned.
“I was merely wondering at what qua
lities he’s looking for in a wife,” she finished. She suppressed the memory of a distant, bitter conversation and kept her gaze firmly away from the ghost at her side.
“Someone not addled!” Mrs. Browning yanked the hem of her dress from where it had become caught beneath her. “And someone with social polish and grace. I don’t know how you managed to interest him.”
“It matters little,” her mother said as brightly as she could, though her eyes said that she would be watching Abigail more closely for mind weakness. “Just do not toss away this chance like you have the rest.”
Abigail smoothed her skirt and tried to put an inch between her leg and Rainewood’s. He simply moved his closer again, though there was a promise in his eyes that he was going to punish her for the thought about his brother. And for her words.
“I have not tossed away any chances, Mother. I can accept the fact that some men are simply not interested in me, why can’t you? I do not possess a magic wand to entrance a suitor. If I did, I would assure you that I would not toss them aside willy-nilly.”
The prolonged contact with Rainewood was making her antsy.
“You are growing more impertinent, Miss Smart,” Mrs. Browning growled. “I do not know if I will allow much more.”
Rainewood touched her again and her lips moved without her consent. “Allow it, Mrs. Browning? I do not find plain speaking about my marriage chances to be impertinent.”
Normally she wouldn’t give in to her irritation in front of her mother or their companion—especially the companion who could drop them and claim them “unmanageable” while still collecting her presentation fee. She blocked Rainewood’s influence from her mind.
“Impertinent, Miss Smart? Why, I’d say—”
“What a troll. I’d say, good riddance.” Rainewood lazily swatted a hand toward Mrs. Browning’s arm. Abigail’s breath caught, but his hand passed through and Mrs. Browning shivered, the action seeming to derail her from a full-blown rage.
“—I’d say you’d just better mind your tongue.”
It was nowhere near the type of tantrum the woman could normally manage and Abigail had a feeling it was completely due to Rainewood jabbing repeated fingers into sensitive parts of Mrs. Browning’s anatomy. Mrs. Browning shuddered and turned to focus on something through the window, her lips pressed together, the line of them almost disappearing completely into blanched skin.
