Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to the bed. A moment later, they were naked on the bed, and mouths fused, limbs entwined, they sought and found the scarlet summit.
Her breathing gradually returning to normal, the sweet aftershocks of passion still rippling through her, Daphne sighed dreamily, snuggling against his muscled length. The marriage bed, she decided, had much to recommend it.
He glanced down, a lazy, satisfied smile curving his mobile mouth. “Was that a happy or sad sigh?”
She pinched his side. “And what if I said sad?”
His eyes darkened. “Then I would have to do this….” His hand slid down her hip and slipped between her thighs, and she gasped when he touched her intimately, his finger parting her and sinking slowly into her silken depths. His expression intent, he rubbed his thumb gently over the small nub hidden in the tight curls between her legs and whispered, “And this, too.” The sensations were overwhelming, and she stiffened and cried out as her body clenched suddenly around his fingers and jolts of pleasure exploded through her.
“Hmmm, that sounded happy to me,” he breathed against her ear.
“Very,” she managed when the world came sliding back into focus.
Daphne didn’t know how long she had been asleep. She only knew that she woke with a start, so cold that her teeth were chattering. Despite the heavy quilts and the warmth of Charles’s body pressed against her back, she couldn’t stop shivering. A glance at the fire showed that it was still burning, the yellow and orange flames leaping and dancing in the fireplace, yet the cold was intense.
A sound, the faintest sigh from the shadows beyond the bed had her heart banging in her chest. With dread, her head slowly turned in that direction, and there it was…that misty, amorphous shape she had seen previously.
The little ghost was back.
Chapter 16
Daphne nearly shrieked aloud when a hand clamped around her wrist, but almost instantly, she realized that it was Charles who held her so firmly. His touch both warned her to silence and comforted her at the same time. She was not alone this time. She could feel his big body, tense and watchful behind her.
“How long,” he whispered, “has it been here?”
“Moments…I think,” she answered, barely moving her lips, her eyes locked on the shifting mist before them.
The ghost, for there was no other word for it as far as Daphne was concerned, seemed to realize that they were talking about it. While the form was not recognizably human, there was something human about it, and as she stared at it, Daphne could almost imagine a head cocked as if listening to what they were saying.
For long minutes, nothing happened. Daphne and Charles remained frozen in their original positions, the fog-colored misty shape hovering beyond the bed. Not as terrified as she had been the first time the apparition had appeared and with Charles’s solid warmth at her back, Daphne studied the form, trying to imprint in her brain as many facts about it as she could.
The feeling that it was female was very strong, yet Daphne couldn’t have explained why she felt that way. Partly it was the size, she decided, the delicacy of the shape. Certainly, it bore no resemblance to the powerful apparition they’d seen in the blue salon. Nor was there the sensation of violence and evil about it. There was, she admitted, just something female about it. The ghost was silent, and there was no sound in the room except for her’s and Charles’s quiet breathing and the pop and crackle of the fire. As the minutes crawled by, the vague shape just floated in the air, changing only slightly as she and Charles stared at it, the edges seeming to ripple and the occasional misty tendril waving slowly in the darkness.
“So how long do we remain in this standoff staring at each other?” Charles muttered in her ear.
“I don’t know. Last time, I told it to go away, and it did.”
Charles half sat up, and the shape shrank back slightly. “Go away,” Charles ordered.
The ghost hung there for several seconds, neither moving forward nor backward, and Daphne had the feeling that it was watching them, studying them as they studied it. Yet she had no perception of menace—there was nothing threatening about it—and she realized that she wasn’t afraid of it.
Feeling emboldened, Daphne sat up, Charles following her, his arm curling around her shoulders.
At their actions, the apparition suddenly blossomed, nearly doubling its size, and Daphne was conscious of a sudden sensation of fear and anxiety coming from the ghost. Their movements had obviously disturbed it in some fashion.
Daphne leaned forward. “What is it?” she cried. “What do you want?”
The form floated nearer, and instinctively, Charles’s arm tightened protectively around Daphne, and he pulled her close to him, locking her body against him.
The ghost stopped only inches from the bed, clearly agitated, the color darkening, the amorphous shape surging in all directions. Despite the changes, Daphne still wasn’t frightened, at least not very frightened. If she had been alone, her feelings might have been different, but knowing Charles was with her gave her some comfort.
“I don’t know about you,” Charles said grimly, “but I’ve had about enough of this.” Throwing the blankets aside, heedless of his nakedness, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
His movements were clearly challenging, and Daphne gasped when the shape flew to confront him. No longer were just fear and anxiety rolling off the ghost, but fury and hatred now mingled with the other emotions Daphne had felt flowing from it. It feared and hated whatever Charles represented to it, and it was going on the attack.
“No!” Daphne screamed, flinging herself in front of Charles as if she would protect him with her own body. “You shall not hurt him.”
The mood in the room changed instantly. The ugly emotions that had been swirling in the air were gone, the agitated movements of the ghost vanishing with them. No longer billowing up in dark, angry colors, before their eyes, the apparition shrank back to its original size, turning once more into a small misty shape that floated gently in the air before them.
Daphne had the impression of puzzlement as the thing hovered there. The seconds ticked by, and then there was a soft sighing sound and the shape drifted away, a faint white glow the only sign of its passing. Upon reaching the wall with the Chinese wallpaper, the ghost appeared to hesitate, and then just like the last time, it was gone.
Charles leaped from the bed and lighting a candle, rushed over to the area where he had last seen the apparition. Holding the candle high, he searched the wall for what he was certain was a hidden spring to open a secret door. He found nothing.
Having taken the time to find and put on her dressing gown, Daphne came up beside him and handed him his robe. “If we’re going to go hunting for ghosts,” she said, only half teasing, “I suggest you put something on.”
Handing her the candle, he shrugged into his robe. When his robe was on and firmly belted at the waist, he took the candle back and continued his search for the mechanism that would reveal the concealed door. “Where,” he asked, “was it that you saw that crack in the wall?”
She stepped beside him and pointed to a section of wall. Upon closer inspection, in the wavering light of the candle, they both spied the outline of a door. Charles ran his hand along the seams, but he felt nothing but the glassy smoothness of the wallpaper. No lumps or bumps, holes or fissures. Nothing.
“There has to be a latch, a handle, something,” he growled in frustration. “That damn thing didn’t simply walk through the bloody wall.”
“I think she did,” Daphne said slowly. “Or rather, she walked through a doorway that used to exist.”
Charles looked at her sharply. “What makes you say she?”
“Don’t you agree?”
He sighed. “Yes, I agree. I can’t tell you how or why, but there is the distinct impression of femininity about the thing.”
“Ghost,” Daphne said firmly. “It was a ghost, and we both saw her.”
/> Charles couldn’t argue with her. They had both, he admitted, seen a ghost, a female ghost, tonight. And spoken to it, he thought wryly, remembering his feeble, “go away.”
Daphne clutched his arm and pointing at the wall behind him, gasped, “Look! It’s disappeared.”
Charles swung back, and search though he did, there was no longer any sign of the doorway to be found on the wall.
“That’s exactly what happened the last time,” Daphne said. “It was there, and then when I looked again, it was gone. I thought I was losing my mind.”
Taking her by the arm, Charles led her back to the bed. “You’re not losing your mind, and neither am I. That blasted thing was here tonight, and there was a definite outline of a doorway on that wall.” He glared at the wall in question. “And first thing tomorrow morning, we’re going to find it.”
It wasn’t first thing in the morning—they had guests in the house and had to present reasonably normal behavior. They met everyone for breakfast in the morning room and since the day was fine, accompanied Adrian, April, Julian, Nell, and Marcus, who had also remained at Beaumont Place, for a ride. Marcus and Adrian rode astride, the ladies and Julian rode in a small open carriage driven by Charles. Though they chafed at the delay, the morning passed most agreeably for Charles and Daphne, and Daphne was glad of the opportunity to get to know Nell and her husband and Marcus better. It was apparent that Nell and April had become easy with each other, and from the comfortable manner that Adrian had around both the earl and Marcus, it was equally apparent that Adrian was no longer quite in as much awe of his lordship as he had been. Daphne was delighted. For April and Adrian to count such notables as the Earl and Countess of Wyndham as not only connections by marriage, but also dear acquaintances could only be to the good. And for them to be able to call steady, imperturbable Marcus Sherbrook friend would only add to their stature amongst the ton. Her dearly held dream of her brother and sister taking London by storm actually looked likely to come true.
Daphne would have liked Charles’s relatives under any circumstances for they were warm and charming people, not at all toplofty or high in the instep, but their open-handed generosity and kindness to her siblings endeared them to her. Nell’s mention of the possibility of hosting a ball for April next year at the Wyndham residence in London, as well as procuring vouchers for Almack’s, made Daphne’s heart swell with profound gratitude. When Marcus said something about introducing Adrian to Manton’s Shooting Gallery in London this spring and Julian had followed by asking Charles if he could have the pleasure of putting Adrian’s name up for membership at White’s, Daphne nearly burst into tears of happiness. Thanks to Charles’s family, her brother and sister’s futures were assured. If she hadn’t already been head over heels in love with her husband, the kindness of his relatives to her siblings would have snared her heart. Aside from Nell, Julian, and Marcus’s easy acceptance of her and her siblings into the family, she found them utterly delightful, and by the time the drive ended, she and Nell were chatting away like old friends. Giving Charles a brilliant smile as he helped her down from the coach, she could only marvel at her luck—not only did she have a handsome husband she adored, but she had also married into a singularly agreeable family. She was so lucky! Her nose wrinkled. Well, she was lucky, even if she did have a ghost visiting in her bedroom and a deranged, dangerous brother-in-law possibly lurking about.
Her smile and the look she gave him rocked Charles back on his heels. There had been something in her smile, something in the warmth in her gaze that made his heart thud in his chest. Could it be? Was she coming to love him?
Unable to lose the moment, the second they were inside the house, he whisked her away into a small room just off the dining room. His hands about her waist, he held her gently against him and asked softly, “You have a glow about you. Is there a special reason for it? Might I hope that I have something to do with it?”
Daphne flung her arms about his neck and hugged him. “Oh, dear, dear Charles, indeed you do!” She leaned back and looking up into his face, said, “Your cousins, they are so very kind! I feared, considering the circumstances of our marriage, that they would disapprove and treat us with disdain for our lowly station, but they have welcomed us into your family without hesitation and have shown us nothing but affection and goodwill. Nell’s suggestion of a ball for April is more than I dreamed of. And Marcus and Julian’s offer to help Adrian…” Tears of happiness choked her voice. When she had command of herself, unaware of the blow she had just given her husband, she said, “Everything is just wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Wonderful,” Charles repeated dully, inwardly cursing himself for being a fool. Of course it was April and Adrian’s needs that came first with her. How could he have so stupidly forgotten? Hiding his chagrin, he ushered her back to join the others.
After a light repast at midday, the ladies sought out the front saloon where Daphne and Nell, in perfect charity with each other, continued their discussion of plans for April’s introduction to the ton next year. The gentlemen, left to their own devices, split up, Adrian taking Marcus to the barn to continue a discussion of the merits of the various horses owned by Sir Huxley and Julian retiring to his rooms to answer some pressing letters engendered by his extended stay at Beaumont Place, leaving Charles to set off in pursuit of his own scheme. Having seen to the needs of his guests, Charles headed to the library where he intended to do some digging in the Beaumont family’s history.
Reaching the library, Charles rang for Goodson, and as soon as the butler appeared, Charles asked, “What can you tell me about the room that Mrs. Weston uses as her bedchamber?”
Goodson shrugged, saying, “Why only that until Sir Huxley’s parents’ time, it had been used by the masters of the house, along with the sitting room and the room that you now use.”
“Do you ever remember hearing of another room as having been part of the original suite? Perhaps a small dressing room adjacent to Mrs. Weston’s bedchamber?”
Goodson frowned. “No, I can’t recall anything of the kind. I can ask Mrs. Hutton, but I doubt she would know more than I do. Is there a problem?”
Charles shook his head. “No. I am just curious about the house. Do you know if any construction plans connected to Beaumont Place exist? Especially of renovations that may have occurred?”
“Lady Agatha assembled a collection of the family papers. Miss, er, Mrs. Weston had begun going through them shortly after she arrived here. Perhaps there is something within them?”
“Where are they kept?”
Goodson walked over to a section of the library and pointed out several shelves. “To my knowledge, this is the complete collection. After she died, no one continued her work, so nothing has been added for the last thirty years or so, but beyond that, you’ll discover the collection is quite impressive.”
Dismissing the butler, Charles studied the shelves. A quick review revealed, as Daphne had discovered earlier, that Lady Agatha had been very thorough in her collecting, but more importantly for Charles, items were arranged by year, which gave him a place to start. Though he and Daphne hadn’t discussed it at length, they were both convinced that the little ghost in the bedroom and Sir Wesley’s apparition were somehow connected.
“It is just too mind-boggling to consider that we have two entities with no commonality between them and that they both just happened to reappear about the same time,” Daphne had said last night just before they had fallen asleep.
At least, Charles thought as he started carefully leafing through a sheaf of papers from the 1550s, Lady Agatha was a good chronicler and had done a decent job of filing everything by date. He didn’t know precisely what he was looking for, but since he and Daphne agreed that Sir Wesley seemed to be the key, they needed to concentrate on his lifetime, hoping there was something in Lady Agatha’s collection that would explain the visitations.
He found nothing that caught his eye as he quickly scanned the various documents and papers, a
nd he suspected that as was often the case, earlier ancestors had destroyed most things that would have revealed unsavory facts about the family. He was elated when he discovered a pair of letters written by Sir Wesley’s elder sister, a nun in some obscure order who had returned to England when Mary I had taken the throne and reinstated Catholicism. The letters were written to Sir Wesley’s younger spinster sister, Edith, who resided with her brother. The letters, written in a firm, crisp hand, were interesting on two counts: one, Charles hadn’t known of the existence of the two sisters, and two, from the letters, he learned that Sir Wesley had married. Charles could have probably learned the same information from the various church records, but the letters saved time. He grinned. And were much more entertaining than a dry recitation of marriages, births, and deaths. Sister Margaret may have been a nun, but she dished up a fine broth of scandal, Charles thought, amused at her tart tone and patent disapproval of her brother.
Though he had only Sister Margaret’s reply to letters written by Edith, he could deduce quite a bit. Sir Wesley’s bride had been a mere child, although probably not thought of as such in that age, Charles admitted to himself as he read. Lady Katherine had been fourteen when her father, if he read between the lines correctly, had been compelled to marry his daughter to Sir Wesley, a man approaching sixty. Sister Margaret sermonized at some length about Sir Wesley’s shortcomings and his nearly insane desire to keep his brother’s offspring from inheriting Beaumont Place and everything that went with it.
In the first letter, Charles learned of John’s death and gathered, again reading between the lines, that Sister Margaret strongly suspected that Sir Wesley had been behind that young man’s untimely passing. In the second letter, written several months afterward, Charles discovered that John’s child, a son named Jonathan, had been born. But Sir Wesley was undaunted—Katherine was heavy with child, and Sir Wesley was ecstatic, convinced the child would be the son, the heir he desperately wanted and needed to keep Jonathan from inheriting.
Seduction Becomes Her Page 25
