But then she tipped her head to look up at the house, and her hood fell back.
"Oh!" he said involuntarily. His hands stilled on the cravat he had been attempting to tie.
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but not this pretty woman. Her hair was black and shining as a raven's wing, parted sleekly in the middle and drawn back to a simple low knot at the nape of her neck. No fashionable curls or whorls marred the sheen of it, and its only ornament was a carved comb of some dark wood.
Her skin was smooth and faintly sun-touched, over high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin. A pair of long, sparkling earrings swung against her cheeks and caught in the rich sable lining of her hood.
She smiled as she surveyed the house, as if pleased with its aspect, and Phillip found himself quite pleased himself that she should like it. He wondered if she would like him as well...
Then he realized what he was thinking and frowned. "Fool!" he muttered, his hand crushing his cravat.
He was meant to be thinking of his work, not watching a pretty lady out of windows and wondering if she would like him. That was for men who had nothing better to do, society fribbles who just sat about at their clubs and danced at balls.
Even as he thought this, he could not stop himself from looking at the elf-girl again. She was half-turned away, talking to another woman. This other woman was a very interesting vision, indeed. She was quite tall, perhaps as tall as his own six feet, with dark, gleaming skin. She wore an odd pelisse-robe of crimson and black, with a matching turban concealing her hair. She, too, surveyed the house, with narrowed, assessing eyes. Then she said something to the woman in the cloak and nodded.
Well, this was quite interesting. Phillip's scholarly mind was turning, coming up with countless questions he would like to ask these ladies about their lives in the West Indies. It must have been a fascinating existence, full of old-fashioned superstitions and myths.
It was simply too bad they were not Greek. What a great help that would have been to his work.
"My lord?" his long-suffering valet said from behind him.
Phillip turned to see that he held out his best coat, the dark green superfine his mother had insisted he wear, the one with only one small hole on the sleeve. "Yes, Jones?"
"Your mother has sent a message saying the guests have arrived," Jones said, holding the coat out farther with a rather hopeful air. "She asks that you join them in the drawing room, my lord, at your earliest convenience."
"Yes, of course. Mustn't be late," Phillip murmured. He glanced back out the window, but everyone had already gone inside.
Chapter 3
Cassie munched on a tea cake and examined all the portraits lining the walls of the vast drawing room. They were varied and very fascinating, ranging from a Renaissance gentleman in a velvet cap and cloak to a picture hung over the fireplace of the present Lady Royce as a young bride. She cocked her head to one side to examine the portrait of a Restoration lady with blond curls and a blue satin gown.
The lady in turn seemed to move her head to examine Cassie.
"Such an engaging family you have, Lady Royce," Cassie said, straightening her head. Now the lady appeared to be staring out vacantly into space. "I would love to hear about each and every portrait."
Lady Royce gave a pleased little laugh. "I will be happy to tell you all you wish to know, my dear Miss Richards! Though of course they are not exactly my family, I feel as if they are, since I married into the Leighton family when I was only sixteen." She paused to refill Antoinette's teacup and pass Chat another sandwich, then went on, "That portrait you are looking at is Louisa, Lady Royce. She came to a rather bad end. She fell off the cliffs into the sea."
Antoinette examined the painting. "I believe she still dwells in the East Tower."
Lady Royce looked at her with wide, wondering eyes. "So I have heard. I personally have not seen her, or the knight who walks about in his armor. And then there is our most famous ghost, Louisa's husband's great-grandmother Lady Lettice."
Cassie looked over where Lady Royce indicated to see a painting of a woman in Elizabethan regalia, ruff, drum farthingale, and ropes of pearls and rubies.
Antoinette frowned. "I cannot sense her presence."
"No one has seen her in quite a long time," Lady Royce said regretfully. "Not since before I came to live here. But there are many legends about her. They say she cannot find peace because she was betrayed by her true love."
"We shall just have to find her, then, won't we, Antoinette?" Cassie said.
Antoinette nodded slowly. "Perhaps."
"Well, if I can be of any help, do let me know," said Lady Royce. Then she looked past the settee where Cassie and Antoinette sat, and smiled. "Phillip, dear, here you are at last! Do come and greet our guests."
Cassie put down her teacup and placed a polite smile on her face, preparing to greet the shambling scholar, whom she still pictured as old despite his mother's youthful appearance. She didn't hear any tap of a cane on the floor, or smell any camphor to warn of his approach.
She stood and turned around, and felt the polite smile freeze on her lips.
Why, Lord Royce was not old at all! In fact, he did not look much like her idea of a scholar, as he was quite good-looking. He was a trifle thin, true, especially compared to the burly, broad-shouldered planters she was accustomed to at home. And his complexion was rather pale, probably from spending a great deal of time studying indoors. His eyes were an intense, stormy gray, that seemed to pierce right through to her innermost soul.
But she would have thought him a poet, not a student of antique civilizations. His hair was not just in need of a bit of a trim, it was truly unfashionably long, falling almost to his shoulders in thick dark brown waves, as if he could not be bothered to cut it. It was damp, as if he had just washed it and hastily combed it back, but it was rich and soft-looking. She actually lifted her hand a bit, wanting to touch it, before she realized what she was doing and dropped her arm back to her side.
No, Lord Royce was not at all what she had been expecting!
Then Lady Royce's voice came to her through the haze, and she realized that things had been going on about her. Things she ought to pay attention to, such as introductions.
"...and this is her niece, Miss Cassandra Richards," Lady Royce was saying.
Cassie stared dumbly at Lord Royce as he reached for the hand she had dropped to her side, and lifted it to his lips for a brief salute.
His breath was warm on her fingers, and she had to fight down the strong urge to giggle. She scarcely even noticed the small hole in his green sleeve.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Richards," he said. "I suppose you must always speak the truth?" His voice was dark and rich, like Jamaican rum.
Cassie blinked at him. What on earth was the man talking about? "Ex-excuse me, Lord Royce?"
He smiled at her as one would to a rather slow child. "Your name. Cassandra. 'Disbelieved by men.' Are you named after the great prophetess of Troy?"
Cassie vaguely remembered her mother telling her the story of the Trojan Cassandra, who was doomed to always tell the truth of her prophecies and never be believed. Her mother had loved the old myths. "I suppose I must be," she answered.
He gave her another smile, and went to sit beside his mother. Cassie slowly sat back down, her mind screaming one word at her. "Fool, fool, fool!"
She could feel her face flaming. What a thorough idiot he must think her!
"Miss Richards was just asking me about the history of the castle," Lady Royce said, pouring out a cup of tea for her son. "She is very interested in it."
Lord Royce raised his dark brow at Cassie. "Indeed, Miss Richards?"
Cassie seized on the topic. Surely she could converse more easily about a haunted castle than ancient Troy. "Oh, yes! It is truly fascinating. There must be much to learn about it."
"It is an interesting place," he agreed. "I plan to someday write a history of it. It was built
in 1320, by the first Earl of Royce..."
"I believe she is more interested in Lady Lettice, the knight, and Louisa, dear," interrupted Lady Royce.
That dark brow rose again. "Is that what you are interested in, Miss Richards? The so-called ghosts?"
Cassie frowned, but before she could reply, Antoinette said, "You are a disbeliever, Lord Royce."
"I suppose I am," answered Lord Royce. "I prefer the logic and rationality of ancient Greece to spooks and haunts."
"Hmm," Antoinette murmured, surveying him through narrowed ebony eyes.
Lord Royce fidgeted a bit under her steady gaze, and turned away to address a question to Aunt Chat.
Cassie studied him over the rim of her teacup. Well, he might be handsome as a poet, but he was obviously quite as obnoxiously logical as she had feared he might be.
Chapter 4
"I liked Lady Royce, didn't you, Cassie?" Antoinette asked. The two of them were in Cassie's room before they retired, to brush each other's hair and talk over the day. After they had convinced some rather snooty upper servants that Antoinette was Cassie's friend and not her maid, she had been given the chamber next door to Cassie's. Just like at the house in Jamaica.
"Yes, very much," Cassie answered, reaching for a strand of her freshly brushed hair to braid. "She was all that was charming. And she agreed to give us a tour of the castle tomorrow. That should be most interesting."
"Perhaps we can find Lady Lettice!"
"Perhaps so. And Louisa and the armored knight. I don't think Lady Royce's son would very much appreciate us going on a ghost hunt, though," Cassie murmured. She thought of Lord Royce, of his poet's hair and his mysterious gray eyes, of the smoky roughness of his voice.
Of that obnoxious raised brow, proclaiming how silly he thought her.
She frowned.
"Oh, yes. Lord Royce," Antoinette said. "He does not believe. He does not sense all that is around him. It is very sad."
Cassie felt a strange urge to defend Lord Royce, even with the memory of his scoffing in her mind. "Not everyone is as sensitive as you, Antoinette. Not everyone can so easily believe in things they cannot touch or see. Or read in dusty books, as Lord Royce does."
"You believe."
"I am different from most of the English we have met. I lived in Jamaica, where things are very—different." Cassie turned her head to look out the uncurtained window, where all the autumn stars shimmered.
Usually she was happy enough here in England. Her aunt had been all that was kind, and life at Chat's house in Bath was very comfortable. But sometimes, especially in unguarded moments like these, she felt like such an outsider. Like she could never possibly understand the people around her, nor they her. She did not understand the things they took for granted, and they often thought her an oddity.
Just as Lord Royce had.
She would feel completely alone all the time, were it not for Antoinette. But she sometimes felt guilty for bringing her here, where, if Cassie felt like an oddity, Antoinette must feel ten times more so. She had faced shocked looks and fierce whispers ever since they reached England.
She turned to Antoinette, and asked, as she had a dozen times before, "Do you not miss home?"
Antoinette paused in braiding her thick mane of wavy hair, and gave the same answer she always gave. "Of course I do. Just as you do, Cassie. It is the only home I have ever known. But I would have missed you far more, if you had left without me."
"Truly?"
"What did I have left in Jamaica? My mother is dead. Since I grew up with you and was educated, I do not fit in with my own people. You are like a sister to me. How could I let you go off into the world alone?"
Cassie blinked at the sudden prickle of tears at her eyes. She wiped at them with the sleeve of her dressing gown. "Just as you are like my sister! I only hope you will never be sorry for your decision."
Antoinette dabbed at her own tears. "I will not. But if I do, I can always go back. It is a long way, but not impossible. Just as you could go back, Cassie, and marry that awful Mr. Bates. He did offer for you before we left."
Cassie laughed at the memory of Mr. Bates, pressing his suit on her just as she was about to board the ship to England. "So he did! Though I daresay life at Aunt Chat's home in Bath is far preferable to life as Mrs. Bates. And we would have missed seeing this lovely castle!"
"Indeed we would have," Antoinette said, the lilting humor back in her voice. "Speaking of which, we have much to do tomorrow. Shall we retire?"
Cassie shook her head. "You go ahead. I am not tired yet."
Antoinette frowned in concern. "Do you want me to find you some warm milk?" Cassie had had some trouble sleeping since coming to England, and Antoinette and Aunt Chat tried everything to help her. Nothing really seemed to work.
"No, I think I'll go to the library and look for a book," Cassie answered. "Lady Royce said I could borrow any of them I like, though I must say her son looked rather doubtful about it. He probably thinks I will put all his precious volumes out of order!"
Antoinette laughed. "Very well," she said, walking toward the door. "Just be certain you don't choose one of those horrid novels you are so fond of. They always give you bad dreams."
"I won't. Good night, Antoinette."
"Good night, Cassie."
Once her friend was gone, Cassie slid her feet into her bedroom slippers and lit a candle to carry down to the library.
Royce Castle seemed different in the lonely night darkness, eerie and echoing. The main staircase, a winding, wide expanse of stone, had been covered with a long Aubusson carpet runner and decorated with tall candelabra and statuary, but it was still cold and dark. Her candle flickered in a sudden draft, sending shadows dancing on the walls. The wind whistled around the edges of the narrow windows, and made the tapestries flutter.
It sounded like high-pitched laughter. And did that portrait just wink at her?
Cassie cautiously lifted her candle higher to peer at the painted image. Obviously the wink had just been a trick of the light, thank goodness. She did want to see a ghost, but maybe not when she was all alone.
She hurried her steps along. Once she reached the library, she was so relieved to be there that she slammed the door behind her and leaned back against it. She closed her eyes, listening to the swift patter of her heart.
"May I help you?" a deep voice said.
Cassie's eyes flew open, and she stood up perfectly straight. Lord Royce sat behind a massive, carved desk set half in the shadows, books and papers piled around him in untidy heaps. Light from the blazing fire in the hearth fell across him in a red-gold glow, burnishing his rich fall of hair and glinting off the spectacles he wore.
Cassie felt oddly breathless, and she had the sneaking suspicion that it had nothing to do with ghosts or shadows.
"L—Lord Royce," she managed to gasp. "I had no idea anyone would be here. The lateness of the hour..."
"It is rather late. I would have thought you would be quite tired, Miss Richards, after your journey." He rose from behind the desk, and Cassie saw that he was in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his cravat untied and carelessly dangling. She even had a glimpse of his strong throat, and the hollow at its base where his pulse beat, as he walked toward her.
She had lived a rather casual life in Jamaica, had seen her father and other planters come in from the fields dressed in very similar fashion. But she had never been so disconcerted by it before. She was not quite certain where to look as he moved closer and closer.
He stopped what seemed like mere inches from her, so close that she could feel his warmth, could smell the faint scent of some spicy soap on his skin. She forgot to breathe entirely when he reached his arm behind her, the fine cambric of his sleeve brushing against her hair.
He took his coat from the hook that was on the door she had just been leaning against, and slid his arms into the sleeves. He stepped away from her, pulling his hair from under the collar in one smooth motion.
"Are you not, Miss Richards?" he said.
The sound of his voice seemed to shake her from some sort of dream state. Then she realized that the entire process of him moving across the library, which had seemed to take hours, had only taken a moment.
"Am I not what?" she murmured, confused.
And there went that blasted eyebrow. "Tired after your journey."
"Not at all." She moved away from him, crossing the wide expanse of the room to be closer to the fireplace. She was suddenly all-too-aware that she was clad in her nightclothes. She pulled the edges of her velvet dressing gown closer together and wished she was still in her dinner gown. "I wanted to find something to read."
"Well, we certainly have plenty of that," he said, gesturing to the massive bookcases. "What do you care for, Miss Richards? History? Biography? Sermons?"
"Do you have any novels? Recent novels," she said without thinking, then immediately regretted it. She felt like a fool asking a classical scholar for novels.
But his brow did not arch at all. "Of course. I believe you will find most of them here. Many of them are my mother's, which she orders from London every month." He showed her a smaller case, placed against the wall near the desk.
As Cassie came closer to inspect them, her attention was caught by the clutter on the desk. A large sheaf of paper, closely written in a small, neat hand, balanced beside a stack of leather-bound volumes. His handwriting, his work, she realized.
She was suddenly intensely curious as to what it was that so preoccupied this strange, beautiful man. She veered off her course and went over to gently touch one of the books.
"What is it you are working on, Lord Royce?" she asked. "My aunt and her Philosophical Society in Bath are great admirers of your writing."
A Loving Spirit Page 2
