The Mammoth Book of Ghost Romance (Mammoth Books)

by Trisha Telep

  “I’m not sure I can wait until then.” He rose above her, supporting his weight on his arms.

  She struggled to shore up the crumbling remnants of common sense. “It’s only one more day.”

  “How cruelly you say that, as if my torment doesn’t signify.”

  “Of course it matters,” she said unsteadily, panting with delicious fear.

  The amusement ebbed from his face and she couldn’t quite interpret his assessing look. “I wish I believed that.”

  She frowned. The gravity in his voice seemed out of kilter with their flirting. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that sometimes I feel . . . my passion for you outweighs your passion for me.”

  “No!” Shocked, she stared up into the perfect planes of his face. Her eyes had adjusted to the dull light so she saw the uncertainty that flickered in his eyes. Miles Hartley, Viscount Kendall, wasn’t by nature an uncertain man. “No, Miles. You know I love you.”

  “Then prove it.” His voice was harder than she’d ever heard it.

  “This time tomorrow, we’ll be married.”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t tumble me here with the house full of people.”

  “So you say.”

  Calista grabbed his arms, feeling the tensile strength under the dark-blue riding jacket. “Miles, what is it?”

  He shook his dark head and his gaze slid away from hers. Disquiet filled her. She hadn’t been sure if he was joking when he’d started this game. Now she sensed something was wrong. Something more than male frustration.

  “Miles?”

  He stared directly at her, his hazel eyes dark and somber as she’d never seen them. “It’s just . . .”

  He paused, searching for words, he who never lacked a ready quip or a witty riposte. Her disquiet transformed into a coiling mass of adders hissing and squirming in her belly. She’d known this day would come. She’d known he’d recover from whatever whim had made him want her. She braced herself for him to reject her, to send her back to the lonely prison her life had been until he’d miraculously fallen in love with her.

  Miles spoke in a rush. “I feel you’re holding yourself back from me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  But she did, oh, she did.

  She’d never trusted this happiness. Self-preservation insisted she reserved a fraction of her soul from him. So that when the inevitable happened and he decided he didn’t love her after all, she’d survive.

  He kissed her again but the entrancing sweetness had leached away. Sorrow weighed her heart even as she kissed him back. This was how it would be in years to come, she knew. Little by little, he’d realize what a poor bargain he’d made in marrying the Earl of Stansfield’s awkward daughter. With every day, the glow that lit his eyes when he looked at her would fade until nothing remained.

  If she were brave, she’d end the engagement now and face down the scandal. She should make the break sharp and hard before he hurt her as he would undoubtedly hurt her. But she was too weak. She wanted all she could get of him. She wanted to cling to the memory of the short while when he loved her. Even if only a little.

  Fighting the tears that would betray her misery, she stared up past Miles toward the tester. Once or twice, she’d come close to confiding her doubts to him. Every time, she’d stopped herself from speaking. If he took her seriously, he’d think she was appallingly poor-spirited. Most of the time, she thought she was appallingly poor-spirited. If he didn’t take her seriously, he’d try to cajole her fears away as childish fancies. She couldn’t bear that.

  Unlike the counterpane, the tester above her was decorated not only with flowers and fanciful Chinese buildings, but also with faces. A wizened mandarin glowered down at her. His devilish black eyebrows arched over eyes strangely stitched in red. In her imagination, the face’s smile turned demonic, as if mocking her futile yen for Miles to love her as she loved him.

  “We can’t.” With a trembling hand, she reached up to brush the fall of soft dark hair back from Miles’s forehead. “You know we can’t. Someone would catch us and Papa would have an apoplexy.”

  His smile became less strained. “They wouldn’t catch us tonight.”

  “T-tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.”

  He’d always been gentle with her. This hint of arrogance filled her with unwelcome excitement. “Where?”

  He raised his head and cast a telling look around the room. “Why here, of course.”

  Something other than excitement at the prospect of Miles tumbling her made her heart skip a beat. “In the haunted bed?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe the legend. That’s why you had the bed brought up from the cellars and put back together. You said a woman who believed in science would never fall victim to ludicrous superstition.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?”

  His unfamiliar ruthlessness faded into the affection that always warmed her in his presence. “In fact, you insisted this would be our marital bed, curse be damned. That was about the same time you said you didn’t believe Marston Hall was haunted, and the aspect was so pleasant you wanted to live here instead of in one of my houses. You said even if the doomed Chinese princess’s robes formed the bed’s hangings, her spirit was long gone. She had no influence over the living.”

  “I didn’t say ‘damn’,” Calista prevaricated.

  He laughed softly. She loved his laugh. Just the sound of it made the world a better place. Oh, she was so overwhelmingly in love with him. He’d destroy her before he was done, however she battled to protect herself. “Perhaps not. But you definitely said that even if wicked Josiah Aston was dragged from the bed on his fatal wedding day, the bed can’t curse all newlyweds in this house.”

  “I know it sounds absurd.” She’d always dismissed the tale of the Chinese princess drinking hemlock after her lover deserted her. Somehow, today, as she lay on the bed and contemplated her own wedding, the tale gained fresh sway. “But I’d like formalities out of the way before I test the legend’s falsehood.”

  “And I’d like to banish any lingering specters with good earthy lust before I make an honest woman of you on the morrow, my love.” He paused, inadvertently giving her a chance to relish the endearment. “The specters in this room, who I don’t believe in at all. And the specters in your heart, who wield far too much power over you.”

  Miles rolled away and lay stretched out upon the heavy silk, his thoughtful gaze never shifting from her. She was surprised he saw so much of her turmoil. Most people found her hard to read. For a moment, the temptation to confide her fears hovered. Then, like a coward, she avoided the questions in his eyes.

  “You’re a barbarian, Miles, putting your boots on that cover. The embroidery is priceless.”

  His lips curved in a lazy smile. “If you’re going to nag like a wife, beloved, at least offer me some husbandly privileges to sweeten the pill.”

  “Miles . . .”

  “Please.” He extended his hand toward her, palm upward.

  Dear heaven, she was a hopeless case. She couldn’t resist him. She could never resist him. Which of course was a large measure of the problem.

  Hesitantly she placed her hand in his and felt immediate warmth when his fingers closed hard and secure around hers. At moments like this, she could almost believe that the love in his eyes would endure.

  “You’re as wicked as Josiah Aston.” She hoped he wouldn’t hear the revealing huskiness in her voice.

  His smile indicated he recognized his triumph over his bride’s scruples. “Only with you, Calista.”

  “If we’re discovered, we’ll be the talk of the county.”

  “I’ll make it worthwhile.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself.”

  Actually, she had no doubts he was a wonderful lover. His kisses sent her flying toward heaven. She’d spent the last months wandering in a daze of sensual hunger for more than the frustrating caresses they’d sneaked under
the watchful gaze of parents and society. Her doubts, as ever, centered on her ability to satisfy him.

  “And of you.” It was as if he read her mind. He sat up and pressed a fervent kiss to her palm. “Midnight.”

  “Midnight,” she echoed, wondering just what she promised.

  From the shadows, Josiah watched as the lovers kissed for a few minutes more before the young man swept the tall, slender girl from the chamber. Their games inevitably reminded him of his wife. It seemed a grotesque, malicious jest that he was dead. And alone.

  Josiah’s mind worked furiously. So little of what he’d heard made sense. What the hell had happened here?

  A poisonous brew of grief and frustrated anger swirled in his gut. He’d had a whole life ahead of him, a life of love and achievement and purpose. A life with Isabella at his side. A life with children and hope and happiness. A life he’d been denied.

  He must say he admired the fellow’s spirit in luring his lady into sharing his bed before the wedding. Josiah had tried to seduce Isabella, but for a girl famously indifferent to society’s strictures, she’d surprised him with her prudishness. Strange, because when he met her the tattle had been that Isabella Verney was no virgin.

  Who were these two people who embraced on his bed and kissed and bickered, just as he and Isabella had kissed and bickered? Although, Isabella had been a queenly creature; this girl’s eyes betrayed a vulnerability that was foreign to his darling.

  Calista’s clothing was outlandish to his eyes. Too light and simple to adorn a gentlewoman. Like a night-rail rather than a garment a decent woman displayed in public. Where were her hoops? She wore no stomacher and her dress was belted high under her breasts. Nor was her chestnut hair dressed with proper care, just a simple knot half tumbled down her back after her tryst on the bed.

  Yet her voice, her manner, her sense of ownership of this house – his house – indicated she must belong here. More, the way that too serious face warmed into radiance when she smiled reminded him of his mother.

  The man was a complete stranger. But Josiah was familiar enough with the demeanor of a fellow desperately in love to recognize his plight. He was a handsome devil, the sort women made fools of themselves over. But the intensity in his eyes suggested intelligence and a discomfiting level of perception.

  The girl was something different. Plain and almost forbidding with her severe Aston bone structure, always more suited to masculine members of the family than females. Until she smiled, when she became almost as beautiful as Isabella Verney.

  Wicked Josiah Aston?

  The description seemed far too damning. Like any sprig with gold in his pockets, he’d been wild in his youth. But from the moment he’d seen Isabella the day after his twenty-eighth birthday, he’d known what he wanted. The beautiful heiress Isabella Verney had been headstrong and, at twenty-six, late to choose a husband. No matter. He recognized his destiny. He’d courted her for a year, seen off a crowd of rivals, many of greater estate than he. Then, praise God, she’d admitted her love and consented to become his wife.

  According to the couple, people had dragged him from the Chinese bed on his wedding day. They hadn’t mentioned his wife. Had she been there? What on earth had he done to deserve such a despicable reputation?

  Had he possessed sweet Isabella before everything went wrong? They’d married. He remembered that distinctly. Surely he wouldn’t take her to wife without seeking his delightful reward. Yet something about the straining, bristling energy in his body indicated he hadn’t had her. And he couldn’t imagine he’d forget holding her in his arms.

  The damnable thing was, although he was dead his body continued to experience sensation, however false the perception. He recognized the day as warm for May. He was aware of the weight of his braided blue velvet coat, newly tailored for his great day. His non-existent blood still pulsed with desire for his absent bride.

  So, no, he doubted he’d claimed her before he . . . died.

  Before he died.

  Time had passed since his wedding day in 1749.

  A long time.

  Time seemed determined to play nasty tricks on him. The space between waking and now, late afternoon, had passed in moments. He felt like he’d only stirred within the last hour, yet the tiny ormolu clock on the carved chest indicated a whole day had gone by.

  What the hell had he done? He desperately needed to find out.

  More than that, he needed to find Isabella. He couldn’t endure being here on his own. An eternity without her was too cruel a punishment for any crime, however heinous.

  He turned toward the door, left ajar after the lovers’ departure. Neither had had an inkling he observed them. He could see everything around him while it seemed that nobody could see him.

  Moving provided yet another odd sensation. Although he recognized he had no physical existence, he felt he walked like a living man, covered distances like a living man. Yet he kept tumbling into gaps in time when he was . . . nowhere. He felt battered by confusion, questions, contradictions.

  Wicked Josiah Aston?

  The bedroom was full of unfamiliar furniture, apart from the ostentatious bed. Little in the corridor was familiar either, apart from the faded wallpaper and the window at the end of the hall. He drifted through a few rooms, noting the occasional painting or table that remained from his time in the house. The decorations weren’t nearly so elaborate as they’d been in his day. Had the family come down in the world since his demise? Or was he just observing a change in fashion?

  Slowly, carefully, he made his way through the house, seeking Isabella and some clue to his fate. Nothing provided any indication, unless absence of evidence was indication enough. The double portrait he’d commissioned from Allan Ramsay for his wedding was nowhere to be seen. At times, in spite of his urgency to see his wife, he’d find himself transfixed by something. A painting. The library. The view across the park, which had changed remarkably little. He’d stir to continue his exploration, check one of the household clocks, and find that an hour, two hours had passed. Time moved differently for him. A second could spin into an hour yet continue to seem a second. And still he had no idea what had happened to him. Or his darling.

  All the bedrooms were readied for wedding guests but he couldn’t miss the house’s barely concealed signs of neglect. Many of the rooms reeked of disuse, dust, stale air, in spite of windows opened wide to the late spring afternoon.

  Occasionally he encountered a servant or a wedding guest. They paid him no attention, confirming his suspicion that they couldn’t see him. In one bedroom, he found a half-finished letter, dated at the top. In horrified shock, he’d stared at the page.

  It was nearly seventy years since his wedding. Since, presumably, his . . . death.

  How could he have no recollection of anything between that day and now? Where had he been all these years? Was he somehow attached as a spirit to the bed? The young man – Miles, the girl had called him – had said it was only recently reassembled. Did that wake him from oblivion?

  Only another question among so many.

  Afternoon faded into evening and still he searched. His eyes remained sharp as a cat’s, whether the room was dark or lit with candles. Finally as night deepened toward midnight, he opened the door to the tower chamber. The room Isabella had chosen as hers the night before the wedding. On the last occasion he’d seen this room, stealing a few forbidden moments to kiss his bride, it had been an untidy jumble of silks and brocades and feminine gewgaws. Isabella had an uncanny ability to make any space uniquely hers.

  A woman still slept here, he immediately realized. But a woman very different from coquettish, worldly Isabella. Even before he noticed the beautiful pink silk gown spread across the bed, he guessed this room, with its lovely outlook over the gardens, now belonged to his descendant Calista.

  No, if he’d died – the idea still struck a discordant note like a hammer hitting brass – his brother George must have inherited. Calista must be George’s
great-granddaughter.

  Calista wasn’t here. She must have accepted her lover’s entreaty to anticipate their wedding vows. He wished to God he and Isabella had done the same. He wandered over to lift a book from one of the tottering piles that littered every flat surface. And only then realized that while he was invisible to all living beings, he could apparently move physical objects. Of course he could, he’d been opening doors throughout the house. In his lather to find Isabella, he just hadn’t noticed.

  Isabella wasn’t here.

  Was she anywhere? Or had her spirit ascended on high while his lingered to atone for some unidentified but clearly hideous sin?

  He glanced at the book. It was something serious and scientific and botanical. Definitely nothing Isabella would read. Her taste had veered toward the sensational and romantic. And the room, apart from the massing books and papers, was much tidier than any space Isabella ever inhabited. Even the set of scientific apparatus with scales and vials and microscopes on the desk in the corner was neat.

  He heard the door open behind him. Odd how his senses remained so attuned to the world when he no longer existed as a physical entity. Then all thoughts but one fled his mind.

  Isabella stared at him from the doorway.

  “My love . . .” he choked out, stepping forward and reaching for her.

  During their courtship, he’d inundated her with extravagant endearments. It had been a laughing game, how wildly he could compliment this woman he loved more than his life. He’d called her his treasure of Trebizond, his glorious angel of heaven, his exquisite diamond of Ind, his shining pearl of the Orient.

  But all his playful words had meant only one thing. She was his love and he’d lay down his life for her.

  Joy exploded with painful force. Surely he could touch her. If he could lift a book or open a door, surely he could touch this woman who turned his world to sunlight.

  “Isabella . . .”

  Still she didn’t speak.

  He stepped closer, wondering at her silence, at her lack of movement toward him. She’d so rarely been still. It was part of the quicksilver brilliance of her character. She’d been endlessly fascinating, flashing like a jewel, his darling Isabella.