Teddy leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Aine’s brow. She beamed at him, thrilled to see him.
“I was thinking about how much has changed in a year,” Claire said, as Aine let out a gleeful shriek, gripping tighter onto her mother’s dress. “How happy I am now.”
Teddy grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
Claire smiled back at him. It seemed she was always smiling now—all those bad, sad years had faded away, replaced with this wonderful, wonderful life. “This is what I always wanted, but feared I couldn’t have.”
She didn’t speak of Hestia, or the curse. That was an order from Maevis they’d obey for the rest of their lives. She didn’t need to, anyhow, for Teddy knew exactly what she meant. He always did.
“I would have loved you no matter what,” he reminded her. “But where we are now is good. Marvelous. Magnificent, in fact. You might even call me jubilant.”
“Oh, don’t start that again,” she teased.
He slung an arm across her waist, pulling her and Aine closer to him. “I love you. My beloved Mad Countess.”
That was what the ton had taken to calling her now. An improvement, perhaps, on being the Mad Daughter. She’d expected the appellation to sting, to remind her of what she’d always feared.
But instead, she rather liked it. It was a sign of how much she’d endured, and how hard she’d fought to gain what she had now.
“Forever your Mad Countess,” she said, with her baby in her arms and Teddy’s arm wrapped around her.
And so she would be.
THE END
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, thank you to Ava Stone, who has my utmost gratitude for answering my many questions, offering her excellent critique of this draft, pointing out my weird continuity errors, and for generally being in my corner as I was writing this.
I’m also very grateful to my beta readers, Elizabeth Essex and Erica Ridley, who took time out of their busy schedules to help me whip this novella into shape.
Many, many thanks go to Renee Bernard for her help with the coven and the ritual to break Claire’s family curse. I had so much fun brainstorming with her! Thank you also to J.D. Allen for suggesting a curse in the first place, and for listening to me ramble about my story and my convoluted ideas.
I am very indebted to my plotting partner, Eileen Richards, who knows just when to encourage me, and when to tell me to stop whining and write.
My thanks to my editor, Meghan Hogue, who not only catches my errors but also crosschecks my historical word usage. I swear I’ll remember the stays next time!
Thank you, thank you, thank you to the others authors in the Haunting at Castle Keyvnor anthology: Jerrica Knight-Catania, Deb Marlowe, Jane Charles, Claudia Dain, Kate Pearce, Michelle Willingham, and Claire Delacroix. Your enthusiasm for our shared project made me want to work harder!
And lastly, as always, thanks to my husband Kevin for his endless support. You’re my rock, babe.
About Erica Monroe
Erica Monroe is a USA Today Bestselling Author of dark, suspenseful historical romance. She was a finalist in the published historical category for the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Romantic Suspense, and her books have been recommended reads at Fresh Fiction, Smexy Books, SBTB, and All About Romance. When not writing, she is a chronic TV watcher, sci-fi junkie, and comic book fanatic. She lives in the suburbs of North Carolina with her husband, two dogs, and a cat.
You can sign up for her newsletter HERE.
Connect with Erica Monroe
@EricaJMonroe
EricaMonroeAuthor
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Possessed by the Stranger
Jerrica Knight-Catania
Chapter 1
Foxglove Manor, Devon ~ October 1811
Chadwick Kendall sat, for what felt like the millionth hour in a row, at his father’s bedside, watching the old man sleep. He wasn’t certain of the time — somewhere between breakfast and lunchtime, he supposed — perhaps closer to the latter if the grumbling in his stomach was any indication. With any luck, a maid would be by with their meals soon. Not that Father was going to eat his, but they brought it just the same.
It wasn’t entirely necessary that he sit here with his father, seeing as there were plenty of maids about to tend to the man’s every need and assist with his comfort. But Chad couldn’t help himself. The old man needed him. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to do this much longer. His father’s days were numbered, and soon Chad would be longing for the chance to sit and watch his father sleep.
“Will ye be needin’ anythin’, Mr. Kendall?” came the sweet voice of one of the little chambermaids. Mina, he thought. Though they all seemed to have shiny brown hair and petite frames, so he could never be entirely sure which one he was speaking to.
“Lunch, perhaps?” he suggested.
“Of course, sir. Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. It was in desperate need of a wash, actually. “On second thought, I’d like to have a bath drawn, if you please.”
“Right away, sir.” She curtsied out of the room, and Chad stood to stretch his legs.
He walked to the window and stared out over the vast gardens, with its topiaries and flowering bushes and statues, the weight of his father’s impending death weighing on him heavily. This would all be his soon, for it came with the title. Baron Dinedor. Not terribly lofty, but it came with a good deal of responsibility anyway. Father had done well with the title and even better with the money. The coffers were overflowing, the land abundant, and the cottages filled with tenants.
Anxiety clenched at Chad’s heart. How would he ever live up to his father’s legacy?
“Was that Mina?” came the baron’s weak voice.
Chad turned to find his father’s eyes half open and staring at him. “I believe so, though I have trouble keeping your staff straight, I admit.”
“They’ll be your staff soon. I expect you to take good care of them, just as I have done.” He swallowed —a difficult task, it seemed. “Mina has a child. Did you know that?”
Chad shook his head. “I did not.”
“Gloria. She must be six by now.”
“Where does she live?”
“With an aunt, some six miles away. Mina sends all her pay to care for the child. You will make certain the child continues to be well cared for.”
“Of course, Father.” He wanted to tell his father not to speak as if it were the end. To keep his chin up, because he had many more years left in him. But none of that was true. It most certainly was the end. Chad had come to terms with the fact that his father was never going to get better. But at barely sixty, he was too young to die. It was too soon. This illness —cancer, according to the doctor — seemed to be eating him from the inside out, and Chad was most certain it wasn’t going to stop.
A scratch came at the door, and Chad bid them enter.
Balding, the butler, stood on the threshold, silver salver in hand. “For his lordship.”
Chad turned to his father, who waved him on. “I’ll take it,” he said, moving across the room to meet Balding in the middle. He plucked the letter and thanked the man, then tugged at the seal. He scanned the words quickly, dread filling him immediately.
“What is it?” Father asked, and Chad knew he couldn’t avoid telling him the truth, as much as he wanted to.
“The Earl of Banfield has died.”
Father was silent for a long moment. So long, in fact, Chad thought he might have fallen asleep and missed the news. “Is that all?” he asked at long last.
“You have been asked to attend the reading of the will.”
“You must go in my stead,” Father said without hesitation, bringing Chad up short.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must go and see what this is all about.”
“Father,” Chad said, rushing to his bedside, panic rustling in his ch
est. “I’m not going to leave you now,” he said, “surely, I can write to this Hunt fellow and ask that we settle things at another time and place.”
“No, no,” he groused. “You will do as I wish.”
Damn it all. “But what if you’re not…?”
Father gave an infinitesimal nod of his head, clearly understanding the unspoken question. “Then we shall say our good-byes now.”
“The reading isn’t for almost a week. I needn’t leave so soon.”
“You will leave tomorrow.”
Chad stared at his father, so resolute, even on his deathbed. He studied the man—the sagging, sallow skin. The eyes clouded over with cataracts. Hair that had once been thick and dark, now wiry and white. Even if he left now for Cornwall, he’d probably not make it back in time. This would be it. The very last time he’d ever lay eyes upon the man that had been his world. His everything.
There weren’t many men of his ilk who could claim such a relationship with their father. Most of his friends barely knew their fathers at all, for they were focused on their own pursuits and endeavors, content to let the nanny and then the governess and then the teachers at Eaton raise their sons. But not Lord Dinedor. He’d taken an active interest in Chad’s education, visiting the nursery often and sometimes even taking Chad away, mid-lesson, to go for a ride or a swim or some such other adventure.
Of course, Chadwick had gone off to Eton when he was of age, but Father always welcomed him home with open arms for the holidays, and they’d have a merry old time, just the two of them.
Chad often wondered if the fact his mother had died in childbirth had made his father more determined to see that he had a happy childhood than he otherwise might have. But there was the one small blight on his father’s rearing — his unwillingness to speak of Chad’s mother. How often had Chad sat in front of her portrait in the gallery, studying her features, committing every curve to memory? But that was one place father refused to join him. The one person he refused to speak of.
Balding had been here long before Chad was born, and Mrs. West, too. But whenever he ventured a question about his mother, they’d both shake their heads and mutter something about it not being their place to say anything.
Chad looked back to his father. Perhaps on his deathbed, he would be more forthcoming? He settled into the chair again and took his father’s hand.
“I will go,” he said, when his father’s eyes fluttered open. “On one condition.”
“What is it, my boy?”
“Tell me about my mother.”
Chapter 2
“Even after all these years, it is difficult to talk about her.”
Chad nodded at his father. He tried to understand —wanted to understand—but he’d not ever found a woman that could make him understand. The debutantes he’d been forced to dance with in London, when he’d even bothered to go years ago, had all been the same, as if they abided by some code, and they did, in a way. They could all sing and play pianoforte. They’d all gone through dancing instruction and needlepoint lessons, and they all knew the ins and outs of Debrett’s as if it were sewn onto their brains with needle and thread. But not once did a girl stir his curiosity, let alone his heart. For the stirring in other places, he’d gone far outside the ballrooms, yet there’d been little pleasure for him there, either.
He’d long wondered if something was wrong with him. His friends easily frequented Mme. Rose’s, and spoke highly of her “girls.” But they were all the same too. Tell him what he wanted to hear. Bow to his every whim. They were all too cunning by half. Players of games.
But what Chad longed for—what set him apart from his peers and made him feel like an outsider—was companionship, friendship. Someone to talk to and laugh with. Several years of Seasons spent inside ballrooms and parlors had made him quite cynical on the subject, though. It was unlikely he’d ever find what he was looking for.
Father had dozed off again. His plump lips were slightly parted, and Chad put a hand up to them, just to ensure he was still breathing. Puffs of warm air hit his hand at steady intervals.
“Was I sleeping?” Father asked a moment later, coming to. In and out, that’s how it had been for a while. He knew the moment would come when his father would fall asleep and not wake up.
“You were talking about Mother,” Chad reminded him.
A small smile stretched Father’s lips thin. “Indeed. I do hope she’s waiting for me,” he said. “There’s so much I want to tell her. About you, mostly.”
“Please tell me about her first, won’t you?”
“I’ll never forget the first time I saw her…”
“Love at first sight?”
“Oh, no, nothing of the sort,” Father amended, taking Chad quite by surprise. “In fact, neither of us held the other in high regard.”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s what makes the story most interesting. You see, she thought I was nothing but a ne’er-do-well, and I thought she was an insipid, boring debutante.”
“Was either of you right?”
“Not in any way.” Father smiled, looking far away, his gaze some thirty-five years in the past. “While she played the role of debutante to perfection—always, always on the list at Almack’s—she was something of a hoyden beneath it all.”
“And you liked that?”
“Indeed. She was different. She once asked me to place a bet on her behalf because her mother wouldn’t allow her to gamble.”
“Did you?”
“By that time, I was smitten. I couldn’t say no to anything she asked. And she won, of course. She always won.”
“What did she look like?” Chad had seen the paintings—studied them for hours on end as a boy, wondering what it would have been like to feel her hands stroking his hair, her lips kissing his forehead as she tucked him into bed at night. But he wanted to know what she looked like through Father’s eyes.
“Like everything beautiful in the world,” Father said after a thoughtful moment. “She practically glowed, especially when she carried you.” Father paused. Chad could see his lip quivered just slightly, and he closed his eyes against what Chad assumed were tears. Damn. He hadn’t meant to upset him.
“It’s all right, Father. You needn’t go on.”
Father nodded and reached out for Chad’s hand. “She loved you, Chadwick, before you were even born, with the same fervor that I love you today.”
Now it was Chad’s turn to shove down the tears. This was it. Most certainly the last time he’d see his father alive. It tore at every bit of him, inside and out.
“Now go and settle my affairs at Keyvnor, my son, for they are your affairs now.”
Chapter 3
Castle Keyvnor ~ Bocka Morrow, Cornwall
Good heavens, Mother was truly in a mood today, wasn’t she? One would think some time away from home and her usual responsibilities would have her a bit more relaxed, and yet, here she was, lecturing Lady Samantha Priske on proper behavior and etiquette. Not that Sam didn’t know how to behave properly, but she often chose not to. She just couldn’t help herself. Like when she found a tree that was clearly made for climbing, with a sturdy, high-up branch perfect for reading. Or a lake that beckoned her as if it were filled with glorious sirens. How on earth was she to resist such adventures?
“Samantha, are you listening?”
Sam snapped from her daydream where she was swimming in nothing but her chemise through the cool waters of the ocean they’d passed just a few minutes before they arrived at the gates of Castle Keyvnor. “Of course, Mother.”
“Then what was the last thing I said?”
Sam knew it was going to earn her censure, but she said it anyway. “Samantha, are you listening?” she quoted.
Mother’s jaw set into stone and her skinny little nostrils flared just the slightest bit as she attempted to keep her calm. “Do you know what happens to girls like you? Girls who are allowed to run wild and speak their minds?”
“Well,” Sam began, “if you are to be believed, they end up sad and lonely spinsters, correct?”
“I am to be believed, Samantha, not if. I saw it happen again and again, season after season, the same girls were left quite firmly on the shelf.” Mother placed her teacup and saucer on the small round table covered in an elaborate flowered chintz and leveled Sam with her beady gaze. Goodness, how glad she was to have inherited Father’s eyes. “Is that what you wish for yourself, Samantha? To be left behind? Left alone?”
Just then, yes. She wanted more than anything to be left to her own devices. They’d arrived at Castle Keyvnor more than an hour ago, and here she was, still forced into this interview with Mother. Cassandra was already off exploring, but then, she probably wouldn’t get terribly far. Her older sister was terrified of the place, completely horrified at the idea of sleeping in a haunted castle. Sam, on the other hand, couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be. What fantastic adventures awaited her around the corners of this ancient fortress?
“Samantha!”
Oh, bother. She’d forgotten to answer her mother’s question. But the truth was, she wasn’t entirely certain how to answer it. She would far prefer spinsterhood to this. To being told what to do or how to act, whether by her mother or a husband. Sam knew her ideals were wildly modern and frowned upon by most, and yes, the road would be much harder alone, especially for a girl of her station. Work was not even supposed to be in her vocabulary, and yet, sometimes Samantha itched to truly understand its meaning. What would it be like to earn something? To contribute to society in some small way by creating something that other people wanted to buy?
Of course, she dreamed of selling her poetry one day. She wrote and collected her poems in a small book that was nearly filled now. Her most prized possession, she carried it everywhere with her. Even now, it was tucked firmly against her torso beneath her gown. She had to walk with her elbow close to her side to keep it from slipping out, but it didn’t bother her at all. Soon enough, she’d be alone, able to write to her heart’s content. Or until Mother called her for some other interview.
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