Damn it all. Michael hadn’t even gotten those words out of his mouth and Jack already knew what he was about. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Cassy blanched at the suggestion. “Michael.” Her hand fluttered to her lips.
“Oscar sleeps on the floor these days,” Jack returned. “Sorry, old man.”
And Oscar, his cousin’s little black poodle, barked at the sound of his name as though to confirm Jack’s words. Charlotte winced slightly at the sound and Michael took a bit of joy in his sister’s wince. It was petty, he knew that; but she was family, and enjoyment was the appropriate response to a disloyal family member’s wince.
“Castle Keyvnor,” Michael grumbled, annoyed that it had come to this. “None of you are willing to stay there.”
“None of the ghosts bothered you last time,” Jack said helpfully. “You must not be the sort they’re interested in haunting.”
So Michael was even rejected by the damn ghosts at Castle Keyvnor? Not that he wanted to be the sort they were interested in haunting. It was just…Well, the whole day had been beyond frustrating, more than he could have imagined. And then not having a place to stay in his own sister’s home was simply beyond the pale.
“See you on the morrow,” Anthony called as Michael turned to leave.
And once again that delightful daydream of his brother crawling across Britain on his hands and knees, begging for help, flashed in Michael’s mind. Oh, he wished Anthony would have need of him someday. And he would relish telling the jackass to go hang. There was probably more than ample space for both of them in his brother’s chamber at Hollybrook Park. Of that, Michael had absolutely no doubt at all, but Anthony had always been the worst at sharing anything. Entitled heir and all that.
“Go bugger off,” he grumbled before he quit the parlor and started for Castle Keyvnor, ignoring the gasps of shock from his sister and cousin at his language.
Castle Keyvnor, Cornwall
Lady Ivy Dallimore didn’t particularly care for this corner of Cornwall. The village of Bocka Morrow seemed immersed in the smell of fish, which was unbecoming even if they were on the coast. And Castle Keyvnor itself had an odd feeling to it, as though there was something not quite right beneath the damp surface of its medieval walls. Honestly, the place made her skin crawl. As did the staff at the castle.
“I will be quite relieved,” she told her cousin Frances as they stepped into the castle’s gardens, “to see Westbury Court once this is all over.”
Frannie agreed with a nod. “I heard one of the maids talking about a ghost in the corridor this morning. Do you think Castle Keyvnor is haunted?”
Ivy scoffed at the very idea. Quite ridiculous. “I think the local superstitions are just that. Though the overall awfulness of Bocka Morrow and Keyvnor certainly lends itself to the telling of such tales.”
“You’re probably right,” Frannie agreed.
Before Ivy could say more on the subject, the Earl of Hayfield stepped from a hedgerow maze and flashed his most winning smile upon her. She managed not to groan in response. Groaning, after all, would be beneath her.
“He’s not that bad,” Frannie muttered under her breath as she was quite aware of Ivy’s feelings about the man. “And he is rather handsome.”
Which meant nothing at the end of any given day. “He’s a fortune hunter,” she retuned in kind. “A penniless earl.”
Frannie laughed. “And which is more disagreeable to you, I wonder? His earldom or his penniless state?”
“I suppose it depends upon the day.” Then there was also the matter of Hayfield’s five children for whom he’d spent the previous season searching for a mother. She shuddered at the very thought. A penniless fortune-hunting earl with an unruly brood. Hayfield was, in short, the very last man she would ever consider for…well, anything. And he was certainly a far cry from the Duke of Markham whom Ivy had been keeping her eye out for since their arrival at this unfortunate castle. She hadn’t spotted Markham even once but Hayfield a number of times a day. Still, Ivy politely smiled at the man as he approached them. It certainly wasn’t her most winning smile, however. After all, there was absolutely no reason to encourage the man.
“My dear Lady Ivy, you are more radiant every time I see you.”
He saw her entirely too often. Though Ivy didn’t say as much. Instead she shook her head and said pleasantly, “How kind you are, my lord.”
His gaze flicked to Frannie and he muttered, “And you, of course, Miss Dallimore,” as it was expected, though there certainly was no warmth in his voice, as Frannie did not possess the same fortune that Ivy did. Disingenuous toady. Ivy disliked him more and more every time their paths crossed. Then he flashed that smile of his at Ivy once more. “Might I escort the two of you, wherever you’re headed this afternoon?”
“How kind you are to offer,” Ivy replied. “However, we are not in need of an escort at the moment. In the midst of family discussion, actually.”
Frannie’s eyes widened at the lie but Ivy ignored her cousin’s response.
“Perhaps another time,” he said, looking slightly dejected.
Yes. Perhaps when sows sported wings. But certainly not before then. She nodded in response. “Do have a delightful day, my lord.” Then she towed Frannie away from the man as quickly as she was able.
“What family discussion are we to be in the middle of?” Frannie whispered once they were out of earshot.
“It hardly matters,” Ivy replied. After all, it wasn’t as though Hayfield would ever know one way or the other. “Horrid man.”
Frannie shook her head. “You are entirely too picky, Ivy Dallimore.”
“And you are not picky enough,” she returned. Of course, an earl would be a step up for Frannie, socially speaking; but her cousin could do better than Hayfield, Ivy had no doubt. Frannie was lovely and sweet and any man with any sense would see that. Hayfield was not that man, however. “Besides, after watching Persephone and Ophelia both fall prey to unfortunate matches, I do not think it is possible for me to be too picky.”
“Persephone seemed quite happy when we saw her last.”
“Persephone is a ninny.” Ivy’s oldest sister wasn’t unhappy, but neither was she as happy as she could be. Ophelia, however, was another matter all together. Married to a reprobate well beneath her and more than miserable. Of course, it had been a whirlwind love match at the time. Ivy shook her head at the ridiculousness of that memory. A love match, indeed. Her sister was now stuck in a dismal union for the rest of her days or at least until Chopwell stuck his spoon in the wall. Ivy had half a mind to stick his spoon in the wall for him as he, unfortunately, seemed to be in perfect health.
A breeze blew past them and a set of bushes rustled nearby. Frannie shivered. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Castle Keyvnor was haunted. There’s such an odd feel to the place.”
Indeed there was. Heaven forbid Ivy ever end up in some unpleasant place like this for the rest of her days. It was something to think about as she considered prospective suitors next season. She would need to be quite vigilant in discovering all there was to know about her future duke’s family seat before she agreed to any sort of courtship. There was, after all, no reason to give some fellow hope if his home was not up to snuff.
“The Duke of Wycliffe inherited property around here, didn’t he?” Ivy mused aloud as a gust of wind swirled around her ankles. She tightened her cloak about her shoulders to keep the chill from her bones.
“I’m not certain,” Frannie said.
No, of course she wasn’t. Frannie hadn’t, after all, kept up with such things as thoroughly as Ivy had. “He did, I’m fairly certain,” she replied. “I think I shall have to cross him off my list.”
“You have a list?” Frannie asked with a giggle.
“How can one accomplish anything without having a list?” Ivy countered.
“And Wycliffe is off yours?”
“I’m never living some place as horrid as this.”
“Do you even know His Grace?”
Ivy shrugged. She’d met the man once in London. He wasn’t exactly what she’d wish for if she had the choice. He hadn’t flipped her belly or made her toes curl, but of course none of those things were necessary in making a decent match. Love, after all, was fleeting, but a title lasted forever. With that said, however, even if one had the proper title but preferred to live in this particular corner of Cornwall…
Ivy shuddered at the thought. No, no. The Duke of Wycliffe was definitely off her list.
They turned right at the hedgerow, and she spotted her brother Ethan, the Duke of Westbury, engaged in some sort of conversation with one of the Earl of Banfield’s daughters. Lady Gwyn, Ivy thought. She didn’t know the girl, as Gwyn hadn’t been a lady this last season since her father had not assumed his earldom until this last autumn. But all of that was beside the point. Lady Gwyn seemed quite enthralled with Ethan, most likely because of his dukedom, which Ivy suspected was the real reason she and her brother had been invited to this double wedding in Cornwall. The fact that Uncle Frederick had known Banfield since their school days must have been a happy coincidence as neither Ethan nor Ivy knew the Banfields in the least. She did know, however, that the newly styled Earl of Banfield had five daughters, and as he was marrying off two of them in a few days, she thought it was quite likely he hoped to land Ethan for one of his remaining unwed three.
She shook her head at the thought. “Poor girl,” she muttered under her breath as she and Frannie continued down the path toward the sea. If any of Banfield’s daughters, or any other lady for that matter, truly wanted to set her cap for Ethan, they should seek out Ivy’s council first.
“Lady Gwyn?” Her cousin cast her a sidelong glance.
Ivy agreed with a sigh. “Looking at Ethan as though he personally hung the moon.” Then she shook her head. “Someone should warn her what a curmudgeon he is.”
“He’s not that bad,” Frannie said, kicking a pebble from their path.
“You don’t live with him,” Ivy complained. “Humorless, strict, and beyond difficult, and that’s on his good days.” She shook her head once more. “Of course, Holly thinks he’s perfectly wonderful, which does nothing but reinforce his obstinacy in all things.”
Frannie shrugged. “He did take her in after her brother died.”
Which Ivy had heard more than once over the years from her brother’s ward. “David Preston was his friend. Had Ethan died instead, I’m sure Preston would have taken me in.”
“Papa would have taken you in,” Frannie said. And that was true. Had Ethan died, Uncle Frederick would have assumed the dukedom and he would never have kicked Ivy from Westbury Court. But all of that was neither here nor there. Ethan, humorless as he was, was alive and well…and much grumpier than any other guardian, Ivy was quite certain. And that was something that not even his dukedom could smooth over. Lady Gwyn or any lady of sense should run quite far away from Ethan, curmudgeon that he was, and settle on someone much more agreeable in nature.
Hmm…dukedoms were wonderful things, Ivy was quite aware. She had enjoyed living in her father’s dukedom and now her brother’s, and she was quite intent on having her own someday… Or her own duke, rather, as it would be his dukedom and he would be sharing it with Ivy. But temperament had to be considered. No grumpy dukes, not like Ethan. And no less-than-thrilling estates like the Duke of Wycliffe’s either. These were both two very important things to consider before next year’s season.
“Oh, it is pretty, isn’t it?” Frannie asked, breaking Ivy from her reverie.
And there, just before them was the Cornish coast. Rocky and slightly treacherous looking, and yet breathtakingly beautiful at the same time. The dark blue waves, crashing upon the rocks. The white sea spray. And the sun shining down on them even in the winter, making everything brighter than it had been a moment before.
Frannie gasped and clutched Ivy’s arm.
Ivy glanced toward her cousin, and there – not too far away – was a menacing looking man dressed all in black. For a moment, she thought she could see through him, which was ridiculous. It had to be the brightness of the sun playing tricks with her eyes.
The man in black’s scowl darkened when Ivy met his gaze, which was rather annoying. After all, he was the one wearing some out of fashion sailor’s garb and looking rather grubby to boot. If one of them should have been scowling at the other, she should have been scowling at him.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” she called to him, “but no one looks at me with such disdain.”
“Ivy!” Frannie hissed, squeezing her arm even harder.
Goodness, that hurt.
“What is it?” Ivy turned her attention once more on her cousin.
“For heaven’s sake!” Frannie pulled her hand away and touched it to her heart. “That…that thing was a ghost, Ivy!”
A ghost? Completely ridiculous. Ivy turned back to the man in black, but…Well, he was quite gone. A chill rippled down her spine, but she pushed the sensation away. Whoever that menacing looking fellow was, he wasn’t a ghost. He was just some bad-mannered, ill-fashioned Cornishman who didn’t know his place. “There are no such things as ghosts, Frannie.”
But her cousin was in no mood to listen to reason. She lifted the edge of her skirts and raced back toward the dark and dreary Castle Keyvnor, her light brown curls bouncing in the wind.
Chapter 3
Michael thought it quite likely that his head might actually explode. How was it possible that there was no available room at Castle Keyvnor, for pity’s sake? No one even wanted to stay there! Wedding guests filled every corner of Hollybrook Park, Lancarrow and the local inns. There should be ample space available here, in this dratted place!
He narrowed his eyes on the Banfield butler and managed not to raise his voice as he clipped out, “I. Want. To. See. Lord. Blackwater. Now.”
His friend could pay him what he owed and then Michael could find his own damn way out of this cursed corner of Cornwall. That wouldn’t solve his Markham issue, but if there was no place to stay in Bocka Morrow…
Oof! Michael stumbled backward slightly when some slip of a girl rounded a corner into the entryway and bumped into him in her haste to run…Well, who knew where the devil she was in such a hurry to be. Keyvnor might as well be Bedlam, filled to the brim with madness as it was. She didn’t even apologize as she bolted further away from the castle entrance as though…Well, as though a ghost was chasing after her, which at Keyvnor…
“Frannie!” called another girl a moment later, before she rounded the corner into the entryway and…
God in heaven. Michael’s mouth went dry at the sight of her, like it always did whenever he encountered the prissy little brat. He couldn’t help it. Lady Ivy Dallimore was stunning. Her pretty blue eyes, her fiery red hair. He did rather like girls with red hair and especially hers. It was quite unfortunate that she was such a prissy little brat, and even more unfortunate that he would like nothing more than to bed her and drive that prissiness from her as best he could and as long as it took. He had, after all, imagined doing just that on more than one occasion over the last year. And he rather hoped it might take a number of sessions.
“My lady,” he said and couldn’t help but smile. Who could keep from smiling at such a vision?
Lady Ivy stopped in her tracks and blinked up at him, probably just as surprised to see him as he was to see her. There had, after all, been that little incident at Hyde Park this last season and the memory of her breasts in his hands came rushing back to him. It had been an accident, of course, but that hadn’t meant Michael hadn’t enjoyed every second of it, brief as it was.
She seemed to take a steadying breath before she said, “Did you see which way my cousin went?”
Who could notice anything except Ivy Dallimore whenever she was near? “I’m afraid I—”
“Lord Michael.” The butler, the dratted man, apparently found his voice. “As I’ve already explain
ed, Lord Blackwater is not in. He has gone into the village with Lady Morgan and I do not know when he’ll be back.”
Who the devil cared about Blackwater or Lady Morgan? Michael let his gaze sweep across Lady Ivy’s form. She was more than stunning, especially with the soft little wisps of her hair all in disarray as though she’d run a foot race. “I’m afraid I didn’t see where your cousin went. Would you like me to help you look for her?”
Her cheeks pinkened, as though she had some idea as to his thoughts about her, and he wondered if she ever thought about that incident in Hyde Park. Had his touch heated her as much as touching her had heated him? But then Lady Ivy shook her head and said with a slightly waspish tone, “I’m certain I can manage on my own,” before she brushed quite determinedly past him.
Even with her gone, her lilac scent hung in the air and Michael breathed her in.
Damn it all. What he wouldn’t do to have her all to himself.
The Banfield butler cleared his throat, drawing Michael’s attention back to the infernal man. “So if there is nothing else…” He gestured to the door behind him.
Certainly the butler didn’t think he could dismiss Michael so easily or that he was going to be forced from Castle Keyvnor. Not now, not after he’d spotted Ivy Dallimore. It had, after all, been a rather long time since he had seen her, not since that day in the park.
Michael shook his head. He was not leaving, not if he had to sleep on the floor of this cursed castle. He’d spent more time at Keyvnor than he’d wanted in the past but that meant he knew his way around fairly well. “When Lord Blackwater returns from the village, you may tell him he’ll find me in the billiards room.” After all, his game could always stand to be improved.
Then he turned down one corridor and started for the room in question, though his thoughts were quite firmly focused on a certain tempting redhead. What was Ivy Dallimore doing at Keyvnor? She was here for the wedding, clearly. But…was she a friend of one of Banfield’s daughters? He wouldn’t have thought they’d rank high enough for her to notice any of them. He doubted she knew the fellow Lady Tamsyn was marrying as he was local to Bocka Morrow. And he doubted she was here for Blackwater. Michael’s friend definitely didn’t rank high enough for Lady Ivy to care about one way or the other, not with his Irish title and his unfortunate name.
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