‘Yes. I do.’
‘Did you know your father was a vicar?’
She gasped.
Chapter Eight
After a moment of shock, Mary took a deep steadying breath. ‘May I know what else you have learned, sir?’ How she spoke with such calm, she couldn’t be sure, for her pulse was racing so fast that she could feel the thunder of her heart against the press of her stays.
He gave a slight shrug. ‘It is of very little help in this bind in which we find ourselves.’
The will was his only concern. Hers ran much deeper. ‘My lord, this is my family we are discussing.’ How rarely had she used those words, my family. It always seemed false to talk about family when one had none. ‘I deserve to know all you have learned.’
‘As you wish. Lord Templeton has established to his satisfaction that there is little or no chance that you and I are related. On either side of the blanket.’
She stiffened. ‘You make it sound as if that is not a good thing.’
‘It would have ended this farce immediately.’
She stared at him.
‘The laws of consanguinity, Miss Wilding.’ He drew up a chair and sat on the opposite side of the hearth. His expression was pensive, but the contrast of flame and shadows on his skin were unnervingly menacing. ‘You must be aware of the required degrees of separation for a couple to be permitted to marry.’
Marry. There was that word again. Her face flamed, but he was looking into the fire and fortunately did not see her reaction.
‘I—yes, of course I am aware.’ She was proud of the way she sounded as if this was purely an academic discussion, even if inside she was as taut as a bowstring. ‘Are you thinking you will submit to the terms of your grandfather’s will?’ Was that the point of his questions? Was he deciding what sort of wife she would make? She held her breath.
He turned away from the fire to look at her, his eyes wide with surprise and silver with intensity. Expressions flickered across his normally impassive face—longing, she thought, and perhaps loneliness. Things that pulled at her too-soft heart. Finally he settled on mockery, which seemed primarily directed at himself. ‘Submission. Is that how you see it, Miss Wilding? Without knowing what is behind it all, I’d consider myself a fool to submit.’ His voice was a low velvet murmur. A seduction of the senses, when the words, the unspoken criticism, flayed her heart.
She straightened her spine. ‘As would I.’
Again something like regret reflected in his eyes as he acknowledged her answer with a sharp nod. ‘So you would,’ he agreed without inflection.
He rose to his feet. ‘May I return you to your chamber? I find I am not inclined for sociability any more this evening.’
Bored with her company, he meant. ‘I can ring for a footman.’
‘Oh, no, Miss Wilding. Why would I deny myself the pleasure of holding you in my arms?’
Heat bathed her skin. ‘Sir, you are impertinent.’
‘Yes. I am, am I not?’ And without another word he lifted her from the sofa and carried her to her room.
Pleasure. The word rippled through her, leaving her breathless. It was an admission that he, too, felt the attraction between them. And now he was carrying her to her bedroom. Little shivers chased across her skin.
Pleasure indeed. The feel of strong arms cradling her body, the beat of a heart against her chest, for without thinking she had curled her arm over his shoulder. To support herself, naturally. Her fingers itched to test the silkiness of the hair at his nape. Her head longed to lean against that powerful shoulder. Her body yearned to curl into him. All in the name of pleasure.
Little though she knew of it.
Too soon they arrived at her door and he set her down on her feet. Without a word, he reached around her and opened the door to her chamber. She fought the strange sense of disappointment as she turned to enter her room. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
He caught her arm, holding her back, and she looked up at him. There was a strange expression on his face. A sort of wry twist to his mouth as he trapped her against the doorframe with one hand above her head and the other resting on the wall beside her cheek.
‘My lord,’ she gasped.
In the light from the sconce, his face was all hard angles and smooth planes. There was a loneliness about him, she was sure of it this time. An impossible bleakness as he stared into her eyes. His lids lowered a fraction, his mouth softened and curved in a most decadent smile when she nervously licked her lips.
She intended to speak, to warn him off, to push him away, but her fingers curled around his lapel as her knees felt suddenly weak and the tightness in her throat made it impossible to do more than breathe shallow sips of air.
A flash of hunger flared in those storm-grey eyes.
An answering desire roared through her veins. Shocked, heart pounding, she stared into his lovely face, waiting, wondering.
Slowly he bent his head, as if daring her to meet him halfway. Unable to resist the challenge, she closed the distance and brushed her mouth against his. His hand came behind her nape and expertly steadied her as he angled his head and took her lips in a ravenous kiss.
Large warm hands held her steady, one at her waist, the other cradling her head. A storm of sensation swept through her: tingles in her breasts, flutters in her core and the silken slide of his tongue tangling with hers. Delicious. Decadent. Bone melting. Heart stopping.
Thrills chased along her veins, making her tremble and long for more.
A sort of wonder filled her as her fingers finally explored the hair at his nape and wandered the impossible width of those muscled shoulders. Conscious mind disappeared into the hot darkness of desire.
A heavy thigh pressed between her legs, a steady pressure that offered ease to a growing ache. She shifted, parting her thighs to that insistent pressure, only to feel the torture, the aching need for something more. She tilted her hips into him.
On a soft groan, he broke the kiss. His chest was rising and falling as rapidly as her own, his gaze molten. ‘Would it really be so bad to be married to me, Miss Wilding?’ he asked in a low seductive growl.
Blankly she stared at him, her mind dizzy from his sensual assault.
His short laugh was low and slightly incredulous as he swept her up and set her on the bed. He stood over her like some pillaging Viking.
Finally, some sense of preservation took control of her mind. ‘You must not do this.’
His silver eyes were cold. ‘Think about it, Miss Wilding. The alternative is not all that attractive.’
He turned on his heel and the door closed quietly behind him.
She swallowed. The alternative was death.
Shivering, she struggled to sit up, then pressed her fingers to her mouth, where just a few moments ago his kisses had wooed her to the point of insensibility. Had the unthinkable just happened? Had she practically given her virtue to this man? This stranger who to all intents and purposes, would be better off if she died? She gave a small moan as the delight of that moment echoed through her body and her feminine flesh gave a little pulse of pleasure.
Wanton female. Fool, more like.
Was he actually proposing marriage, or had he simply been carried away by the moment, by lust?
According to Sally, men promised many things in the throes of desire, only to go back on their word when they achieved their aim.
And he hadn’t asked her to marry him. He’d asked her if marriage to him would be all that bad. She couldn’t imagine anything worse, because clearly she could not keep her wits about him when he kissed her. And their marriage wouldn’t be about kisses. It was about him getting his hands on his money.
He didn’t even want children.
The lawyers in London must have told him there was no other way.
She went hot, then cold. Embarrassment. At him being forced to marry her. At his pretence of desire. Although it had not felt like pretence. Not at all. It had felt deliciously wicked and enticing.
Which was his whole purpose. To entice her into a marriage neither of them wanted.
If only she could get to the bottom of why the old earl had placed them in this ridiculous predicament, perhaps it would help them find a way out of it. Sally Ladbrook was the key. She was sure of it. Should she tell the earl where his friend might look for her, since it seemed unlikely she could go looking for herself any time soon? It was a question she would have to ponder carefully.
It would mean trusting him.
* * *
She did not see the earl at all the next day. Likely he was plotting his next move, after her refusal to succumb to seduction. After a night of restlessly tossing and turning, she’d spent most of the day wondering why she had.
He did not join the family for dinner, either. He was closeted with the lawyer, Mr Savary, and his steward, Manners said. He had requested a tray in his study for all three gentlemen. Not something an earl would normally do, Mrs Hampton announced in arctic tones.
Perhaps he was avoiding her. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as in control as he made out. Perhaps he regretted last evening’s encounter as much as she did.
So much for getting all dressed up for him. Mentally she gave herself a reproving shake. She was glad he had not come for dinner. Imagine the embarrassment of having to converse with a man whose body her hands had roamed the day before. She should be grateful for his consideration. Not that she thought he cared about her feelings.
He was no doubt busy trying to find a way to break the will.
Conversation throughout the meal was desultory, hinging around the visit the two young men had paid to a neighbour that afternoon and catching Mrs Hampton up on local gossip. Since none of it meant anything to Mary, she listened with only half an ear.
The meal was just about done and she was beginning to think she could retire to her chamber unscathed when Gerald turned his angelic-blue eyes in her direction. While he looked utterly angelic, she often had the feeling that the glimmer in his eyes was vaguely malicious. She braced herself for what might come out of his mouth.
‘Did you find out anything about our ghost in that history, Miss Wilding?’
She frowned.
‘The history of the house. I saw it on your bedside table when I brought you more books.’
She hadn’t looked at the book, preferring the novels instead. She had set it aside and forgotten all about it. ‘I did not.’
‘I can’t believe there isn’t something in there about her,’ he said, sounding disappointed.
‘Let me give you the book, so you can look for yourself,’ she said calmly.
The sly look was back. ‘I would far rather you tell me what it says.’
‘I say, old chap,’ Jeffrey drawled. ‘If Miss Wilding ain’t interested in reading about ghosts, then she ain’t. It is all speculation and gossip. I’ve never once seen hide nor hair of a ghost and I’ve explored every inch of the place.’
Including the tunnels behind the walls? He’d pooh-poohed the idea earlier, but he could have been trying to mislead her. And where had the heir to the title been when the barrel tumbled down that hill?
Could he be the one who wanted her dead? And not the earl?
Or was that her body’s wishful thinking, a hope she could absolve the earl, so she could what? Encourage his seduction? Let it sway her common sense? Did she have no shame any more? No intelligence when it came to her thoughts about this man just because he had set fire to longings she had no business thinking about, let alone having?
‘Would you care to take tea in the drawing room with me, Miss Wilding?’ Mrs Hampton asked.
The woman sounded almost friendly, not the least bit condescending.
‘I could fetch your book,’ Gerald offered. ‘And you could read aloud from it.’
Puzzled at his determination, Mary frowned at him.
His mother gave a little shudder. ‘I am not sure it is quite an appropriate topic for the drawing room.’
‘Do you believe in this ghost story, Mrs Hampton?’ Mary couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
‘It is a story passed down from generation to generation,’ the widow said. ‘A warning from our ancestors.’
A chill breeze seemed to pass through the room. Mary glanced up, expecting to see the door open and the curtains lifted by an errant breeze, but there was nothing, only Gerald staring at his mother with an avid expression.
His older cousin looked bored. ‘He won’t stop until you read it, Miss Wilding,’ he said with a weary sigh.
‘Very well, fetch the book. We will read it by firelight and scare ourselves to death.’
Gerald gave a whoop of triumph and shot off.
Mary, aided by Jeffrey’s arm, limped the few steps to the drawing room. By the time they were settled, Gerald was back with his prize. He turned the pages until he found the chapter he wanted. ‘Read from here.’
It was only as he was riffling through the pages that Mary remembered the maps she had glanced at. The passageways and tunnels, and the caves to which they were connected.
Gerald was clearly familiar with this book, so he must be aware of them, too. But did he know that the tunnel behind her wall was in a state of good repair? Accessible?
She took the book. The handwriting was in the old style, the hand cramped, the letters f and s almost indistinguishable.
Legend tells us that tales of the ghost of a lady in white go back to the earliest days of the Reformation. Who she is, is lost in the mists of time. That she appears before the death of the Beresford earl is taken as fact by the inhabitants. The predominant tale has her as the wife of the first earl, killed by her lord so he could take another, richer wife. He was hanged when her body was found by his younger brother in the caves below the house.
‘She came before Grandfather’s death,’ Gerald declared,
At his cousin’s snort, he glowered. ‘I heard her moaning and clanking around on the battlements. Old Ned said he saw her.’
‘Old Ned would say your head was shaved and the hair in your pocket, should it lead to a pennyworth of beer,’ Jeffrey said.
At Mary’s enquiring look, he grinned. ‘Old Ned is a gardener. Older than dirt, he is, and twice as thirsty.’
‘Ned saw her,’ Gerald said, his voice cracking awkwardly, reminding all of his youth. ‘I told Grandfather.’
‘Not well done,’ his mother said.
The hairs on Mary’s arms lifted. When she looked up, her gaze found the earl’s. He had entered as quietly as a cat and, just as he had the first time she had seen him, he had paused in the shadows beyond the light of the fire and the candles. This time, however, when he caught her gaze, he immediately strode into the light.
‘And what did your grandfather say?’ the earl asked in such quiet mocking tones everyone in the room strained to hear him.
Gerald flushed. ‘He said it was hardly a prediction, when he’d been ill for weeks. But then how do we know it was his death it portended?’ He glowered at the earl.
Who ignored him. Instead he crossed to Mary’s side and held out his hand. His eyes were the colour of a lake in winter and just as cold. He was back to his normal self. ‘What are you are reading from?’
‘The history of the Abbey, my lord.’ She held it out. ‘The book you kindly reached down for me.’ She watched his face as he flipped through the pages.
He paused for a moment, frowning, then closed the book with a snap. ‘It is hardly a work of erudition if it resorts to ghosts and tales of death.’
‘It is a legend, my lord,’ Mrs Hampton said, looking up from her embroidery. ‘Well known to all Beresford descendants.’
Mary winced at the obvious slight, though the earl seemed oblivious, since he remained looking at her.
‘It is foolish nonsense,’ Mrs Hampton continued. ‘But you have a good voice for reading, Miss Wilding. Clear as a bell. No mumbling, like so many of the misses of today. Read something else.’
‘She reads well because
she’s a schoolteacher,’ Gerald said.
He didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Mary took a leaf out of the earl’s book and ignored him. ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. Unfortunately, this is the only book I have to hand, so I fear I must decline.’
Mrs Hampton scrabbled in her reticule. ‘I have a book of sermons written by my brother.’ She held it out. ‘I haven’t had a moment to open it since it arrived. It would be a treat to hear it read.’
The earl stepped between them, ostensibly to save Mary the trouble of rising, and glanced at the title. ‘Reflections upon St Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians. It sound most edifying, ma’am.’ The wry note to his tone made Mary look at him again. She could have sworn she saw the chilly gaze warm with a spark of amusement. It made him seem more human, somehow, and she barely repressed an answering smile. It wouldn’t be polite. She took the book from his hand.
Jeffrey groaned. ‘Not more of his ramblings. Forgive me, ma’am but I’d rather blow my head off with a pistol.’
Gerald shot him a glance. ‘Target practice? In the old hall?’ He looked ecstatic.
Mrs Hampton frowned. ‘I don’t know what your grandfather was thinking, letting you shoot guns indoors.’
‘Every gentleman should know how to fire a weapon accurately,’ Gerald said. ‘And that requires practice. I should be shooting at Manton’s, but since we never go to London...’
His mother pressed her lips together, but Jeffrey nodded his agreement. ‘He’s right. I’ll join you, Cuz. You coming, Beresford?’
‘I prefer the pleasure of hearing Miss Wilding read,’ he said, his voice a shade more raspy than usual.
That rough sound sent a thrill down Mary’s spine. An unwelcome chill. Only it wasn’t chill, there was a feverish quality to it that once more sent colour rushing to her face. She didn’t have to see it to know her face had turned red, she could feel the prickle of it all the way to her hairline.
‘Let them go,’ Mrs Hampton said, flapping her embroidery hoop in dismissal. ‘They will only laugh and carry on. Foolish boys. But be careful, my son. Pistols are dangerous.’
Haunted by the Earl's Touch Page 13
