My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  But Alison did not have to wait for an answer. A tremulous glimmer began to light up the chair just next to Jeremy, and Alison drew in her breath sharply.

  “No,” she commanded the spirit, but to no avail. Caroline’s ghost took her place at the table with a slight giggle.

  “Do not worry,” it said. “He cannot see me. Look at the flowers he brought you. Just like my dear Byron…”

  “I wish you’d stay out of it,” Alison replied, and then realized Jeremy thought she was talking to him.

  He raised his brows. “Stay out of it? Out of what? The house? Or conversations about its being haunted?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Alison said, flustered.

  “Isn’t he the most exquisitely handsome man?” the ghost commented, turning its large eyes on Jeremy. “I have seen him asleep. He wears no clothing to bed. You would do well to learn more about him, my dear. He is, shall we say, more man than I have ever known.”

  Alison was shocked at the ghost’s words. Shocked, and aroused at the same time. And appalled at the way her dinner party was turning out. She tried to ignore the ghost, but when she focused on Jeremy’s handsome features, she realized that she, too, found him to be more man than she’d encountered before. “Talk of ghosts just perpetuates the myth, that’s all I meant. I’d…I’d really rather talk of other things.”

  Jeremy finished his soup. “Yes, I suppose that’s so. Forgive me if I am being too inquisitive, Alison, but I’m truly curious how you came to Dewhurst Manor. What brought you here, and what are your plans?”

  Alison saw the ghost float off its chair and encircle the unsuspecting Jeremy in an ethereal caress. “My God, leave him alone,” she uttered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jeremy said, looking bewildered.

  “I mean…I said, I was looking for a home.” Alison’s quick recovery amazed her. It sort of sounded like what she’d really said, but she was even more astonished to realize that she’d spoken the truth.

  “Oh.” He said nothing more as the young male servant, who had been introduced only as Kit, removed their bowls and Mrs. Beasley placed steaming plates of roasted lamb before them. “This is excellent,” he said moments later, having tasted the lamb. “You seem to have found quite a talented cook.”

  The ghost was now seated on the end of the table, its vapory legs crossed. “The evening meal smells divine,” it commented in its now-familiar softly lisping voice. “How I have missed those wonderful dinner parties at Devonshire House! My aunt, the Duchess, had an entire kitchen of chefs and servants who did up the most wonderful food, even if we children had to carry our own plates.”

  Alison could scarcely manage to take a bite. She glared at the specter, but said nothing. An awkward silence grew between her and the slightly befuddled guest at her table, but at last, Jeremy picked up the thread of conversation again.

  “You said you were looking for a home?” he ended the statement as a question, encouraging her to continue, and Alison knew she had no choice but to answer if she wasn’t to appear totally out of her mind.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s what brought me here,” she said with a sigh, noting that the ghost now crossed its arms, daring Alison to reveal the real reason she’d come to Dewhurst Manor. “You see, I have…well, I have other places to live. Nice, large homes. But they…they aren’t home. My parents died two months ago, and the houses are in trust, so they aren’t really mine, either.”

  “I’m sorry to have brought up such a painful topic,” Jeremy said gently.

  “No, it’s all right. My parents and I…were never close, although strangely, now that they’re gone, I miss them terribly.” Her food caught on a lump in her throat, and she took a sip of wine. “I found Dewhurst Manor quite by…chance,” she said, shooting the ghost a keep-your-mouth-shut sort of look. “I saw it advertised in a magazine, and something about it just appealed to me.”

  “Do you have other family? I mean, brothers and sisters who will be living here too?”

  Alison shook her head. “Just me.” She looked around at the huge room. “It does sort of seem like a waste, doesn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She smiled at him a little sadly. “You didn’t have to. I’ve said it to myself already. But I find that in the short time I’ve been here, I have become very fond of this place, and I plan to restore it. Like I said the other day, it needs people here. It needs laughter and life. You may think this sounds crazy,” she continued, knowing he likely thought most of what she said sounded that way, “but in a way, I have found Dewhurst Manor to be like the family I’ve never known. Here, I can be myself, not the daughter of Charles and Elizabeth Cunningham. I can create the warmth in my surroundings that I have always missed. I’m thinking of creating a resort or maybe some sort of retreat. I thought I’d check out what they’ve done over at Brocket Hall.”

  She took a small bite of her dinner, then continued, feeling surprisingly comfortable in sharing her thoughts with Jeremy. “I haven’t decided exactly what I’m going to do with the place yet, and I don’t think I need to just now. First I must close on the sale, don’t you think?”

  Jeremy nodded. “Of course. When do you think that will be?”

  “Gina has lined up an appraisal for early next week. I made the contract contingent upon an official appraised value. If the estimate does not equal the asking price, the contract is void.”

  “Smart move.”

  Alison felt a sudden glow at this small indication of his approval, although why she should value his approval escaped her. “I have to admit, Mr. Ry…uh, Jeremy, that I haven’t much experience in business matters. I…my father took care of everything for me, everything in my life, and I just never stopped to consider that I might one day have to fend for myself.”

  She saw a flicker of sympathy in his eyes and suddenly regretted sharing such intimate details of her life with this virtual stranger. She did not want or need his sympathy. “Please don’t think I am totally without resources,” she added in a sarcastic tone. “Money, I have found, usually fills in the gaps.”

  “Sometimes,” he said in a strangely quiet voice, and Alison wondered just what he meant. But before she could press him to reciprocate with some details of his own life, the ghost grew tired of being ignored. “Why do you not finish this boring dinner and get on with the evening?” it admonished, then pirouetted across the table top. “I think you should let him kiss you tonight.”

  “What?” Alison gasped.

  “Nothing,” Jeremy replied, giving her a quizzical frown. “Are you sure you are all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, willing with all her might for the ghost to return to the ethers. “I’m just anxious to have certain matters taken care of so I can get on with my life. Some people…have been rather forgetful lately,” she said pointedly to the ghost, who somehow managed to remain invisible to Jeremy.

  “Let him kiss you,” it said again with a faint trickle of laughter, and then to Alison’s great relief, the spirit dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind only a flutter of the flame of the candles on the table. Alison let out a long sigh.

  “Would you like to take dessert in the Great Hall?” she asked, wanting suddenly to be out of the room.

  “If you wish,” Jeremy said, “although the meal was so excellent, I could do without dessert. I think I will stick with a little port.”

  He stood and came to help Alison with her chair. So formal, she thought. So British. And yet, she sensed genuine consideration for her behind his polite actions. She stood and took the arm he offered, allowing herself for a fleeting moment to pretend he was the man in her life…the one who didn’t in reality exist. Would she ever have a man, someone she could love and who could love her, with no other strings attached? It was more difficult than she wanted to think about. So many men had tried to assure her they were THE ONE, but she’d found it was her money that they were after, not her. This one, she considered, would likely be the same. Sh
e already suspected he was a mercenary, a treasure-seeker. Was that behind his change of heart about the room, his pleasant company tonight? Had he figured out who she was, and what she was worth? The thought depressed her.

  It wasn’t easy being an heiress.

  They entered the Great Hall, and Alison saw that the fire had been fed, and that a tray of cheeses and fruit sat on a small table between two large chairs near the hearth, along with a carafe of red wine of some sort. Port? Was Mrs. Beasley psychic? It wouldn’t surprise her. These days, nothing surprised Alison.

  Alison’s fingers were cold when Jeremy laid his hand across hers where she held onto his arm. She was beautiful in the candlelight of the dining room, and even more stunning by firelight. But she remained a most perplexing puzzle. At dinner, Jeremy had seen a glimpse of the real Alison, the one he believed to be far more vulnerable than she realized. The innocent. The ingénue, regardless of her attempt to hide behind her money. He’d felt the pain behind her words when she had told him she was looking for a home and described her estrangement from her parents.

  He related to that. He’d spent years after his father deserted him and his mother, looking for that feeling called “home,” that place where you felt safe and loved and secure. He’d finally decided it was just a fairy tale place, a myth that didn’t exist in an adult world, and he quit looking, settling instead for private, upscale living quarters and an independent lifestyle. That had always been sufficient.

  Sufficient, that is, until he’d met Alison Cunningham.

  Strangely, she’d somehow managed to open that door again, the one that held back all the longings for home and family.

  He wished she hadn’t.

  He led her to one of the large, tapestry-upholstered chairs by the fireplace, gazing at the exposed flesh of her breasts that was just visible above the fabric of the silken tank top she wore with a light cardigan that matched. Her legs were clad in simple but elegant black trousers, the appeal of which was enhanced by the high heels on her dainty feet.

  “May I pour you a glass?” he asked, trying to control the desire he felt building in every nerve of his body.

  “Yes, please,” she replied demurely. “Look, Jeremy, I didn’t mean to get so personal in there.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” he said, handing her a crystal goblet filled with deep red wine. He sensed she was uncomfortable that she’d revealed herself, even so slightly, to him, and he wanted to set her at ease. “I don’t bite, you know.”

  She grinned. “It’s just that we barely know one another. Tomorrow, the next day, or next week, you will be finished with your work here, and I’ll be getting on with my life. There’s no need to unload my problems on you, especially over a casual dinner.”

  “Is that what we had? Only a casual dinner?” He came to sit on the arm of the chair. “I’d like to think it was rather more than that. And I’m glad you told me those things.” He ran the back of his fingers along her shoulder and felt her shiver slightly. “I wish you’d tell me more.”

  But she scooted away from his touch. “Please. Don’t.”

  But Jeremy was suddenly beyond don’t. He wanted this woman. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and tell her everything would be all right. He wanted to find the devils he suspected were lodged in her soul and help her get rid of them. He knew he shouldn’t get involved. Alison Cunningham threatened the very essence of his carefully constructed and controlled lifestyle. He should leave now while he still could.

  Instead, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet again. Gently, he removed the glass he’d just handed her and set it on the table. “Who are you, Alison Cunningham?” he whispered, touching her hair lightly and raising her face to his. “What are you all about?”

  Her eyes were wide, but he saw neither fear nor resistance in them. He drew her into his arms and held her there gently, then placed a light kiss on the top of her head. “I’d like to get to know you better, Alison. If you’d let me.” He lifted her chin with his fingers, hoping she would answer him, but all he read in her eyes was confusion. He was pushing her too hard, he knew. They were still virtual strangers, and yet, he could not let her go. He lowered his lips to hers, tasting again the sweetness he remembered, inhaling the light floral fragrance that surrounded his senses. He pulled her tightly against him, feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her waist beneath his hand. Oh, God, what was he doing? He should release her now. Apologize for his beastly behavior, and get the hell out.

  But then he felt her lips open and her body melt against him, and Jeremy Ryder knew he was lost.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Do not marry yet, or, if you do, let me know it first. I shall not suffer, if she you chuse be worth you, but she will never love you as I did…”

  Lady Caroline to Lord Byron.

  It came to me one sleepless night, when my eyes burned with fatigue & my mind was wracked by dark thoughts of the destruction of Caroline Lamb, an idea so absurd at first I laughed aloud. My laughter died, however, as I realized I had come upon possibly the only alternative to this continuing Hell in which I lived my days. It was an alternative I had never considered seriously in my entire life, one that chilled my bones to the marrow. Marriage! Surely if I married another woman, Caroline would at long last give up on me. With malice behind my actions, hoping she might divulge the content of my letter to Caroline, I wrote Lady Melbourne that I would be interested in marrying her niece, Annabella Milbankes, if she would consider me. The reason for me to make such a choice escapes me now, unless it was because she was Caroline’s cousin & therefore a choice calculated to inflict as much pain as possible upon my Tormentor. More likely, it was because Annabella was the sole heir to her father’s substantial assets, and such a match would allay my dire financial straits.

  Either way, Miss Milbankes was far too good for a fallen Soul such as myself, a point she was to make to me often over the coming years. We were never suited, not that I truly wished to be suited to any woman. Annabella was a Princess of Parallelograms, a Mathematical thinker, perfectly Precise and and precisely Perfect, whilst I was a lowly Poet, an unmathematical Dreamer and a practised Sinner. In seeking the hand of Annabella, I was true to my course—I did not love her, therefore I could consummate the marriage, and if Disgust set in, well, then, at least I would have her money.

  The next morning, Alison rose early, not because she particularly wanted to, but rather she because sleep had eluded her for most of the night. Tossing and turning, she had edged back and forth over the line of consciousness, always with the face of Jeremy Ryder squarely in front of her.

  Damn him!

  She dressed quickly and tried to put last night out of her mind. Alison was certain that the ghost had somehow cast a spell over her. What other explanation could there be for her falling so easily for Jeremy’s charms, not once, but twice! Find the damn memoirs, she told herself. Get rid of the unpredictable ghost, who had turned out to be quite the trickster. And get rid of Jeremy Ryder as well.

  She hurried down the stairs, deeply troubled. She could blame the ghost all she wanted for getting her into Jeremy’s arms, but how could she explain her reluctance to leave them? For a brief moment, she’d felt safe there. Warm and secure.

  Harbored.

  Home.

  It had been a delicious feeling, one that made her hunger for more, even now. One that had allowed her to let her guard down, just a little. Her body had warmed to his embrace, and she’d opened herself to his intimate kiss. It had all seemed so right at the time. He’d been tender, gentle. He’d acted like he truly wanted her, like he cared for her. And then…

  Her cheeks flamed as she recalled what had happened next. Just as she had more or less invited him with her body language to take the next step, she had felt his body tense, and he’d pulled away from her abruptly. He’d looked at her with that same wild, inexplicable expression she’d seen earlier, then stalked out of the room without a word.

&n
bsp; Alison was at a loss for an explanation, except that his caring words, his tender caresses must have all been an act. He hadn’t meant any of it. He must have been leading her on, just to see how far she would go.

  And she was humiliated that she’d fallen for him like some cheap tramp. Her body had betrayed her twice. It wouldn’t, she swore, happen again.

  She’d discovered Jeremy in the library late yesterday, when the ghost had led her there. The coincidence made her suspect that the memoirs were close by. It was a logical hiding place, one that Jeremy must also suspect. It was an easy place for him to search, too. He could pretend to be inventorying the valuable book collection while he looked for the real treasure of Dewhurst Manor.

  Well, two can play that game, Mr. Ryder, she said to herself, pushing open the library door, determined to find the memoirs before he could make off with them.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried out, astounded at the scene that met her eyes. The library was in shambles. All the books along one wall had been flung from their shelves in obvious haste and lay in disarray on the furniture and floor. “How dare he?” Alison fumed, appalled and sickened. How could he? She picked her way through the rubble, kneeling to carefully retrieve a particularly twisted volume. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t compute that Jeremy, who professed to admire and value all things old and rare, would vandalize the contents of the library in such a manner.

  And yet, who else could have done this? Jeremy was the last person she’d seen in the library. Had he, in his haste to find the treasure before she learned of his deception, returned to the room after his mysterious and sudden exodus from her presence last night and wreaked this havoc in what she now thought of as her library? Her anger mounted with each question.

  “Damn!”

  She began picking up books but had no idea in what order they had been arranged before being hurled from their shelves. “I ought to kill him,” she considered angrily, then stopped suddenly when her eye was caught by the title of a book she’d retrieved from the window sill, one that looked as if it had been placed deliberately out of the way of the rest of the destruction. It was a very old book, covered with crumbling brown leather. The title was embossed in faded gold leaf.