by Lisa Kleypas
Her mother, she knew, would never understand; that was why Antonia had never confided her reason for breaking the engagement. Her own father had kept a mistress; according to gossip, most gentlemen did. Their wives were expected to pretend that such creatures simply did not exist. But Antonia knew herself too well to believe she could be happy in such an arrangement.
Even worse, he had lied to her. Early in their engagement, with the frankness he had claimed to admire, she had told him that she believed both partners in a marriage should remain faithful. He had agreed with her, saying with equal bluntness that although he had enjoyed several agreeable connections in the past—he was, after all, thirty-three at that time—she was the only woman in his life, and he fully intended that that would remain true.
That he had been so clearly willing to begin their marriage with a lie had hurt even more than the thought of another woman. It had shattered her trust in him.
Even now, she didn’t know why she had not told him the truth. Perhaps because she could not bear the thought that he would lie again. And although he had said in the drawing room that he meant to know the truth about their breakup, she didn’t want to tell him. She was afraid he would have some ready answer, and that she would allow herself to believe it even if it was a lie.
It was nearly midnight, and though the room was reasonably comfortable with the fire blazing, she shivered a bit. She felt so alone. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she became aware of a slight stirring of the air, as if someone had passed near her, and all her senses came suddenly alive and tense. She turned her head slowly, and gasped aloud.
He stood by one of the windows looking out, frowning slightly as if the storm disturbed him. He was wearing a dressing gown, its colors muted. He was dark, with a hawklike profile, and for an instant Antonia thought it was Lyonshall. Indeed, she very nearly cried out a sharp demand to be told what he was doing in her bedchamber.
Her bewildered anger vanished quickly, however, to be replaced by a pang of chill fear when she realized that she could clearly see the tapestry hanging just beyond him—through his body.
Unable to believe her own eyes, Antonia swallowed hard and managed to hold her voice steady enough to ask, “Who are you?”
He did not answer. In fact, he appeared to take no notice of her at all, as if—to him—she was not even in the room. Turning away from the window, he drew a watch from the pocket of his dressing gown and studied it, still frowning. Returning the watch to his pocket, he moved a few steps nearer to Antonia and seemed to pick up something as if from a table long since vanished. A book appeared in his hands, no more solid than he was, yet she could almost hear the whisper of pages as he leafed through them.
Antonia was still afraid, yet she was fascinated as well. She felt almost numb, her mind working with a strange clarity. Huddled in her chair, she stared at him, seeing that he did indeed resemble Lyonshall. His height and build were much the same, as was the dark hair and hawklike handsomeness. But this—man’s—hair was worn long, tied at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon, and she vaguely recognized the style as that of a century past. His face was thinner, his eyes deeper-set than the duke’s, and she thought he was—had been—a bit younger.
She was not dreaming; Antonia knew that. She could feel the heat of the fire and hear its crackling energy, hear the wail of the storm outside, and sense her own heart pounding rapidly. She forced herself to move, rising slowly from her chair. Again, he did not react to her presence.
“Who are you?” she repeated in a louder voice. She started when he moved suddenly, but it immediately became clear that he had no awareness of her presence. She had the eerie feeling that this was no longer her room, that it had become his. It even looked subtly different to her, as if she was the one caught between times and she could almost see the room as it had been in his time. Almost. But it was more of an emotional sense than an actual one, she thought; she was fixed in her own time, allowed only a kind of doorway to see into his.
For a fraction of a moment, a superstitious terror sent ice through Antonia’s veins. She could not draw him into the world of the living—but what if he could pull her into the world of the dead? The fear was brief, but strong enough to leave her feeling shaken. Her rational mind reasserted itself, and she reminded herself that he had taken no notice of her; obviously, he was no danger to her.
Nevertheless, she started a bit when he dropped the book—it vanished the instant it left his hands—and consulted his watch a second time. A smile curved his lips as the watch was returned to his pocket. Then he strode toward the door.
Antonia had no intention of following him, but she found herself doing just that, as though compelled. She felt almost like a puppet, pulled along as if she had no will of her own, and that sensation, added to the appearance of the man, made the impact of these unnatural events even stronger. Fascinated, numbly frightened, inexorably drawn, she followed him.
She had a bad moment when he passed through the closed door as if it had been open, but she forced herself to turn the handle, open it for her own passage, and step out into the hall. He had paused just outside the door, and for a moment she was unaware of anything but him. Then he went on. It was easy for Antonia to see the man in the hallway; sconces placed high on the wall between each door lined the entire corridor, and they were kept burning all night.
The man was met several feet away in the hallway by a slender, very young woman, dressed in a flowing dressing gown, with a lovely, delicate face and a crop of riotous red curls worn loosely. Her huge, glowing eyes lifted to his as they met, her lips parted, and she was in his arms as if it was the one place in all the world where she belonged.
Antonia felt a vague shock when she saw the young woman, but she was uncertain as to the cause. Surely, two ghosts were no more shocking than one? No, it was something else. A sense of familiarity, perhaps, though she had no idea why that should be so, for she could not remember ever seeing a likeness of this young woman and she did not know her identity. Before she could ponder the matter further, she realized that she was not alone in observing the lovers.
Lyonshall stood in the open doorway of his room, staring just as she did. She could see him hazily through the lovers. It was a strange and eerie sight, evoking a feeling of even greater unreality within Antonia, yet she was more affected by the passionate embrace than by the ghostliness of two people long dead and buried.
Their passion for one another was so powerful Antonia could literally feel it. They kissed with the aching pleasure of two people deeply in love, their faces transformed by tenderness and desire. Their lips moved in speech that only they heard, though it was obvious they spoke words of love and need. Her arms were tight around his neck, and his held her pressed to his body. She tilted her head back as he kissed her throat, her expression filled with such sensual delight that Antonia wanted to turn her eyes from so intimate a moment.
But she could not. Just as she had felt compelled to follow the man from her room, so now she was compelled to stand there and watch. She felt caught, trapped in a spell of sensuality that tugged at all her senses. Her heart beat faster, and she felt hot, her body feverish and tense. It seemed to go on forever, but it was actually no more than a few minutes later when the couple turned with one mind and moved toward the duke’s bedchamber.
Antonia felt rather dazed, but a shaken laugh escaped her when Lyonshall automatically stepped aside for them. They passed into his room. He looked after them for a moment, then reached for the handle and pulled the door closed. He strolled down the hall to Antonia.
With utter composure, he said, “I believe they would rather be alone.”
“How can you be so calm?” she asked, her gaze moving between him and the closed door down the hall. Her voice was shaking, and she felt appallingly unsteady. “I knew the castle was supposed to be haunted, but it was not something in which I believed. I—I was never more shocked in my life.”
He slid his hands into t
he pockets of his dressing gown and smiled faintly. “Lyonshall is not so old as Wingate, but it can claim a number of centuries. And a few ghosts. In the portrait gallery, it is quite usual to see a cloaked gentleman moving about on stormy nights such as this one. I have seen him myself. In fact, he tipped his hat to me with perfect courtesy one night.” He paused, then added, “I wonder why spirits choose to walk most often when the weather is uneasy. And why the hour of midnight seems to be their time.”
Antonia had no answer for him, and in any case he did not wait for one.
“Well, as it appears my room will be occupied for some time to come, and since it is somewhat drafty in this hallway, I suggest we wait in your room.”
Too startled to voice an instant refusal, Antonia found her arm taken in a firm grasp as she was guided back into her bedchamber. She pulled away from him, her voice even more shaky when she said, “We most certainly cannot wait here! I am astonished you would suggest anything so improper.”
“Don’t be missish, Toni; it hardly becomes you.” He strolled over to the fireplace and stood gazing at the flames. “I have left the door open, as you see. In any case, but for our ghostly friends we are quite alone in this wing, so you need fear no scandal. By the way—do you happen to know who the lady was?”
“No.”
“Undoubtedly an ancestor of yours; you are the living image of her.”
That startled Antonia so much that she forgot to be affronted by his presence in her room. “I?”
Lyonshall looked at her. “Didn’t you notice? The same red hair and blue eyes, of course, but there is a much stronger resemblance than mere coloring. You share the same delicacy of feature, the same large eyes and flying brows. She was less stubborn, I imagine; your jaw is sharper. And though the shape of your mouths is very alike, you have more humor than she could lay claim to, I believe.”
He smiled slightly, his gaze intent on her. “As for…other attributes, I would say that you are far superior to your ancestor. She seemed quite frail, almost sickly. You, however, possess a magnificent body, beautifully voluptuous without an ounce of excess flesh. A body made for the passion we both know you are capable of.”
Antonia felt an almost feverish heat stealing through her body once again, and silently cursed his seductive wiles. She had to regain control of this situation, before…before something irrevocable was said. Or done. “Please leave at once,” she said stiffly.
“And where am I to go?” He raised one brow.
“There must be thirty rooms in this wing!”
“None of which have been prepared for a guest. Cold fireplaces and unaired sheets? And the furniture likely in holland covers? To say nothing of the difficulty my valet would have locating me in the morning. Would you really be so cruel as to consign me to such discomfort only to satisfy the boring notions of propriety, Toni?”
She struggled to remain calm. “There is no reason for you not to return to your room. The—the ghosts probably vanished the moment they entered; I am sure you will find them gone if—”
“No. They were moving toward the bed as I shut the door.” His voice had deepened to a husky note.
Remembering the passionate kisses they had observed, Antonia flushed. The scene had profoundly unsettled her. She couldn’t seem to shake the queer sensual spell that had enveloped her as she had watched them, especially since Lyonshall seemed bent on reminding her.
She could not help but think of those two lovers blissfully together in the duke’s bed, or in a ghostly bed of their own century, she surmised, and that mental image brought others with it. A quiet stable, filled with the sweet scent of new hay. His mouth on hers, arousing emotions and sensations she had never known before. The burning, throbbing longing of her body for his. The incredible, shocking pleasure of lying in his arms and discovering her own passion…
Antonia stood with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, and tried to push the disturbing memories from her mind. That proved impossible. She was vividly conscious of how alone they were, of the nearness of her bed and the scant covering of her nightclothes. Gradually, the eeriness of the ghostly encounter was completely overwhelmed in her mind by its sensuality, and by the flesh and blood stirrings in her body as all her senses responded to the man who stood only a few steps away.
“Sit down, Toni. We may be here a while.”
“I would rather stand.” She was afraid to move, certain that if she did, it would be to throw herself into his arms. Dear heaven, he had barely touched her when they had entered the room, and casually, yet her entire body longed for his touch so intensely that resisting the pull toward him was like fighting an uncontrollable force of nature. Not even her most bitter and hurt memories of what he had done could stop the building desire.
He shook his head. “So stubborn. Do you expect me to try and ravish you, is that it?”
She lifted her chin and glared at him, reaching for dignity, offended hauteur—anything to combat the clash of longing and bitterness inside her. “I expect you to remember you are a gentleman. Though, given your behavior today, I must admit my hopes are not high.”
“Indeed? Wise of you. For I don’t mean to pretend with you, my sweet. I won’t play the gentleman, happily content with a light flirtation and a few chaste kisses. There is blood in my veins—and yours—not water. I refuse to behave as though my desire for you is easily tamed. It is not. I refuse to forget that you have already given yourself to me, even if you choose to ignore that fact.”
“Stop.”
“Why? Because a gentleman wouldn’t remind you? Because society insists that if such a shocking thing were to happen, all memory of it must be wiped away? That isn’t so easy, is it, Toni? To forget. Is that why you accepted none of the offers of marriage made to you this last year, because you could not forget? Or was it because your bridegroom would know he was not the first in your bed?”
“Why must you taunt me with that?” she whispered, wishing she could hate him. Anything would be better than this awful, aching need for his touch.
His hard face softened. “Not a taunt, sweet. How could I scorn such a beautiful memory? I know you felt as I did that day, that our loving was intended. You could not have given yourself to me so freely if you had believed anything else.”
Antonia couldn’t move or speak as he came slowly toward her. She could only wait, heart thudding, body trembling. She felt suspended, poised on the brink of something she wanted desperately even while a large part of her mind struggled not to give in.
“No, Richard,” she said in a smothered voice as he reached her, suddenly very much afraid that if he touched her now she would be lost.
“Yes,” he said huskily, his hands lifting slowly to frame her face. “Whatever caused you to hate me didn’t change this. We both know it. You want me, Toni, as much as I want you. And if desire is all I can claim from you, I will claim that. Marriages have begun with less.”
Even if she had been granted a moment to prepare herself, no barrier she might have raised could have stood against him. He took her mouth with all the passionate intensity she remembered so vividly, and her entire body responded. Her arms lifted to his neck as his went around her. She felt the hard warmth of him against her, and the strength drained from her legs in a rush.
She had forgotten how it felt…No, she had forgotten nothing. The heat spreading through her body, the building tension of need, the hunger that brought her out of herself until she was returning his kisses with a passion only he was able to ignite in her—all of it was achingly familiar. Just as it had been in the stable, her response to him drove everything else from her mind, until only the two of them existed in a world of sensuality.
She was barely aware of being lifted and carried a few short steps, then she felt the softness of the bed under her back. She gasped when his lips left hers, her eyes opening dazedly to stare up at his taut face. He was sitting beside her, bending over her, his hands smoothing loosened strands of her long hair away from her fa
ce. He lowered his head and kissed her so fiercely that it was like a brand of possession, and she heard the small muffled sound of pleasure that escaped her.
It was as though she had been deprived for a long time of something her body and spirit craved, and her hunger rose higher and higher, beyond her ability to control it. Just as it had been before, she didn’t think of a price to be paid or the potential for pain—only the irresistible necessity of belonging to him.
His lips trailed down over her throat, then lower as his fingers untied the ribbon of her nightgown. He pressed a hot kiss in the valley between her breasts, and the vibrations of his words were an added caress.
“Tell me you want me, Toni.”
It was not the demand that sent a cold rush of sanity through Antonia; it was his voice. There was something in it she had never heard before, a driven, implacable note. And when he raised his head to stare down at her, his eyes were the flat gray of a stormy sky. Angry. He was angry.
She wondered suddenly, painfully, if he really did intend to marry her. She didn’t think so. She thought he wanted her physical surrender, wanted to prove to them both that she could not refuse him in this, at least.
If he wanted revenge because she had jilted him, he could hardly have chosen a better means. Because if she gave herself to him now, knowing they had no future together, in her own mind—and undoubtedly his—she would be little better than a whore.
Her throat was aching, but her voice was steady when she said, “No.” Her arms around his neck fell to her sides, and she closed her eyes. “No.”
He went utterly still, then she felt the bed shift as he moved away. A few moments later, the door closed quietly, and she knew she was alone.
Antonia opened her eyes and sat up slowly. Her lips were throbbing from his kisses, and her entire body felt feverish and tense. Until that moment, she had not realized just how much she still loved him. Enough so that she wanted to call out to him, or go after him. Enough so that if he had kissed her one more time, she would have been unable to say no again.
