Hosts to Ghosts Box Set

by Lynne Connolly

  It might have been just as well. Then she wouldn’t be standing here, lying to her husband just to get him away from the house for a few weeks. “It’s hardly my fault.”

  “What is hardly your fault?”

  She whipped her head around to look at the portrait of the Cavalier, then back to the man standing before her where there had been none before. The man who had just spoken.

  The voice was so familiar to her that at first Cassandra didn’t register that it had been outside her head, not inside. She’d been hearing it for months. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself, afraid that her little imaginings were turning her into a complete lunatic.

  Blue, blue eyes twinkled at her. “The resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it?”

  “Y-yes. Are you related to him?” Perhaps a relative on his mother’s side, she thought, grasping at straws to find a rational explanation.

  He smiled, much more at his ease than Cassandra felt herself to be. “In a way.”

  Her mind raced. “Vernon Heatherington?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I didn’t know Edward had any close relatives left apart from William.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  This man was everything Edward should have been, but wasn’t. Trim waist, slender but broad shouldered and powerfully built, with a clear complexion and eyes. He wore his hair unfashionably long, a compliment to the cavalier dress he wore. It wasn’t the same as the one in the portrait, the one William had imitated in his get-up tonight. Less elaborate, although the white lace edged collar was in evidence, and the high, carefully polished boots. But his coat and breeches were a dark red, not the celestial blue of the portrait.

  “Too fancy for everyday,” he said with a smile, staring up at the painting.

  His voice sent chills through Cassandra. Just as well she wasn’t fanciful, or she might think he was the ghost of the long dead cavalier come to life. But that would be ridiculous—wouldn’t it?

  On an impulse, Cassandra leaned forward and touched his sleeve. Soft wool met her probing fingers, but because she had poked rather than touched, she felt the yielding flesh underneath.

  She drew back and laughed jerkily. “I’m so sorry.”

  He glanced back up at the portrait. “You had reason to touch. That was painted in happier days, long before the king decided he was going to stamp his foot and say no.”

  She was shocked to hear the Civil War referred to in such a way. “Does a brave man’s death mean nothing to you?” she demanded, before she realized how rude she was being. All this solitude had obviously had a poor effect on her manners.

  He laughed. “You mean my death, my dear.”

  “Taking your part a little too seriously, aren’t we?”

  His expression turned serious, the sensuous mouth flattening into a straight line. “Not a part, my dear. Unfortunate reality.”

  And he had looked to be more sensible than Edward’s other guests! Incensed, she turned and strode quickly towards the far door, throwing over her shoulder, “It’s time you joined the other guests, sir. They will be missing you.”

  “They don’t know me. In this house, the only person who knows me is you. Don’t you recognize me, Cassandra?”

  She carried on walking towards the door at the end of the gallery. His voice reached her, more distantly now. “Last night you wept again and decided to trick your husband into thinking you were enceinte. How can you be, when his drinking has long rendered him incapable?”

  She quickened her pace. She needed to get out of here and think. A shame the long gallery was so—well, long. His voice came closer. How had he reached her so quickly without making a sound? “Yesterday you wore a charming gown sprigged with little flowers. You bound your hair loosely and after making the arrangements for tonight, you went into the garden. Where I cannot follow you,” he added wistfully, “so I don’t know what you did there.”

  “I supervised the gardeners pruning some shrubs ready for winter,” she said, without thinking. She stopped, turned and stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. “How do you know? Have you been spying on me? Is this a joke you and my husband have concocted between you?”

  He sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling under his white shirt. “No. I am the ghost of this place. One of them, anyway. I’m allowed one day of solidity a year, on the anniversary of my death, and this is the day. I chose to come to you.”

  “I must be dreaming!” She cried and would have spun around and walked to the other end of the gallery. No matter that it was entirely the wrong way to her bedroom. She would go around. Anything to get away from this madman.

  “Not so.” He stood in front of her again, blocking her way.

  “Dear Lord, how did you do that?”

  “Like this.” And before she could turn, he’d winked out and his voice came from behind her. Cassandra turned, and saw him. Her legs buckled under her and she fell.

  Chapter Two

  He was there before she hit the floor, supporting her with arms that seemed surprisingly solid. Bending, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her waist, lifting her up.

  “I’ll be all right,” she mumbled, still recovering from the shock she’d just received. “You can put me down now.”

  He dropped a dry, soft kiss on her forehead. “Don’t speak. Let me get you upstairs.”

  He smelled of lavender, she realized when she laid her head on his shoulder. Old lavender, as though his clothes had been in storage for a long time. His coat was of country wool, well worn, soft against her cheek. It seemed natural, as though they had done this before, for him to carry her up to her bed. The impropriety didn’t occur to her at first, and when it did, she decided she had more to cope with at the moment than the dictates of society. She closed her eyes.

  When she opened her eyes once more, she lay on her bed. She stared up at the crimson canopy above her head and blinked. “Well! I must be going completely mad!” she exclaimed aloud.

  “Not one bit. Are you feeling better now?”

  She tried to sit up and nearly fell back when a fold of her gown caught in her elbow. A supporting hand slipped around her back. A solid, male hand. She shrieked.

  “What is it?” The note of alarm tensed his dark voice to wiry tautness.

  “Pins! I’m stuck full of them!”

  His chuckle began somewhere low in his chest, but bubbled forth deliciously. “I think I know the lady this gown was made for. She was much larger than you.”

  “Your wife?” She dropped her voice to a low murmur.

  “No, my sister. She was no fairy. You, on the other hand are as light as a feather.” He hadn’t moved his hand, except to ensure he hadn’t trapped any pins under it. “Shall I help you out of it, or will you require your maid?”

  “No.” She didn’t like to think what her maid might think, or what she would report back to her husband’s cousin. She knew some of the staff spied on her for him and his cousin, but she did nothing about it, because at least she knew which of the household she could trust, and which she could not. Better than changing the staff and having to guess who was telling tales. “You’d better help me. I’m decent enough underneath.”

  “A pity.” She didn’t miss the wistfulness in his tone.

  Together they worked through the folds of the gown where it was gathered at her waist, although they left the ones holding the hems up in place. The garment was a separate bodice and skirt, with a removable lace collar, and they were particularly careful when removing that. It was exquisite. Cassandra had already decided to keep it for her own wear; with a little alteration it would go over some of her gowns perfectly. After that, he made short work of the laces at the back of the gown. He certainly knew his way around ladies’ clothing.

  When the heavy outer gown had been removed, Cassandra was still decently covered, in petticoat and stomacher. He took the gown over to a chair and draped it carefully across it, the bodice on top and the collar on top of that. Ca
ssandra found a little porcelain pot and busied herself gathering up all the pins and dropping them inside. When she looked up, he was sitting on the bed again, gazing at her, his expression dreamy and difficult to interpret. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “Yes, no, yes—oh I don’t know! Tell me, talk to me. Is this real?”

  She watched him wave his hand, and astonished, saw the candles in the branch set next to her bed flicker into life. All at the same time. There was no rational explanation for this. None at all. “Am I dreaming?”

  “No.” He didn’t move any closer to her, but the hand on her back seemed to burn through the clothes she still wore, as though he touched her skin. She felt the heat through her body, not all of it embarrassment when she recalled the dreams she’d had about her secret friend.

  “That’s why I came to see you,” he continued in a voice dark as sin. “You know me, Cassandra, although you never believed in me before.”

  She knew it. All the times she had felt a companion by her side, the welcome she felt when she entered the house after being outside for a while, the words she had thought she had imagined. “A ghost? My only friend is a ghost?”

  “I’m sorry to say that is true. I would vastly prefer to be alive for you, or failing that, provide you with the friends you deserve. You’re a beautiful, loving woman Cassandra, and it breaks my heart to see you like this.”

  He drew her closer and she gave in. It felt so good just to lean on him, and his solid strength. Still not entirely believing in this, she wanted it too much to resist any more.

  “That’s my girl.” His voice was low, encouraging and entirely sinful. What did it matter, if this was a dream? “Rest and let me talk to you instead. I’ve watched you since you first entered this house, Cassandra, and ached for your pain. A child would have helped, but that sot you married is incapable even of that.”

  She couldn’t bear him seeing the many humiliations she’d undergone. “No, it wasn’t like that!”

  “Yes it was, my sweet.” The endearment passed not unnoticed, but accepted. He’d called her that before, in her dreams. “I never intruded, but when I heard what came after sometimes, I couldn’t help but come to comfort you. Not that I could do anything.” The last words were so bitter she felt warmed, even though she also felt ashamed. When Edward failed to perform his marital duty he tended to blame her. She had done everything she could to encourage him, but still it had been her fault when he couldn’t penetrate her, her fault, not the drink. “He won’t hurt you again if I can help it. That’s why I came tonight. I can establish a stronger bond between us. Until tonight, I could only talk to you occasionally. Afterwards, I should be able to reach you whenever you need me.”

  “How?”

  “Never mind. But it’s possible. Now. I couldn’t bear to watch it any longer. Your secret is safe, my love. Just you, me and the other ghosts here.”

  “Are there many?” It sounded so real now the voice wasn’t just in her head.

  “Not really, considering the age of the house. Myself, my brother and a monk we keep seeing but who has never spoken to us. Perhaps he’s taken a vow of silence.”

  “I thought you and your brother hated each other? You killed each other, didn’t you?”

  He smiled briefly. “We did, although we died months apart. He saved the estate for the family. After I died petitioned Cromwell to retain the estate, although he knew the wounds I’d given him would kill him sooner rather than later. He passed the estate to our little brother when he died at Christmas.”

  “You died on Halloween and he died at Christmas. How sad!” Instinctively she moved closer to him. His arm curved protectively around her and for the first time in years Cassandra felt safe.

  “We didn’t mark the calendar at the time. It was only later we realized. Much later.” His voice turned sad and dark.

  Wanting nothing more than to comfort him, she lifted her head and pressed her lips to his smoothly shaven chin. Before she could pull away, he turned his head and captured her mouth.

  The kiss seared through her body. She knew she should pull away, but half of her still believed this was a dream, so what did it matter? And he felt so good, so right. His other arm came around her, and she pressed herself closer, dreaming of what could have been, what she might have had if she’d married a man even half-way decent. When she felt his tongue flicker against her lips, she opened for him with a gentle sigh of surrender.

  He caressed her gently, tenderly, his long fingers massaging her back as he held her and ravaged her mouth. The kiss, at first gentle and tentative, turned wild, his tongue plunging deep, caressing every inner surface.

  What was happening to her? How could she give way to this madness?

  Easily. When he pressed her backwards, she didn’t resist. She leant back on the bed, only aware of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands, more adventurous now, smoothing her body in long strokes of wanting. She was not passive either. Pushing the soft cloth of his coat aside, she felt the hard planes of his body under his shirt, which was slightly rougher than the fabric she was used to. Perhaps the weaver’s art had improved in the last hundred and sixty years.

  It didn’t matter. Only this mattered, until he drew back and propped himself on his elbows above her, panting a little from the intensity of their embrace. “I’m sorry. I only came to comfort you and to establish the link. I want to look after you, Cassandra. We can’t have any more than that. After tonight, I’ll be as incorporeal as I ever was. I won’t be able to do any of this.” His mouth was slightly open, his skin flushed with desire. How could she resist?

  “I don’t care.” She lifted her hand to his neck and tugged.

  “I do.” He stared at her, and she saw the unmistakable light of love in his deep blue eyes. She caught her breath, and he smiled. “Yes, I have fallen in love with you. At first I only wanted to keep you safe, but it’s more than that now. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do, you know.”

  “Yes there is.” She pulled again, and this time he obeyed her insistent summons, sinking down to take her mouth once more.

  Cassandra hadn’t known kisses could be so wonderful. The few times her husband had done such a thing, his kisses had been wet and entirely distasteful. Messy. Vernon wasn’t messy. He kissed her with passion, with love and with sobriety. His hands stroked her breasts, and he caressed her through the thick material of her stays.

  Cassandra pressed up against him, wishing they could be closer. She yearned to feel him, skin to skin. It was as though she’d known him forever. Perhaps she had. The voices in her head hadn’t been her own imaginings, after all. And if this was madness, if she was imagining all this, then it was far better than reality.

  At last she had someone, someone of her own, even if that someone was a ghost. Not that he felt like a ghost. Under the soft wool of his breeches, an unmistakable hardening against her thigh told her he had effortlessly achieved something her husband could only dream about these days.

  She would never allow Edward into her bed again. Ever. It would be a travesty after this.

  Vernon kissed her, stroked her until she wanted more. Wanted it so much she knew it had to be inevitable.

  His lips traveled softly down her throat to the upper swelling of her breast.

  “It unlaces at the back,” she murmured softly, burying her hand in the wealth of his thick, shining hair, threading it dreamily between her fingers, feeling his mouth on her skin, his erection pressing against her. She didn’t know if the gentle, but rhythmic shoves were instinctive or purposeful, but they felt too good for her to care.

  He lifted his head, his eyes burning with want. “I do love you, Cassandra, but be aware that after tonight we will be the same as we were before. I want you so much, my love. I’ve dreamed of it, if ghosts can be said to dream. It has kept me sane. But it isn’t right, you know that.”

  “Why not?” Fury rose quickly in her. “I’ve been good for six years. Always the loyal, d
evoted wife and what has that got me? Nothing but bruises and insults. I tried; I really tried to make the marriage a success. I’ve conserved his money, cared for his land, all the things he should have done, and he takes it and spends it on whores, gambling and drink. Why should I carry on trying?”

  He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, touching them with his tongue, taking his time. “Perhaps,” he said between kisses,” perhaps it’s because you are better than he is, more resilient, more honorable. Perhaps that’s why I love you.” He sighed, his breath gusting warmly over her hand. “If I hadn’t been so foolish as to rush off and believe everything I was told about the king, I might have made a better job of my own marriage, and not plunged the estate into war. But I did, and there it is. I can’t change it now.”

  She watched him, watched the pink tip of his tongue touch her knuckles and knew he was right, but she didn’t care. “We have two hours until midnight. Are we going to waste them in talk?”

  He lifted his head, his eyes smiling wickedly into hers. “At least eight hours until sunrise. That’s when I have to go, my love, at the start of a new day.”

  “Love me, Vernon. Let’s not think about tomorrow. Just love me.”

  For answer, he lifted her and held her closely to him, his hands busy at her laces. She pulled his coat aside with both hands and pressed herself to his chest, feeling the roughness of his shirt against her cheek.

  He made short work of her stays, casting them impatiently aside, and drawing away from her, his eyes downcast to take in what he had revealed. “I cannot say I’ve never seen you before, but I did try to give you your privacy. I left when I saw you in your undress, though I longed to stay. Now I may stay, yes?”