Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  Until Phillip had come. Dashing, brave, exciting Phillip. He had made her laugh and cry, and infuriated her until she wanted to scream. Dear, wonderful Phillip. She loved him, too.

  She loved them both.

  And she had lost them both.

  Tears welled up in Margaret’s eyes. Why must she discover this now? What she had to do was difficult enough.

  She dashed the tears away. She had to find Bernard and break the engagement. Before she lost her courage altogether.

  *****

  In a dark corner of the study, Bernard sat and gazed broodingly at a smoldering log in the fireplace. After the most extraordinary night of his life, despair was now cutting him deeply, to the bone.

  He had bungled everything.

  Why had he pretended he didn’t remember every instant of their lovemaking? The first part of the night was perhaps a bit dreamlike, but the focus had gradually sharpened, becoming more and more real as he had done everything he had longed to do for years and years. But when morning came, he had panicked, ruining everything. Margaret had obviously chosen Phillip.

  Bernard pulled an packet from his vest pocket and stared at it. It had arrived today. He had meant to give it to Margaret as a surprise, but it was useless now. He had lost her.

  Violently, he flung the packet away. It sailed several feet before landing on the carpet.

  He was a damn fool. Phillip had been right. Even as a ghost, Phillip was more of a man than he was.

  He had lost her.

  What would he do now? All that was left was his work. Perhaps it was only fitting that he devote the rest of his life to studying the mating habits of the Dor beetle....

  A glowing ember sprang out of the fire landed on his coat sleeve. He brushed at it with his fingers, but the small spark burned through the cloth and seared his skin. With a muttered curse, he inspected the small hole in his sleeve.

  The door opened, sending a shaft of light across the room. A voice said, “Bernard?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Margaret was confused and uncertain. She felt off balance, as if any new shock would knock her off her feet. Almost warily, she peered around the room.

  The drapes were drawn halfway, and the light was poor. She was about to leave, when she caught sight of a figure seated in a shadowy corner.

  “Bernard, is that you?” she asked.

  He did not reply.

  Margaret wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. There was something in the air, a tension, but she didn’t know if was coming from Bernard or herself. Perhaps it was just that she couldn’t see him clearly.

  He did not move or speak, and his face remained hidden in the shadows. Her uneasiness grew. She had known him all her life, but he was a stranger. And why was he sitting there so quietly, not saying a word?

  “Cecilia and Geoffrey are leaving soon for London. It’s wonderful you found that post for him.”

  Silence.

  “Geoffrey told me about your father and Jeremy. I never knew. That was very kind of you.

  Silence.

  “And what you did for Aunt Letty and Mr. Gillingham,” she babbled. “They are already engaged!”

  Silence.

  She began to twist the watch in her hands. “I have your watch. I didn’t realize...that is, Aunt Letty told me Phillip was your great-grandfather. I know you must want it back.”

  Silence.

  Why didn’t he say something? Her fingers fiddled with the catch on the watch. Click, snap. Click, snap. Click....

  “What do you want, Margaret?”

  Even his voice sounded strange. Brusque. Quiet.

  She took a deep breath.

  “We made a mistake,” she said in a rush. “We could never be happy because I agreed to marry you for all the wrong reasons. I thought...I don’t know what I thought. But I know after last night we can’t be married, and--“ She paused to take another deep breath. Noticing the packet on the floor, she bent over and picked it up. “--And I want to break our engagement.”

  She looked at him, hoping he would say something. But he didn’t. She wished he would speak. She was running out of breath. “After what has passed between us you will probably be relieved that I am releasing you from your promise--“

  “No.”

  “No?” She looked at him uncertainly. “You’re not relieved? Well, anyway--“

  “No. I mean no. I will not release you from our engagement.”

  “What!”

  “Open the packet, Margaret.”

  Automatically, she obeyed. Inside she saw two steamer tickets booking passage to....

  She gasped. “The Sandwich Islands? Bernard, what is this?”

  He stood up and approached her, and when he moved into the light, she gasped again.

  He looked three inches taller. His chin jutted out pugnaciously. His mouth was a tight, grim line. And his eyes glowered like two fiery coals.

  He stopped a bare inch in front of her.

  “I will not let you go. You are mine, do you hear? And whatever it takes, I will keep you. If you want to travel, then we will travel--but I go with you.” His hands reached up and entwined themselves in her hair.

  Speechlessly she stared up at his face.

  His eyes softened to a silvery glow and his voice became a whisper. “I have loved you forever, Margaret. Ever since we were children. When my father decided to arrange our marriage it was the happiest day of my life. And when he reneged on the agreement, it was the most miserable. But I waited, hoping that someday I would have the chance to tell you of my love.”

  “You never mentioned love when you proposed.”

  “I’m not good with words, Margaret. I doubt I ever will be. Besides, I do have my pride. You showed more enthusiasm for Jeremy’s earwigs than you did for my proposal.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “It is true.” He stepped forward, fitting his body against hers and tugging on her hair to tilt her face up to his. His mouth drew nearer. “I’ve been more than patient, but my patience is at an end. I want you to marry me, Margaret.” His lips were a bare whisper away. “Marry me, and I will take you to the Sandwich Islands, or the North Pole, or the moon if that is what you want.”

  “But...but what about last night? Can you ever forgive me?”

  “Dearest Margaret, I am a thousand kinds of fools. I pretended not to remember because I was afraid I had shocked you. Now, I only want to do it again. Only this time, there will be no doubt in your mind.”

  His mouth closed over hers and he kissed her wildly, passionately, the skin of his jaw rasping against her cheek, his arms like a vise around her, his body hard and taut against her softer one.

  She started to struggle. She broke away, staring at him. His hands were clenched on her shoulders, his face darkly flushed. They were both breathing hard.

  The faint scent of vetiver and tobacco wafted upwards.

  She inhaled sharply and looked at him. She saw disheveled dark brown hair, and a firm but gentle mouth. She saw the slightly aquiline bent of his nose and the passionate intensity of his dark grey eyes.

  Why did she feel as though she had never seen him before? No, that wasn’t right, she had seen him like this before--he had looked exactly the same just last night....

  Her heart swelled with immeasurable happiness. Flinging her arms around his neck, she cried, “Yes. Oh, yes!” And then she was kissing him back, laughing and crying at the same time.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  They were married one week later, by special license, in the village church.

  Aunt Letty smiled mistily as they recited their vows. She stroked the jar in her lap and whispered, “I’m so happy Bernard and Margaret are adding ‘Eglinton’ to their name. The Eglinton name has not died out after all.”

  Next to her, Mr. Gillingham snored gently.

  Jeremy was bored stiff. He wished they hadn’t delayed their trip to London for this silly wedding. Mama was looking all teary-eyed and even Papa looked
sort of mushy. He wished they would hurry up and finish.

  Mrs. Westbourne sniffled noisily and complained to Mr. Westbourne in a low voice, “I don’t know why they rushed this so. It’s indecent. What will people say?”

  “I don’t think Margaret cares, dear,” whispered Mr. Westbourne. “And perhaps she is right.”

  “Hmmph. I still don’t like it. And why must they go to that heathenish place in China for their honeymoon? People will talk,” she muttered.

  “Hush, Daphne.”

  Bernard and Margaret turned at that moment to face the congregation. Margaret was smiling blindingly through her tears. Bernard looked as proud as if he had just discovered the mating secrets of the Geotrupes sterocarius.

  “They make a very handsome couple, don’t they?” remarked Mr. Westbourne. “Oh look. He’s kissing her.”

  “I can see that. He’s certainly taking his time about it too. My goodness, how long does a kiss take? For heaven’s sake! What can they be thinking? Look at them! What kind of a kiss is that? Never in all my born days have I ever seen anything so...so improper. What will everyone think? This is too, too mortifying. Goodness gracious, aren’t they ever going to stop...?”

  Epilogue

  On the day the wedding announcement appeared in the London Times, there was a small advertisement at the bottom of the same page:

  On July 15, 1769, Roger Carew, first Earl Mortimer testified in court that the ghost of Alicia, Lady Holwell appeared to him. Furthermore, he claimed that the apparition spoke to him and told him that Phillip Eglinton, second Viscount Holwell, had murdered her.

  Two days ago, on September 1, 1847, the ghost of my grandfather, Roger, Earl Mortimer, appeared to me and told me that his entire story was a foul and accursed lie, and that Lord Holwell was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  I hereby swear that the aforesaid statement is true.

  Leland Carew, second Earl Mortimer

  The End

  About the author:

  Multi-award winning author Angie Ray has sold over a quarter million books in more than 15 languages. Her books have been described as “very funny, very loving...with a twist” (Romantic Times); “funny, passionate and always moving” (Affaire de Coeur); and “on my all-time favorite list” (Old Book Barn Gazette). Although her favorite things in the world are reading a book that makes her laugh and eating dark chocolate truffles, she can sometimes be persuaded to do the Camp Pendleton Mud Run, camp in 16 degree weather in Solvang, hike Angels Landing and the Narrows in Utah or go wine-tasting in Sonoma. She’s a manager for a national company, has two children and lives with a very persuasive man in Northern California. Read on for a sneak peak of her book Ghost of My Dreams, available in e-book format in March 2014.

  Ghost of My Dreams

  Prologue

  Vincent Parsell, sixth earl of Helsbury, sat alone at the scarred trestle table that could comfortably seat twenty, sipping a snifter of brandy. Rain lashed at the windows, and the dining room was chilly with only a few candles to disperse the shadows, but he didn’t summon a servant to tend the fire or light the candelabra. He didn’t notice the cold darkness creeping along the walls and sending curling tendrils out across the floor. His entire attention was focused on the portrait that hung on the far wall.

  The portrait, with its gilded frame and luminous colors, contrasted sharply with the gloom-filled room. The artist, in some magical mixture of hues, had managed to capture the woman’s image perfectly—the ebony curls swept up into a high chignon to reveal the delicate line of her jaw; the gold locket in the hollow of her throat nestling against her creamy skin; the high-waisted gold silk dress that shimmered and hinted at the sweet curves beneath; the full, ruby red lips that smiled seductively; and the brilliant midnight blue eyes that danced with teasing laughter.

  Vincent averted his gaze. That laughter had been absent the last time he’d seen her—the night of the Helsbury masquerade. The night she’d broken off their engagement.

  He lifted the snifter to his lips and drank deeply. The brandy burned its way down his throat and settled in his stomach. He waited.

  Nothing.

  He swore. He’d been drinking for the last two hours now, and still he felt none of the numbing warmth he was seeking. Setting down the snifter, he picked up the bottle. As he poured, brown droplets splashed onto the dull oak, and the clinking of glass echoed in the cavernous room. He became aware of the silence, the emptiness of the entire house.

  He set down the bottle with a loud thump. He wasn’t accustomed to being here alone. Usually, one or another of his brothers was in residence. But they were all in London, enjoying the entertainments. All except Gilbert, of course, who was living in bucolic splendor with his wife, Jane, and their little boy, Jason.

  Vincent shaded his eyes with his hand. Gil had always been a trifle different from the rest of the Parsell men—less distrustful and more stubborn—but they’d all been surprised when the boy had proclaimed his love for Jane. He, himself, had laughed at little Gil’s avowal of love. But now the memory of their earnest, glowing faces made him feel even more empty, more alone.

  Perhaps he should go to Elizabeth. Talk to her. Apologize...

  No.

  Everything inside him recoiled at the thought. The earls of Helsbury did not apologize, and they certainly did not go crawling after women. She would have to come to him, and she’d better do it soon, or he might decide not to take her back—

  “My lord?” a hesitant voice said from behind him.

  Vincent turned and focused with difficulty on the short, brown-haired man standing in the doorway. He frowned. “What is it, Wilmott?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. But this just arrived.” Wilmott advanced and handed him a letter, then stepped back a respectful distance. “The messenger is waiting for a reply.”

  Vincent turned his back on Wilmott, barely hearing the servant’s last sentence. He stared down at the familiar, feminine scrawl on the missive. For a moment, he felt light-headed. Then he smiled.

  So she’d come to her senses at last. He had known she would. He had known she would beg for forgiveness sooner or later. The letter would no doubt be smudged with tears and full of pretty apologies. He turned the folded paper over. He didn’t know if he should accept them—she truly had behaved quite abominably.

  A faint perfume, like roses in spring, wafted upward from the letter. Growing still, he inhaled. His loins tightened, and suddenly, his hands were shaking. The missive slipped through his fingers and fell onto the dark wood of the table, soaking up the drops of brandy he had spilled. No longer smiling, he scooped the paper up and broke the seal.

  Dear Vincent—

  I hope this letter finds you well. Although we did not part on the best of terms, I wish to assure you that I bear you no ill will. I hope that you, too, are willing to put the past behind us. I would like for us to be friends, Vincent.

  Vincent closed his eyes for a second. Yes, he was willing to put the past behind them. And yes, he wanted them to be “friends.” God, how he wanted it. Perhaps he would forgive her after all. He could exact his revenge for her stubbornness after they were married—he would keep her in his bed for a week...

  A faint smile curling his lips, he opened his eyes and continued reading. His smile disappeared.

  In the spirit of friendship, I would like to ask that you return the portrait I gave you as a betrothal gift. I am sure you will agree that it is not quite the thing for you to keep it. Especially now, since I have fallen in love with another man and am shortly to be married...

  The words blurred. The blood grew still in his veins and the room darkened. A heavy pounding beat against his temples, and a loud ringing filled his ears.

  “What reply, my lord?” Wilmott asked.

  Vincent stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “My lord?” Wilmott’s dark, bushy brows lowered in an anxious frown. “What reply?”

  Vincent looked down at the letter, crumpled in his tight
ly closed fist. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. Abruptly, he stood up, the legs of his chair screeching on the floor.

  Without answering the startled butler, he strode out of the room and into the marble hall where a rain-drenched servant stood, twisting a sodden hat between his hands.

  Vincent thrust out the crumpled paper. “Did you bring this missive?”

  The stocky messenger gripped his hat. A steady stream of water dripped from the cap and his rain slicker onto the floor. “Y-y-yes, my lord. Miss Vale said that I was to return this painting”—he nodded to a canvas-covered frame resting against the wall—“and receive one from you in return. I have a carriage outside.”

  She had returned the portrait of him? With an effort, Vincent tamped down his rage. “Miss Vale must want this painting very much,” he drawled.

  “That is true, my lord.” The man began to twist his hat again. “She wishes to give it to Lord Haversham.”

  The muscles in Vincent’s neck and shoulders tensed. “Haversham?” he repeated, his lips barely moving. “She is marrying Haversham?”

  “Yes, my lord. Tomorrow.”

  A reddish haze rose before Vincent’s eyes. Haversham. She was marrying the marquess of Haversham tomorrow. The wealthiest man in the country—and the biggest fop.

  The jade. The greedy, faithless jade.

  Clenching his teeth, he turned to Wilmott. “Summon three footmen to help you take down the portrait,” he ordered.

  The messenger stepped forward. “I’ll be pleased to help, my lord.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Vincent barely spared him a glance. “You will not be taking the portrait to your mistress.”