by Ava Stone
In the brief moment he’d seen his friend this morning, Sidney had reported hearing such things. It was ridiculous, of course. There weren’t any children staying in the castle. He’d probably heard the same thumping noises Alastair had heard. Although, Alastair had originally thought Sidney was part of the group making all that racket. Perhaps Sidney had preceded them to bed.
“The three of them were so foxed last night, who knows what sort of ridiculousness they imagined?”
“That foxed, were they?” Alastair hadn’t been foxed at all, so he knew the noises in the castle weren’t imagined, but he wasn’t one to tell tales out of school. It wasn’t as if Braden could throw Quent or Thorn over his lap, anyhow, for making noise past reasonable hours.
“Mmm.” Braden nodded. “Had a rather unpleasant meeting with the local magistrate this morning. They challenged some fisherman to walk on his hands or something like that and the fellow broke his nose, apparently.”
Alastair couldn’t help but laugh. Those three should never have been left alone. “Thorn can walk on his hands, you know?”
“Not until last night.”
“That why you’re headed into town? To clean up whatever mess they made?” Alastair asked. “I would have thought you’d have your head in your uncle’s ledgers for at least a sennight.”
“Gave my word to the magistrate that we’d all be on our best behavior while in Ravenglass, and Quent seems bound and determined to make a liar out of me.”
There it was again. That blasted stab of loneliness that reared its head every so often. Alastair gave a chuckle, born of discomfort. “I do envy you that.”
Braden glanced sideways at him, his brow creased with confusion. “Envy what exactly?”
Alastair shrugged. “The bond you have with Quent. You’re as different as night and day, but the two of you do have that brotherly bond that I imagine is quite comforting at times.”
“You mean the times I’m unconscious?” Braden replied, clearly trying to lighten the mood with humor.
“And other times too, I’m sure.”
Silence fell between them. Braden was probably thinking of all the times he’d relied on his brother, and counting his blessings for his siblings, as trying as they might be sometimes. One couldn’t help but count their blessings when they discovered Alastair’s sad tale of being orphaned by the age of eleven.
He took a deep breath, willing the vice grip around his heart to let go, to leave him be. It had been years—nearly fifteen, to be exact—so why was the pain so fresh? Why did the memories linger so vividly in his mind and his heart? He’d hardly known his mother, though vague memories of her tucking him into bed and kissing his forehead made him ache for the little boy that lost his mother too soon. And then receiving the news of his father while at Eton…
“Thank you, Daphne. I’ll tell Lila you asked after her.”
The young woman’s voice drew him quickly from his morbid thoughts as he made his way toward Miss Alcott’s door across from the Pennington Arms. Braden stayed in step with him. Why the devil was he heading toward Miss Alcott’s? Did it have something to do with the golden-haired chit that was just leaving?
“You know that girl?” he asked his friend.
“Not nearly as well as I’m going to,” Braden replied, and then without so much as a by your leave, he started after her.
Not that Alastair cared. All that existed in the world right now was the beautiful woman standing under the little sign that read “Alcott.” He’d known she was a beauty—her face had given her away—but he hadn’t been expecting this. She wore a gown of blue and white stripes that seemed to make her eyes even bluer than they’d been yesterday. A panel of lace hugged her breasts and pushed them up just enough to drive a man insane, but not enough to be vulgar. And her hair…
“Good God,” he whispered, as he stood still as a statue, staring at her.
“My lord?” she said, waking him from his trance.
Damn. Had he said that out loud?
Getting his wits about him, he removed his hat and bowed to Miss Alcott, offering his most dashing smile when he came up again. “Miss Alcott.”
She smoothed her hands down her dress and drew her bottom lip between her teeth. How darling she was when she was nervous.
“I’m ready for my tour,” he said.
“Oh, yes, of course!” It was as if she’d forgotten all about their purpose today. “I’ve prepared a picnic for us, and I need my shawl.”
“I shall wait here for you then.”
She gave a little nod, and then scurried inside, thank God. Alastair needed a moment to collect himself. If she was going to continue to be so very delightful, it was going to be a rather trying day.
Daphne had known he was coming—she’d been expecting him—yet she couldn’t seem to get a hold of her faculties. Goodness, he unraveled her, in the most wonderful and horrifying ways.
She shut the door behind her, leaving his lordship just outside, and then leaned her back against it. Deep breath in, deep breath out. There. That was better. Now to retrieve her shawl and the picnic basket. And when she opened the door again, she’d be calm, collected. The kind of girl a sophisticated man such as Lord Wolverly would take an interest in, beyond just seeing her as a tour guide to help him pass the time in the backwaters of Cumberland.
Basket and shawl in hand, she flung open the door. Only he wasn’t there. Her heart stopped, and an unexpected sadness washed over her. Had he changed his mind? Had he taken one look at her and bolted in the opposite direction?
She closed the door behind her and stepped into the road.
“Will you allow me to carry your basket, Miss Alcott?”
Daphne gasped and whirled around to find the viscount leaning casually against the wall, just a few paces from her door. How had she missed him?
“Did you think I had run off?” he asked with a bit of a chuckle.
Heavens, was he a mind reader? “No, of course not,” she lied with a laugh in return. “And yes, you may carry the basket, if you don’t mind.”
He pushed off the wall and strode toward her, arm outstretched to take the basket. Then he offered his other arm to her. She stared at it for but a moment, her imagination running away with itself. What must his arm look like beneath that coat? She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. It was firm, and his muscles flexed the moment she touched him.
She glanced up and gave him a half smile.
“Where to first?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, as they started off down High Street. “I thought we might picnic near the ruins.”
“Ruins?”
Daphne nodded, excited to share a bit of her home with Lord Wolverly. She took great pride in Ravenglass, and it wasn’t that she meant to impress the viscount—he was used to all the culture and excitement London had to offer, after all—merely that she hoped he might take an interest in its history too.
That seemed exceedingly silly. She hardly knew him, and he was only a visitor, passing through. After he went back to London, she’d probably never set eyes on him again.
What a sad thought. Brief as their acquaintance was, she rather liked setting her eyes upon him.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The Romans settled here seventeen hundred years ago. Their buildings are obviously crumbling to the ground, but the grounds are lovely, and perfect for a picnic.”
“Well, then I shall be delighted to go there.”
They walked on, and Daphne continued to point out places of interest as they went. At least, she thought they were of interest. He probably found all of this dreadfully boring compared to London.
“Miss Alcott, do you know everyone in this town?” he asked as the main street’s buildings gave way to forest.
Daphne pulled her shawl more tightly around her. The trees formed a canopy above them, and without the sun there was quite a chill. Part of her longed to know the warmth of Lord Wolverly’s arms—what it would be like to have them wrapped
about her, guarding her against the chill.
“Miss Alcott?”
Oh, blast. She’d forgotten he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He gave a low, grumbling laugh. “I thought I’d lost you to the trees.”
No, something far more interesting than trees. “Of course not,” she replied. “I was just…thinking of where we needed to turn next.”
“Ah, don’t let me distract you then.”
“No, no, it’s fine now.”
“Good. I was simply noting that you seem to be quite popular around here.”
Daphne shrugged. “I was born here, my father was the doctor, my brother is the doctor, and everyone seems to love my rum butter. There is otherwise nothing very special about me.”
“I would beg to differ.”
His low, gentle tone set Daphne’s heart to hammering. But of course she laughed. She wasn’t quite certain what else to do in the face of flattery. No one had ever given her a second glance, let alone attempted to flirt with her.
“Will you tell me about yourself, Lord Wolverly?” she finally asked, wishing to shift the focus off of her. “I fear you know far more about me than I do about you.”
“Yes, well, I rather like it that way.”
“Are you always so stubborn?”
He smiled down at her. “Even more so.”
“Well, you’re saved for now,” she said as they approached the ancient landmarks. “Welcome to the Roman bathhouse.” She gestured to the crumbling buildings sitting in the meadow just off the path.
“Magnificent,” Lord Wolverly whispered, and Daphne’s heart swelled just a tinge that he saw the same beauty in them that she did.
“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand with a newfound boldness. “I’ll show you the rest.”
If someone had told Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverly, a week ago that he’d be chasing some callow chit about ancient ruins and loving every bloody moment of it, he never would have believed them. Good God, what had he become? He prided himself on being indifferent, impassive, unruffled. But if anyone had ever ruffled his unflappable feathers, it was this girl. A girl he’d known for a mere twenty-four hours, but who intrigued him and spoke to a part of him that had been long dead.
Her tittering laugh echoed in his head as he followed her from the ruins of an ancient bathhouse back to their blanket at the edge of the meadow. They were both breathing heavily from the exercise, and their breath wafted on white puffs into the chilly air. But there was nothing cold about Alastair just then. He’d been warmed from the inside out.
“I’ve never known a girl who could run quite so fast,” he said, plopping to the blanket and immediately falling to his back to stare up at the sky.
“Have you seen my brother’s legs?” she asked, dropping to her knees and sitting back on her haunches. “They practically go all the way to his chin. I had to learn to keep up with him when we were children, so I had to run nearly everywhere.”
Alastair found this highly amusing, and let out a rather undignified guffaw. Damn, but it felt good to be undignified, even if only for an afternoon. “I daresay you could outrun my horse.”
“Well, I doubt that,” she replied as she began to pull things from the picnic basket. “Will I get to meet him?”
“Who? My horse?”
She gave him a smile as if to say, You dolt, of course I mean your horse.
Alastair returned with a sheepish smile. “Jupiter would be honored to make your acquaintance.” He paused and then ventured, “Perhaps tomorrow.”
There was an infinitesimal pause as she pulled a bottle of wine from the basket. Her lovely round cheeks pushed up ever so slightly with her smile, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Was he being too forward? He’d only known her a day, after all. And what if she already had a beau? He hadn’t thought about that.
Alastair came abruptly to his elbow and narrowed his eyes on her. “At the risk of sounding rude, might I ask you a question?”
Now she looked at him. Her sapphire eyes blinked a few times as the autumnal breeze blew a few strands of her shimmering dark hair across her nose and forehead. “That depends,” she said. “Am I allowed to take offense if it is exceedingly rude?”
“Absolutely.” His heart pounded as he searched his brain for the right words.
“Well, then, you may proceed.” She tilted her chin and stared down at him, waiting.
“Why are you not married?”
Miss Alcott burst into laughter at this, clearly not offended by the question at all, but rather highly amused. Relief washed over him.
“Oh, Lord Wolverly, how should I know the answer to that question?” She busied herself again with the contents of the picnic basket. “I’ve never even been courted.”
Alastair stared at her in a state of shock. “Never?” A girl of her age—and beauty—in London would have certainly been courted by at least a few gentlemen. “Surely there are eligible gentlemen around here.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But they don’t see me as eligible.” She clapped her hands together and pasted on a smile. “Now, I hope you’ve brought your appetite. We have roasted chicken, a fresh loaf of bread, grapes, and of course…” She held up a jar of what Alastair assumed was her famous rum butter. “To go on top of the bread pudding.”
Miss Alcott obviously didn’t want to talk any further about her gentlemen suitors, or lack thereof, as it were. And Alastair wouldn’t press the issue. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, he had an overwhelming urge to make her feel safe. And happy. And—
“Shall I pour us some wine?” he said, sitting up properly and reaching for the wine bottle.
Without a word, she handed over two tin cups, and he poured the wine before handing one back to her. They sipped in silence for a few moments. Alastair welcomed the warm path that the wine forged to his belly as he studied the woman across from him. Blue was most definitely her color. Seeing her against the backdrop of an azure sky proved that much. And that hair. The rich, dark color against her alabaster skin was enough to drive him wild, let alone the thought of running his fingers through the soft, thick mass of her tresses. How he longed to remove the pins from her simple chignon and see it tumble about her shoulders. Was it very long? Would it cover her breasts, like Eve in the Garden of Eden?
“So,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “How was your first night at Marisdùn?”
Alastair shrugged as he swallowed a tender morsel of roasted chicken. “Restless, at best,” he admitted.
“The ghosts keep you up?”
“Not you too,” he replied with a teasing smile.
“You mean to say you don’t believe in ghosts?”
He shook his head. “A bunch of nonsense, if you ask me.”
“Then what kept you up, pray tell?”
Alastair could have said it was thoughts of a certain young lady, and that would have been partially true, but he’d been forward enough already, so he opted for the other half of the story. “Well, my friends were deep in their cups last night, and made quite a racket upon their return from the pub.”
“Ah. You don’t have to tell me. I heard them leaving the pub near two in the morning. They caused quite the raucous on High Street.”
Alastair opened his mouth to tell her about the constantly varying temperature in the room as well, but stopped short. “Did you say two in the morning?”
She nodded, since her mouth was full of bread, but Alastair barely noticed. He’d looked at the clock when the thumping had awoken him last night. It was just after midnight, not anywhere near two o’clock. Had he been dreaming, after all?
“Something the matter?” Miss Alcott pressed.
Alastair snapped from his wonderments. “Not at all. I was just…thinking. At any rate, besides all that raucous, well…I just couldn’t get comfortable. I was hot and then cold, and—” Miss Alcott’s tittering brought him up short. “Something funny?�
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She cocked her head sideways and gave a smile better meant for a child. “Let me guess. A strange cool breeze would waft over you every so often? Yet there were no windows or doors left open.”
“That doesn’t mean there were ghosts,” he said, refusing to give in to fanciful ideas of life after death. “There could be a crack in a wall. An ill-fitted window. There are many logical explanations, none of which includes specters wandering about the castle.”
She gave a little shrug, and then said, “Are you ready for dessert?”
Alastair was ready for anything that didn’t involve talking about ghosts. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since we met yesterday and I started hearing stories of your famous rum butter.”
She scooped the bread pudding onto plates and then drizzled them both with generous amounts of the rum butter. “Here you are,” she said, handing the plate to him. And then she waited, staring at him intently.
“Aren’t you going to eat yours, Miss Alcott?”
“I will. I just want to see what you think of it first.”
He couldn’t help but smile at that. It wasn’t the most polite behavior to watch someone else so closely as they ate, but Alastair was starting to care less and less about propriety, and more and more about this guileless girl before him. He took a bite, and allowed the flavors to mingle on his tongue. Good heavens, that was delicious. Who knew plain old bread pudding could be so very decadent?
“Well?” she asked as he swallowed his first bite. “Do you like it?”
“Miss Alcott,” he said, reaching across the blanket to take her hand. “I now understand what everyone has been talking about. And if there is anything other worldly in this town, it is your ability to turn rum and sugar into something quite heavenly.”
If someone had told Daphne Alcott a week ago that she’d be sitting on a picnic blanket with a peer of the realm hearing him wax poetic about her rum butter, she never in a million years would have believed them.
“You really like it?” she pressed, and then he pressed his mouth to her hand.
“I do not flatter people for flattery’s sake, Miss Alcott. I pride myself on my diplomacy, and my sincerity. So you may rest assured that I am completely sincere in my praise of your rum butter.”