The Distinguished Rogues Bundle

by Heather Boyd

  The ghost haunted his dreams that night.

  In brandy-infused visions, the white clad girl glided round and round him as he lay back on his soft bed and fumbled with his cock. He yearned for her touch, but she remained elusive, just out of arm’s reach. Her soft whisper spoke to him of earthly delights she could no longer share.

  Giles dared her to come closer, to spread her tattered soul over him, to ease the ache they both shared. A cold touch slid along his straining leg muscles. He breathed raggedly, stroking in response to her caress. He begged her to stay, to keep her hands on him. Ghostly fingers kneaded his thigh and he groaned, kicking the remaining sheet off his body, overwhelmed by desire for her. She whispered of his beauty as he peaked, his hot release struck his chest and opened his eyes.

  Lightning cracked outside the manor and his fantasy died. He was alone, as if the ghost had never been the cause of his pleasure. Flashes of light danced on the walls as he blinked away the remnants of sleep. Not again. Not now. Groaning in frustration, he reached for the sheet to wipe away the sticky mess.

  Giles had never imagined a ghost could arouse him so fiercely. He slumped to his back, breathing hard. She had plagued him the last two years, disturbing his dreams, invading his waking moments. The little sprite had the instincts of a bloodhound and found him every time he dabbled in pleasure within the walls of Huntley House in London.

  Tonight’s dream was different. The sense of being together was strong, more like the moments she appeared in his waking hours. Present but apart from him. Watching him engage in pleasure. Her appraisal added to his arousal, but she usually kept a distance. Only he dreamed of further intimacies.

  Giles’ laugh echoed in the empty, dark room.

  What folly. He lusted after a ghost—a dead woman.

  ~ * ~

  Bartholomew Barrette clenched his fists to keep from strangling the blacksmith. Worthless, empty intelligence was all the imbecile could sprout. Instead of doing as he pleased, watching the blacksmith’s eyes bulge as he crushed his throat, Bartholomew barked an order for his groom to give the dirt-encrusted behemoth something for his trouble. Then he’d wait in the taproom for his carriage to be ready.

  Voices stopped as he stepped through the low doorway. He paused to get his bearings. Farmers with sun-branded faces turned to watch his arrival, no doubt stunned by his fine appearance. It wouldn’t be every day that a man of his distinction graced this hovel, a village too insignificant to be recorded on any map. No doubt his presence would be the highlight of their puny, miserable lives.

  He let them look their fill.

  Satisfied with the awed silence his presence evoked, Bartholomew peered through the swirling pipe smoke and attempted to find a pleasing location suitable for a man of his station to sit. The inn was grimy and poorly arrayed, so he raised an eyebrow at the nearest mud-splattered farmer, choosing a window spot out of all the occupied chairs.

  At the innkeeper’s prompting, the slow-witted farmer vacated the space. “A right busy afternoon we’re havin’, sir. Can I get you sommat to drink?”

  Placated by the man’s attention, Bartholomew graced him with a look and gingerly lowered himself to the chair. “Ale, and be quick about it.”

  The greasy innkeeper hurried to do his bidding, pausing to offer a stubby-toothed smile to a cow-faced piece of fancy before disappearing from sight. Bartholomew clenched his teeth, patience wearing thin at the innkeeper’s easy distraction.

  The man could flirt when he’d done his duty and served a paying customer. How much he’d get would depend on how quick about it he chose to be. Given the state of his temper, the man would be lucky to see a farthing.

  Conversation resumed around him at a low rumble.

  The blacksmith had claimed no black carriage had passed through the village today or yesterday. He’d heard the same news from every stop thus far. The old man couldn’t vanish from the world, no matter how hard he tried. Winter had always relied on friends to provide him houseroom, for him and that greedy brat.

  The barkeep scurried through the tables and pushed a tankard across the battered wood. Bartholomew didn’t thank him. He tossed a coin to the table with careless grace. The man took it and his rank stench away.

  How to find them quickly?

  The old man had never used tricks to evade him before. It was unusually slippery of the baron to depart in the dark of night. Usually he waited for the bitch to swallow a bite of morning bread before he drowned her in her potions.

  He would have to backtrack, find where his uncle’s carriage had parted ways with his path, and then use all possible speed to reach him in time.

  With luck, the deed was already done.

  The thought both pleased and disappointed him. He wanted her gone, but he also wanted to see her dead with his own eyes. And he had a devilishly tricky need to avoid accusation for her murder or any part in the affair.

  Bartholomew swallowed a mouthful of ale then grimaced at the taste. The coaching house served pigswill instead of ale. He’d never been served a fouler drop. He pushed the tankard away in disgust.

  The innkeeper hurried over. “Can I get you sommat else, sir?”

  Bartholomew didn’t bother to reply. His mind burned with anger as yet another simple wish failed to eventuate. He curled his fingers into a fist, but a movement at the door diverted him from the innkeeper. “Carriage is ready, Mr. Barrette.”

  At last.

  As he strode out the door, he made a vow not to let the old man and that pathetic bitch forget him. A man with Winter blood pulsing through his veins could not tolerate a snub from his own flesh and blood. He would not.

  The stable hands held his horses and carriage at the ready. He flung himself into the dim recesses, thumping the wall in anger to signal his wish to be off with haste.

  The hard lurch fed his rage, and he cursed the limits of his purse. When he had Dumas, things would change. He would have the respect he deserved, and the money to pay for the best of everything.

  As the village fell behind and the thought of ruling over Dumas turned his mind from anger, he smiled. The title would gain him his rightful position, the death of his cousin would ensure his coffers were never depleted to dangerous levels, he could afford to marry whomever he chose, and he would have the current Lady Winter at his mercy.

  He’d had enough of the tart’s teasing flirtations.

  Chapter Two

  LORD WINTER DIDN’T present himself for breakfast the next morning. Most likely, the baron’s hangover would be tiny in comparison to his embarrassment over the outpouring of emotion the night before. With any luck, the older man would spend all afternoon with his daughter and change his mind about leaving her at Cottingstone.

  “Lord Winter has requested a breakfast tray in his chamber, milord.”

  Giles glanced at his butler. “Did he give any indication of when he might put in an appearance, Dithers?”

  “No, sir. His valet was particularly closed-mouthed about his employer’s habits. A lot of loyalty there.”

  As the butler fussed with the breakfast dishes, Giles studied his servant. Tall, lean, impeccable in his dark, tailored suit, Giles had no idea why he was lucky enough to retain Dithers’ services. Despite his experience as a superior butler, the man had accepted the country position without complaint, allowing another to rule over the London townhouse upon Giles’ accession to the title. But even after five years buried in the country, Dithers still looked out of place.

  “Hmm. Well nothing to be done until the baron is free. Then I’ll work on changing his mind.”

  Dithers made another of those disapproving noises he favored, but Giles chose to ignore it. The longer the man worked for him, the poorer his adherence to the strictures of the master-servant roles. Given Dithers’ exceptional performance in all other areas, Giles chose not to chastise him for his slips. Avoidance made for comfortable living, after all.

  He took another swallow of coffee and nearly spit it out. There was
no greater ill than cold coffee. He pushed it aside. “Have you seen Atticus this morning?”

  “I saw his tail and not much else,” Dithers replied. “He is with Miss Winter.”

  Giles could understand if Atticus behaved this way because of another dog, but from what he could gather, Lillian Winter was barely conscious. Despite Giles’ considerable unease over her presence, he wondered what she was like.

  He set aside his napkin. “What about the rest?”

  “The rest of what, milord?”

  Giles glanced at his butler. The man had to know curiosity over the woman was killing him. Did he have to spell it out? “What are the servants saying about Lord Winter and his daughter?”

  “They’re happy with Lord Winter’s decision to leave her here.”

  Giles’ breakfast flipped in his stomach. “Why?” Were they all mad?

  Dithers’ face hinted at a smile. “They are relieved Miss Winter will remain behind in comfort when her father departs. They have no fear for her safety.”

  Giles scowled. “Servants can be an overly opinionated nuisance.”

  “Of course, milord, we can surely be a trial.” Dithers grinned. “Can I get you fresh coffee?”

  Giles glanced into the half-empty cup. “Yes. But I’ll take it in my study.”

  He left the smug butler behind and strolled along the hall, thinking about his uncomfortable situation. He did not want the awkwardness of having the woman who could have become his wife under his roof. It was embarrassing.

  “Did ya see the nurse’s reaction to Atticus licking Miss Winter’s hand, Daisy?”

  Giles stilled beside the staircase, listening to a maid gossiping on the upper floor.

  “Thought she’d keel right over on the spot. I wouldn’t count on her for comfort if I was feeling poorly.”

  “Well, the dog did growl when we changed the sheets, but Miss Winter don’t notice a thing. She lay so still I was sure she was a corpse until her papa picked her up and she moaned.”

  “Hush, Maisie, you’ll get us into trouble gossipin’ about the quality.”

  The maids moved away and Giles considered the nurse. How did such a timid woman come to be working for Lord Winter? Giles had always assumed nursing required some deeper kindness, as well as inherent toughness. Perhaps that was not the case.

  As he pushed open his study door, he tried to guess Lilly’s age. The accident had happened when she was perhaps fourteen. Just below the age of becoming a woman. She would be about twenty now, he supposed.

  Six years of pain and suffering had passed when she should have been dancing, giggling, and marrying. He shuddered. If all had gone according to plan, they’d have been married for the last two years.

  “Is anything the matter?”

  Giles spun to find his butler gazing at him in amusement. Dithers knew full well what bothered him. He would be saddled with an unwanted responsibility. Female, no less, and not one he could associate with without that shackle reattaching to his leg. His servant could show a sliver of compassion. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “Of course. Your coffee, milord.” An innocuous statement, but laced with the tremor of barely suppressed humor in his tone.

  Damn all butlers to hell.

  Giles took the cup, his mind still occupied by the woman upstairs. In age, Lillian Winter was a woman. But in her mind, would she still be a young girl? Giles had no interest in girls. He liked his women experienced, initiated into love-play by someone else, and independent. He did not have the patience to deal with emotional, needy women.

  Hell. It had been four days since his last sexual encounter and the minute he had a woman within spitting distance, he was evaluating her potential as a bed partner. How depraved had he become?

  “Do you require anything else, milord?”

  Yes, a woman to fuck. “No, go about your usual duties.”

  The sooner he returned to London and acquired a new lover, the better. Giles smiled. Perhaps Lady Huntley would hold another ball at Huntley House, the location of all his encounters with his little ghost. Given his eagerness to attend all her functions, he thanked God Lady Huntley had no daughters still unwed.

  He had seen the ghost six times in total, each occasion quite memorable. The little sprite seemed unshakable, except perhaps once. Giles had shocked her then. The tryst had not been particularly decadent, but her reaction had spoken of disappointment and hurt. Her scowl had puzzled him.

  Giles sipped the strong coffee while he glanced out the window, noticing the wild gardens leading toward the southern boundary for the first time. He drew back. When had the gardens reached such a state?

  The terrace doors refused to open to a light touch, so he shoved against them, wincing as they groaned in protest. Stepping outside, he stalked toward flowerbeds grown wild with nature. Weeds twined amongst the roses and delphiniums that had once been the pride of his mother’s gardens. He followed the path to the ornate pond in its center.

  Looking back at the house, he could see the beginning signs of neglect. Vines clung to the walls where they had once feared to go. The spire on the southern turret looked bent. Had it been struck by lightning?

  He soaked his boots as he followed the garden path grown thick with long weeds pushing between flagstones. He grimaced. His valet would shriek at their state when he returned, but given Giles’ usual care of his wardrobe the man could bear the rare inconvenience.

  Despite the wild, unkempt state, the grounds were still peaceful, but he should deal with the garden and the house soon. Turning, he saw the manor clearly for the first time in years: a grand old house bowing under the weight of neglect. His.

  Giles liked to live his life with no responsibilities, but he did want the luxury of being able to retreat to this place for a long time to come. It may only be for his pleasure, but since he took pleasure very seriously, the house needed repair to restore it to its former glory.

  Determined to correct his neglect, he walked around the old house and grounds, inspecting every detail from the disused stables to the twisting creek that flowed through the estate.

  The stone bridge was still solid, built by his grandfather years earlier, its stout footings and sides impervious to the rushing water. Giles rested his elbows on the stones, watching the dark water slide beneath.

  Lillian Winter had almost died in this very spot. They said she fell. He leaned forward on the high, smooth stones. It might be possible if the girl liked climbing. Despite Lord Winter’s assurances she was an angel, perhaps Lilly had enjoyed adventurous activities when no one was watching. He only remembered that she had an impeccable lineage and was receiving instruction on managing a household.

  He crossed the bridge and followed the river along the bank until the water flowed smoothly, less agitated by the rocks that she must have struck. Giles winced at the image, glancing back to the bridge and large boulders littering the stream.

  What must it have been like for Lilly? The drop from the bridge, the insistent tug of floodwater and fabric as the heavy weight pulled her below the surface. Giles shuddered and looked about him. This was where Atticus had saved her.

  He should have guessed Atticus would only respond to someone he recognized. When Giles had heard what his dog had attempted to do, pulling at the chit until her head remained above water long enough to be rescued, he’d been so proud. Until the moment they confessed Lilly would likely die anyway, at least. He’d feared the bites Atticus had inflicted pulling her toward the bank had speeded her demise.

  But she had not died after all. She was tougher than he’d been led to believe. Yet all he knew of her were the tales told in hushed whispers and private thoughts penned carefully into a small journal he had found years after her supposed death. He still had that journal at the manor somewhere. He should at least unearth it and return it to its rightful owner.

  Giles pulled a weed from the ground and twirled the stem between his fingers. From here, he could see the window of Lilly’s bedchamber.
What inner devil had prompted his servant to put the woman in a room facing the scene of her accident? Lord Winter, if he ever opened the drapes and looked out, would think them cruel.

  Perhaps it would be all right. She would only be here a short time, and then she would go to Wales. The thought saddened him. A life without any form of pleasure—that is what Lillian Winter lived. He did not know how anyone could survive such a boring existence.

  He ambled back to the manor, pausing often to consider the extent of work required. Judging by what he saw, he would need some extra hands to bring the estate up to scratch. Perhaps he should have listened to his friends more over the years, but he had never aspired to make Cottingstone a great estate. All he needed was to keep the manor in good order and receive the rents, both here and from his London properties, to live a comfortable life.

  A glance at Lilly’s window reminded him to find the journal, but he wondered where he had put it. In his current rooms? Or perhaps packed with his childhood mementos in the attic?

  Attaining the upper floors by way of the servant’s stairs was a moment’s work. At a hall window, he spied a female figure walking about the garden’s perimeter. Her gait was unfamiliar. It must be poor Lilly’s nurse, which meant Lord Winter would be visiting with his daughter now. It was the perfect time to renew his acquaintance with Lilly. Her father could act as chaperone.

  Instantly, Giles quashed that idea. He had a vast dislike for conversing with chaperones hovering and dissecting his every word. And there was also the worry that his visit could give rise to false hope for marriage.

  When he’d learned of her supposed death, Giles had taken out her journal and read it. At fourteen, Lilly hadn’t been completely enamored of marrying. Neither had he been, for that matter. But the arrangement was a long-standing contract from his ninth year. As he grew older, he grew less pleased with the notion, but he’d known his duty and fallen silent on his parents’ choice. Aside from the lure of her dowry and lineage, they’d promised Lilly would be no trouble to manage.