by Meara Platt
“I’m afraid you’ll fall if I let go of you. I fear you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Titus… Titus de Wolfe at your service.”
No! How can it be? She must be dreaming. Ginny gazed up at him in horrified confusion.
A pair of gorgeous amber-green eyes gazed back at her.
She fainted in his arms.
* * *
By the time Ginny awoke, she was back home, stretched out on the sofa in the formal salon, her parents and Lord de la Londe worriedly hovering over her. “Thank goodness,” Lord de la Londe said, appearing sincerely relieved. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s just that… but I was obviously mistaken… he isn’t dead.” She removed the cold compress that was on her brow and set it on the small table beside her. Then she tried to sit up, but her father cautioned against it. She sat up anyway. “No, I’m fine now. Truly.”
Her mother shook her dark curls in dismay. “Ginny, you had us frantic. You were unconscious for almost an hour. We’ve called the doctor.”
“Who did you see that you thought was dead?” her father asked, stroking her forehead.
“Just… but I must have been mistaken.” She couldn’t admit who it was, not even to her parents. While her mother had once been able to see angels, she’d long ago lost that ability and her memories had faded along with that ability.
No, she could only confide in Lettie. She’d have to write to her tonight and have the letter sent off first thing in the morning. She’d be as cryptic as possible, for if anyone outside of Lettie or Brynne found that letter and read it, she’d be in heaps of trouble. “Lord Selby’s ratafia must have turned. It tasted awful.” That much was true. Ratafia always tasted awful. She quietly apologized for defaming Lord Selby’s punch.
They all seemed to accept that explanation.
Lord de la Londe slapped his hands on his thighs and rose. “Well, I hope you’ll all join me this Saturday at our home.”
“We’d be delighted,” her father said, rising along with him to shake his hand. “Thank you for the invitation. Most of all, you have our sincere gratitude for rescuing our daughter.”
Her mother smiled at him and made a similar comment, but her smile faded into a frown of concern the moment both men had left the room. “Ginny, what really happened tonight? All we saw was Lord de la Londe carrying you in his arms through the ballroom. He was about to take you upstairs to the ladies retiring chamber when we caught up to him. We called for our carriage instead and took you straight home.”
“It must have been the ratafia.” Lord, forgive me. More defaming lies. “I thought I saw someone I knew who could not possibly have been there. But you say it was Lord de la Londe who carried me out?”
“Yes. Who did you think it was?”
She took a deep breath and decided to tell her mother the truth. “A gentleman who introduced himself as Titus de Wolfe.”
“The surly and reclusive Duke of Hexam?” Her mother rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Seriously? You’ve been spending too much time reading Lettie’s letters. She made a great fuss about Brynne’s wolf birthmark and now you think every stranger you meet is a de Wolfe.”
“No, this one is real. He was the one holding me in his arms. And Lettie turned out to be right about Brynne’s ancestry, so there’s nothing wrong with seeing de Wolfe’s wherever we go. They’re real.”
Her mother brushed her knuckles lovingly across Ginny’s brow. “Perhaps. But, my love. It was Lord de la Londe who carried you in.”
“It was?” Goodness, had she dismissed him unfairly? Had it been his arms around her? His deep, resonant voice soothing her? “I owe him an apology. I’ve treated him abysmally and he’s been kind and patient with me all week long.”
Her mother nodded. “He does seem quite nice. Perhaps Frances was right to hope for a match between the two of you.”
Soon afterward the doctor arrived and declared that he could not find anything wrong with her. Her father thanked him and then returned to the salon, looking as though he’d barely survived a hellish march across a bloody battlefield. Of course, he was her father and always felt his children’s woes more fiercely than he felt his own.
“Careful now, my love. Let me help you upstairs,” he said when Ginny attempted to stand. She felt wobbly, but her head was no longer spinning and her vision was clear.
Once he’d safely delivered her to her bedchamber, he muttered something about needing a stiff drink and returned downstairs to do just that, leaving her mother and Millie to fuss over her. “I love you, Ginny,” her mother said, watching her climb into bed after she’d changed into her bedclothes.
“I love you, too. Kiss Father for me and let him know I’m fine.”
Her mother tucked her in and then shook her head and laughed mirthlessly. “I doubt he’ll believe me until he sees the color return to your cheeks and a fiery gleam of determination shine in your eyes. Sweet dreams, Ginny.”
She nestled under the covers, drawing them up to her chin. She closed her eyes, but couldn’t fall asleep yet. “Jeremiah, where are you?” she whispered in the darkness, desperate for answers.
No response.
She was worried about him.
Where could he be?
Was he hurt?
Was he dead?
Good heavens! Was it possible for angels to die?
Dread overwhelmed her.
She cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 7
Ginny decided to pay a call on Frances the following day in order to assure her that all was well. It was late morning, but her parents were still seated at the breakfast table quietly sipping their coffee and reading the morning papers. She popped her head in and gave a quick wave to gain their attention. “I’m going to visit Aunt Frances. I’ll be back shortly.”
The paper rustled as her mother put it down and gazed at Ginny with motherly concern. “Take Millie with you. You’re not–”
“What a beautiful day. Have you ever seen a bluer sky?” Ginny cast her parents a bright smile and hurried off before either one of them could call her back or demand she wait for Millie.
Aunt Frances lived only a few houses down and it would take her less than a minute to reach it if she ran the entire way. She didn’t wait for Wilmot to rush forward and open the door either, managing it herself without much effort until the wind suddenly gusted ferociously and blew it out of her hands so that it slammed shut.
The wind also swept through her neatly coifed hair, undoing the fashionable curls Millie had worked so hard to style less than an hour ago. Her dark hair now swirled loose across her face and whipped into her eyes so that she had to continually brush it back.
To add to her annoyance, there was a surprising amount of traffic on their usually quiet street. Carriages rolled by at too fast a clip and neighbors stopped her to complain about it as she made her way around the corner. “They’ve blocked several streets for a parade,” one of them griped. “Nuisance is what it is. Must we risk our lives merely crossing Whitby Square?”
“Fortunately, I only need to walk to Lady Wolverton’s house,” she replied and hurriedly continued to her destination before she was caught up in endless conversation. But she’d hardly walked ten paces when she came to an abrupt halt once more.
No, it can’t be!
Walking toward her was Jeremiah. Her heart began to flutter. She tried to calm herself. But where were his wings? And he was dressed as a gentleman, not as a warrior. There was also something subtly different about him. He walked slowly and not with a warrior’s stride.
This wasn’t Jeremiah, but Titus de Wolfe. She hadn’t been dreaming. He did exist and he had been the one who’d caught her in his arms last night. The resemblance to Jeremiah was uncanny, similar height and brawn and masculine good looks… and definitely his amber-green eyes.
He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his gold hair. “We meet again, Lady Ginny.”
He even sounded like Jeremia
h.
She blushed. “I promise I won’t faint this time. I don’t know what came over me. I blamed it on the bad ratafia, but I doubt the horrid concoction had anything to do with it. I’ve had it before.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s one of the few drinks we precious young things are permitted to imbibe. It tastes ghastly.”
He smiled, his lips twitching upward in the same appealingly boyish way Jeremiah’s lips twitched when he was about to smile. “I meant to call at your home to make certain you were all right. I’m relieved to see that you are.” He paused as though expecting her to respond, and then continued when she failed to do so. “You’re staring at me again.”
She nodded. “You look remarkably like someone I know.”
He shook his head and laughed softly. “I’m told I bear a resemblance to an ancestor of mine, by coincidence also called Titus de Wolfe. But I doubt you’re friendly with him since he’s been dead for over three hundred years.”
“Oh, ha, ha… yes, he’s the very one. I probably saw a portrait of him somewhere.” She dared not mention that she truly knew the ancestor he was referring to. Not only knew him, but was in love with him.
She shivered lightly.
No, she couldn’t ever mention that or he’d immediately be pounding at her father’s door, urging him to ship her off to Bedlam.
“Ah, yes. A portrait. Titus was much admired in his day. You’re still staring at me.” His voice was gentle, but he frowned.
“I can’t help it. You’ve–”
He let out a soft growl. “Most people turn away in disgust when they notice the scar across my face. It’s hideous, I know. Likely you couldn’t get a good look at it last night under the dim moonlight.”
She shook her head in confusion. “You have a scar? On your face? It can’t be prominent.” She knew that she was being unpardonably rude to continue to gawk at him, but he so closely resembled Jeremiah that she couldn’t help it. Where was the scar? On his cheek? “My hair’s blowing in my face. I can’t even see the tip of my nose.”
She made a fuss over brushing back her hair and then did something unpardonably rude. She closed her eyes and reached her bare hand up to touch his face. “Don’t pull away, my lord. Please,” she begged when he tensed and was about to do that very thing.
“What are you doing, Ginny?” There was no hiding the humiliation and torment in his voice, and after her bold gesture, he hadn’t bothered to address her politely. No, she was no longer Lady Ginny but merely Ginny, the mad, almost-on-the-shelf spinster who’d forgotten her manners.
She felt along his jaw and then placed the palm of her hand flat against his cheek.
He was clean shaven, but the not yet visible stubble of beard was intriguingly rough against her skin. Oh, there’s the scar. Her eyes remained closed as she traced her finger along the uneven flesh. He hadn’t exaggerated. It was a long, deep scar that ran from the corner of his eye to the strong line of his jaw. Why couldn’t she see it? “It can’t possibly be hideous,” she said in a whisper, “it’s a part of you.”
He drew her hand off his face, his own hand bare so that his warm skin touched hers, but everything else about him spoke of ice and anger. “What’s your game? Do you think I’m an easy mark because of that scar? I assure you, I’m not. You have no need to feign fascination with me. I’m not in the search of a wife.”
She slipped her hand out of his grasp, realizing she’d inadvertently insulted him and had to make amends. “I’m so sorry. You misunderstand my–”
“Quite the opposite. I understand your intentions perfectly.” His frown darkened as he grew noticeably angry. No. Not angry. Pained. “You’re on the hunt for a wealthy husband. You’ll find one I expect. Just don’t waste your time with me.”
“What? Hunt? I’d never do such a thing. I have no need of your wealth or title and when I marry… if I marry… it shall be for love. Not greed. Not pity. And for goodness sake! I still can’t see your scar.”
“Why do you persist in a game I’m not playing?”
“I’m not. I don’t see your scar, but I know it’s there because I just felt it.” She’d also felt the depth of his torment. “Why can’t I see it?”
His expression turned icier. “Good day, Lady Ginny. I doubt we shall ever see each other again. I’m not in the habit of paying court to fortune hunting debutantes, no matter how charming they may appear.”
“Nor am I in the habit of fawning over arrogant dukes or accepting their insults in silence. Get off my street, Your Grace. Your presence is not welcome here.” How could she have been so wrong about him? He was a haughty wretch.
Had Jeremiah behaved the same way in his time? Wary and distrustful of all young women?
She watched Titus de Wolfe stalk off in anger and disappear around the corner. Good riddance.
She didn’t like him, not a bit.
She was still staring into the distance when she heard someone call out her name.
“Lady Ginny, I was just coming to see you.” She turned in time to see Lord de la Londe step down from his carriage. “I’m relieved to see you up and about.” He studied her expression and grinned. “But you appear to be in a temper. Is it something I’ve said or done?”
His teasing manner dissolved her anger. “No.” She shook her head and laughed. “In truth I’m delighted to see you.”
His eyes widened in obvious surprise. “That’s heartening. Would you mind if I joined you in visiting your aunt? That’s where you’re going, isn’t it? I can’t imagine you’d be permitted to walk anywhere else on your own.”
“Please don’t think my parents are careless. I dashed out of the house over their objections, but I won’t do so again.” She took his outstretched arm and allowed him to escort her into the Wolverton home. “It is nice to see you.”
* * *
“Jeremiah, put your sword away,” Michael ordered, scowling at him when he didn’t immediately obey. “You cannot kill this de la Londe offspring. He’s destined to die soon anyway.”
“Are you certain? Did Peter tell you what was going to happen?”
“He didn’t mention any names, but no one else is courting your Ginny, so it has to be him. Are you going to set down your weapon or not?”
“What if she accepts his proposal?” Jeremiah clenched his teeth as he watched the man escort Ginny into her aunt’s home. He muttered an unholy oath as they disappeared inside, their manner insufferably cheerful, and continued to voice his disapproval as he slipped his sword back in its sheath.
Michael flexed his wing feathers. “You struck your bargain with Peter, so now live with it. Er… well, perhaps I ought to say that you struck the bargain and now must abide by it. We aren’t really alive in any earthly sense of the word.”
“Don’t remind me.” Jeremiah ran a hand roughly through his hair. “I don’t know if I can do this, Michael. I want her. I love her. Every time I look into her soul, I see the love she holds for me. But can I go into the body of the man who killed me in order to be with her?”
“This Simon de la Londe did not kill you. It was his ancestor who did the evil deed.”
“And that ancestor’s blood runs very strong through his veins. I can smell the foul taint even from this distance.”
“That’s because you haven’t yet forgiven him.” Michael held out his hands in obvious consternation. “You’ve come this far. Will you destroy your chance at happiness with Ginny because you can’t let go of your hatred for the man who murdered you?”
Jeremiah raised his eyes heavenward. “Forgive him? Hell, no. Live inside his body? Forget it. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.” Michael flexed his wing feathers again. “The choice is yours to make, but you don’t have long to decide. You heard what Peter said. The man Ginny will soon agree to marry will die within a matter of days. If you don’t step in to fill his body and replace his spirit with yours as he dies, then Ginny will never marry. She’ll end her days a spinster. I don’t suppose it’
s a terrible fate. She’ll still have a guardian angel, only it won’t be you. Those were Peter’s terms.”
“That’s a devil’s bargain,” Jeremiah said, knowing that Peter was going to make him suffer either way. “Live as Simon de la Londe or lose Ginny. I want Ginny, of course. But it will be Simon’s arms holding her each night.”
“She’ll be resting her head against your heart. It will be your love that she feels. So will you do it?”
Jeremiah still had a few days to decide. He’d seen the exchange between Ginny and Titus, the current Duke of Hexam. Had he ever been as stupid and arrogant as that fool?
He must have spoken the thought aloud, for Michael laughed. “He isn’t a fool. Can you blame him for not trusting your Ginny? Why would she lie about his scar and pretend that she can’t see it on his face? The blasted thing is as big as an ocean. One would have to be blind as a mole to overlook it.”
Jeremiah slumped his shoulders. “She wouldn’t lie. It isn’t in her nature. She honestly doesn’t see it.”
Michael suddenly frowned. “Do you think Peter is manipulating her on purpose?”
“The thought has crossed my mind, but no. I think it’s Ginny. She’s looking at him through her heart and sees me. Therefore, she sees no imperfections. And before you roll your eyes and make a jest of it, I know I’m as flawed an angel as ever existed. Ginny knows it too and yet she still loves me. It’s humbling.”
Michael patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a miracle. Love always is.”
Chapter 8
Ginny stared out the window of the Beresford carriage as it made its way through the crowded London streets and turned north toward the fashionable outskirts where the de la Londe family manor was situated. The manor belonged to Simon’s father, the Marquis of Jarrow and would soon belong to Simon upon his father’s death.
It troubled Ginny that Simon had commented upon it more than once in a tone of eager anticipation that she found dismaying. She supposed he was trying to impress her with all that he would soon inherit, but she cared more for his honor and wisdom… or lack thereof. In his defense, she’d seen both of those attributes in him when dealing with his peers. He was smart and did abide by a code of honor.