by Cach, Lisa
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with her. He just didn’t want her to feel anything for him beyond the friendship and sexual desire that was all he himself was capable of giving.
“Who are the Clerenbolds?” George asked. He was a portly man, balding, with colorless eyes, and was a bad businessman when left to his own devices. Philippa held a firm hold on the purse strings in the family, as well as on the strings that controlled George’s actions in commerce. Alex had to give the man credit for being married to Philippa and still retaining his basic good humor.
“The Clerenbolds,” Alex said, deciding it was best to keep control of the conversation, “are a family who lived in a keep a few miles from my present home, in the fourteenth century. According to what my new brother-in-law was able to discern, the family died out around the time of the plague. There has been speculation that Serena Clerenbold, the last daughter of the family, married the man who lived in the original Maiden Castle, but unfortunately this remains speculation only. Blandamour could find no proof of such a marriage, although he is determined to keep looking.”
“The ghost!” Percy Cletch said. A gangly, big-eared physician, he was married to Alex’s second-oldest sister, Constance. “I hadn’t wanted to bring her up myself, but I say, I’ve been dying of curiosity to hear about her.”
“Does she have anything to do with that coachman you have?” Harold Tubble asked. Married to Alex’s gossipy sister Amelia, Harold was a less-than-brilliant squire with an unfettered love for dogs. On the rare occasion Alex had been to their country home, the smell of dog had overwhelmed him. “Who ever heard of a woman driving a carriage! What’s next, a female ship’s captain?” he said, and gave a belly laugh that the others joined in.
“My wife says she feels much safer with Nancy at the reins than she ever did with Sommer,” Rhys said when the laughter died down. “She says the girl has a gentle hand with the horses.”
Alex shot his cousin a look, surprised by the defense.
“Likely drives them at a pace even an old woman would like,” Harold said.
“I beg your pardon,” Rhys said stiffly. “My wife is no old woman.”
“I don’t care about the coachman—coachgirl—whatever she is,” Percy interrupted impatiently. “I want to hear about the ghost.”
“Philippa about burst her corset when Sophie told her about that gathering you all had,” George said, his eyes glowing. Alex doubted very much whether Philippa would appreciate having any undergarment of hers mentioned aloud.
“My aunt Millicent had a ghost in her house,” Harold said. “Used to scare the wits out of me as a child, although all it ever did was move things around when no one was looking. Uncle Frederick said he thought it was Millie herself, forgetting where she’d put things, and there was no ghost a’tall.”
“I saw a ghost once,” one of the other cousins said. All eyes turned to him, and he continued, “A lady in gray, going down a staircase. I wasn’t more than six or seven years old. My family was visiting friends in their country house, an old place falling down around their ears. She looked real as day, and it was only when she vanished at the bottom of the stairs that I knew she wasn’t. We later found out that she had been seen there several times. No one knew who she was, although one guess was that she was the wife of the man who originally built the house.”
“Gray ladies, white ladies—why do they always wear those colors?” Rhys asked the room at large.
“Women like to dress alike,” Harold said. “Just look at the lot of them at any assembly here in Bath. If they can’t think for themselves while alive, they certainly won’t when dead.”
“Ah, so there are afterlife fashion plates for them to follow. I should have known,” Rhys said. “That explains it.”
“Could we please return to the subject at hand?” Percy asked in pained tones.
“Very well,” Rhys said. “Alex, what color dress does Serena wear?”
Alex let his glance play over the faces watching him, waiting for an answer. The alcohol in his blood had loosened some of his self-control, and begged him to abandon his habit of remaining quiet on personal matters. They were looking for an entertaining story, something to while away the time before they had to go back to their wives—many of them his own sisters, poor fellows—so why not give it to them? Let them go back to their marriage beds with a tale to tell, rather than the endless speculation they were so fond of. Besides, it would be a wonderful thing to see Rhys’s eyes go wide. He still had not forgiven him for all those pranks as a child.
“She wears white,” Alex said. “A white sleeveless surcoat with gold embroidery, and a gold-link girdle. Beneath it is a pink underdress, fitted tight to her body so that you can see every curve. She wears no corset, her breasts shaping her clothes themselves, no stiff fabric between them and the outside world.”
He smiled at the room of men. They stared back.
“Have you touched them, then?” Harold asked. “Her breasts.”
“You can’t touch a ghost,” Percy said dismissively. And then, “Can you?”
“What if I said you could?” Alex asked. “If you were given the chance, if she came to you in your bed while you lay undressed and reached for you, would you let her do as she wished?”
“Not with Philippa by my side,” George said sadly. “I’d pay for it the rest of my life.”
“Depends if she’s a comely wench,” Harold said. “No use having a go at a phantom hag when you could find plenty of living ones the next house over.”
“Say you are bachelors still,” Alex said, to a chorus of ayes. “Say she is long of limb, with pale gold hair that brushes her thighs, and dark eyes that are like looking into eternity. What would you do then?”
“Give it to her!” Harold cried.
“I wouldn’t want to deprive the unfortunate woman of her one joy,” George said solemnly.
“For curiosity’s sake, I’d have to give in to her demands,” Percy said. “It would be a unique experience, well worth studying.”
“It’s not that simple,” Rhys said, interrupting the voices that were speaking over each other with descriptions of what they’d do to such a ghostly figure in their beds. “The ghost haunts the house you live in. She is always there. She attacks people she doesn’t like. She can follow you day and night, never leaving your side. She can hear every word you say, and see everything you do.”
“Sounds like Philippa,” George said gloomily.
“Now you’re talking about marriage,” Harold agreed.
“You can leave the house whenever you wish, and she won’t come with you,” Alex said, knowing that such would appeal to them. Personally, he would like to take Serena places. “She doesn’t spend money: she never buys new clothes or furniture, she never plans parties, she never insists on taking a trip or going to a play or the opera.” There were grunts of approval from his audience. “Certainly she does not plan ‘musical evenings’ in the drawing room. She has no relatives living.” That got a surprised laugh, all of them in the room in-laws or relatives of each other. “She cannot be unfaithful, or bear children.” What would the children of himself and Serena look like? Tall and strong.
“That’s more a mistress than a wife,” a cousin said.
“Only she can’t give you the clap!” Harold threw in. “Won’t cost you gewgaws and upkeep, either.”
“She’s always there when you want her,” George said wistfully. “And always willing.”
“She never grows tired,” Alex said.
“No headaches?” Harold said. “There’s the gal for me.”
“A female ghost could assume all manner of unusual positions, impossible for human anatomy,” Percy said. The room was quiet for a moment as male minds went to work on those possibilities.
“She’ll always stay exactly the same,” Rhys said into the quiet. “She’ll never grow old, never grow fat.” He looked directly at Alex. “She’ll never die.”
“I’d pass her
on to my son,” Harold said, oblivious to the undercurrent that had just passed between Rhys and Alex. “Like an inheritance. Better for his first experience than a whore, I’ll warrant.”
“No, she won’t, will she?” Alex said to Rhys, ignoring Harold’s comment. “She’ll never get sick, or catch a fever that wastes her body away to nothing. She’ll never be thrown from a horse, fall down a flight of stairs, or have so much as a toothache. Wouldn’t you wish the same for Beth, if you could?”
“What joy is there in living if you never change?” Rhys said. “I don’t think Beth would like to stand by and watch me grow old and die.”
“That’s what you think!” Harold said. “She’d find another to replace you soon enough.”
“It does seem a trifle vain of you to assume you are her only reason for living,” Alex said.
“Women!” Harold said. “They have the world fooled. We’re told they are the romantic ones, but I tell you, they are mercenaries at heart, every one of them. My body wouldn’t be cold before Amelia would be tallying my assets and planning a tour of the continent. I, on the other hand,” he said, putting his hand over his heart, “worship the very ground her dainty foot sets sole to.”
Several gazed incredulously at Harold; then George said, “That is the purest bucket of drivel you’ve ever let pour from your mouth, Harold. I know for a fact that your dear Amelia and my precious Philippa have the same size feet, and they are not a one of them dainty. You show more devotion to your dogs than to your wife.”
Harold shrugged. “They do just as good a job of keeping a man warm at night, and they don’t complain about the snoring.”
“Is this all talk, Alex,” Percy asked, “or do you actually see this ghost, this Serena?”
“She comes to me every night,” Alex said, throwing caution completely to the winds. “She is as solid as you, Percy, when she chooses, yet I warrant her touch is far more pleasing.” Let Rhys chew on that. Let them all chew on it. His brothers-in-law, whose income was partially dependent upon him, could worry that he’d lost his mind and that the money would soon follow.
He was sick unto death of behaving as he was supposed to. They all—his sisters, his cousins—wanted him to behave—meaning live as they lived. They wanted him to get married again, to “settle down,” to have a family. He suspected the men wanted that as well, if only so he would stop being a silent taunt to them with his freedom.
Toe the line, Alex. Be responsible, Alex. Don’t let us down. Make money. Be a gentleman. Don’t be crude; don’t upset anyone. Behave.
To hell with that. He’d lived up to his responsibilities, and now that the last sister was in someone else’s hands, he’d do as he pleased, and be damned with what anyone thought.
“She’s actually a fascinating young woman,” Alex said. “I’m thinking that I’ll leave the lot of you to provide the descendants, and spend my remaining years with Serena. She’ll make a far more interesting companion than any of the bits of fluff floating around Bath, and I don’t even have to marry her.” He frowned up at the ceiling as if in contemplation, then continued. “Although I suppose that could be arranged, if she felt it necessary. She comes from an era more devout than our own, and she is Catholic, after all. Perhaps I should ask her when I return.”
A few uncertain chuckles greeted his words. He looked around the room and saw that no one knew quite what to think of his proposal. Unlike Rhys, he was not known for his stories and jokes, and they clearly did not know if he was serious, or only speaking from his cups.
Let them wonder. Marriage was the last thing on his mind, but they didn’t need to know that. They didn’t need to know that he had fled from Serena when she showed signs of caring for him, fled with all the grace of Dickie with peas up his nose. Let them wonder; let them think he was cavorting with legions of the dead up in his castle on the hill.
God, he was drunk. A niggling instinct told him he was going to regret all this in the morning.
He rose carefully from his chair and set his drink on a small table. “I do hope I have satisfied your curiosities,” he said, giving them a formal, somewhat listing bow. “Now I am afraid I must retire for the evening. I will need to get an early start in the morning if my coachman, Nancy, is to return me to the loving arms of my ghost before nightfall. And so good night, gentlemen.”
He had made it to his bedroom and begun to undress with the ineffectual help of Dickie—standing in for the recovering Underhill—when there came a quick knock on the door, followed immediately by the appearance of Rhys.
Alex raised an eyebrow at his cousin. “I believe the ritual is for the knocker to await a response from the knockee before opening the door. Or were you longing to see me in my drawers?” he said, standing up and stepping out of his trousers.
“You’d have to pay me,” Rhys said. “It’s a sight that could frighten horses.”
Alex pretended to look down at his drawers in wonder. “I had not realized I was so impressive.”
Dickie snickered, reminding Alex he was still there. “You go on to bed,” he told the boy. “My dear cousin will make certain I am tucked safely to sleep.”
When the boy had gone, Rhys lost no time in coming to the point. “Alex, what’s happening to you? Do you have any idea how crazy you sounded in there?”
“Crazy as a bedbug,” Alex said, and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. The room tilted and swayed around him, and he felt a hiccup of bile in his throat. He grimaced and swallowed it down. “Mad… as … a … hatter,” he said, pulling off his sock and letting his foot drop to the floor with a thud. He looked up at Rhys. “They say if you know you sound crazy, then you aren’t.”
“You’re not crazy, but from the sound of it you’re treading a path that may take you to the edge.”
“Ah. So she did tell you.”
“About the kiss, or whatever it was? Of course. She was pale as candle wax when she described it. I had to hold her for an hour until her shaking stopped.”
“How nice for you.”
“Damn it, Alex! Will you be serious for just a moment? This is not a joke. You are playing around with something very dangerous.”
Alex undid the cuffs and neck of his shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing the garment toward a chair. It hit the side and slid to the floor. It looked very comfortable there.
“I don’t want to tell you how to live your life—”
“Much appreciated,” Alex mumbled.
“But if I were in your shoes, I would hope that you would try to slap some sense into me. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be concerned if I showed every sign of becoming obsessed by an affair with a ghost.”
“It’s not as if she were a monster,” Alex said.
“Like hell she’s not!”
“True, she has been known to go bump in the night, but she’s stopped that now. I’m teaching her to read.”
“Will you ask her to pour tea next?”
Alex frowned. “I don’t think she eats.”
Rhys let out a cry of frustration, throwing his hands up into the air. He took several breaths, then placed his hands on his hips and stared seriously at Alex. Alex returned the frown, trying to look attentive.
“However real she seems to you,” Rhys said, “she is still a ghost. She is not a living woman. I don’t know where she came from or where she’s going, and neither do you. You don’t know what she wants from you, or what she might do to get it.”
Alex widened his eyes in mock terror. “You don’t mean she’s after my virtue?”
Rhys shook his head in disgust. “Go to bed. I’d forgotten what a jackass you can be when you drink.”
“Yes, Mother.”
When Rhys had gone Alex forced himself to get up and use the water closet, then blew out the lamps on the way back to bed. He all but collapsed onto the mattress, pulling the covers up around him, too tired to crawl beneath them.
A scant two hours later he awoke, his dry tongue stuck to the roof of hi
s mouth, his bladder protesting. He rolled off the bed and went to relieve himself and get a glass of water from the nightstand, then got back into bed the proper way.
This time sleep would not come so easily. He was still half-drunk, but clearheaded enough to know that he had not been as far into his cups as he had allowed himself to pretend in the billiards room, and then later with Rhys. His cousin was right. He was a jackass when he drank, as if the whiskey gave him license to be the bastard he rarely was in normal life. The truth was, he had been in the mood to be obnoxious, and had needed an excuse to act on it.
He stared into the unremitting dark, absent of any presence but his own. Even in his facetious words to the other men, there had been an element of truth. He wanted Serena in his bed. He’d been fighting against that desire for three interminable weeks, and the battle had made him bad-tempered.
Enough of being noble. What was the point of it all, anyway? He was unhappy; she was probably unhappy; it did no one any good.
If she wanted his body, she could have it.
Chapter Twenty
Serena stood in the corner bastion, practicing the moves of swordplay that her brothers had taught her. Parry, thrust, retreat, lunge. Whack, chop off an arm. Slice, off with his head. She held her imaginary sword before her, picturing Woding standing motionless with fright.
“But darling,” he would say. “You know I care for you. I truly needed to be gone for three weeks. I missed you the entire time, and regret going. Please, can’t we kiss and make up?”
“You’re a lying, scum-sucking, dog-licking bit of scrunge wiped from a pig’s trotters,” she said to the imaginary Woding. “Death would be too good for you. So take that!” she said, and stabbed at him, the sword piercing his thigh.
The pretend Woding slapped a hand over the wound. “Ow!” he cried. “That hurts.”
“Good! Take that!” she said again, and poked the blade between his ribs, puncturing a lung. “And that! And that!” She stabbed him full of holes, leaving small wounds dripping blood down his neat clothing.