The Lady's Ghost

by Colleen Ladd

  *****

  “There you are!”

  Portia jumped. She’d been too busy fretting over Ashburne’s reaction to yet another uninvited guest to notice her brother’s return. Having Tony about was, she feared, far from the best way to stay on her host’s good side. Tony came jauntily into the morning room, bent to kiss her cheek and plumped down on the couch next to her.

  “You look better,” Portia observed. His hair was brushed back from his broad brow, his face scrubbed clean of road dust, and his coat shook out. “You haven’t been washing yourself in the horse trough, have you?”

  Tony laughed. “No, but if I’d known what kind of Gorgon you had in the kitchens, I’d have done so, rather than beg washwater from her.”

  “That would be Mrs. McFerran.”

  “Pleasant soul. By the by, where the devil did you get that horse?”

  She was used to Tony’s sudden diversions, but even so.... “What horse?”

  “That bloody great bay stallion. Looks like he’d be a real corker to ride.”

  Oh dash it all! That was what had started niggling away at Portia’s mind when Clary said she’d better run for the surgeon as her horse was better than any Portia had. She’d had no time since to think about it, but it had sat brooding at the back of her thoughts. Now she knew why. A stable was supposed to smell like horse, after all, and so she’d taken no notice of the fact that it oughtn’t smell like fresh dung when there hadn’t been an animal in it for ages. Ashburne again, right under her nose, where he’d been all along.

  “Thought you hadn’t a feather to fly with, sis. Where’d you get the blunt for such a prime goer?”

  Portia cast about frantically for an answer, thankful to find one ready-made. “I’m keeping him for Mr. Foxkin, the innkeeper at the Duck and Drake.” With whom she was going to have words the next time their paths crossed—he thought the bay’s owner was too optimistic about how soon he’d be able to come for the horse, indeed! At least he hadn’t shared Ashburne’s confidence that she could be driven out of the Hall quickly. “Apparently the bay unsettles the other horses in the inn’s stables, so I offered to keep him here.”

  “Interesting. Didn’t notice Lightning particularly minded. But then, I don’t have him in the adjoining stall.” He scuffed his boot across the threadbare carpet, raising a small cloud of dust. “I hope you had the sense to dun the innkeep.”

  “Of course. Now Tony—”

  “If your help’s not able to take care of him, I expect you’ll have to send him back. Though maybe I could help with that, since I’m here and—”

  “Tony,” Portia snapped, more sharply than she’d intended, but she simply had to redirect his attention. Recognizing her tone of voice, her brother groaned and slid down on the couch until he was nearly horizontal. “What the deuce did you do to get yourself sent down?”

  He sat up and looked about with a false air of expectancy. “When’s supper? Country hours, I hope. I’ve been on short commons all week, and I’m half-starved.”

  “In a quarter hour and don’t change the subject.”

  “Have I mentioned you look fine as fivepence?”

  “I look a perfect quiz and you know it. Stop trying to turn me up sweet and just tell me.”

  Tony sighed. “Is there something wrong with wanting to be able to flash the screens on occasion, or at least look as if you could? Man doesn’t have to act pursepinched, even if he is. Fellow was asking to have his cork drawn, saying I must have snabbled my new corbeau coat from someone with more blunt. He’s lucky I didn’t call him out for the insult.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Planted him a facer.” He flashed her a grin. “Broke his nose.”

  “Oh, Tony.”

  “Don’t ‘oh Tony’ me. It’s dashed unfair I got sent off to rusticate and he didn’t. And you,” he went on, not giving her a chance to give him the trimming he deserved, “how the devil did you end up here? Thought you were buried at Rosewood.”

  “Well James dug me up.”

  “And packed you off here? I didn’t think that mealymouthed toad had the bottom to so much as look at you sideways.”

  “Well, Violet had a lot to do with it. That woman....”

  “James is the only man I know who’d need a woman to help him find his bottom.”

  Portia couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad you’re here, Tony.”

  “I may not be.” Tony wiggled his finger in a mouse-hole in the upholstery. “Is there anyplace safe to sleep in this house?”

  “Here and there. If you don’t mind mice. And ghosts,” Portia added with a smile.

  “Ghosts? Are you bamming me or have you gone all about in the head?”

  “A little of each. Come, you must be starving.” She rose and Tony scrambled to his feet, every inch her little brother for all his airs and his years.

  “Told you I was.”

  Portia tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “How long are you here for?”

  Tony hemmed. Portia could see a flush rising from his collar.

  “Pockets to let?” she asked, not without sympathy, as they went into the breakfast room.

  “It’s dashed expensive, traveling.”

  “Not to mention buying corbeau coats,” Portia murmured.

  Tony ignored her. “You know what a pittance old Burnsides allows me. I’ve gone through my allowance for the month, and I was hoping you could put me up for a bit.”

  “Of course,” Portia assured him, though she was by no means certain Ashburne wouldn’t come over difficult. Surely he’d understand she couldn’t turn her own brother away.

  Mrs. McFerran moved about the table with quick efficiency and such a mutinous expression that Portia knew the housekeeper had, if at all possible, burnt supper. It smelled acceptable. Perhaps Mrs. McFerran had had too little time to manage. The housekeeper shot Portia a vicious look and swept out.

  “Mm,” Tony said after he’d savored the first bite. “Now I know why you keep her around.”

  “Eat up, Tony. We can’t have you leaving my table hungry.” Not least because this supper, cooked with Ashburne in mind, might be the last edible meal either of them had at the Hall.

  *****

  As much as Portia loved her brother, she was weak with relief when he finally blew out his candle. All through dinner and the nice coze they had in the morning room afterward, her skin had pricked with nervous anticipation of Ashburne descending upon them. She was as certain Mrs. McFerran had passed along the message that Tony was harmless as she was that Ashburne didn’t believe it. Portia may merely have been oversensitive, but the Hall felt steeped in thunderous rage.

  Portia had been surprised to see Ashburne’s portrait still hanging in its usual place on the landing. Now any slip on Ashburne’s part, any glimpse Tony had of him, would be dashed difficult to explain. Not that it would have been easy regardless, but if Ashburne was truly concerned Tony might give him away, he’d have been better off making certain Tony could at least not identify him.

  “Dashed disagreeable looking man,” Tony had remarked, and Portia looked at the portrait with surprise.

  “Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Ashburne’s features were harsh, uncompromising. He was not, in his own words, a “pretty fellow.” But Portia had stopped noticing some time ago. Perhaps even before she met him in the flesh. Ashburne was, quite simply, Ashburne.

  Portia uncurled herself from her uncomfortable position on the floor of her dressing room. She’d waited so long that the night’s chill had made its way through even her flannel dressing gown, and she shivered in the still dark. It had taken Tony long enough, but the faint light under his door had finally winked out a moment ago, and she knew for certain he was abed.

  Which meant it was safe to go looking for Ashburne.

  Portia had been sitting in the dressing room so long her eyes had adjusted to the night, but she still failed to spot Giles Ashburne in her dark bedchamber, and nearly fainte
d dead away when his hard fingers closed on her arm.

  “For shame, sir,” she hissed, “you frightened me.”

  “For shame, madam,” he rejoined, and she had no time to wonder what he meant for, though low, his voice rumbled through her, unsettling the action of her heart.

  “Hush. You’ll wake him.”

  “No doubt he sleeps deep,” Ashburne said coldly, “satisfied to be reunited with you. However, if you fear rousing him....” He dragged her, unprotesting, out into the dark hallway and up to the servants’ wing at such a pace she was forced to trot to keep up with him. Portia’s outstretched hand brushed the tapestry by the head of the stairs. She passed into a lightless chamber and finally knew how he had so often contrived to vanish under her very nose.

  Ashburne released her. There was the scrabble of tin and a hot metallic smell as he opened the shutter on a dark lantern. Portia nervously rubbed her arm, fighting back a shiver. The room was tiny, both bare and barren, its only furnishings a narrow camp bed and a small table that held the lantern and a few books. There was no window, nor even a rug to soften the place.

  In such close confines, Ashburne’s presence was like heat lightning, beating upon her senses. The room, or he, smelled strongly of tobacco and she felt like she was taking in some essence of him with every breath. Under the flickering light of the lantern, she saw the man from the portrait, standing stern and obdurate against even the elements.

  “Well, my lady,” he said finally. “What are we to do?”

  Portia looked around the spartan room. “I’m terribly sorry to have put you out, my lord. I thought only to find Tony a room suitable for habitation, and I assumed you must have had some place to go, as you’ve only occupied the master’s bedchamber the last two nights.” She glanced about again, helplessness overcoming her. “If I’d known it was so—”

  “Had you known, you would of course have put him farther from you,” Ashburne said in a freezing tone that implied the opposite. “But why, when the master’s bedchamber is so... convenient?”

  Portia could feel his anger beating upon her skin, combined with something else she did not understand. “I know you would prefer not to have him here,” she tried. “The last thing you need is more people in the Hall. But I could hardly turn him away. Had I known he was coming—”

  “Of course you knew. You were so shameless as to write to him, madam. How else could he find you here?”

  Portia could barely breathe. “I don’t understand. I haven’t written. It was James. James sent him on from Rosewood.”

  “And why should he do the puppy such excellent and understanding service?”

  Ashburne’s mocking was the last straw. “Because he’s too much the skinflint to put my brother up for even a night,” Portia snapped. “I don’t know what you’re about, my lord, but—”

  “Your brother?”

  “Of course my brother, who did you think?”

  Ashburne made a small movement and the gathering tension burst at the gesture in some way Portia did not understand. Quite suddenly, she felt cold again, her skin crawling with a chill she hadn’t noticed while in the eye of his anger. He sank slowly onto the bed and stared at her until Portia wrapped her arms around herself as much for comfort as warmth. “I... did not know you had a brother.”

  “For shame, sir,” Portia said, finding it within her to smile. “Of course you knew; you have read my letters.” She feared, the moment the words left her mouth, that he would task her with her own transgression. He did not answer for so long that the fear had ample time to grow.

  “I suppose,” Ashburne said finally, “I did not expect him here.”

  “Nor I.” Portia’s smile became rueful. “Had I known, I would have written. To fob him off.” She hesitated, shifting from one cold foot to the other. “Now that he is here....”

  His eyes drifted back to her, looking strangely dazed. “Yes,” he murmured. Then, “yes,” louder. “I suppose now that your brother...?”

  “Antony,” she supplied.

  “Spared your father’s Shakespearean excesses, I see.”

  “And Cleopatra,” Portia said tartly.

  What might almost have been a smile ghosted over his lips. “I stand corrected.” He passed a hand through his hair, and Portia was surprised to see that it trembled. “As you so accurately point out, we cannot simply send him packing. I’ll keep to the shadows while he’s here. Did he give you to know how long that would be?” Ashburne looked startled when Portia finally lost the battle against her shivering. He cursed and stood, shrugging out of his coat. “Why did you not tell me you were cold?”

  Portia shivered again when he wrapped his coat about her. It was so warm and smelled so sweetly of him. “It’s nothing, my lord,” she said, grateful her teeth did not chatter. “I was a long time in my dressing room, waiting for Tony to blow out his candle so I might safely come looking for you.”

  He dragged his hand through his hair again. “Is that what you were doing?”

  “Of course. Why else would I linger so long?” Portia realized suddenly that the left sleeve of his shirt was spotted with blood. “Oh, but you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing,” Ashburne said carelessly. “I overreached myself.”

  “Take off your shirt and sit down, my lord.”

  “No need. Your sewing’s still intact.”

  When Portia’s fingers found his sleeve and the hard heat of his arm beneath it, he drew in a harsh breath. “Have I hurt you?” And yet, her hand was not near his shoulder. “What is the matter?”

  He gave her an unconvincing smile. “Nothing more than before. Less, perhaps,” he added under his breath.

  “I do not understand you, my lord.”

  “It’s nothing to signify.” Ashburne gently removed her hand from his arm, and though his fingers no longer shook, his touch sent shivers up her arm. “I should go down to the library while your brother sleeps, and you should go to bed. You will no doubt need your rest to entertain your brother upon the morrow.”

  “You might simply join us for nuncheon, my lord. Tony’s a bit devil may care, but he’s not a care-for-nobody. He’d not knowingly hurt me.”

  “And how is that anything to me?” Ashburne asked, his voice soft.

  “Just, just,” Portia stammered, covered in confusion and aware suddenly that they stood so near she could feel the heat of him even through the coat. “He would not breathe word to a soul that you’re here if I told him not to. He may be of some help.”

  “And then I should have two green geese poking their beaks into what’s better left alone,” Ashburne said, so gently Portia could not take exception. “No. I’ll continue on my own.” His fingers tightened briefly on hers, then slipped away, leaving her cold.

  “You need not work by night, my lord.”

  “Portia—”

  “I mean to say,” she went on quickly, “that we may continue in the library come morning without fear of Tony interrupting. He’s a dreadful lay-abed.”

  “Is he now?” Ashburne smiled at her, suddenly far too close.

  And then his lips were on hers and he was not close enough. Portia knew she made some sound in her throat, her hands clenching in his shirt, but could not make herself stop, or care. Her hair came loose, tumbling down her back, and he wrapped it around and around his hand, stopping with his broad palm cupping the back of her head. He circled her waist with his other arm and lifted her off her feet as if she weighed no more than dandelion down. Portia’s arms wrapped of their own accord about his neck and she drowned in his kiss, her fingers burrowing into his thick hair. He tasted of musk and spices and... brandy, she thought. Though Roger had never come to her bed without reeking of some libation or other, he’d never been partial to brandy. Nor to her.

  He released her hair to fall heavy down her back, his clever fingers moving to loosen the ties of her dressing gown. His coat slipped off her shoulders, but Portia didn’t miss it, so far from cold she couldn’t rememb
er what it felt like. Her dressing gown parted, the heat of his body seeping through the thin cambric of his shirt and the fine lawn of her nightrail. He crushed her against him. Portia gasped against his lips, the hard heat of him searing her breasts and belly. He broke from her mouth, a low sound rumbling from his chest as he nuzzled down her throat, pushing aside her nightrail to kiss the rise of her breast.

  Her arms tightened around his neck as she arched to meet his lips. An aching thread of need ran from where his lips touched her breast to the molten heat between her legs. She struggled to simultaneously press her body into the heat of his skin and lift her breasts to the inflaming touch of his mouth, her back bent across his arm like a bow. Her arms shook with the strain, and he lifted her higher, his large hands spanning her waist, then sliding slowly down, fingers spread as if to claim every inch of her skin he could encompass, to part her legs and press between, her nightrail all that kept him from the most intimate part of herself. A desperate cry escaped her, and he stilled at the sound.

  Slowly, Giles lowered Portia to her feet, gently lifting her arms from around his neck. He knelt and her breath came fast, but when he bent to her, there was only restraint. He pressed his face against her breasts and was still, except for the shaking of his hands at her waist. She could feel his breath through her nightrail. When she ventured to touch his bent head, he set her a little away from him and lifted her nightrail back onto her shoulders, then refastened her dressing gown, a tremor shaking his fingers. He picked up his coat and wrapped it around her again, then stood and stepped away.

  “I think you had best go to bed.” She shivered at the rough edge to his voice.

  “I—” Her voice quavered unexpectedly.

  “Go, Portia.”

  She went, finding her way by a kind of blind instinct. The need that throbbed in her breasts and between her thighs tried to draw her back to him, but eventually she found herself in her own bedchamber. She peered at herself in the dressing table mirror and felt vaguely grateful that Tony was abed and had not come upon her wandering the dark halls with her dressing gown askew, clutching a man’s coat about her and looking very well-used indeed.