Her Muse, Lord Patrick

by Jane Charles

  Now, for her hero.

  Laura thought back on the gentlemen she had observed during her two Seasons. The ones who were most popular seemed to be blond-headed with blue eyes. She envisioned her hero would look much like Lord Prentice. A smile pulled at her lips. He was rather handsome and charming. In parentheses she wrote the name after the hero’s description.

  Now for the villain. Dark and brooding. Weren’t they all?

  Patrick woke but kept his eyes closed. “It was only a dream. When I open my eyes I’ll be in me own bed, and I’ll remember why I needed to reach Torrington Abbey.” He slowly lifted his eyelids. “Damn and blast.”

  Laura was back, dressed in her night clothing, and a fire burned brightly. Her golden tresses were no longer arranged behind her head, but fell freely, the curls caressing the small of her back. Desire shot through him. Since when did ghosts have desires? It was most inconvenient as it was impossible to have contact with another human being. This afterlife was going to be most frustrating if matters continued in this vein.

  What was she working on so diligently? He wandered to Laura’s chair and looked over her shoulder. To the left was a sheet of paper that appeared to be notes of a story. The paper she was working on was for her characters. He read the page and groaned in disgust. “Prentice? Ya want to model your hero after that rakehell? Do ya even know the man?”

  She didn’t respond, which wasn’t exactly a surprise, given he was dead. Still, Prentice? Of course, Patrick had been sailing with Blake last spring and had missed the Season, and the one before that because of. . . “Why did I miss that Season?” He lifted a hand to rub his jaw. The motion was oddly soothing. Apparently, he could touch himself, just not billiard cues or golden curls. He furrowed his brow and looked back at the settee. Yet, he could lie down on a sofa and smell dinner. This being dead was most confounding. He would think about these oddities later. Right now he needed to try and remember.

  It had been Laura’s first Season and Blake was disappointed that Patrick wouldn’t be around to keep him company at the endless entertainments to which he was to escort his sister. “Where had I been?”

  As much as he tried, he could not remember so he returned his attention to the parchment before Laura. Despite being away for two years, he doubted Prentice had changed.

  “Prentice!” Patrick snorted. “Regardless of how handsome or charmin’ he may be, that so called gentleman is a cad and degenerate.”

  Laura couldn’t hear him, but he felt better for telling her why Prentice made a poor choice of a hero anyway. “Pennin’ him as your villain would be far more accurate.”

  She sat back and bit her lower lip. Laura tilted her head to the side and then the other before she picked up the quill, dipped it in ink and scratched out the name of Prentice.

  “Good girl.” Patrick straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and grinned.

  Behind Prentice she wrote Lord Colby.

  “What a bore. Surely ye can do better. Did your brother introduce ya to no one?”

  Laura drew a line through Colby and stood. She wandered to the fireplace, added two logs, and then began pacing the room. She tapped a fingernail against her chin. “Who can I use for my hero?”

  “I would be perfect.” Patrick laughed. He was far from hero material, but offering his thoughts was better than simply sitting around watching her work. Besides, who knew what dandy she would come up with next?

  She paused mid-pace, as if a bright idea struck her. “Why does it have to be anyone I know? Why not write the man of my dreams?” Laura marched back over to the desk and took a seat. “But, what does he look like?”

  She retrieved a fresh sheet of paper and dipped her quill in the ink.

  Patrick leaned over her shoulder. “He should have black hair, with damned inconvenient wavy curls.”

  She wrote black hair.

  Surely this was a coincidence. “Gray eyes, though when he is near water they are closer to blue.”

  The quill scratched the parchment: eyes – grayish blue.

  Patrick straightened. It had been a lark to voice his opinions but now it was if she could hear him. “Don’t make his hair black, but red instead.”

  Laura made the revision and sat back. “Why would I give him red hair? I’ve yet to meet a redheaded gentleman I care for.” She quickly changed her hero’s hair back to black.

  Patrick pulled away. He wasn’t in limbo, waiting to arrive in Hades or Heaven. He had become a blasted muse.

  Patrick abruptly turned from Laura and paced across the room, his fingers threaded through his hair. “This cannot be possible.” He blew out a breath, and anchored his fists on his hips while studying the young woman before him. “What do I know about writin’ a novel?” Thank goodness it wasn’t poetry or a play. Those he could not stomach. At least he enjoyed reading novels, and had read his fair share on long voyages, but writing one was an entirely different affair. And, what was a muse supposed to actually do? Offer ideas, or only suggest what should be changed?

  He returned to her side and looked over her shoulder. Behind the word villain she wrote Prentice. “Perfect.”

  Laura sat the list aside and drew a clean sheet of paper before her. At the top, she wrote her heroine’s name once again, along with the color of her eyes and hair before completing the description. Alonza’s mahogany hair fell to her narrow waist and she was of a small frame. “I suppose she must be so she can be carried around easier.”

  “No.” Patrick argued. “A man doesn’t want a girl, he wants a woman.”

  Laura tilted her head to the side again, as if she were adjusting herself to better hear him.

  Patrick took advantage. “This is what she looks like.” He straightened and paced behind her as he imagined the fainting heroine. He assumed she was one to faint or the hero wouldn’t have to carry her around. But Laura really must give her hero more credit. Any man worth his weight could carry a lady to safety, despite her size, if he truly loved her.

  He glanced back at the authoress-in-the-making and a smile pulled at his lips. “She is of average height. When she stands next to the hero, her forehead will be at the level of his lips.”

  Laura began writing.

  “A long slender neck.” He stopped, bent and placed a kiss at the pulse beneath Laura’s ear. She shivered. “Could you feel that?” Patrick whispered and waited, hoping she acknowledged him somehow.

  Why did he bother to wait for a response? Of course she couldn’t feel his lips on her neck. It was just a coincidence she shivered and nothing more.

  He pulled back. His chest tightened with pain. He would never ignite passion in a woman again. It was a bloody depressing thought.

  Laura sat back in her chair, quill in hand as if she awaited further dictation.

  Patrick resumed pacing. “Her fingers are long, elegant, and able to grasp a man’s...” He stopped. Perhaps he shouldn’t explain why her hands should be this way. “There is nothing delicate about Alonza. She is a woman men lust after. Her breasts are full, about the size of...” He lifted his cupped hands before him, testing the empty weight of air before looking around for an example. He could find nothing in the room as round or as perfect as he wanted them to be. “They are large enough that her hero can mold and caress, with a bit more left over to feast upon.”

  Laura set her quill aside and fanned herself. “My, it is warm in here.”

  If he were alive, Patrick would assume he spiked a passion in Laura. “Surely she didn’t write that description.” Patrick glanced at her sheet of paper. “Long neck, long fingers and full breasts.” He blew out a sigh. “Good. We can’t have someone comin’ across my actual dictation.”

  He resumed pacing behind her. “Her waist tapers and is small enough a man could almost span his hands around her.”

  Laura began writing once again.

  “And her hips flare, givin’ way to a delightfully round bottom with globes a man could hold, caress, lift. . .” Again he stopped talking.
He needed to be careful and not get carried away before he dictated something that would shock the young woman. “Her legs are long, endin’ at small delicate feet and dainty toes.”

  He really shouldn’t have let his imagination get away because it served no purpose but to leave him achy with desire. A need that would remain unfulfilled for all of eternity. “Damn and blast.”

  He strode toward the window and looked out into the early morning light. “When was the last time I bedded a woman?” he muttered quietly. Patrick couldn’t remember. It wasn’t in London before he came here, or at any time on the way to Torrington Abbey. There hadn’t been time. Before that, he had been on a ship with nothing but sailors and men.

  Patrick shook his head. He needed to remember why he was in such a hurry. Where had they sailed from? To whom had he made love, and when? “It was too bloody long ago, that is for certain. Had I known it would be the last time, perhaps I would have made an effort to make it more memorable.”

  “I suppose this is what her face looks like,” Laura mumbled, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Ah, aye, I did skip over that important feature.” He wandered closer and read over what she had written. “Catlike eyes, tipped at the edges, arched mahogany eyebrows, slim nose and lips of red.”

  He nodded. It was good enough, though nothing like Laura, who had large, pale green eyes that could draw a man in... “Stop that,” he hissed.

  Laura picked up the sheet of paper and read through the description of Alonza. They were just basic words, yet the image of the woman was much clearer in her mind, as if she could almost see her. “I need a name for my hero. A strong name.” She ran the feather of the quill across her lips as she thought. “Alfredo.”

  “No,” a voice whispered.

  Laura glanced to her left and right. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. “Gilberto.”

  “Are ya mad?”

  She stiffened and looked around for the source of the voice loud and clear in her head. “Perhaps I am going mad.” A shiver ran down her spine and she rubbed the tops of her arms.

  A log hissed in the fireplace and Laura stood to add more wood. The flames caught and burned brighter. “It is an old house and makes odd noises, that is all.”

  She settled once again in the chair behind her desk. “What is a good Italian name?”

  The bookshelf across the room drew her attention. She walked over to read the different titles and author names. None of them inspired her. Turning, she paced to the windows. “Bernardo.”

  “Better.”

  “Still not good enough,” she mumbled and chewed on the end of her nail. “Ernesto.”

  “Good God, no.”

  Laura stiffened. She’d definitely heard a voice that time. She studied the empty room. “Who is here?”

  Flames crackled from the fireplace in response. Could it be that the long dead earl was haunting the east wing? She marched across the room and opened the door, peeking out into the hall. It was vacant. Returning to her office, she opened the door to the adjoining bedchamber. It was also dark and empty.

  She had a fanciful imagination, as her brother always told her. Coupled with her passion for horrid novels, and the history of this portion of the house, no wonder she was imagining a ghost. “It is best to put it from my mind. Silly, really.” Laura resumed her seat, picked up the quill and wrote Patrizio Marcello.

  “Perfect.”

  A smile pulled at her lips. Either she was hearing voices that did not exist, or a ghost was in her presence. She should be frightened but there was something oddly calming, and a bit thrilling to think she might be able to communicate with someone beyond.

  “What does his face look like?” she asked to no one in particular but hoping the ghost would respond.

  Silence followed.

  Laura pursed her lips and waited.

  Nothing.

  “Fine.”

  She returned her attention to the parchment, pulled forth the vision of a man and began to write. High cheekbones, aquiline nose, strong jaw. His shoulders should be wide and body strong. Large but no excess or softness. When he holds the heroine she should feel the strength of his muscles on his chest and in his arms, tightly wound around her. There, she is safe. There, she is not alone.

  Tears sprung to her eyes. Where had that come from? She didn’t think she was particularly lonely, but in truth, she was. Her aunt and uncle were good people and would take care of her, but they didn’t love her the same as her brother, nor did they share much in common. The only way she would ever feel loved and cherished was if she ever married, and still there was no guarantee affection would be returned in equal measure. Marriage was like that. Unpredictable.

  “I am tired, that is all.” She pushed away from the desk and stood. “I did not sleep well and rose far too early.” She placed a grate before the fire to protect the room in the event a spark escaped then she blew out the candle. “More rest is all I need.”

  Her hand reached for the door.

  “Don’t go.”

  Patrick took a step forward.

  Laura stopped and straightened.

  Had she actually heard him? She asked if someone was with her, but he had been afraid to answer. Afraid she didn’t actually hear him but something else.

  Laura turned and looked about the room. “Who is here?”

  She could hear him, and for a moment Patrick didn’t know what to say. “I am.”

  Her eyes narrowed, as if straining to see, but he was invisible to her. “Who are you?”

  “Patrick.”

  A smile pulled at her lips. “No wonder you approved of my hero’s name.”

  Why wasn’t she screaming and running down the hall? In her position, he wasn’t certain he wouldn’t be doing exactly that.

  “Are you the former—?”

  He cut her off. “Why aren’t ya afraid?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

  “You’re talkin’ to a ghost.”

  She smoothed her gown, though he suspected her palms were sweating and she wished to dry them. Maybe she wasn’t as brave as he thought. “It is an unusual circumstance.” She turned and opened the door further.

  “Please, don’t leave.” He took a step forward, wishing she could see him. “I promise not to hurt ya.”

  “Have you lived here long, locked up in the east wing?”

  “No, just a short while.”

  Laura tilted her head and frowned. “I thought you had been here at least a hundred or more years.”

  Patrick shook his head. “Just a few days.”

  Laura straightened and pursed her lips. “That is very odd. Nobody has died here recently.”

  “I don’t understand any more than ya, I am afraid.”

  She continued to search the room, as if looking for something, or someone—him. If only she could see him as clearly as he could her.

  “I am not sure I am exactly a ghost.”

  Her blonde eyebrows shot up, and her warm green eyes widened. “Then what are you, exactly?”

  It was embarrassing to admit, but at least she couldn’t see him. If he were real, the heat in his face would indicate a blush. And he did not blush. Being invisible did have its advantages. “I think I am your muse.”

  “My muse?”

  “Yes, your muse.” Did she not understand what one was?

  “Why would you assume such a thing?”

  “Because, I didn’t wake up here until ya started writin’.” He gestured to the desk, even though she couldn’t see him do so. “Whatever kind of novel tis.”

  “A horrid novel.”

  “Ah, that explains the light female.” Patrick chuckled.

  “Pardon?” She titled her head; golden curls fell over her shoulder, shielding the curve of her breast.

  “Ya wanted a small heroine, so she could be carried.” He anchored his hands on his hips. “There is always a faintin’ female.” And they were annoying. It was always the man’s r
esponsibility to haul their unconscious forms hither and yon at the drop of a hat, never knowing what would startle them into a faint. Why did women faint so much? Well, not so much in real life, but often enough in novels. If this were a horrid novel, Laura would have fainted dead away already.

  She faced him, planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you know so much about horrid novels?” She must have determined his location by the sound of his voice.

  “I’ve read a few.”

  She snorted. “Gentlemen do not read horrid novels.”

  Most gentlemen may not admit to reading them, and while alive, Patrick would have never mentioned he enjoyed stories by Carl Grosse, William Henry Ireland, Francis Lathom, and Mrs. Radcliffe. “Who told ya such a thing?” he demanded.

  Her chin rose in defiance. “My brother.”

  Laura’s hands shook and the only way to hide them was to bury them in her folded arms. Even though she could not see Patrick, she was positive he watched her right now. She pulled the neck of her robe tight against her throat. Was she really speaking with a ghost, or a muse, or whatever he was? And why an Irish spirit in an English abbey?

  If she had any sense at all, she would flee this wing and bolt the door behind her.

  “Blake hated readin’ anythin’ but the mornin’ post,” the owner of the voice answered. His words had grown louder the more she spoke with him. There was warmth to the lovely Irish lilt.

  His words registered in her confused mind and she sucked in a breath. He knows Blake! Hope surged in her breast along with her racing heart. “How do you know my brother?”