Her Muse, Her David (Muses Book 3)

by Jane Charles

  Her Muse, Her David

  Jane Charles

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  About Jane Charles

  Jane Charles’s Historical Romance

  Jane Charles’s New Adult Romance

  Copyright © 2016 by Jane Charles

  Cover Design by Covers By Lily

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Ava Stone and Jerrica Knight-Catania,

  Thank you for your friendship, being awesome critique partners,

  and allowing me and my characters to join yours at

  Marisdùn, Danby Castle and various Seasons in London.

  I hope we share many more fictional adventures together.

  Jane

  Prologue

  October 1816 – The Merciful Widow Inn, Newmarket

  “You’re really going to do this again?” Sidney Garrick asked, lighting the end of his cheroot and glancing up at Lord Quentin Post. “You’re not afraid of stirring up more of your dead ancestors?”

  Quent dropped into a chair across from his friend. “Thorn told you my plan, did he?” Then he glanced briefly at David Thorn beside him, lifting a drink to his lips.

  Garrick agreed with the nod of his head. “It just seems we barely got Lady Bradenham back from the other side in one piece. We might want to quit while we’re ahead.”

  But this year’s event wouldn’t be anything like the previous year’s gala. Besides…“Since my great-grandmother has been banished,” Quent began, “I don’t think there’s anything for us to worry about. Anyway, now that Braden’s gifted me the place, I’d like to look it over with fresh eyes.”

  “Fresh eyes,” David Thorn echoed under his breath. “You’re hoping to toss up the skirts of that mysterious angel of yours. And don’t pretend otherwise.”

  There was no point in denying it. Ever since the Samhain masquerade party they’d hosted the previous year, and ever since Quent had danced with and kissed a masked angel at that particular party, he’d been slightly obsessed with finding the chit or ghost or whoever she was again. And he’d convinced himself that if they hosted the same party once again this year that his angel might reappear, be she mortal or otherwise.

  If she was mortal, he did have every intention of tossing up her skirts. And if she turned out to be otherworldly…Well, perhaps he could toss up her ghostly skirts. Because the truth was, the kiss his angel had pressed to his lips had been the single most amazing kiss he’d ever experienced. And Quentin Post had enjoyed his fair share of kisses in his life. Though, perhaps not as many as David Thorn had enjoyed. “And yet you were very happy to hear I intended to open Marisdùn for another Samhain. Has that girl in Ravenglass still captured your attention, Thorn?”

  She had done that, not that Thorn was about to admit as much to his friends. He had a reputation to consider, after all.

  Garrick laughed. “There’s a girl in every village in every county who’s captured his attention. Though it’s generally for just a single night.”

  “While Garrick is a veritable saint,” Thorn drawled before lifting a whiskey to his lips once more.

  Garrick laughed again at the absurdity of that statement. And truly, of all the friends in their set, these three gentlemen were by far the most rakish of them all, more concerned with guilty pleasure than duty, thriving on reckless abandon instead of one’s honor, more inclined behave scandalously than properly if given the choice.

  Of course, it was easy to be the most rakish in their set considering the fact that last year, they’d lost three of their compatriots to matrimony. A fate worse than death, certainly, even if the gentlemen in question all seemed rather happy with their respective lots in life.

  But that unfortunate outcome would certainly not befall Garrick, Quent or Thorn. Not this year, perhaps not ever. No, no, no. These three fellows lived by the motto – ‘Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die’. Of course at Marisdùn Castle, the veil between the living and the dead was quite thin, so who was to say that even in death the fun must come to an end?

  “You will both be there, then?” Quent asked, looking from Garrick to Thorn.

  “I’ve got a girl in every village in every county,” Thorn grinned. “Time to find the one who disappeared on me in Ravenglass.”

  Garrick frowned. “You’ve got a disappearing girl too? How did I miss this?”

  “Well, mine isn’t a figment of my imagination.” Thorn shrugged. And he hadn’t searched for her all season long like a Bedlamite either.

  “I do feel left out all of a sudden,” Garrick added. “You don’t suppose it’s the same disappearing girl you’re both looking for?”

  Thorn couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. It wasn’t even a possibility.

  “No, no, no.” Quent shook his head. “Thorn’s girl is an artist, sketched him and then disappeared when he went for punch. There was no sketchpad on my angel. I would have discovered it.”

  Garrick turned his full attention on Thorn. “A girl actually ran away from you? Are you losing your touch, old man?”

  Thorn glowered at his friend. “I will find her, mark my words. And this time there won’t be any running away and there won’t be any sketching.”

  “Ravenglass and its abundance of disappearing girls,” Garrick teased. “Rather surprised I didn’t find one of my own now that I think about it.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be joining us at Marisdun Castle?” Quent asked.

  “Well,” Garrick began with a slight twinkle in his eye, “if you’re both going…”

  Chapter 1

  October 1816 ~ Torrington Abbey, Cumberland

  “Who is she?” David Thorn demanded of Brighid, wife of his good friend Blake Chetwey. It’s the same question he’d asked the few times he’d seen her in the past year, never getting a satisfied answer.

  Instead of going straight to Marisdùn Castle, where David planned on staying for the next sennight to attend the Samhain masquerade, he’d ridden to Torrington Abbey. Though he did wish to visit his good friend, David was more interested in interrogating Brighid. It was all he could do to get through the pleasantries and sip tea before he asked her the question that’d been plaguing him.

  The witch merely blinked up at him. “Whom?”

  “You know bloody well,” Thorn growled.

  “You are speaking to my wife,” Chetwey warned. “She’s of a delicate condition and a lady.”

  Brighid smiled and patted her large belly. He shouldn’t even be seeing her in this condition, but he was the one who’d come into her home. He remembered learning that she was expecting, but hadn’t really thought beyond the news and wishing his friend congr
atulations. Now that he’d seen her, heavy with child, David realized that it had been months since he’d first been told and he hadn’t seen Brighid since the end of the Season. She looked as if she could deliver any moment or possibly should have by now. Not that he had any experience being around ladies in an interesting condition since they were always hidden from society as if it was something to be ashamed of.

  He probably should also think twice before angering this powerful witch, too. Especially right now.

  To think he didn’t believe in spirits, witches and thought it all nonsense until a year ago. But, after watching her banish an evil spirit, working tirelessly to find a way to bring Callie Bradenham back from the other side, there was no doubt in David’s mind that there was a good deal of magic in this world and things beyond his comprehension.

  Chetwey was one lucky bastard and this wasn’t the first time David wished he was in his Chetwey’s shoes. Not married to Brighid, of course. That would never work, but to have a wife who looked at him the way Brighid looked at Chetwey. A woman he could love the way Blake did her. A wife, growing large with his child.

  Not that he would ever, in a million years, admit those thoughts to anyone. It wouldn’t be pleasant becoming the brunt of jokes from his friends. Even worse, for the ladies in Society to get wind of his thoughts. They’d never give him a moment’s rest. Reforming the rake and all that nonsense. Besides, if ladies were wise, they wouldn’t want their husbands to be completely reformed, especially in the privacy of a bedchamber.

  Just the thought of ladies and their mamas hounding him through London sent shivers down his spine. It was scarier than returning to Marisdùn Castle with its variety of ghosts.

  “I just don’t see why she can’t tell me who the Italian artist is. I know Brighid knows.”

  “I don’t know any Italians,” Brighid answered innocently.

  Perhaps the sketching fairy only spoke with an Italian accent to hide her identity. It was a masquerade after all. “I am sure you know a few artists.” David glared at her.

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Maybe.”

  “Do you know who sketched my portrait at the Samhain party?”

  Brighid simply shrugged.

  It’s the same response he’d gotten before. “Why won’t you tell me?” David raked his fingers through his hair and practically jumped to his feet before he started pacing. Irritating and frustrating witch!

  “If she wished for you to know who she is, I assumed she would have remained.”

  “Ah ha!” He wheeled around and wagged a finger at her. “So, you do know. It’s taken me nearly a year, but finally we are getting somewhere.”

  “I find it hard to believe you’ve been yearning for the artist all this time.” Chetwey chuckled from his seat beside his wife.

  “I’m sure it’s only because she got away. Our dear Mr. Thorn is not used to such a predicament,” Brighid teased.

  The same thoughts had crossed his own mind. Was it simply because the masked artist disappeared before he could get to know her better? Her voice had entranced him, and not just the Italian accent, which may or may not have been real, but that smile. Full, red lips, and the only part of her face he could see. Her laugh was soft and gentle, with a rich tone that went straight to his nether regions. When she approached him, sketch book in hand, and asked him to sit, Thorn automatically complied without thought. All she had to do was touch his arm with her delicate hand and he followed her without question.

  That was so out of character for him. The purpose of the party, originally anyway, was to find ladies without drawers and have a decadent good time. Of course, he did wonder if she was wearing any drawers and how they might better come to know one another while she sketched him, but he hadn’t even attempted to kiss her or discourage her from drawing his features. It was a party, the ale was flowing, and people were dancing while he sat for a bloody portrait.

  Had she bewitched him somehow? Was it the magic of that special night?

  That had to be it because he could think of no other reason he acted so out of character.

  He’d barely met the golden haired fairy who wore a blasted half-mask that revealed only her full, ruby lips. Even though nearly a year passed, he still could not put the artist from his mind, and she had ruined his pursuit of every other female since. It was her fault he was having such uncharacteristic thoughts like marriage and babies and such.

  Maybe she was a ghost.

  David wasn’t sure if that possibility was helpful. If she was of another world, any future was certainly impossible. Well, until he died too, but he wasn’t so foolish as to take such a drastic action just to be with her. He’d just need to find a substitute among the living and make the best of it.

  Bloody hell! All these aberrant thoughts over a woman he’d spent only a few hours with were driving him mad. What the blazes was wrong with him? “Maybe she’s a witch too.” That would certainly explain everything.

  “I can assure you she is not.” Brighid grinned at him. “And, maybe she’ll be at the masquerade this year.”

  “I’d prefer to meet her before so I’m not chasing after an otherworldly woman like Quent.”

  “Other-worldly?” Chetwey asked.

  “Braden’s convinced the woman he kissed was a ghost.”

  “It is possible,” Brighid suggested before lifting her cup of tea.

  Thorn refused to believe the woman he sat for was a spirit. By the time Quentin Post had kissed his angel, he had been into his cups. Thorn had been sober. Another oddity of that night.

  Blake set his glass aside and smiled sympathetically at his friend. “Why don’t we play a game of billiards? It’ll take your mind off of your mysterious lady.”

  Like trouncing Chetwey would make him forget about the woman who had been haunting his dreams for a year. “Might as well since your wife isn’t going to be of any help.”

  “If she wanted to be found, she would have stayed around,” Brighid called after them as they sauntered from the room.

  David ignored her and followed Chetwey down the hall into a dark paneled room, a billiards table set up in the center, and leather chairs set up around the perimeter. This was a gentleman’s room and the witch probably never came in here. Not that she could even play billiards right now. Not with the way she’d increased. But she sure was beautiful.

  “Do you know that Garrick actually had the audacity to suggest I’m losing my touch?”

  Chetwey choked back laughter. “I’m sure that isn’t it. Maybe your heart isn’t in the chase any longer.”

  David took a pool cue from the rack on the wall. “It hasn’t been for a very long time, my friend.”

  “What?”

  David straightened, his eyes bored into Chetwey’s. “If you tell a single soul, I’ll deny it with every breath.” Taking the cue, he lined up the end with the ball. “I do have a reputation to protect.”

  * * *

  Anna Southward hurried as quickly as she could to Torrington Abbey after retrieving the plants, seeds and roots Brighid requested from the herbarium in Marisdùn Castle and the garden just outside of it. To think Lord Quentin Post had returned along with his three sisters, and that Bradenham and Callie would really arrive tomorrow. Finally, there would be excitement in this sleepy village.

  Not that she saw the Post family, but she overheard the kitchen staff talking about their arrival as she gathered the herbs. Hardly anything of interest ever happened in Ravenglass and she feared she’d grow mad with boredom before she ever grew old. Thank goodness fascinating gentlemen inherited the castle. At least they’d arrive on occasion to make things a bit more exciting.

  Her closest friend was sitting on the settee, drinking tea, and thankfully her husband wasn’t around. Anna liked Chetwey well enough, but he’d been hovering a bit too much lately. The closer Brighid’s time came, the nearer he stuck by Brighid’s side. It was sweet, really, but babies made an appearance every day. Her condition wasn’t at all unusual f
or a married lady of her age. Besides, Brighid was a healer and a witch. If anyone could make sure everything worked out as it should, it was her.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please.” Anna plopped down in the chair across from her friend. “They’ve arrived.”

  “Who?”

  “The owners of Marisdùn.” She could barely keep the grin off of her face. “They are going to have another masquerade, aren’t they?” Ever since Brighid said it was a distinct possibility, Anna had been on edge with anticipation. This year, she was going, and she was staying late, and nobody was going to stop her. Not even her unreasonable and unpleasant Uncle Walter.

  “Will all of them be there?” Anna asked as she poured herself a cup of tea, instead of waiting for Brighid to awkwardly lean forward and try and pour it for her.

  “All of whom?”

  “The unmarried gentlemen,” Anna hissed. “You know exactly who I mean.”

  “Mr. Garrick, Mr. Thorn and Lord Quentin?”

  “Yes! Those three.” Three of the six friends who arrived last year had married girls from the district and had probably settled into a boring existence with their wives. Three bachelors remained, which gave Anna hope that the masquerade would be even more rousing than last year, since they didn’t have to worry about an evil spirit and bringing Callie back from the other side this time.

  Then she stilled. Just because they hadn’t been married last year did not mean they weren’t this year. Brighid would have mentioned if one of them being wed, wouldn’t she have?

  Brighid chuckled and leaned back against her seat. “Are you hoping one of them will take you away, like Bradenham rescued Callie from this place?”

  Brighid was about the only person content to live here. Of course, she also went to London this past year, twice, and enjoyed the Season. It was a lot more excitement than Anna had seen since she’d come to live with her uncle and cousins after her parents died six years ago.