Captivated by His Kiss: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Seven Regency Romances

by Cheryl Bolen

  “A few days ago, I did not,” Edwina said, “but the ghost awakened me yesterday morning with a slap—hence this bruise.”

  “Oh, excellent. Not the bruise, my dear, but that you now believe in her. I’m sure the ghostly Lady Ballister appreciates that. How vexing to be ignored, don’t you think? Worse than ignored, if people don’t even believe one exists. If I die before my brother—which is likely in the course of nature—I hope I shall be permitted to haunt the vicarage. Just to tease him a little, you know.”

  Edwina decided she liked the vicar’s sister very much.

  “I wonder, though,” Miss Bickford went on, “are ghosts allowed to haunt vicarages? It might be considered sacrilegious.”

  “In that case, your brother will be obliged to exorcise you,” Edwina said.

  Miss Bickford broke into peals of laughter. “I see we shall get along very well. I hope you stay in our village a long, long time.”

  “I hope so, too,” Edwina said, adding immediately, “John and Lizzie are far more charming and well-behaved than the other children I have taught.” Perhaps that would diffuse any suspicions that Edwina had designs upon Sir Richard. Seeing the twinkle in Miss Bickford’s eye, she doubted it. Well, they would find out soon enough when Edwina left in the New Year—although they would probably think he had sent her packing. Mentally, she threw up her hands. None of this was of any consequence. She intended to make the most of the Christmas festivities, and the best way to do that was to forget about the future for now.

  Upon hearing Edwina’s errand, Miss Bickford entered with great enthusiasm into the plan. She donned her walking shoes and a warm cloak. They set out immediately to call on several of the villagers and made arrangements to visit more on the morrow.

  There followed several days of frenetic activity—designing and cutting clothing and bringing it to the seamstress, meeting with all the villagers, and sending for the necessary supplies. The seamstress was competent. The villagers as a whole were simple, superstitious people, but kind-hearted and welcoming. If it hadn’t been for the sword of Damocles hanging over John’s head, the preparations would have been great fun.

  Edwina kept one gown secret and sewed it herself at night—a crimson one. How foolish to dwell on memories of that waltz so long ago, but she couldn’t help herself. Most likely she wouldn’t even wear it come Christmas Day. She didn’t wish to give the wrong impression to Richard or to the village as a whole. Even if she could overcome her scruples, she didn’t think she could wear anything so truly festive unless the ruby necklace was found.

  Despite daily vigilance, despite examining every item in the house with a questioning eye, she came no closer to finding the necklace, and the ghost, whose snippets of information she had come to hope for, only muttered nightly about women’s wiles, advised Edwina to look about herself, and warned more and more urgently about time running out. Ten more days, eight, seven, five…

  Edwina recognized the need for haste, but it wasn’t the right time for woman’s wiles, what with Richard searching day and night, growing ever more tense and hollow-eyed. Not that she didn’t want him; in unguarded moments, she eyed him and ached with longing. In bed at night, in darkness and solitude, she replayed the waltz in her mind, recalling the heady excitement of his closeness. She envisioned being swept away to a bedchamber, imagined his lips and hands on her bare skin and his shaft moving inside her.

  And then rolled over and banished these useless desires. How unworthy to become consumed with lust at such a time! She thrust her lecherous thoughts away and swore to look about her even harder.

  Three days before Christmas, she stood before the portrait of Sir Joshua, trying to read those hard, calculating eyes. John came up beside her. “Horrid, isn’t he? Sometimes I look at him and try to be him in my mind. When he killed the lover, how did he decide where to put the body and the necklace so that no one would ever find them?”

  Edwina turned to the boy. “How, indeed?”

  “The ghost doesn’t like me when I try to think like Sir Joshua, but how else am I to figure out where the necklace is?” He smirked. “Lizzie told me she speaks to you. Well, she speaks to me, too. I haven’t told Papa because he already thinks I am weak-minded, which is shameful for a boy.”

  “Did he say that?” Edwina demanded, outraged.

  “No, but that’s what he believes. Don’t tell him I told you the ghost talks to me.”

  “Very well, I shan’t, but you’re entirely wrong about what he thinks. He is full of admiration for your courage.”

  One side of John’s mouth quirked up. “Do you really think so? I was afraid that since he already sees me as weak, he might think me mad if I told him I can hear the ghost speak. She says I am a lovely, studious boy.” He rolled his eyes. His assumption of nonchalance made Edwina’s insides churn. “She doesn’t want me to die young, but she also says being dead isn’t so very bad, although it’s no fun being stuck as a ghost. But none of the other firstborns haunt the Grange, so I’m not worried about that.”

  Edwina tried to contain her dismay. “I wish you didn’t have to worry at all.”

  John grimaced. “Papa looks awfully tired. If I do die soon, I want you to take good care of him and Lizzie.”

  “I shall,” Edwina said without thinking, and then decided not to contemplate the ramifications of this rash promise. “But I would rather make sure you live to old age.”

  John left, and she continued around the portrait gallery, examining the oldest paintings for clues, and returned at last to Sir Joshua. “Where did you hide it, you evil man?”

  Needless to say, Sir Joshua stood proud, aloof and silent, with the knot garden behind him on the one hand and fields stretching away on the other. His second wife, whose placid vapidity probably suited Sir Joshua down to the ground, posed before the same backdrop. She wouldn’t know the answer, even if Edwina could ask her.

  Oh, how ridiculous. Edwina had already noticed that different artists had painted the two portraits—Sir Joshua’s no doubt in the lifetime of his first wife, whose portrait he had probably destroyed. Upon close inspection, however, she realized that an alteration had been made in his portrait. Judging by the differences in style, the second artist had painted over the one square of the knot garden which had changed between one wife and the next. Now both paintings showed the bench with the monument to Sir Joshua’s firstborn son.

  While she understood the motivation for the memorial, the new version of that square didn’t go at all well with the rest of the garden. It destroyed the integrity of both the garden as a whole and the knot design in that particular square.

  She sighed. What a foolish alteration in both garden and painting, but hardly surprising. “You’ll never relent, will you?” she asked his portrait. “I’m glad you’re not the one haunting the Grange. At least your first wife is trying to mend matters.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Christmas Eve, and still nothing. Richard dragged himself to his bedchamber in despair. He’d never felt so proud of his young son, who had comforted his weeping sister and done his best to reassure her that the curse need not take effect this Christmas or for many more years to come. Richard had found himself holding back tears at John’s courageous display of unconcern.

  Both children had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep—perhaps John’s last.

  Richard shucked his coat and shirt and sat on the bed to pull off his stockings. “I’m so tired, Lady Ballister,” he told the darkness. “I’ve tried my damnedest. John doesn’t deserve this fate. Lizzie doesn’t deserve to lose her brother. And Edwina—dear Edwina is working herself to the bone to help my family. She has not only searched everywhere, but she delivered Christmas baskets to all the villagers. The house is decorated with holly and ivy, evergreens and mistletoe. The villagers love her. My children adore her. You approve of her too, don’t you?” No response, but he didn’t need one. “She deserves the security of a home and family, and I can give that to her. Even though she doe
sn’t love me, even though it will be a marriage as uncomfortable as my first, I understand what must be done. I’ll marry her for her own sake as well as to save my son.”

  Still the darkness didn’t answer—no surprise. Edwina had given no indication that she thought of marriage. Her demeanor remained entirely proper and respectful toward him. She saved her true warmth for his children and her formidable housewifely talents for the entire village. She’d consented to have a gown made of the dark blue wool, but that was no more than a valued servant might expect at Christmastide. If he found the necklace, she might agree to marry him for John’s sake. Even without love, surely marriage to him was preferable to a life of drudgery.

  He put his head in his hands. “What’s the use if we can’t find the damned necklace?” Yes, they would celebrate Christmas—but without any true Christmas cheer.

  A weight seemed to have settled over the whole house, heavy and ominous, that even the Christmas greenery couldn’t dispel. “I want some happiness for my family,” Richard said. “Some light. It’s Christmastide, for God’s sake.”

  He rose, lit a whole branch of candles, and set them on the mantel. They sent a splash of light upward, illuminating the strapwork on the overmantel, but did little to dispel the gloom in the rest of the room and in his heart. He longed for love, for comfort, for…

  He raised his fist to the unresponsive ghost. “Since you’re so fond of talking to Edwina, why don’t you tell her something useful for once?”

  *

  Go to his chamber. Go now!

  Edwina was dropping into sleep through utter weariness when the ghost’s shriek sent her leaping out of bed. Whose chamber? But she knew the answer already. Richard’s chamber? Why? She couldn’t just barge into his bedchamber, particularly after what had happened last time. He had grown to tolerate her. That had to be enough.

  All these thoughts ran through her head as she scurried down the passageway and tapped on Richard’s door.

  Immediately, he pulled it open. Like the first time, he was naked to the waist. She should turn her face away, but she couldn’t.

  His eyes widened. After a brief hush of silence, he whispered, “Edwina.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She had to have a reason for coming here. Not just, ‘the ghost sent me.’ That would be absurd. “Richard, I–”

  He tugged her inside his bedchamber and shut the door. He pulled her into his arms with a groan, and automatically hers went around him. “Oh, my darling,” he said. “I’m so tired. So afraid.”

  She nodded, tears on her lashes. She laid her head on his bare chest and they clung together, at one in their worries and fears. His heart beat hard beneath her cheek. He caressed her hair, kissed it, and gave a soft sound of contentment.

  She’d wanted to hug him, to make him feel better, and now she had her wish. Never mind that desire was swarming up inside her, that her heart’s frantic beat matched his. A little comfort was all he needed. She raised her head to push away, to–

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her. With a helpless little moan she kissed him back. Oh, God, how she’d wanted this, missed it so much. She put her arms about his neck and clung to him, instantly a slave to the same passion she’d given in to twelve years before.

  His hands roamed her from her waist to her buttocks, pulling her tight against him. He ground his erection against her, and heat spread through her nether regions in a hot, wet flood. He broke the kiss only long enough to pull the nightdress over her head and peruse her nakedness with dark, lust-filled eyes. Her knees trembled. She thought she might collapse with desire, but he clasped her to him and kissed her again.

  Still without a word, he swept her off her feet and carried her to his bed. He laid her on the cold sheets and stripped off his breeches. His erection jutted forward, sending a pulse of lust to her loins. She’d never seen his cock before, had only felt his long, hard heat inside her, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  He climbed up beside her and thrust his knee between her legs. His eyes glittered in the candlelight, hard and feral, like a beast released from a cage. He bent his head to suckle her breasts, propping himself on one hand while the other moved purposefully from her waist to her hips and between her legs, caressing deeply. She moaned and arched against him, mad with pleasure.

  She pulled herself together enough to take his cock in her hand. So velvet-smooth and hot. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over its firm length, up and down, and he bucked in her hand and kissed her hard. I want you inside me, but she didn’t say it, didn’t want to break the magic of their silent surrender to desire.

  She needn’t have worried. Eyes closed, lashes dark on his gaunt cheeks, he poised himself at her entrance. She writhed toward him, and he growled, still wild like an animal, and thrust hard, pushing himself to the hilt. She heard her own low moan, and then they were moving in unison, thrust for thrust, utterly lost in pleasure.

  Afterward, they lay clasped together for a long moment. A wave of tenderness washed over her. She loved him; she would always love him. She pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

  He pulled away to lie next to her. “Thank you, Edwina,” he said and then was silent.

  Thank you? What had just happened…was shared pleasure between lovers, not a gift or a service performed…wasn’t it? As the remnants of desire died away, sadness took its place. He’d probably just needed comfort, as had she, and matters had progressed too far. Nothing to do with love. Did he already regret giving in to his lust?

  She gazed bleakly across the room at the fireplace, unwilling to turn to Richard, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

  This was the one room in the house she hadn’t inspected from top to bottom. She’d wondered about asking to do so and hadn’t been able to form the words. She couldn’t encroach on his domain, and he had surely inspected the room carefully himself.

  But now she was here, and rather than let maudlin thoughts overcome her, she would make one last attempt to do what the ghost had insisted upon—that she look about herself.

  The banked fire gave off little light, but a branch of candles above it illumined the carving on the overmantel. A large mirror reflected the plaster strapwork on the ceiling.

  As was common in Jacobean houses, the carving and the plaster were facets of the same design. Often the design would be repeated in fabric wall coverings, in embroidered bed hangings or upholstered chairs. Any fabrics that might have existed over two hundred years ago were long gone, except for the one piece of embroidery that showed the knot garden.

  Edwina sat up.

  *

  Richard rolled over as his darling Edwina slid off the bed. He’d acted like a wild beast, ravaging her. She’d seemed to want him, but… “Edwina. Sweetheart, I–”

  But instead of leaving in a huff, she padded barefoot, naked and glorious, to the fireplace, lifted the branch of candles, and looked up at the ceiling, then at the strapwork carving of the overmantel.

  “Both of these are original to the house, aren’t they? The carving and the plaster work on the ceiling.”

  He joined her. “I believe so.”

  “I wonder if the same motifs are repeated elsewhere.”

  “A simpler version is on the front doors.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I saw that, but hardly noticed at the time.”

  “They’re variations of the design that was used for the knot garden,” he said, wondering where this was headed.

  “There’s something important about this,” she said. “I don’t know what it is, but I think this is what the ghost wanted me to see. I should have noticed it days ago. I wonder when the embroidery was done—before or after the garden was planted.”

  “It could have been either way,” he said, “but…” The truth descended upon him like a shaft of brilliant light, and everything fell into place.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Edwina gaped at Richard. Was he shaking? “What is it? What’s wrong?”
>
  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, his fists clenched, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “It must have been afterward, because we know that when Sir Joshua married Louisa, the garden was already there.”

  “We do? I thought the garden was her pride and joy, not his.”

  “That’s what the old story says, but listen! His portrait was painted a month before their wedding, and hers shortly afterward. It’s in the archives. What if the story is wrong, and it was his project?”

  “Then why,” Edwina demanded, “did he attack his own creation in a fit of rage?” She answered her own question with another. “Because Eros had betrayed him?” She made a face. “I don’t think so. Have you seen his eyes? They’re cold and calculating, not the eyes of a hotheaded lover.”

  “That’s a very womanly thing to notice,” Richard said with a twisted smile. “In any event, if it was hers, why didn’t he destroy the whole garden rather than just one square? If he’d truly meant to erase all trace of her, wouldn’t his portrait show a new and different garden in the background rather than just one altered square?”

  “Come to think of it, wouldn’t he have destroyed her needlework, too, rather than allowing a story to persist that the garden was her pride and joy?” She paused. “Oh. Oh! He made that story up!”

  Their gazes met in mutual comprehension. “Sir Joshua destroyed that one square of the garden to hide his crime,” Richard said. “He replanted it himself to appear contrite, but the real reason was to keep the gardeners away from it.”

  “While the earth settled over the lover’s grave.” A shudder passed through Edwina and was gone.

  “He invented a new story for posterity: the garden was hers, proven by both his fit of rage and her needlework. To top it off, he graced that one garden square with a monument to make it sacred and untouchable for quite a distance into the future.”