Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
SANDRA SCHWAB
Bewitched
Published by Sandra Schwab
Copyright © 2008, 2013 by Sandra Schwab
www.sandraschwab.com
[email protected]
(Originally published by Dorchester-Love Spell 2008)
ISBN 978-3-00-040093-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, copied, or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author except for the purpose of reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual people or events are coincidental.
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Sweet passion…
After a magical mishap that turned her uncle’s house blue, Miss Amelia Bourne is stripped of her powers and sent to London in order to be introduced into polite society—and to find a suitable husband. Handsome, rakish Sebastian “Fox” Stapleton seems to be all that and more. He is her true love. Isn’t he?
…or the bitter taste of deceit?
At Rawdon Park, the country estate of the Stapletons, Amy begins to wonder. Several inexplicable events suggest that one sip of punch has changed her life forever—that this love, this lust, are nothing but an illusion. She and Fox are pawns in a mysterious game, and black magic has followed them out of Town. Without her powers, will Amy be strong enough to battle those dark forces and win? And will she be able to claim her heart’s true desire?
Praise for Bewitched
“Enchantment and romance abound in Schwab's captivating tale of a spell gone wrong, a love potion gone right, deceit, revenge, black magic and redemption. Her romance captures the aura of the Regency and the essence of a paranormal, which should make it a surefire hit with fans.”
Kathe Robin,
Romantic Times
4-star review
“Sandra Schwab can always be relied upon to deliver a spectacularly original read that is liberally sprinkled with plenty of fun, ingenuity, freshness and charm and Bewitched is certainly no exception! An enchanting tale featuring a lovely heroine, a gorgeous hero, lots of drama and plenty of gripping twists and turns to keep the readers turning the pages, Bewitched is a magical tale that will certainly brighten up anybody’s day.”
Julie Bonello,
Single Titles
“I know a love potion in a romance story is not new ground, but when Sandra Schwab gets hold of a worn-out plot like that, she breathes new life into it. This author never disappoints me. Her books are always innovative and, of course, romantic, and her characters are alive and real. Bewitched is no exception. […] Once again Ms Schwab has given us a romance filled with joy and strife, characters you fall for right away and root for when things go awry, and a storyline with writing so different from anyone else. It’s the little extras in her books that make you keep turning page after page.”
Sandy M.,
The Good, the Bad and the Unread
A- review
Prologue
A lazy breeze stirred the late-summer air and played with the leaves of the trees along the canal that bisected the meadows and fields. It tousled the mane of the horse trailing the heavy barge filled with Black Country coal and tickled the cheek of the boatman. The breeze blew on, over sheep-dotted green, over the ruins of a castle that had once belonged to a favorite of the Virgin Queen, over an old battlefield where Roundheads and Cavaliers had met long ago; on and on it blew until it whistled around the pointy spire of a small parish church. From there it followed the slow rise of the hills and teased the branches of a grove of elm trees in the valley beyond. Here the air was filled with the chirping of birds and the hum of wild bees. The grove opened into lawns of lush green and flowerbeds blazing with color. Amidst the gardens nestled a small, stout manor house in the honeyed tones of the local sandstone. Bulky chimneys stretched heavenwards, emitted a trickle of smoke. Nearby, a lark rose jubilantly into the clear blue sky, and the breeze ruffled the bird’s feathers.
One of the chimneys twitched.
The breeze died away. The birds fell silent. Even the hum of the insects stopped.
A shudder ran through the chimney. A sliver of cobalt blue appeared at its top. It stretched, widened, forked like lightning, sparked more spots of blue. These spanned the roof, ran down the gables; one reached a window in the upper story.
The back door slammed open, and Cook came running out, then her kitchen maids, shortly followed by the housekeeper, the upstairs maids, the footmen, and the butler. The last drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead while he watched the blue spread.
Inexorably, cobalt covered the house.
Another door was flung open. Boots clattered on the front steps as a horde of boys and young men rushed out into the forecourt. The sunlight glinted on their curly black hair as they craned their necks to look in dismay at the increasingly blue walls.
“Uh-oh,” the youngest said and put his thumb into his mouth.
“Darn it,” the eldest swore and rubbed his neck.
A petite young woman was the last to leave the house. Her golden brows knitted, her rosebud mouth pursed, she stomped down the stairs. A smudge of dirt clung to one rounded cheek, and under her arm she carried an enormous leather-bound tome.
“How bad is it?” she asked, without turning around.
Wordless, her black-haired cousins stared back at her.
She sniffed. “That bad?” She risked a look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she swung fully around. “Blast it all! How in blazes did that happen?”
“Well. It could’ve been worse, you know,” one of the boys offered. “Just think what would’ve happened if Mother hadn’t gone to visit Lady Grisham today!”
“Or if Father weren’t out on his daily ride just now.”
“Indeed, with some luck it’ll have vanished before he returns home.”
They all eyed the house. Blue ran down the walls like icing from the top of a cake.
“Mmmhm.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
“Just think what—”
Stone groaned.
They took a step back.
And another.
“What? What is it? Why doesn’t it stop?” The young woman started to leaf hectically through the book she was carrying. “That’s not what was supposed to happen!”
“Uh-oh,” her youngest cousin mumbled around the thumb in his mouth and pointed toward the grove.
A lone rider had appeared between the elm trees. Just then, he caught sight of the blue house. Abruptly, he reined in his horse, stared—and fell out of the saddle.
The young woman visibly paled. “Oh blast, I’m in so much trouble,” she whispered
.
The walls shivered. The glass in the windows rattled as the house raised itself from its fundaments and, swaying gently to-and-fro, came to stand on two giant chicken legs.
Chapter One
London, autumn 1820
“I am”—Andrew Fermont flopped down on an armchair in the smoking room, closed his eyes, and heaved a blissful sigh—“in love.”
Cyril Jerningham, Lord Stafford, exchanged a glance with Sebastian “Fox” Stapleton and rolled his eyes. “You don’t say?” He blew a puff of smoke into Drew’s face. “So, do enlighten us: Who is this week’s lucky lady?”
Unperturbed, Drew waved the smoke away and gave another, even more blissful sigh. “Miss Amelia Bourne,” he breathed, in a tone that suggested he had beheld a divine apparition. “I swear, she has captured my heart—no, my very soul—forevermore.”
Fox raised his brows. “How … dramatic.”
A loony smile appeared on Drew’s face. “She is exquisite.” His hands sketched the outline of a female form in the air. “The epitome of beauty.”
“Tell us something new.” Cy yawned and looked around for a place to leave the remains of his cheroot. “It seems that at least half the male guests at this oh-so-wondrous ball have declared themselves in love with Miss Amelia Bourne.”
“Oh no.” Dismayed, Drew stared at his friends. “What about Munty? Has he said anything? Is Munty after her, too? Oh dear, oh dear, if Munty’s after her, what with him being not just an earl, but also filthy rich…” He tore at his hair. “Whatever shall I do?”
Cy leaned forward to pat his shoulder. “Do not despair, my friend,” he said kindly. “By the end of the week you’ll have fallen out of love with her anyway. You always fall out of love with them by the end of a week.”
“I know.” Drew studied the ceiling. “But what is a man to do with so many bewitching young ladies about?”
Fox took a sip of his wine. “And their numbers increase with each year,” he added wryly.
“Indeed. Ah well…” Drew straightened and abandoned his dramatics. “But still, Miss Bourne is exquisite.” He reached over and took Fox’s glass. “Have you danced with her?” He regarded his friends over the rim of the glass while he took a deep gulp of the wine.
“Pansy-eyed, blond little chit, reaches up to about here?” Cyril indicated a spot in the middle of his chest. “Yes, I have.” He shrugged. “A bit disconcerting, if you ask me, such a little bit. Makes you wonder how…” He frowned. “If…you know.”
Drew grimaced in distaste. “Heavens, Cy, don’t be vulgar! At least not while Miss Bourne still holds my heart.”
“Soul,” Fox corrected. “Give me my wine back.”
“Did I say soul?”
“You did.” He held out his hand. “My wine.”
Drew drank the rest of the wine and handed the glass back. “I guess I must have. How many times did Munty dance with her? Did he say?”
Mournfully, Fox regarded his empty glass. “If you weren’t my friend, I’d have to call you out now.”
Cyril snorted and answered the question. “Twice.”
“Two dances? Goodness!” Drew slumped back in the chair. “I am devastated! I had only one!”
“Serves you right. You drank my wine,” Fox muttered darkly.
Drew gave his friend an exasperated look. “Ahh, damn it, Foxy, do stop that annoying whining and let me suffer in peace, will you?”
Fox looked up. His eyes narrowed. “I am”—he rudely poked his finger into the other’s chest—“so going to break your heart, sir.”
Drew batted his hand away. “Piffle.”
Fox arched his brow. Leaning forward, he let his lips twist into an evil smile. “I am—”
“Ye-s-s-s?”
“Going to dance the waltz with your dear Miss Amelia Bourne.”
“Indeed!” Grinning, Drew waved the threat aside. “I’m sure you won’t. She’s a debutante. As fresh as newly fallen snow. No way you’ll get her to dance the waltz.”
Fox showed him two rows of pearly white teeth. “Oh, I will.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Cy clucked his tongue. “Children, children… ”
Leaning his elbow onto the table, Drew put his chin on his hand and smiled. “No. You. Won’t.”
Fox stretched lazily, like a great cat before it goes on the prowl, and rose from his chair. “Oh yes, I will. And you will be so heartbroken.”
“No, no.”
Cyril rolled his eyes. “Lawk. Infants!”
Fox shot them a grin before, softly whistling, he strolled toward the ballroom.
~*~
“Puh.” Clutching her glass of lemonade like a deadly weapon, Amy flopped down on a chair at the edge of the dance floor, where the gossiping matrons and unfortunate wallflowers had gathered.
Being a wallflower sounded awfully good at the moment. She grimaced and wriggled her aching toes. Every blasted man younger than seventy at this blasted ball had wanted to dance with her at least once. They had given her foolish smiles, had talked to her in avuncular tones while leering at her bosom, and—to make matters worse—some of them had actually stepped on her toes. One hundred and eighty pounds of solid male stepping on one’s toes while they were sheathed in only the lightest satin slipper could by no means be regarded as amusing.
Amy took a sip of her lemonade and warily eyed the crowd. Egad! She gulped. There he was again! That horrid Lord Munthorpe. Who had talked about nothing but his family’s sheep breeding in Scotland. Woolly baa-sheep. Ack!
Amy looked this way and that, and finally spied a giant potted plant in the corner. Hastily she stood and prepared for a strategic retreat, just when the orchestra struck the first notes of a new dance.
A waltz.
Her shoulders slumped with relief. Thank heavens! Immediately her mood brightened. She had, after all, not yet been given permission to dance the waltz. Even Munthorpe, the dolt, would know that! Smiling, she took another sip of her lemonade and watched how the dancers got in line. Another few beats—Amy’s foot tapped the three-four rhythm—and then the couples started: a lovely whirling of colorful dresses around dark male evening clothes.
She leaned her shoulder against the wall.
The waltz certainly made for a beautiful sight.
“Miss Bourne.”
She looked around. And up.
Mr. Stapleton, the man generally known as Fox, smiled down at her from his lofty height. His blue-gray eyes were crinkled at the corners, and the candlelight created fiery little sparks in his red hair. Well, “Fox” would probably be considered a more flattering name than “Carrot,” she supposed. Or “Fish.” For he was as cold as a fish, this one.
She gave him a bland smile. “Mr. Stapleton.”
He bowed. “Would you do me the honor of another dance, Miss Bourne?” He held out his hand.
She looked first at his hand, then at his face. “This is a waltz.”
He arched his carroty brows. “Indeed?”
Mindful that it wouldn’t do to decline an invitation to dance, Amy held up her glass. “I still have my lemonade.”
His brows shot up even higher. “Have you?” Then he simply took the glass from her hand and put it onto the windowsill. “And now?” he asked politely.
He had, Amy discovered, a sprinkle of freckles on his nose. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Sir—”
His eyes twinkling devilishly, he leaned forward and whispered, “You are not afraid, are you?”
She opened her mouth. “My…” Amy frowned. How to describe Mrs. Bentham? Not guardian, not chaperone—what then? “I haven’t been given permission to—”
“Oh.” He sighed. “So you are afraid.” He drew back to regard her earnestly and, she thought, somewhat pityingly. “What an utter shame. I would have thought… I had suspected you—rather falsely, it now seems—in possession of some courage.”
Amy narrowed her eyes at him. At her sides, her hands curled into fists. The oaf! He accused her of being a c
oward? This was surely too much! After an evening spent in the company of abhorrent people, she would not suffer such ludicrous accusations.
Mr. Carrot Stapleton turned as if ready to stride away.
Amy reached out and put her hand on his elbow. “Sir?”
He turned, eyed the hand on his arm—granted, the hand looked rather small there—before he slowly raised his gaze to meet hers. “Yes, Miss Bourne?”
She gave him a sweet smile. She would show him! Lacking in courage? Ha! “I believe this is your dance.”
“Is it? Is it indeed?” He put his hand over hers and gently squeezed her fingers. Somehow his thumb came to rest on the small spot of skin above the button of her glove. His blue-gray eyes seemed to burn into hers as he drew a tiny circle with his thumb. A hot tingle shot up her arm. It was an effort to meet his gaze calmly.
“Your dance, Mr. Stapleton. Or do you prefer to just stand around until it is over?”
Abruptly, the gentle pressure on her fingers ceased. “Not at all, Miss Bourne.” He winked at her. “After all, I wouldn’t want to bore you. Shall we?”
And with that, he drew her onto the dance floor. His expert eye regarded the whirling couples, and when a gap opened, his arm came around her shoulders, his hand clasped hers, and with a quickness that made Amy gasp, they joined the dance.
There was, Amy quickly discovered, a subtle difference between dancing the waltz with one of her lanky cousins and dancing it with a nicely built stranger. When she had danced with Coll, for example, she had never noticed how hard the hand was that held hers, or how strong the arm was that curved around her shoulder, or how gracefully his body moved with the music. And she most certainly had never noticed a tiny freckle, like a speck of cinnamon dust, on Coll’s earlobe.
Entranced, she stared at that tiny spot of skin, while Mr. Stapleton whirled her around in three-four time.
She saw how the muscles of his neck moved just before she heard his voice above her. “So, do you find the waltz as scandalous as you’ve suspected?”
She looked up and found his eyes twinkling down at her, which seemed at odds with his coolly polite voice. Oddly, she found his dusting of freckles greatly destroyed his aloof facade. For how could you consider somebody a cold fish when his face was full of endearing little cinnamon spots? Thus, despite herself, her lips curved into a mischievous smile. “I daresay this might not be quite as scandalous as waltzing in a damp shift.”
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