Holly looked out over a carpet of white. Her bedchamber at Roxegate faced the London street, but winter and snow had dealt an eerie calm to the usually busy thoroughfare. She’d not seen a carriage for a good ten minutes or so, and no one had passed by on foot for even longer, bundled in warm cloaks and furs. Even the plethora of cousins on her mother’s side who were similarly holed up in Torrence House had yet to brave the cold. Usually, they were running through the street, shrieking and throwing snowballs at each other, completely oblivious to the fact they were the children of a future Marquis and therefore Must Behave Properly, but then her family had always been odd.
“This is ridiculous,” she said.
“What’s ridiculous?” Charlotte asked. Her cousin-through-her-father lay on Holly’s bed, throwing a cricket ball in the air which made a thwack sound each time she caught it.
“This.” Gesturing at the window, she glared at the snow. “And Mama and Papa believing it a good idea to remain in London over the winter months.”
“Oh,” Charlotte replied, disinterest rampant in her tone. She threw the cricket ball again.
“Come away from the window,” her other cousin, Davina, ordered. “You are making me cold just standing there.”
Defiantly, Holly turned to lean her back against the window, crossing her arms. Cold immediately invaded, but she refused to shiver.
“All our parents have decided to stay in London for winter,” Davina continued. “And what’s worse, they have decided we should all stay at Roxegate. All. Of. Us.”
Davina had a point. Their family was large, with all their fathers having produced numerous children. She herself had three siblings, and her mother had the temerity to be with child once more. She was hoping for a brother this time, as she already had too many sisters to deal with.
She and her cousins had turned fifteen the previous spring, their birthdays within days of each other. While her mother didn’t particularly care, she knew her aunt had started to pester Davina about preparing for their inevitable debuts. Charlotte’s mother was too busy with her studies into the arcane and the spiritual to bother Charlotte about events that were years and years away, so Davina bore the brunt of dress fittings, lessons on deportment, and lectures on “Attracting Men” (always in quotation marks and capitalised), and then she reported back to Holly and Charlotte and cursed both of them when they laughed hysterically at her ire.
Movement in the street outside caught her eye. A carriage had arrived at the house opposite and a tall, lithe young man descended, hair of the purest gold peeking from the brim of his hat to curl over the collar of his great coat.
Her heart began to pound.
The young man walked up the stairs and the door swung open before he arrived. He said something to the butler, handing him his gloves and walking stick, then disappeared inside.
Pressing her arm into her stomach, she stared at the closed door. Her skin prickled and she felt slightly faint. Hugh Delancey had arrived home.
Most likely he’d arrived home after a night of debauchery. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and the only time she saw him before three in the afternoon was at the end of a debauch. She knew this because she’d been cataloguing his movements for years.
At twenty-six, Hugh was eleven years older than her and seemed to be enjoying his bachelorhood immensely. When gossip turned to him, she listened intently, desperate for even a scrap of information on him. She’d heard all about the wagers, the opera dancers, the wild parties. Her brother had quite explicitly told her she was to steer clear of men such as Hugh after she took her bow and entered her season. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, he had absolutely no jurisdiction in whom she chose to grace with her company and he was a dunderhead anyway.
The worst was the time she’d heard Hugh had been challenged to a duel. That had been horrible. She’d heard the rumour he was to meet Viscount Craigburn at dawn two days hence, and she wore her nails to the quick. Viscount Craigburn was a crack shot, and it wasn’t until she’d seen Hugh arriving back at his town house, none the worse for wear, that she’d been able to breathe again.
She placed her hand on the window. Well. It seemed this crush wasn’t going away. “I’m going to marry Hugh Delancey.”
Charlotte missed catching the cricket ball, landing with a heavy thud on the floor.
Davina blinked. “Beg yours?”
“Hugh Delancey. I shall marry him. Two years after my debut, I should think. I should like to enjoy myself first.”
“Hugh Delancey is too old,” Charlotte scoffed.
“Just because Nicholas is only two years older than us doesn’t mean everyone else is decrepit.”
Charlotte’s cheeks turned bright red. “You’re decrepit,” she mumbled.
She refused to dignify that with an answer.
“Putting age difference aside, there is the small fact he does not know you from Adam,” Davina said.
Holly shrugged. “We’ve met.”
“When?” she demanded.
“He lives across the street. Of course we’ve met.” She didn’t want to tell Davina every time she saw Hugh, an odd pulling sensation overcame her, as if he should always be by her side. Her heart sped, and her breath stopped, and she didn’t know what to do with her hands. It was a bit frightening, the violence of the feeling, but she knew what it meant. Her mother had told her how she felt about her father. All that remained was to convince Hugh to admit he felt the same.
She’d seen how he’d looked at her, and then seen his self-disgust before he looked away. She knew he believed her too young and for the moment she was, but she wouldn’t be young forever. There was a connection between them and, when she was old enough, they would be together.
Thus, when she turned eighteen, she made her bow. When she turned twenty, she cornered him and told him in no uncertain terms she meant to court him. He’d resisted, but she saw the longing in his eyes and so she’d ignored his half-hearted protests. After a week of determined courtship, he’d allowed her to see he felt the same love she had for him.
And so, when she was twenty-one, after a far too long engagement where she’d tempted him at every turn and he put up a valiant resistance only to fold like a cheap dress the night before their wedding, they married. And they lived happily ever after—except for when they fought, or when their children were annoying, or when she’d stupidly thought to have the servants clean out his pigsty of a study, or when he’d bought her a nosegay of petunias even though he should have known she reacted to them poorly, or when she was sick with their second child and he rubbed her swollen, aching feet, or when he caught a cold that became pneumonia and she was deathly afraid she would lose him, or when their son broke his arm falling from a tree, or when….
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the amazing A.L. Clark for your support, your editing skilz, and the re-introduction to roller coasters. I’m sorry I am a soulless monster who found them meh. Also, we totes need to write the eerie, fish-out-of-water, gangster, star-crossed lovers Gold Coast TV show. I’m certain Netflix are dying for our call.
To TP and the small humans you made, you peeps are my found family. I’m so privileged to have you in my life.
To my real family, you are the best. I’m also super privileged to have won that particular crap shoot.
This book would not exist with the outstanding authors involved in the Common Elements Romance Project. There are so many amazing stories in this project, definitely check them out.
And finally, as always, to you, the reader. Thank you for reading RESCUING LORD ROXWAITHE. If you liked Oliver and Lydia’s story, please leave a review.
I’m working on Stephen’s tale next and you’ve already met his heroine. Hit me up on the socials with your thoughts as to who she is. Or, hit me up for funsies. I always love hearing from my readers.
Until next time.
About Cassandra Dean
Cassandra Dean is an award-winning author of historical and f
antasy romance. She grew up daydreaming, inventing fantastical worlds and marvelous adventures. Once she learned to read (first phrase: To The Beach. True story), she was never without a book, and when she realized she could write her own, she never looked back.
Cassandra is proud to call South Australia her home, where she regularly cheers on her AFL football team and creates her next tale.
Read the first book in the
Lost Lords Series
FINDING LORD FARLISLE
The girl he finally remembers
Eleven years ago, a shipwreck robbed Lord Maxim Farlisle of his memory. Recovering himself, he journeys to his childhood home to find Waithe Hall shut and deserted. Unwilling to face what remains of his family, Maxim makes his home in the abandoned hall…only to have a determined ghost hunter invade his uneasy peace.
The boy she never forgot
Fascinated by spirits, Lady Alexandra Torrence cannot disregard the opportunity to investigate the estate she knew so well. She arrives at the shuttered hall to discover a ghost of a different kind—the boy she thought to never see again. Maxim had been the boy next door, her best friend, her soul mate…and then he’d vanished.
As the two rediscover their connection, the promise of young love burns into an overwhelming passion. But the time apart has scarred them both—will they discover a love that will draw them together or will the past tear them apart forever?
Find FINDING LORD FARLISLE here
An excerpt from FINDING LORD FARLISLE
Northumberland, England, August 1819
Lightning streaked across the darkening sky and thunder followed. Stillness held sway a moment, the air thick, before a torrent of rain battered the earth.
Wrestling against the wind, Lady Alexandra Torrence tucked her portmanteau closer to her person as she pushed determinedly toward the estate looming in the distance. The storm had been but a sun-shower when she’d set out from Bentley Close, her family’s estate only a half hour walk, and while the light cloak she wore protected her from the worst of it, the wet was beginning to seep into her skin.
She pulled her cloak tighter. It was only a little farther and she’d be at Waithe Hall, though there would be no one to greet her. Waithe Hall had been closed for years, ever since the previous earl had died. The new earl—Viscount Hudson, as he’d once been—resided almost exclusively in London. Her family and his had been close for as long as she could remember, their townhouses bordering each other in London just as their estates did here in Northumberland. The earl was her elder by nine years, and his brother Stephen by five, but Maxim, the youngest, had been but one year her senior and—
She stopped that thought in its tracks.
Before too much longer she stood before the entrance to Waithe Hall, and with it, shelter. The huge wooden doors were shut. She could not recall that she had ever seen them closed and locked. In the past when she’d visited the family had been in residence, and whenever she’d visited she’d just walked straight in, calling for Maxim before she’d completely cleared the entrance—
Slowly, she exhaled. After a moment, she pulled the key to the Hall from her pocket, the one Maxim had given to her for safekeeping when he was ten and she nine, so they could always find their way back into the Hall should the doors ever be locked—
Shoving the key into the lock, she blinked fiercely as she forced memory aside once more. She could do this. It had been years, the wound so old it should have long since faded. She could investigate Waithe Hall and its ghosts, and she would not think of him.
The key turned easily, the door swinging open. She stepped inside. Cavernous silence greeted her, the din of the rain that had been so deafening now distant. The entrance hall stretched before her, disappearing into darkness, and the storm had made the late afternoon darker than usual, swallowing any light that peeked through closed doors. Pausing mid-step, she wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake in coming here.
Shaking off doubt, she started through the hall. The rain echoed through the vast hall, the hollow sound strange after being caught in its fury. Fumbling through her portmanteau she found a candle and tinder.
The flickering light revealed an entrance hall that opened into an enclosed court encompassing the first and second floors and an impressive chandelier draped in protective cloth hung at its centre. Memory painted it with crystal and candles, and she remembered sitting on the landing of the second floor, legs dangling through the gaps between balusters as she and Maxim counted the crystals for the hundredth time.
Bowing her head, she cursed herself. She should have known she could not have kept the memories at bay.
A roll of thunder reverberated through the hall, leaving behind quiet and dark. All her memories of Waithe Hall were full of life, the butler directing servants, fresh flowers in the vases lining the court, light spilling through from the mammoth windows. Now the windows were shuttered, and an eerie silence broken only by the sounds of the storm pervaded.
Hitching her bag, she made her way to the sitting room. It was as still as the hall, the furniture draped in holland covers, the windows also shuttered. Setting her candle down, she placed her cloak over the back of a chair and rested her bag on its seat, glancing nervously about. She caught herself. Don’t be stupid, Alexandra. There’s none here.
Before she could think further, she unbuttoned her bodice. Her clothes were soaked, uncomfortably damp against her skin, and a chill was beginning to seep through, though it was the tail end of summer and the days were still mostly warm. She’d chosen a simple gown, one she knew she could get into and out of herself.
Heat rose on her cheeks as she shucked out of the bodice. There was none here. She knew there was no one. Cheeks now burning, she untied her skirt and petticoats, left only in her stays and chemise. She would love to remove her stays as well, but they was only slightly damp and she couldn’t bring herself to disrobe more than she had.
Opening her bag, she pulled out a spare bodice, skirt, petticoats and, finally, a towel. Thanking her stars she’d had the forethought to bring it, she quickly swiped herself, chanting all the while there was no one watching her, that doing this in an abandoned sitting room was not immodest.
In record time, she’d managed to reclothe herself. Hanging her wet clothes to dry, she pushed her hair out of her face. Once she had explored further, she would choose one of the bedchambers as her base, but for right now the sitting room would suffice.
A thread of guilt wound through her. Technically, the earl did not know she was a guest of Waithe Hall—and by technically, she meant he didn’t know at all. She was confident however, he could have no objection. She had been a regular presence at Waithe Hall when she was a girl, and the earl held some affection for her. She was almost positive. Maxim had often said his brother thought her—
Damnation. Bracing herself against a chair, she bowed her head. She had thought more of him in the last hour than she had in the year previous. It was this place. She’d managed to convince herself she no longer felt the sharp bite of grief, but she did. It struck her at odd moments, and she could never predict when. One would think it would have lessened with time, but it hit her fresh and raw, as if she bled all over again. She’d been a fool to think she would remain unaffected returning here—he was everywhere.
She closed her eyes as realisation cut through her. She was going to think of him. It was inevitable. However, she had come here with purpose and she would not allow this preoccupation to deter her.
The ghosts of Waithe Hall beckoned.
A darkening gloom shrouded the drawing room. Night approached, quicker than she’d like, and she was determined to at least do a preliminary sweep of the estate to refresh her memory before it became too dark to continue. There was much to do before she camped out in the affected room one night soon, not the least of which was determining which room was affected.
From her bag, she pulled a compass, a ball of twine, and her notebook. Bending over the flickering light of her c
andle, she opened her notebook and dated the page, jotting down her notes on the expedition thus far.
There had always been tales of ghosts at Waithe Hall. On her and Maxim’s frequent rides about the estate, she remembered listening wide-eyed as Timmons had told them tales of ghosts and woe. The groom had waxed lyrical on the myths and legends of spiritual activity at Waithe Hall, and she’d been completely fascinated. Maxim had never seemed interested, but he’d always followed when she’d concocted a new adventure to discover ghosts and ghouls. As an adult, she’d turned her fascination into a hobby, researching and cataloguing ghost tales at every manor and estate she’d attended. Her own family’s estate held a ghost or two, stories her father had been only too happy to tell. She’d documented his tale and others, and had submitted several articles to the Society for the Research of Psychical Phenomena. They hadn’t as yet chosen to publish any of them, but she was convinced if she persisted, eventually they would.
Then, four months ago, reports had crossed the earl’s desk in London of strange lights at Waithe Hall. He’d mentioned it in passing to her father, who in turn, knowing her fascination, had mentioned it to her. He’d also issued a stern warning she was not to pursue an investigation but, well, she was twenty-five years old and in possession of an inheritance a great aunt had left her. Her father could suggest, but he could not compel.
The lights could be any number of things, but the report had contained accounts of a weeping woman and the light had become a search light. Memory reminded her of a tale Timmons had told, the lament of a housekeeper of Waithe Hall who had lost a set of keys and caused a massacre. Her lips quirked. Timmons’s tales had ever been grisly.
Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2) Page 14