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Authors: Katharine Ashe
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slid around the vacant chamber.
“Do you derive a perverse pleasure from intruding on a man’s privacy in this manner?” He folded his arms.
“I take no pleasure in the misfortune of others.” A pause. “Any longer.”
“Then tell me how to save Lady Bronwyn from your villainy.” The words tasted peculiar. Speaking them felt peculiar. The ghost was real, and Tip had to admit he was conversing with it. With a man who had once lived, but no longer did.
“I am not the villain,” Iversly replied. “The curse binds me.”
“A quibbling difference.”
“Not to me.”
“How can the curse be broken?” Tip persisted, not in the least enjoying conversing with someone he could not see. From what Bea and Lady Bronwyn said, the fellow was a dark character, but someone Tip could take easily enough. He wished he could fight the lout. It might serve to dissipate some of the frustrated fever in his blood now.
“For me ,” Iversly said, “there is nothing you can do to undo the curse. For the lady, you need but relieve her of her maidenhead.”
The face that flooded Tip’s imagination was not Lady Bronwyn’s. He bent again to the hearth and lit the taper. “Leave, Iversly .”
For a moment the ghost did not speak. Then, “Have you no other questions for me?”
Flame flickered before Tip’s eyes. His chest tightened.
“Do you know of other dead?” he said. “Can you speak with them or see them?”
A long silence followed. Tip remained motionless, waiting.
“Have you someone with whom you wish to communicate in the world of shadows?” the ghost finally replied.
“You might answer my question before I consider yours.”
“No.” Iversly’s tone seemed thinner than usual, unsubstantial. “I am alone in this exile from humanity.”
Tip nodded .
“As are you,” Iversly added.
“I am not in exile,” Tip countered.
Silence met him. It stretched through the chamber for long enough that finally he concluded Iversly had left. He sat back on his heels and ran his hand through his hair.
He ought to do exactly what Bea wished. Leave. He should take care of his business in Porthmadog and return to Cheriot Manor where he had plenty of work to keep him busy. She didn’t want him here, and he didn’t need a blasted ghost putting foolish thoughts into his head.
But now that he had tasted her lips, however fleetingly, he could not leave her. Not until she promised him much more.
Damn and blast . In all practical matters, he was a damn good bargain. Her sense of duty to her mother was strong, of course, but Tip feared the reason for her refusals had less to do with Lady Harriet than with the late Lord and Lady Cheriot and their infamous marriage.
Bea had never said a word to suggest it, but no woman of sense would want anything to do with that sort of alliance. Tip was not entirely blameless, either. In his younger days he hadn’t been overly discreet. He’d made a dash on the town, eagerly indulging in one loose-screw pursuit after another, including courting Bea’s sister, Georgie . Of course, that had been largely for show.
But that had all changed the moment his father died. In the four years since then, Tip had adopted a downright staid existence. He was a model gentleman, the sort any lady would consider an unexceptionable husband.
But Beatrice Sinclaire was not any lady. She was the only one who with a glance turned his mouth dry and with a touch made him randy as a goat. That she harbored a passion for adventure only stoked his desire, to his chagrin.
He wasn’t surprised. The foolishness was in his blood.
He would conquer it, and he would win her. There could be nothing else to it.
~ ~ ~
April 16, 1822
At two and twenty, rusticating in Yorkshire, I am halfway on the shelf. Today a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman whose character I like very well asked me to marry him again—for the fifth time I daresay (as though I weren’t counting!). He did not get upon his
“Do you derive a perverse pleasure from intruding on a man’s privacy in this manner?” He folded his arms.
“I take no pleasure in the misfortune of others.” A pause. “Any longer.”
“Then tell me how to save Lady Bronwyn from your villainy.” The words tasted peculiar. Speaking them felt peculiar. The ghost was real, and Tip had to admit he was conversing with it. With a man who had once lived, but no longer did.
“I am not the villain,” Iversly replied. “The curse binds me.”
“A quibbling difference.”
“Not to me.”
“How can the curse be broken?” Tip persisted, not in the least enjoying conversing with someone he could not see. From what Bea and Lady Bronwyn said, the fellow was a dark character, but someone Tip could take easily enough. He wished he could fight the lout. It might serve to dissipate some of the frustrated fever in his blood now.
“For me ,” Iversly said, “there is nothing you can do to undo the curse. For the lady, you need but relieve her of her maidenhead.”
The face that flooded Tip’s imagination was not Lady Bronwyn’s. He bent again to the hearth and lit the taper. “Leave, Iversly .”
For a moment the ghost did not speak. Then, “Have you no other questions for me?”
Flame flickered before Tip’s eyes. His chest tightened.
“Do you know of other dead?” he said. “Can you speak with them or see them?”
A long silence followed. Tip remained motionless, waiting.
“Have you someone with whom you wish to communicate in the world of shadows?” the ghost finally replied.
“You might answer my question before I consider yours.”
“No.” Iversly’s tone seemed thinner than usual, unsubstantial. “I am alone in this exile from humanity.”
Tip nodded .
“As are you,” Iversly added.
“I am not in exile,” Tip countered.
Silence met him. It stretched through the chamber for long enough that finally he concluded Iversly had left. He sat back on his heels and ran his hand through his hair.
He ought to do exactly what Bea wished. Leave. He should take care of his business in Porthmadog and return to Cheriot Manor where he had plenty of work to keep him busy. She didn’t want him here, and he didn’t need a blasted ghost putting foolish thoughts into his head.
But now that he had tasted her lips, however fleetingly, he could not leave her. Not until she promised him much more.
Damn and blast . In all practical matters, he was a damn good bargain. Her sense of duty to her mother was strong, of course, but Tip feared the reason for her refusals had less to do with Lady Harriet than with the late Lord and Lady Cheriot and their infamous marriage.
Bea had never said a word to suggest it, but no woman of sense would want anything to do with that sort of alliance. Tip was not entirely blameless, either. In his younger days he hadn’t been overly discreet. He’d made a dash on the town, eagerly indulging in one loose-screw pursuit after another, including courting Bea’s sister, Georgie . Of course, that had been largely for show.
But that had all changed the moment his father died. In the four years since then, Tip had adopted a downright staid existence. He was a model gentleman, the sort any lady would consider an unexceptionable husband.
But Beatrice Sinclaire was not any lady. She was the only one who with a glance turned his mouth dry and with a touch made him randy as a goat. That she harbored a passion for adventure only stoked his desire, to his chagrin.
He wasn’t surprised. The foolishness was in his blood.
He would conquer it, and he would win her. There could be nothing else to it.
~ ~ ~
April 16, 1822
At two and twenty, rusticating in Yorkshire, I am halfway on the shelf. Today a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman whose character I like very well asked me to marry him again—for the fifth time I daresay (as though I weren’t counting!). He did not get upon his
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