For the Earl's Pleasure (5 page)

She pinched her lips, but answered anyway. “Some spirits have a quest that needs to be solved. Something that must be resolved before they can move on. While others just imprint themselves on the living world instead.”

“Do you have a new one, miss?” Telly asked as she brushed her stockings.

“Yes, Telly, a most tenacious spirit that followed inside.”

Her maid nodded and put her slippers away. She would never ask unless the information was volunteered.

A dark voice at her ear said, “A most tenacious
man
who will continue to follow you until you help him.”

“A cursed man who will rein havoc upon the land, unless I stop him from seeking his vengeance against all who have betrayed him,” she said in the most dramatic and hushed tone she could manage.

The expression on Rainewood’s face was worth every bit of guilt.

“Then you must stop him, miss.” Telly looked all too serious.

“Do not worry, Telly, we will impede his mad plans.” She jabbed a closed fist into the air. Rainewood’s mouth turned downward, his eyes dark, missing the sparkling mirth they used to contain so long ago. Lost in the past.

She closed her eyes to block the view.

“ ’Tis a true gift,” Telly whispered in the reverent tone that told of her Gypsy roots. It was the only reason Abigail could think of for why the maid hadn’t run screaming the first time she had caught Abigail talking to what appeared to be dust mites in the corner. She’d proclaimed that Abigail had her grandmother’s sacred gift.

Gift? Abigail shook her head, her headache reviving a notch, and she pushed the towel from her forehead. “Just a questing spirit, Telly. We will be rid of him shortly.”

“Over my dead body,” he said.

“That is the case now, isn’t it?” She rose and walked to her dressing chair, sitting so that she could still watch him. Telly removed the pins from her hair and began to ease a brush through the brown strands.

“I don’t see the humor, Smart. And moreover, I’m not dead.”

“You are in fact dead, Rainewood.” The brush snagged in her hair, prompting a wince that had
nothing
to do with how she felt about her nemesis being dead. He was still sitting on her bed, speaking to her. It was almost as if he wasn’t really dead.

Telly murmured a quick apology and began brushing again.

“I don’t believe it,” he murmured, and she had the feeling that he truly believed he was in a dream for a second, otherwise he would never have used such a soft tone near her. “Something…something happened.” He screwed his eyes shut, as if he too was pained by a terrible headache. “I…I think I’m in danger. I need to wake.”

He rose and started pacing soundlessly across the curling ivy rug. She said nothing as he continued to silently pace, his eyes tightening, his hands fisting. The only sound was the gentle swish of the tines brushing through her strands.

Telly set the brush back on the dressing table and Abigail rose.

Rainewood looked up.

“Go out in the hall,” she commanded.

He simply lifted a brow. “No.”

“I need to prepare for bed. Go haunt someone else for the night.”

He flopped down at the edge of the bed and crossed his ankles, hands splayed behind him. “I think I will stay right here. I’ll wake soon, and far be it for me to miss the show in my own head.”

“Miss?” Telly said, a bit nervously.

She pointed at Rainewood again. “Leave.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He raised a brow. “Are we going to argue childishly all night?”

“When do we ever do anything but?” She wiped an agitated hand along her skirt.

“Miss?”

Abigail considered her options. She could continue arguing. She could go to another room. She could simply change in front of him. See what his reaction would be.

She shook her head violently. “Absolutely not.”

Now both Telly and Rainewood were looking at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Going to another room would generate all sorts of suspicion as to her mental stability. Arguing was their forte, but not something that she cared to do for hours in front of her maid—the one person who knew that she could see ghosts and accepted it. She needed Telly on her side too badly.

Which left…

Abigail strode over to the wardrobe door and opened it, stepping behind to hide her mostly from view. “I’m ready.”

Rainewood snorted.

Telly looked unsure, but walked over and lifted her dress to position it so she could get to the buttons. The other layers briefly lifted too.

“I can see your ankles, Smart. And a good deal of your legs. Still have knobby knees, I see.”

She could feel the sweat tickling her hairline and the heat pool in her face as Telly lifted the outer layer. “Do shut up, Rainewood.” At least he couldn’t see more.

She was jerked to the side as Telly suddenly yanked the outer layer over Abigail’s neck, covering her face and catching her ear. Within the cocoon of the confining material, Abigail quickly tried to yank back—knowing without a doubt that she was completely free of the door’s protection. Underthings exposed to Rainewood’s gaze.

The garment became further stuck. Abigail shut her eyes as they began a tug of war trying to get her free.

“Telly!”

The layer pulled free and Abigail dove behind the door, but not before she caught a glimpse of dark eyes.

“Forgive me, miss! I am clumsy tonight.” Telly’s hands anxiously wrung the hem as her face appeared to the side.

Abigail shut her eyes. It was a nightmare. Plainly and simply a nightmare that had invaded her waking hours.

She usually ignored spirits when changing. For they usually ignored her. And after her first episode of watching the spirit of an innkeeper during an overnight in Bristol tup no less than four ghostly women, Abigail’s modesty around the dead had never quite been the same.

Really, spirits were a lusty lot. Reliving things they had enjoyed, or wished they had enjoyed, in life.

She swallowed at the memory and told herself firmly that Rainewood was no different. He was not real. Not in the true sense.

But that couldn’t stop her from feeling completely naked in his presence as her maid unbuttoned and then stripped one piece of clothing and then another from her in what had to be the longest changing session in history. She never realized how blasted long it took to change. Each button, each tie, each fastening, one layer after another slipping from her and then being handled and put away before Telly moved on to the next.

She had no idea what Rainewood was doing or thinking behind the door. She expected more verbal mocking at the very least. Perhaps he had simply fallen asleep in boredom. If spirits slept. She had never thought to inquire.

But the thought that he might be staring at her nearly unclothed ankles instead…staring at any peek of skin around the door…staring in a way that meant a man admired a woman…She had always wondered what it would be like to see a man look at her in that way.

Not that she needed
Rainewood
to do it.

Something inside her mocked her own stupidity.

Her maid’s slow but efficient motions in helping her undress meant that she touched Abigail as little as possible. It was designed that way, for unlike her mother who didn’t touch Abigail for specific reasons, her maid couldn’t bear to touch someone she felt was too worthy and revered to paw.

Gift? No. Nothing about her life was giftlike.

Finally she was down to her shift. Nearly naked. She hastily grabbed her nightgown from Telly and shrugged into it, getting bunched at her shoulders and hopping to the side just long enough to produce a deep chuckle from the direction of the bed. She righted herself and kept her chin firmly set.

“Miss, would you like some warmed milk after you read?” Telly still looked as if she was pacifying a spooked horse.

“Yes, that would be wonderful.”

A bobbed head and softly closed door left her alone with one too attractive dead man and one crazy dead aunt who was still chattering to herself in the corner about the merits of Martin’s cha blend versus Gates’s hardy leaves.

A quick look at Rainewood showed that he seemed much more relaxed. As if he too continued to think this was some strange dream and had therefore lost his prior urgency.

“Why can I lie on the bed, walk on the floors, yet in Grayton House I fell through walls?” Rainewood poked a finger at the wall. It disappeared through the surface. He quickly pulled it back, then ran a hand over the coverlet.

“The more time you are a ghost, the more you will recognize this reality as your own. You will no longer fall through things unless you mean to. You will feel their”—she waved her hands—“energy, I suppose. Or you will convince yourself that you do. I know not. I know only what I have observed.”

“I have always wondered about your imaginings. Since this is my dream, I might as well inquire.”

“It’s not a dream, Rainewood.”

“Mmmmhmmm.” Dark eyes observed her beneath his perfect fringe. “So why do you only know what you have observed? Haven’t other imaginary dead people told you how your fantasies work?”

“You’re an ass, Rainewood.” But she said it without heat.

There was a strange calmness to the exchange. They hadn’t had a rational conversation in a long time. It spoke to the suspicion that he might truly think the whole thing unreal.

She cocked her head, deciding to keep the keel even. “There are few that interact with me in this way, actually. Usually the spirits are much more self-contained and absorbed.” She thought of another spirit who had spoken to her in the way that Rainewood was able, but she held back from saying anything more. It would shatter any peace in the room.

“I think you just complimented me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He pulled a finger along the coverlet and just watched her with his dark eyes.

She hesitated, letting the comfortable silence stretch for a moment more. “I’m going to give you some well-meaning advice.” She bit her lip. “Let go.”

He raised a brow and his hand. “I’m not holding on.”

“No, let go of any belief that you are still alive.”

“I have to agree with that erstwhile suitor of yours—Farnswourth, was it?—quite morbid of you, Smart. I think I prefer to think myself alive, thank you.”

“The more you let yourself go, the more your imprint will collect and the happier you will be. Some hang on very tightly if they have left something undone, but they eventually let go and disappear when their mission is complete. Quite happily let go, might I add.”

“How lovely for them.”

She frowned. “You don’t believe me.”

“You don’t think?”

She balled her fists but gamely continued. “Is there anything that you feel has been left undone?”

He looked into the air and ticked off his fingers. “There is a bill in Parliament, a horse to buy at the derby, and my favorite boots require a shine.”

“Amusing.”

“I like to think so.” He spread his arms. “It is why everyone loves me.”

“I think not.”

“Oh, Smart, you have been dying for my regard for decades.”

“Seeing as I only possess two, I think you overestimate.”

“Never.” He rose and began poking around her room. “Now, what shall we do until I wake? I will even be pleasant to you for once.”

“Lovely.” She tapped an annoyed finger and walked to the bed. “Do what you wish. I’m going to sleep.”

“You aren’t going to try and convince me that I’m really dead?”

“You are really dead.”

“Smart, you aren’t very entertaining tonight. If I’m dead, then what happened to my body, oh all-knowing one?”

“It’s lying somewhere,” she said, as she tucked her feet under the covers. “Probably in some brothel.”

“I take back the comment on the quality of your entertainment.”

But then…why wouldn’t he be haunting the brothel?

Unease sifted through her. That she could be forever stuck with an imprint of Rainewood unnerved her—especially since if it were true, some of his true being would soon fade away.

“What ails you, Smart?”

“Nothing.” But she said it too quickly.

“Tell me.”

Those that lingered left an indelible imprint, even if it turned into a false one with time. She shoved the thought away.

“Nothing. Your memories will slip away soon. They will just be a bothersome reminder.”

He turned suddenly and pinned her with his eyes. “How did you know my memories were being affected?”

Her breath caught. “They are?”

He stared at her a moment more, then shook his head. “A dream. Of course you would know more than you should.”

She pulled the covers into place. “Even dead, you tax my patience.”

His eyes narrowed. “Just wait until I discover how to make this dream bend to me, Smart. I will have you unclothed and begging on the floor in front of me.”

She thought that he just might be trying to accomplish such a thing too with the way he was concentrating. The image of her on her knees in front of him brought forth scalding cheeks.

“I hardly think you will be thinking of me, Raine wood.” She put her chin up. “Soon you will get to enjoy all that you want to remember best. Those memories will arrange themselves to you. Allow you to relive your favorite things.” She waved a hand, trying to project ambivalence. “Taunting people, wenching, making others miserable.”

“Oh, believe me, Smart.” He smiled slowly and slid into a chair, propping up his feet. “If there is one person that I’d haunt after death, it would be you.”

V
alerian tapped a soundless finger against the four-poster pole behind his head and stretched his legs on the bed. He watched her sleep—even breaths lifting her chest, then softly falling.

He had never encountered a nightmare that had lasted this long. Or at least, upon waking his dreams had never seemed quite this lengthy or detailed or painful. And there were just too many things that were normal—that weren’t out of the ordinary. Why would his brain have conjured up this state?

And whatever cursed state he was in, why were parts of it so dreadfully
dull
? He had been simply sitting, tapping, and watching her sleep for
hours
.

Well, perhaps parts of it hadn’t been dull, but he was unused to being idle.

Needing no sleep would have been far more useful before being hit in the head and losing two entire days of life. He grasped the thought before it could sieve away into the dreamscape. He had been attacked. By whom? He gripped and tried to keep hold of the slippery tendril of thought.

Abigail’s presence seemed to make his memories stick, but as soon as she left him or he left her, his thoughts would slowly start to shift and fall like sand sifting through a disengaged lump in the throat of an hourglass.

He had walked around her house for a while after she had fallen asleep, but the need to return to her had plagued him the entire time.

He remembered Templing falling behind him. Remembered pain as he turned to help. Were their bodies lying in a gutter somewhere blissfully unaware? Who had attacked them? Footpads? Or something worse?

And why couldn’t he wake?

He soundlessly tapped harder.

A soft sigh fluttered the brim of Abigail’s lace nightcap and one naked finger curled around the equally girlish coverlet—not a style that he would have associated with her. Another queer invention that he had dreamed up obviously.

There was something rather insulated about the way her four-poster drapes drew together in a protective embrace. The rest of her furniture was rather cold and stark, but the bed presented a cocooned safe haven.

He had never thought her to have girlish tendencies. She usually eschewed pinks and other pastels unless they were at the height of fashion—something even Abigail Smart could not deny.

But here in her cocoon, a strangely softer side was on display. Not the girl who climbed trees or raced the boys. Nor the woman who shredded foes with her sharp tongue. In repose she was all feminine and demure. He narrowed his eyes, recalling her in her state of undress last night—or at least the last night in his dream—smooth, silky skin, teasing breasts pressed against her shift, narrow waist, and long, slim legs. He found this new side fascinating. Good thing it was all in his head. As it was, long ago he had made a pact with himself to cease thinking of her in such terms.

The gray beams of early morning illuminated the cracks between the fabric panels. He concentrated on making his finger tap an audible sound against the four-poster pole. Nothing.

She had said he needed to accept this reality as his own. He could do that. It was his reality
for now
. Not permanently. A grim thought. And of everything his mind could conjure, having Abigail Smart as his dream guide seemed insanely normal. His brain would completely trick him like that.

Tap. Nothing.
This was his reality
. He concentrated. Tap. A small ping of sound emerged and he smiled. Tap, tap, tap.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to make an even more annoying spirit.” She groaned and turned over, her cap going askew in a rather endearing manner, her hair tousled. There had always been something rather fey and fetching about her despite the thorns. The kind of a damsel that men, who were far more chivalrous than he, loved to save.

He tapped harder.

She groaned again and buried her head into her pillow. “Can’t you haunt someone else?”

“No. You are by far at the top of my list.”

“You are such a cur.”

“Did you know you curl your lip in a brainless way when you blow the hair from your face?” He took her silence as assent instead of the sleep-addled fog that was more likely. “Besides, I need your help. I want out of this dream and you seem to be able to trick my mind into doing what you want.”

The idea of requiring her assistance irritated him and he gave the poster pole a bang with his fist instead. The resounding thwack was darkly pleasing.

She startled, her cap falling to the side where it drooped disconsolately, then struggled upright with one hand behind her, and clutched the sheet to her chin. “You are still here.”

He gave her a patronizing look. “Obviously.”

“And you remember me.”

“Hard to forget.” He frowned.

She chewed her lip. “Surprising.”

“You are surprised that I remember you?” He raised a brow. “While I find you irritating, that is not a characteristic that would lead me to forget you.”

“I thought it some mad dream.” She played with the lace at the edge of the clutched coverlet, obviously paying his words no mind. He frowned again.

“It is. And you fell right to sleep without a second thought for my well-being. I am sure that requires no interpretation.”

But that wasn’t true. He knew she had stayed awake long after crawling under the covers, ignoring him. Had heard small, uneven breaths from behind the drapes and wondered at them as he’d paced around the room trying to wake from his nightmare.

And the darkened circles under her eyes spoke to the way she had tossed and turned until he had settled on her bed to watch her and brood. She’d fallen into a deep sleep then.

“I can’t believe it.”

“Me neither. I can’t recall a nightmare more dull than sitting for hours with nothing to do.”

Watching her lips curl as she dreamed. Hearing her soft breaths. Thinking about things better left to the past.

Nothing good could come of an admission that she had been truthful so long ago. Not only would it mean he had made a major mistake, it would also mean he really
was
dead.

“Is it leftover spark? Or
are
you on a quest?” She looked at him, examining him from his feet stretched out near her seated hips to his head propped against the pole. “What quest though?”

“To wake up again and have this all be an unfortunate nightmare.” He gave her a dark look, which she ignored.

“How are your thoughts? Your memories?”

He watched her for a second, unnerved by the question. “My memory is…hazy,” he reluctantly admitted.

“As I said last night, it should become easier to forget.”

His hands turned cold. “Forgetting should
not
be easier!”

“Soon you will forget even me,” she said, a falsely bright smile on her face.

“That’s not possible. I simply need to wake from this madness. But even in a dream, who watches someone else sleep for that long?” he asked somewhat absently.

Abigail inhaled sharply. The admission caused a strange feeling to surge inside her.

“The tea is hot and the scones are perfect,” a fluttering voice said from the corner of the room. “Come have a sip and let me tell you about Mabel.”

“Yes, Aunt Effie,” Abigail said automatically, as Effie would chatter about Mabel no matter what response she gave. Abigail was too concerned with watching Rainewood—
who was lounging on her bed.

Rainewood frowned. “What?”

“I was just answering.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“I wasn’t answering you.”

He stared at her. “Who were you answering?”

“Great Aunt Effie.” She pulled back the hanging and pointed to the bright tea set in the corner. When he continued to look blank she stared back. “You mean you can’t see her?”

He looked to the corner, his expression uneasy.

She peered at him, trying to decipher this new puzzle as the morning shadows filtered through the slits in the bed hangings and flickered across his face. “I thought you would be able to see the others, since you are in my reality.”

The two spirits from her past who had been somewhat like Rainewood had seen the others.

“This isn’t your reality, it’s mine. And there’s no one there,” he said tightly.

She blinked and looked at Aunt Effie who hoisted her tea cup and continued to chatter.

“There’s no one there, Smart,” he repeated, his voice dark.

She didn’t like the implications in his tone. She gave him a pointed look. “Were I to question Telly, she would say there is no one else on the bed either.”

He watched her for a long moment, his face unreadable. “I can’t wake.”

She held his eyes for an equally long moment. “I know.”

“I’m not
dead
though. I’m in danger of some kind. I need to wake.”

She didn’t know how to respond.

“I’m not dead. This is a dream. You lied.”

She knew he wasn’t referring to anything said the previous night. She stiffened at the dart to the past.

“I remember leaving a hell and being attacked. Perhaps if I go there, it will cause me to wake.”

Really, the term donkey had been too kind.

He looked her in the eye. “Perhaps if I go there, it will cause me to wake.”

“Then go,” she said woodenly.

He looked back at Effie’s corner, the edges of his mouth tight. “Don’t you want to accompany me?”

“Heavens no. Why would I, a liar like me? And even if I wanted to, as a
lady
I could hardly do so, as you so often remind—
reminded
—me.” The thing with darts was that they could always be thrown back.

Dark eyes pierced her. “Well, now things are different. Get dressed so we can go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t follow orders from you.” She punched her pillow, making it more comfortable behind her back. “And ladies don’t walk or drive around the parts of town you frequent.
Frequented
.”

“That wouldn’t stop you. You are pretending to possess far too much sense.”

“And you are far too ready to ruin my reputation. As usual.”

His face changed from irritation to dark amusement. “I don’t think that is physically possible at the moment.” He leaned forward and brushed a tingling finger through her arm. “Why can’t I touch you? It’s my dream—or nightmare—I should be able to ravish you.”

She stared at him, the tingles and words leaving her heart still.

“If I
chose
,” he said narrowly, obviously reading something in her face. What sort of dark cloud had she been born beneath to have this man toy with her endlessly, even in death.

She sat still, clutching the covers, unable to answer.

He looked away. “Fine. You need to come because I can’t seem to leave the house without you.”

She continued to stare at him.

“I tried last night.” He picked at the coverlet, his fingers going through the cloth. “Nothing I did worked.”

“Well,” she threw back the covers. “That sounds more in the vein of what other spirits say and what you always said as well. Self-indulgent ass.” The sudden fury pressed up her throat. But why should she get upset at what always just was?

“I—”

She ignored him and yanked the cord for Telly. “Don’t trouble yourself with a response. I understand perfectly. But I’m not going to a gaming hell, so you’ll have to discover a way to attach yourself to someone else.”

Telly bustled in. As she changed behind the wardrobe door and readied for the day, Abigail tried to pretend it was just Telly and Effie in the room with her.

She left Rainewood stewing on the bed and ate the breakfast Telly had brought while trying to concentrate on planning how to make the best impression on Mr. Sourting. Luckily it didn’t take too much thought. If there was one thing spirits had taught her, it was how to listen and ask questions. People liked to hear themselves talk.

She touched the waist of her dress. It would be nice to have someone listen to her for a change. Truly listen. Telly tried, but the separation between them socially and the worship that Telly insisted upon made it difficult, and in the end there was little difference between talking to someone who would never dare argue as to talking with someone who didn’t care to reply.

Mrs. Browning interrupted her increasingly sulky thoughts, striding into the room precisely fifteen minutes before their appointment with Mr. Sourting. Her mother breezed in behind the starchy woman. Hands on hips, Mrs. Browning inspected Abigail from head to toe. Used to such treatment, Abigail simply stood still.

“I thought that sending a note to decline our visit with the Winstons would give you time to actually look presentable for Mr. Sourting. I see that I have denied myself another delightful visit in an effort to help you.”

Abigail didn’t think this was entirely true, since either Mrs. Browning or her mother would have sent a note to Mrs. Winston saying Abigail expected two suitors today. To a marriage-minded mama and chief rival, the news was far richer than a visit would be—the tease for which all mart-driven women strove. Assuredly Mrs. Browning was anticipating the
next
visit to the Winstons far more than she would have enjoyed the canceled visit today.

“Your hair.” Her mother pressed a hand right over Abigail’s forehead for a split second—the gesture too short to appreciate. “Will it never lie flat? And I told you to add the berry juice to enhance the mousy brown.” She fingered her own blondish brown curls—a much more attractive shade then the color Abigail had inherited from her father. “Really Abigail, I thought you said you were using it.”

“What a pair of shrews,” a caustic voice from the corner contributed.

Her eyes went wide at the comment before she remembered that neither woman could hear Rainewood.

“And this dress—did you really think it the best choice?” Mrs. Browning’s lips puckered as if she’d tasted something terrible.