Seduction Becomes Her (16 page)

D
aphne had been positive that she’d not sleep a wink that night, but to her surprise, the moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep. She woke the next morning to a gray, pouting day, the worst of the storm having blown itself out during the night, but the sky was still leaden, rain falling steadily and the occasional puff of wind whispering around the house, a weak reminder of last night’s powerful gusts.

As she bathed and prepared to face the day, Daphne considered the previous night’s events. There had not been much conversation, or any point to it, she thought grimly, after Mrs. Darby had identified the crucifix as once being owned by Sir Wesley. Even though she knew what she had seen last night, Daphne had hoped that in the cold morning light, she’d be able to convince herself that she had overreacted, but such was not the case. She might not yet have a clue about the misty little apparition who had awakened her in her bedroom weeks ago, but if she believed anything, she believed that last night, she had seen the ghostly manifestation of Sir Wesley. And only his crucifix, blessed by the Pope, saved us from God knew what evil, she admitted uneasily.

If there was a beneficial aspect to the event, it was that Charles and Mrs. Darby had seen and felt the same things she had. Obviously, she wasn’t going mad or imagining things, and until that moment, aware of the relief that swept through her, she hadn’t known how heavily that idea had preyed upon her mind. Of course, she reminded herself glumly, she had replaced being mad with being haunted by the disagreeable ghost of Sir Wesley.

And Charles? What did he think? Daphne frowned. He hadn’t shied away from the notion that they’d seen a ghost last night. But how would he react if she told him about her little ghost? After Sir Wesley, the crying visitor she’d seen in her bedroom seemed harmless and tame. Might Charles think she had imagined her?

Daphne froze. Now when had she begun to think of that misty shape in her bedroom as her? She didn’t know, she only knew that it felt right. She was convinced that whatever had come to visit her that first time had been feminine. Was it, perhaps, the crying that made her think that? Or the smallness of the thing? The lack of a threat? Again, she didn’t know, she was only certain that the odd manifestation she’d seen in this room was definitely female.

A sound, half amused, half despairing broke from her, and she dropped her head in her hands. Did she really believe that Beaumont Place was home to not one, but two ghosts? Sir Wesley, and she had no trouble in believing that black, horrible mass they had seen last night had been him…or rather, his ghost, and the unhappy, little female spirit who had appeared in her bedroom? And the wailing that Adrian and April had heard, what of that? Was it coming from the female apparition or something else? That it originated from Sir Wesley, she instantly dismissed. He was far more likely to have been the cause of the sobbing than the one doing it. She raised her head, her gaze narrowing. Was it possible? Could there be a connection between her ghost and Sir Wesley?

Realizing that continuing to dwell on the subject would accomplish little, she rose up from her dressing table. After a brief look in the cheval glass to assure herself that she looked normal and not half crazed, she twitched the skirts of her pale pink muslin gown into place and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. If only she could shut out ideas about ghosts as easily, she thought wryly, walking down the broad, curving staircase.

She was one of the last to arrive in the morning room, and after helping herself at the sideboard to some country ham and a small bowl of sliced strawberries fresh from their own greenhouses, some toast and coffee, she joined the others at the table.

“How do you think she did it, Daffy?” demanded Adrian the moment she sat down. His blue eyes very bright and alert, he waited for her answer.

“Mirrors, perhaps?” she offered indifferently. Adrian might believe it all a clever trick. Daphne knew differently, but she wasn’t about to disabuse her brother of the notion that he’d seen some spectacular sleight of hand.

He considered that possibility for a moment before shaking his head. “No. Someone else would have had to help her.” He frowned. “Hmmm, I wonder if this estrangement between Mrs. Darby and Goodson isn’t all hum, and they’re in it together?”

Daphne nearly choked on her coffee. Looking at Adrian, she asked, “But why would Goodson be willing to help her?”

Adrian appeared to have second thoughts. “I hadn’t considered that. There’s no reason for Goodson to help her. What about Mrs. Hutton?”

Charles, who had been studying Daphne’s face, curious as to why she had been so determined to hear Mrs. Darby’s ghost stories in the first place, inquired lightly, “The same question applies, why? In fact, why would any of the servants want to help her?” He smiled. “Have you been such a harsh taskmaster that all the servants are in a league against you, determined to drive you out of Beaumont Place?”

“I think the opposite is true,” said Daphne, a glimmer of a smile in her fine eyes. “Adrian is probably the most easygoing master they have ever served. I doubt they would want to replace him.”

“Mayhap, it isn’t that they don’t like us,” April said from the opposite side of the table from Daphne, “but that there is a hidden treasure within the house, and they need us to leave so they can look for it.”

“I say, April, that’s a jolly good idea,” exclaimed Adrian, much struck by his sister’s reasoning.

“According to Mr. Vinton, the house sat empty for months—they could have searched it to their heart’s content,” argued Daphne. “Besides, we’ve been living here for months already, why would they suddenly need us gone?”

Adrian and April looked crestfallen. “I suppose you’re right,” said Adrian, regret in his voice. “But if Mrs. Darby didn’t have help, I wonder how she managed the trick?”

Charles raised his brows. “Why, witchcraft, of course.”

Eyes big and round, April said, “Oh, do you really think so? How very exciting! I’d forgotten that Mrs. Darby is a witch. That explains everything.”

Adrian didn’t look convinced, but Daphne hastily changed the subject, asking if he still intended to take April to the vicar’s house this morning to visit with the vicar’s daughter, Rebecca. The conversation veered on to more practical matters, and the subject of ghosts and last night’s occurrence was dropped.

But not likely forgotten, Daphne thought, as she and Charles waved her siblings good-bye from the front steps a short time later. April was bound to pour out the story to her bosom friend, Rebecca, and she didn’t doubt that Adrian wouldn’t waste a moment telling the vicar’s two sons, Quentin and Maximillan, the whole tale—with much embellishment if she knew her brother. By nightfall, the account, made more colorful and terrifying by each telling, would have spread for miles around. She sighed. She didn’t look forward to the next few days and the calls by inquisitive neighbors.

Echoing her thought, Charles said, “I suspect that you’re going to have company shortly. And the first to call will be the vicar and his wife, wishing to know the true facts.” Accompanying her back into the house, he asked, “What are you going to tell them?”

Avoiding the blue salon, Daphne walked into the more formal cream and gold parlor at the front of the house. As they entered the room and Charles shut the door behind them, her pulse gave a little jump. She wasn’t, she realized, entirely at ease alone with Charles, uneasy about the emotions that churned in her breast, fearful, yet longing, for him to take her into his arms again and kiss her as he had in Mr. Vinton’s office. She risked a glance at him, wondering what there was about him that made her act so unnaturally, like a wanton creature with no care but physical pleasure. Growing up in the military, she had met many men in her life, but none affected her as did Mr. Weston. She grimaced. She was simply always too aware of him as
male,
she admitted unhappily, too conscious of those broad shoulders beneath his coat of blue superfine, far, far too aware of his long, muscular legs revealed by the form-fitting breeches he wore. A delicious shudder went through her as she remembered what it felt like to have that lean body crushed against hers. To her horror, her nipples swelled, and a honeyed ache throbbed in the lower regions of her body. Forcing her thoughts away from the dangerous path that they seemed determined to wander, she struggled to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Standing in front of the gold-veined marble fireplace, the warmth of the small fire that burned there casting out the chill of the day, she faced him, hoping he did not guess the turmoil inside of her.

He stopped just a few feet from her and repeated his question. “So? What are you going to tell the vicar and the others?”

“The truth,” she said. A challenge in her gaze, she added, “I will tell them that Mrs. Darby put on the most amazing show of magic that we had ever seen. It was quite breathtaking and worthy of anything we had ever seen in London.”

“And is Mrs. Darby going to say the same?” Charles asked, suspicious about Daphne’s interest in the occult. What he had seen last night had been astounding, but he still had trouble convincing himself that he had seen a ghost. But while he wasn’t entirely easy about it, Charles knew that he had, indeed, seen some sort of ghostly manifestation…and he didn’t believe in bloody spirits! If he did, he thought grimly, he’d have been haunted these past few years by the ugly shade of his not-so-beloved stepmother and please don’t forget, dear half brother Raoul. No, if anyone had had to deal with vengeful spirits, he would have been the lucky fellow. Yet, he’d admit, that he’d seen the ghost of wicked Sir Wesley last night, or something doing a damn good imitation. What troubled him most about the whole peculiar affair, however, was Daphne’s involvement in it. She was the one who had contacted Mrs. Darby. Why?

Charles could not shake the feeling that Daphne knew more than she was telling anyone. She might claim listening to ancestral legends was more exciting than dry-as-dust family accounts, but he suspected that she had an express purpose for seeking out Mrs. Darby and for wanting to hear what most people would dismiss as bedtime stories to entertain children. Had she known what would happen? Had she been expecting such a spectacular occurrence? He didn’t think so. Unless he missed his guess, she had been surprised as anyone by the apparition, yet he had the feeling that she hadn’t been
as
surprised. Whatever his bride-to-be was up to, it was obvious that she wasn’t ready to show her hand right now, and he found himself irritated by her reticence. He was going to be her husband, for God’s sake! Didn’t he have a right to know?

When Daphne remained silent, Charles said with an edge to his voice, “It isn’t a difficult question, my dear. Is Mrs. Darby going to say the same thing?”

Daphne shrugged, wishing he’d leave the subject alone. “I don’t know. I suppose so. If you remember, it wasn’t something we discussed last night. And according to Mrs. Hutton, Mrs. Darby left at first light, so I didn’t have a chance to speak with her this morning.”

“What about Goodson or Mrs. Hutton? Did you find out how much they know about what happened?”

“Good heavens, no!”

Charles looked thoughtful. “I’m sure that Adrian and April were not as circumspect as we have been and that several members of the household have heard some version of what happened last night by now, including Goodson and Mrs. Hutton, even if they have not said anything to you.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll wager a pretty penny that Miss Ketty wasted no time in letting Goodson know about his sister’s reprehensible antics and commiserating with him on the cross he has to bear for having such a disreputable relative.”

“I fear you are right, and since she is spending the morning with Mrs. Hutton going over which rooms are in need of refurbishing before the guests for our wedding start arriving, I am sure she will talk of little else.” She hesitated, her breath catching at the idea that in a few weeks, he would be her husband with command over her body, her very life, in fact. It was terrifying and equally exciting, but she was anxious about every facet of their coming union. She thought she trusted his word not to separate her from April and Adrian or to treat them badly. Certainly, he had done nothing since their betrothal to make her think ill of him. He had been most agreeable, undeniably charming, but he was still an unknown quality, and she knew that cruelty sometimes wore a handsome face…

She didn’t want to dwell on that fact, and forcing her mind onto the subject at hand, she said, “At least Ketty believes it was a magic show so that is what she will have told Goodson and the others. And Goodson is not likely to disabuse her of that notion. I feel the same is true of Mrs. Hutton, whatever they may think privately.”

Charles was only half listening. His attention on Daphne herself and not what she was saying, he thought that she looked very pretty as she stood by the fire. Her gleaming black hair was caught up in a pink and green plaid ribbon, her cheeks delicately flushed, and the high waist of her muslin gown, adorned with a matching plaid ribbon tied in a charming bow just beneath her breasts, drew the eye to her firm little bosom. At least, it drew Charles’s eye, and he could not look away. His gaze riveted on those gently curved mounds, and ghosts and other such mundane thoughts vanished from his mind. All he could think of was apples…tart, delicious apples. He could taste their sweetness in his mouth, feel their firmness on his tongue, and between his legs, a certain portion of his body sprang to attention.

He wanted, he realized, most desperately to kiss her and feel her slender body molded to his, and he was appalled at the calculated thoughts that shifted swiftly through his brain. Adrian and April were gone for most of the day. Miss Ketty was upstairs busy with Mrs. Hutton. Goodson would not intrude unless someone came to call, and no callers were expected. The likelihood of any interruption was so remote that it didn’t bother consideration. They were alone. The door was shut—he’d shut it himself…with seduction in mind?

Furious with himself, he tore his gaze away from those tempting little breasts, fighting his baser instincts, but instincts far stronger and a great deal more base and ruthless than he had ever thought possible controlled him. He swore under his breath even as he moved toward her. He knew he was acting like a randy satyr, but he could
not
stop himself from reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. She gave a startled squeak, and then his mouth closed over hers, and except for the crackle of the fire, there was no sound in the room for several seconds.