An Unlikely Match

Prologue

England, 1805

It isn’t every day an impoverished young gentleman inherits a sizable fortune and an estate. Nickolas Pritchard, not only impoverished and young but a gentleman as well, felt his luck acutely the day just such a remarkable inheritance fell upon him. A roof over his head, even if that roof had the unfortunate tendency to be in Wales, was more than he could have claimed only days before word of the demise of his extremely wealthy, extremely childless, extremely distant cousin had reached him in the London rooms he would have been able to occupy only a few more days, that being when the next quarter’s rent was due.

He’d worn black, as the occasion had warranted. He had even attempted to appear somber as his wildest dreams became reality. The solicitor had informed him in a decidedly Welsh accent that he now possessed a fortune amounting to very nearly £10,000 per annum and a home and estate belonging to the Prichard family for more than four hundred years. Nickolas’s branch of the family had altered the spelling of their surname during the previous century, something the solicitor assured Nickolas could be overlooked, if not entirely forgiven.

So Nickolas had signed the documents required of him, maintaining an appropriately grave countenance, and had climbed into his newly acquired traveling carriage, destined for the wilds of Wales.

“One thing more I am instructed to tell you,” the solicitor had said before the carriage pulled away. “The late Mr. Prichard wished me to inform you, at the last possible moment, that the house you have inherited, though sound in every other way, is, I fear, quite inarguably haunted.”

That pronouncement had entertained Nickolas to no end during his journey to his new home.
Quite inarguably haunted.
He had absolutely no worries on that score. As such things as specters existed only in literature and the minds of the easily deluded, he traveled to Tŷ Mynydd, his new home, without the least expectation of finding the place swarming with ghosts.

In one respect, Nickolas was entirely correct. Tŷ Mynydd was not, in fact,
swarming
with ghosts. The house and grounds had only one. And that one, as history or any of his new neighbors could have told him, was plenty.

Chapter One

Radnorshire, Wales—September 1805

Only after more than a dozen staff members had offered an obviously begrudging “
croeso
” in his general direction did Nickolas begin to suspect he was not, in fact, being gravely insulted. It was, he decided, some form of greeting. When he said “
croeso
” to the housekeeper, she looked so very monumentally shocked, he wondered for a moment if he had misinterpreted the mysterious word. Indeed, Mrs. Baines’s silver eyebrows shot so high on her forehead they nearly disappeared beneath her starched cap.

“And to you, Mr. Pritchard,” she replied with a lingering aura of all-encompassing surprise. “But when did you learn to say such a thing?”

“I will confess here and now, Mrs. Baines, I haven’t the slightest idea what I have just said to you.” Nickolas very nearly chuckled at himself. “I have heard that word from every person I have met since my arrival and made the rather broad assumption that it was some form of greeting. Was I wrong to think so?”

Mrs. Baines narrowed her eyes, though she didn’t look upset or offended. “In the future, Mr. Pritchard, it’d be best not to make so many guesses. Otherwise you may find yourself offending every person you encounter.”

It was a rather informal speech from a woman whose employment was not entirely secure, there being a new master of Tŷ Mynydd. Nickolas, however, found he liked her approach very much. She would tell him what was what without feeling the need to sugarcoat anything.

“Do you plan to tell me what it is I have only just said to you, or shall I continue on in my ignorance?” Nickolas smiled at her. His smile had won him an extra slice of bread or an extra helping of stew at any number of inns as he had traveled from one friend’s house to another. He’d subsisted on house parties and dinner invitations for years, not caring that he was often invited simply to even the numbers at dinner. An invitation often meant the difference between going to bed quite satisfied or very hungry.

Those days—he smiled to himself—were now in the past.
He
would be a desirable addition to any hostess’s guest list. He had income enough to tempt all but the highest-reaching matchmaking mothers. Perhaps even enough—he very nearly sighed out loud—for Mrs. Castleton. For the young Miss Castleton, she of the ebony hair and dark-brown eyes, had caught Nickolas’s attention at the beginning of the Season. He’d thought many times in the six months since he’d first laid eyes on the dark-haired beauty that it was a deuced shame he hadn’t two shillings to rub together.

“Welcome.” Mrs. Baines’s voice broke into his thoughts. “
Croeso
is Welsh. It means ‘welcome.’”

“And what does
Tŷ Mynydd
mean?”

“Roughly, it means ‘house on the mountain,’ though you’re saying it wrong.”

“Am I?”

“
Muh-nith
.
Tee
Muh-nith
.” Mrs. Baines sounded each syllable slowly, pronouncing it precisely.

He tried to copy. Mrs. Baines’s expression could have soured a lemon.

“I was that horrible, was I?”

“Welsh is not for the faint of heart,” Mrs. Baines responded.

“Do many around here speak Welsh?”

“Only those worth talking to.”

Nickolas laughed quite heartily at that. “So the question is, do I attempt to learn Welsh myself and risk offending all and sundry with my inevitable butchering of the language? Or do I relegate myself to the ranks of those not ‘worth talking to’?”

“
Are
you worth talking to?” She studied him as if attempting to discern the answer.

It was an impertinence most would not tolerate in a servant. Nickolas enjoyed it immensely. “I certainly hope I am and that my neighbors will agree and accept me to the neighborhood.”

“’Tis not your neighbors’ approval you should be concerned with,” Mrs. Baines said. “Only
her
approval matters.” She spoke almost reverently of this person who seemed to require nothing more than a pronoun to identify her.

“
Her
?” Nickolas pressed, intrigued. Mrs. Baines hadn’t struck him as one mysterious by nature. He opened his eyes wide, the way he always did when urging the many gossipers of the
ton
to spill their tales. It worked once more.

“Gwenllian ferch Cadoc ap Richard of Y Castell,” Mrs. Baines answered.

Nickolas raised an eyebrow in appreciation, both of that indiscernible name and of Mrs. Baines’s ability to say the entire thing without pausing to catch her breath.

“Let us hope the lady has a nickname,” Nickolas muttered.

“She is known as Gwen,” Mrs. Baines said. “And
her
approval of you, sir, is essential to your future here. If
she
does not approve, your life at Tŷ Mynydd will be an endless misery.”

A local dragon, then? He would have to do his utmost to butter the old lady up. During his years of poverty—which would be nearly all of his twenty-five years—he had learned a thing or two about charming his way into the good graces of even the most fearsome of society matrons.

“And when can I expect to make the acquaintance of . . .” He opted not to attempt her name, not being sure he had the required several hours such an undertaking would involve. “. . . of Gwen?”

“You will meet her when she chooses to make herself known.” Mrs. Baines nodded with crisp finality. “You have met the staff, sir. If you wish, I can show you to the master’s chambers, and you can rest before dinner.”

“That would be delightful, Mrs. Baines.”

“Very good, Mr. Pritchard.”

He was, moments later, deposited in his chambers and left to the ministrations of his newly acquired valet. The man made short work of assisting Nickolas from his fashionably snug jacket and laying out an appropriate selection from Nickolas’s still-unfamiliar wardrobe—he had obtained a new set of togs with the first of his inheritance—before leaving his new employer to soak in the luxury of a hot bath.

Nickolas’s new home was not at all what he had expected. He’d imagined a structure not unlike those of his friends’ homes: extremely English and formal. Tŷ Mynydd sat buried in lush, wild greenery amidst rolling hills. He couldn’t quite bring himself to call the surrounding landscape mountains, not after visiting the north country, where mountains were indeed mountains. The house itself was cobbled together, not belonging to any particular style of architecture but borrowing from every one imaginable, and a few not quite imaginable. He’d spied a single tower not far from the home, all that remained of what appeared to have once been a fortified castle.

What would his old friends think of his new home? What would the divine Miss Castleton think? Nickolas smiled to himself. Surely her parents could not object to him now.

The Season had come to its inevitable close several months earlier. September in Town, he knew quite well, was very nearly devoid of society. An invitation for a month-long house party would most likely be welcome amongst his associates, filling quite nicely the time remaining before the Little Season reached its height. And it was about time he returned the favor after having sponged off of his share of society for so long. The Castletons would most likely accept. They were already aware, he was certain, of his own preference for Miss Castleton. They might, now that he had the means of supporting a wife, give more consideration to his suit.

He was dried and dressed long before dinner was due to be served and decided to embark on an unguided tour of his home. One could discover far more interesting things without being confined to the formality of being shown about.