The Thirteenth Earl (3 page)

Thaxton advanced on her, a bit too hostile, judging from the way she shrank back. “Are you wailing in this room like a wraith?”

“Lower your voice, my lord,” she whispered with a slight sarcastic emphasis on “lord” that aggravated him further. “No, I was not. But I gather you heard it as well.”

“I have not heard it since being in the same room with you.”

After having reprimanded him for volume, she laughed loudly.

“You cannot be serious. You think I was making that noise?”

“Clearly,” he said, studying her. He moved closer on instinct, more effortlessly than he had before. “Now I am just wondering why.”

She scrunched her nose. “You are drunk.”

“More often than not.” He shrugged.

“I did not make that noise, Lord Thaxton. I came down here to search for it. I am sober, unlike you, and I know I heard a woman howling. Not a woman.” She paused for effect. “A ghost.”

He could not help but cringe at the word, hoping the darkness masked his expression. It was a constant reminder of what society thought he was: a walking dead man haunting their streets. The whispers about his family had been going on for years. Surely Miss Seton had heard them already, or the countess had told her. Jonathan Vane and his father, the mad earl, hiding in plain sight. The ton had a hundred theories regarding their fate and situation.

“You believe in ghosts?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Miss Seton said. “I suppose I do not discount them.”

She certainly looked enough like an apparition. The blue of the room’s furnishings bounced off the color in her eyes, making them flash like ice. Her hair fell in loose, glossy curls meandering down her back. Thaxton had failed to realize she was in a nightgown. Now that he had, a stab of desire entered him, uninvited.

It cut straight through his haze. As opposed to the structured dress she’d worn during the day, the gauzy confection she wore now suggested her curves, falling over them. All it would take would be one good grip on the hem and he could . . .

“Lord Thaxton.” Miss Seton had her hand on her hip. He refocused his eyes to find her blushing most charmingly. “I asked if you had ever heard anything like that before. The noise.”

Damn.
He shook himself internally. He should have thought to bed a woman before leaving London—his urges were going to run wild in a secluded estate filled with women. Or, were he to be honest, this particular woman.

“Not a noise like that,” he said. “I spent the majority of my childhood in this house, and I have heard many unexplained noises here—but never that. It sounded like crying. Mourning. Did it not?”

“Exactly that. I was worried that someone was in danger.”

“Yet the house is still.”

“Quite.”

For some reason, that particular alchemy of words stole the rest from the both of them. Thaxton noted that hunger touched the edges of her cool gaze, even as he felt it heat the air around him. She closed the distance between them hazily, as if she were half-asleep.

“We were imagining things,” he said, finding that he was peering down on her vexing face, far too close. She had very long eyelashes, a fringe he wanted to touch with his lips. He took a shallow breath, because a deeper one would cause their bodies to collide. “We should go to bed.”

Her eyes widened. He had not meant to say it like an invitation, but it had come out that way.

“Separately,” he clarified.

She did not respond, for some reason. He shifted, wondering if he should look away. For an illogical moment, he thought she was waiting for him to kiss her. But that could not be; it was not within the realm of possibility for him.

“Miss Seton?” he whispered.

She tilted her head to the side and smiled. Though it was dim, he could see her looking at his lips. He was not imagining things.

“Oh, hell.”

The brandy pumping through his veins made the foolhardy act of pulling her into his arms easy. But next she would slap him and it would be over—surely that would be the outcome.

“I will admit, I know what you are thinking,” he said, idly running a hand down her cheek to test her reaction. “Kissing you is a terrible idea. A wonderful and terrible idea. My favorite kind.”

Was she ever going to talk? He ran a thumb over her bottom lip, trying to tease out a response. If she kept gazing as she was, all dreamy-eyed and hot, he would have no choice but to—

Thaxton was absolved of completing the thought when she took his face in her hands and did what he had been waffling about.

Chapter Two

Cassandra could not wait any longer. The more he talked, the more he made excuses for something they both wanted. She pulled his face down to hers, her fingers running through his scratchy beard. After all, it was just a kiss, she reasoned.

Except when they entwined.

Thaxton’s arms curled around her back, the heavy wool of his coat scraping the flimsy fabric of her nightgown. As much as he had been talking, he had also been thinking about an embrace, judging from the way he clutched her. He did indeed taste like brandy, but what was bitter in the glass was sweet on his soft lips.

Mistake,
she thought frantically.
This is a mistake.
It felt nothing like a lark, nothing like a last flight of fancy before she started her life as Mrs. Miles Markwick. She wanted to take it back, but his hand was on her head, fingers weaved in her hair, holding her fast. The only sound in the entire universe was his exhale.

“Miss Seton,” he said, his mouth now behind her earlobe, his hair tickling her cheek, “you are so lovely. I wish it were not so.”

She could not think of a reply, not through the shivers overtaking her.

Thaxton resumed kissing her without further comment. She tried to match him but found that the force of it had stolen her senses. None among Amberson, Miles, or the random footman had been so assertive in his amours. During those encounters, she mostly wondered if she was doing it wrong, fumbling.

Not with Thaxton—she could not think at all. She was all too aware of her body as he guided the embrace by winding a hand through the back of her hair. Just then, she felt his tongue teasing the crease of her lips. She pushed back on his chest, resistant to the new feeling, but not committed enough to shove.

He released her, standing back. He looked more unkempt than before, as if that were possible, and Cassandra realized that she had been ravaging him equal to his mauling of her.

“Most peculiar,” he said into the silence.

“Forgive me,” she said, unsure where the apology came from.

“Never.” He smiled. “I will never forgive you.”

“Then you must forget.”

“Again, no.” He looked down, the remains of that smile on his face, even as they both returned to their senses. “But I do understand. Go to sleep, my dear Miss Seton. When you awake tomorrow, your prince will have arrived.”

It took Cassandra a moment to realize he was talking about Miles. Took her a moment to remember that Miles was a person who existed. Guilt bloomed in the pit of her stomach.

“Our secret,” he said, reading her face. “It meant nothing.”

She nodded. “Nothing.” Nothing, except she was still vibrating a little. “There is no more wailing . . .”

“Perhaps the ghost does not like kissing.”

She gave a nervous laugh, and he leaned forward to squeeze her hand.

“I know I cannot see you to your room, but I will be behind you, be assured. Once you are safely returned, the moment you close your door, this will have never happened. Consider it a dream, complete with unexplained phenomena.”

“Thank you,” she said with gratitude.

“Go,” he said. “Go.”

Cassandra laid a final kiss against his cheek, but she felt him shrink away too soon. He was very good at cutting off, a skill she envied. She kept jumping at every noise on the walk back to her room, not so much due to fear of ghosts but to a creeping guilt at sneaking around at night and getting kissed by strangers. The estate was dead quiet, one torch burning low in the entrance hall. Though she could not hear or see Lord Thaxton, she felt him there, twenty steps or more behind, a trailing impression.

She stopped in front of her chamber door, his words ringing in her ears. She didn’t want to think it was a dream. She didn’t want to forget it. She wanted to know more. She turned around to see Thaxton lurking at the corner, his legs crossed as leaned again against the wall, waiting for her to be safely in her room. He raised a finger to shush her and then nodded to the door, telling her to go in.

She touched a hand to her lips and then turned it toward him. His mouth quirked up, and he mimed catching the kiss she had thrown. Then he gave three little flicks of his hand, a “move along” gesture. She returned them with one last smile before turning away.

By the time Cassandra closed the door, she knew she was not in love with Miles.

She slept poorly, with questions running through her mind. Though she did wake a few times and listen before falling back asleep, she heard no more wailing. Perhaps Thaxton was right and the ghost did not like scandalous behavior. Cassandra’s cheeks burned when she thought of it. Before she knew it, dawn streamed in through the windows. She was just opening her eyes when Lady Dorset breezed in, fully dressed and wide-awake. Today her hair formed a bluish confection, wobbling slightly with her every word.

“He’s here!” she said, upbeat. “The servants are bringing Miles’s luggage in at this very moment. He immediately asked how you fare. What a good sign!”

Cassandra rubbed her eyes. The first man on her mind when she awoke had been the viscount. There was no way she was letting Lady Dorset know that.

“Now remember, Cassandra. You have been groomed for this all of your life. Being a wife is the greatest adventure a woman can have.”

Cassandra pulled herself up in bed.

“I had rather hoped it would be more like finding a fellow adventurer.”

Lady Dorset was rooting through the bottles on Cassandra’s vanity. She picked up the perfume, smelled it, and wrinkled her nose.

“I do not know what you mean by that, nor do I wish to.” She glanced over at the bed with censure. “Get up, Cassandra. We haven’t time to dally.”

The marchioness threw a robe at her.

“Your friend the countess has been so kind as to arrange a private breakfast for you and Mr. Markwick, which is a great opportunity to entrance his eye. You have been apart a great while; you must look your best. You have already slept late.

It was true. Cassandra had sent her lady’s maid away twice. She was tired—her heart hammered into the silent room for at least an hour after Thaxton kissed her. It was difficult to sleep like that.

She smiled through her teeth at Lady Dorset. “Would you mind vacating so that I may dress?”

“Twenty minutes,” she snapped. “Do not keep Miles waiting.”

Almost as soon as Lady Dorset left, Eliza came in. Cassandra sagged a bit in relief at the thought of her friend’s honesty. She had likely been up for hours already, in a cashmere day costume with a pointed bodice, feathers from a bird of paradise placed artfully in her bun.

“Have you seen Miles yet? Is he handsome?” Cassandra asked. It was a shame that she had no idea.

“You will think he is. He has a face like a fox.”

“Is he happy?”

Eliza sat down on the edge of the bed, nudging aside one of the canopy curtains. “Are you?”

Cassandra’s maid entered, arranging her toiletries with a more frantic hand than usual. She supposed she should feel like a proper bride, brimming with excitement.

“I am . . . not unhappy.”

Eliza perched on the edge of the bed.

“I understand that this is challenging. How long ago had he written?”

“Last week . . . the abrupt announcement that he was returning. But before that, it had been three months. At first, his letters were so romantic. Describing the countryside and how we might travel it together, how he longed for me, visions of our future together. Positively lyrical. And yet in the past two years, he seemed to send the same letter—
‘Thank you for waiting for me. I promise I am securing our future. I miss you so.’
Perfunctory, like I had turned into an obligation. Does that sound like the behavior of a man who truly missed me?”

“Give him a chance to woo you again, dear,” Eliza said, patting her hand. “I have a light breakfast for you and Miles, while the rest of the party is entertained in the garden. I thought it best that we have the morning alone without the interference of Lady Dorset.”

“I have always thought you were brilliant.” Cassandra smiled, stretching into the robe with a yawn. “I am so tired, Eliza. Your house is haunted.”

“The groans? It is an old estate, and the winds are high in these hills. You will be used to it within a few days.”

“No, dear. It is definitely a ghost.”

And the Ghost, himself, but Eliza needn’t know about that.

“Oh, Cassie. Come now. There are no such things. I admit, the house makes noises at night, but it is not spirits. Just a normal house, creaking as it sleeps.”

“That is not what it sounds like. It sounds like a woman, crying, grieving. It is awful, and I cannot believe you did not hear it.”

Cassandra sat straight, stretching her back, as the lady’s maid started brushing her hair. She studied herself in the mirror, wondering if she was as attractive as she had been the last time Miles had seen her. Older, to be sure, but not much changed. If he thought her beautiful before, he still would. She hoped.

“Well then, my dove,” Eliza said, standing and smoothing her skirts, “I shall see you downstairs in twenty minutes. Your beau awaits.”

“Yes,” she replied vaguely. “Thank you, Eliza.”

All too soon, she was descending the stairs. At the bottom, Miles stood with his arms behind his back. His neck craned as he saw her slippers. His black hair swooped across his forehead, almost covering one of his dark-brown eyes. At the moment, they radiated warmth. It calmed Cassandra’s heart a bit when their gazes met—he looked sincerely happy to see her. His smile sent hopefulness in her direction. But what had he been doing in Scotland? All that time?

As she got closer, she felt a wave of anger propel her forward. He had left her adrift for nine years, while people talked behind her back. As if he had no idea how vicious society could be. She often felt alone at all the balls she was invited to, knowing that as soon as she left a conversation, there was a person whispering about poor Miss Seton and how embarrassing it must be to be abandoned by your betrothed.

He held out both of his hands as she reached him, and she put hers in them because it was what was expected. She watched his eyes as he bent over to kiss her fingers. He had done this on the balcony at her debutante ball, whispering that she was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. He had the same look in his eyes now, and it sent a bolt of hope through her—the thought that they could not only repair things but also be happy.

“Cassandra,” he said. “I have imagined this very moment for so long.”

“Hello, Mr. Markwick,” she said, hoping she affected a light tone. Cassandra had played this moment over in her mind a hundred times. Sometimes she welcomed him with open arms, grateful to finally see him; sometimes she slapped him. She wanted to do both now that the time had come.

“I do think you should call me Miles. You used to.”

“Yes. Miles.”

“Are you not happy to see me?” he asked, looking perplexed.

“Of course I am,” she said with what she hoped was a serviceable smile. But behind Miles, she could see through into the breakfast parlor, where Thaxton was serenely biting into toast. He was not supposed to be there.

Eliza had said it was private. The viscount had shaved, was neat as a pin, and she was lost. She wrenched her eyes back to Miles, who now regarded her with wariness.

“You do not seem it,” he said. “And I cannot blame you. I am the worst man in the world for leaving such a beautiful flower behind.”

Cassandra knew that this proclamation should have made her heart thump, or whatever happened when one’s paramour paid a compliment. It should have given her hope. In the parlor, Thaxton had moved on to a plate of sausage.

She put her arm through Miles’s. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

He could not believe his good fortune, until he saw Miss Seton coming down the stairs into the arms of Miles Markwick. Thaxton felt sorry for a fleeting moment, before he let a grin break on his face. Inadvertently plundering their reunion meal provided him with more than just a nice repast. Miss Seton had seen him, and the look on her face gave a pretty reward. Though he knew he would never have her, he had awoken with a mighty urge to impress the woman.

Miles swung the parlor door all the way open, as he always did with doors, making it crash against the wall with a careless bounce. The oaf.

“Thaxton,” he said, startled. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

He stood, dropping a small bow of his head, directed at Cassandra, not Miles.

“Eating. The morning’s food in the other room was gone. The countess has thoughtfully provided a second set, it seems.” He popped another piece of the toast in his mouth and raised his eyebrows playfully. “Good morning, Miss Seton.”

“Good morning, Lord Thaxton.”

She was flushed. The pleasure filling his veins was worth all the poking and prodding from Spencer’s uncompromising valet. And even better, Miles’s expression had turned over into ugly, barely concealed anger.

“I see you have met my cousin,” he said tightly. “I assure you he is not a good representation of the rest of my family.”

“Welcome home, Miles,” Thaxton said, as he sank into the seat that was meant for Markwick. He helped himself to the eggs and sausage, finding that sobriety and satisfaction boosted his appetite. “Do keep your temper. There is a lady present.”