The door closed with a thump, causing Mallory to nearly leap from the settee, a splash of tea spilling over the rim of her cup, marring her cream glove. The liquid should have scalded her skin, even with the protective layer of fabric, but the droplets were only room temperature.

How long had she, her aunt, and Lord Lichfield sat in the Tetbery receiving room?

Glancing at the window, the dark blue drapes pinned back to allow light into the room, Mallory noted the sun had progressed high into the sky. The day was clear and would be unseasonably warm. Why were icy-cold tendrils of dread racing through her?

Lord Lichfield was naught more than a stranger, a man her father had selected for her, without so much as meeting him if she’d heard the earl correctly.

She had no ties to him. She owed him nothing. In turn, he was not indebted to her.

It should not matter what her visions showed for his future.

“My child,” her aunt said, taking the cup from her tight grasp. “What is it? What did you see?”

Mallory swallowed. How could she tell anyone—even her most dear aunt—she’d lose her intended, likely before they were even wed?

Her vision had shown a winter-kissed garden with a moon glowing from above, lighting the blossomless shrubbery sufficiently enough for Mallory to take in the scene.

A shiver coursed down her spine, and her aunt leaned into her line of sight that was still focused on the window.

“I have an awful pounding in my head.” Shaking off her aunt’s hold, Mallory stood, struggling to keep the room from blurring about her. “I think I will retire to rest. The journey from Blenheim Park must have me more exhausted than I’d realized. Do give my best to Felicity if you see her.”

“You do not look well—“

Mallory forced a weak smile. “I promise it is only my head. A spot of rest will have me feeling much improved.”

Neither woman believed Mallory’s lie, and to be honest, she wasn’t concerned with disappointing her aunt. If anyone knew the hardships of their gift, it was Aunt Hettie. For many years, Mallory had watched her aunt fight through her visions and seek refuge in her solitary existence. She could not deny her niece the same recourse, especially if she were to keep her gifts hidden from her betrothed.

In that moment, Mallory realized that Aunt Hettie’s fate, and the loneliness it brought, was not something she hoped to live with in her own life.

“I will attend you at supper.” Her voice did not crack on the words. “We can speak of Lord Lichfield at that time.”

“You worry me, my child.” The woman’s brow knitted as she stared up from under her heavily hooded lids, attempting to straighten her stooped back. “Tell me what you saw, and I can—“

“I saw nothing…of import,” she added to assuage the guilt that surged at her continued deceit. “Until our meal.”

Mallory leaned down, placing a quick kiss to her aunt’s plump cheek before she fled the room. She kept her pace sedate and even until she reached the main stairs. The front door was firmly shut, Lord Lichfield gone and the butler disappeared to parts unknown, freeing Mallory to expel a bit of her apprehension as she took the steps two at a time until she was racing down the deserted hall to her assigned room.

The door closed without a sound.

The click of the latch falling into place seemed to open Mallory’s airways, blessedly allowing her to draw in a deep breath. Concentrating on the rise and fall of her chest, constricted by her corset and tight bodice, Mallory’s heart slowed its frantic pace. Her headache receded, and she clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides.

She hadn’t been affected by a vision in this manner since she’d seen her father’s end in a particularly vivid revelation when she was but eight years old. The startling occurrence had rocked Mallory to her soul. No child should see their parent perish, even if only in a vision. Though the same could be said for a father learning of his impending death from his offspring.

That was the day her brother, Adam, had labeled Mallory a curse, a hex, and a blemish on her family. A lump formed in her throat at the memory. It was the day she’d been sent to Blenheim Park, separated from her father, mum, and brother, to live with her addlebrained Aunt Hettie.

However, as it turned out, Aunt Hettie was far from senseless. For if she were crazy, that meant Mallory was also afflicted with the crux of insanity.

Mallory did not feel dull or senseless.

In fact, her visions were usually clear and precise.

All too vivid and accurate for her family’s liking.

Her breathing returned to normal at last, and she moved to the window thinking to push it open and allow in a cool breeze. Perhaps it would also clear her mind and give her some idea of what was expected of her. Rarely did she keep her visions to herself when they so evidently impacted another.

But death…that was not an omen she easily shared.

She’d only been presented with such life-changing visions on two previous occasions: her father’s death, and that of Felicity’s guardian, the countess. She’d spoken of it to her father and had been sent away. Mallory had been wise enough to keep her knowledge of the countess’s sudden passing from Felicity, and she’d felt immeasurable guilt since. Felicity, had she known the end was near, could have taken better advantage of her time, perhaps planned for her future in a more sensible manner.

It was not Mallory’s choice to keep her vision from Felicity, but the countess’s. She’d been right, though. Her dear friend was burdened by many deaths in her life, and the countess hadn’t seen the need to speak of it to her ward.

Aunt Hettie had agreed, and Mallory had promised to remain silent on the matter.

That had been during their visit the year before.

Mallory sighed and released the cord holding her window shut and the winter cold out. The sky was as it had been earlier, without a cloud. The trees in the distance swayed from the wind coming off the ocean. In the distance, Castle Keyvnor stood high and proud along the cliffs, ancient, mysterious, but also, in an odd way, welcoming. Could it be the ghosts—and other less human entities—drawing her to them? Did her special gifts align her with others of her kind?

Perhaps Aunt Hettie and her companionship was not enough to soothe her ragged soul.

Male voices drifted up to her second-floor window, and Mallory leaned forward, expecting to see the Tetbery Estate’s groundskeeper or a groom, but she quickly leaned back inside when she glimpsed Lord Lichfield below. Inching out to peer over the window ledge again, Mallory saw he spoke with the duke. Both appeared at ease, as if they’d met before and conversed about something, but their voices were not loud enough for her to discern what they spoke of.

It was not impossible Lord Lichfield was acquainted with the Duke of Wycliffe.

England wasn’t an overly large country, as it were, and London could be downright stifling with people, or so Aunt Hettie had proclaimed numerous times over the years.

She watched as both men chuckled, Lichfield throwing his head back, allowing his mirth to travel up to Mallory above. She couldn’t help but think her betrothed was not one quick to laughter. When their chuckles halted, Lichfield ran his hand through his wayward, onyx curls. She wondered if his hair would be of silky softness or coarse to her touch.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought of running her fingers through a man’s hair—that it was her soon-to-be husband only caused her pulse to race once more. Mallory was uncertain what she’d expected to happen when they met. Seeing his death was as startling as the realization that she found him pleasing to the eye. Had she ever thought a man handsome before?

Perhaps, there had been a groom or footman at Blenheim Park she’d fancied herself smitten with, but rarely did she make the acquaintance of a proper lord.

The Duke of Wycliffe was a decent enough man, yet she hadn’t imagined her fingers in his light brown hair.

The sound of horse hooves signaled that Lord Lichfield’s mount had been brought round, and he would soon depart for the castle and his family.

Mallory risked being spotted as she moved ever closer to peer down at the men.

With the swiftness of a man used to horsemanship, Lord Lichfield mounted his horse and waved farewell to the duke.

However, instead of going toward the castle, he maneuvered his horse in the opposite direction. But that could not be. He’d stood before her and claimed he needed to return to the castle.

Mallory glanced back in the direction of the sea cliffs as unease settled over her.

Why had he lied about his intended destination?

They were not wed, only betrothed.

Until they joined as husband and wife, the earl had little need to share anything of his daily comings and goings with her. In fact, even after they wed, it was not her business to question him on such matters. As her father was wont to say, men—lords especially—were challenged with duties and responsibilities mere females could not possibly understand.

Certainly, Mallory did not believe a word of it.

She stood at the window and kept her focus trained on Lord Lichfield as he rode at a leisurely pace away from Tetbery Estate.

Her mother, the marchioness, might be resigned to such old-fashioned ways of thinking, but Mallory was not.

The earl had lied to her. Looked her directly in the eye and told a falsehood. But to what end?

Was this the stepping-stone to what would eventually cause his downfall?

Her aunt was correct: Mallory had no obligation to inform Lord Lichfield about her vision; however, she did have a duty to keep the man alive, at least until after they’d wed. If she remained unwed, the prophecy of her aunt’s vision would be undeniable.

Mallory would forever more remain a spinster.

No home to call hers.

No family of her own.

Forever at her brother’s mercy.

Without another thought, she collected her cloak from the wardrobe and rushed from her room, down the servant’s stairs, and out the back door by the kitchens to the stables beyond. Blessed was she that her dear friends, Felicity and Tressa, had spent so many years showing her ways to get around Tetbery without being noticed. Even if her aunt or a servant caught her, Mallory had no intention of slowing down.

She needed to follow Lord Lichfield and discover exactly why he’d lied to her…and what else he hid from her.

She crossed the garden quickly, the early-afternoon wind catching her curls and pulling them out behind her as she ran. By the time she reached the stables—and the warmth within—she’d slipped her arms into her cloak and was fastening the buttons.

“Lady Mallory,” a young stable hand stuttered, obviously taken aback by her appearance. “M’lady, what can I do ye for?”

“I need a horse.”

The boy only stood, gawking at her as if she’d asked for an elephant to be readied.

“You do have a horse I can ride, do you not?” she prodded. “Miss Felicity told me—”

At the mention of his mistress, the lad jumped into action. “O’course. Where ye be need’n ta go?”

“I thought I’d see about purchasing a Christmastide gift for my mother,” Mallory said. Not a complete fib as she’d thought to stop in one of the larger towns on the way to her family estate to collect a few gifts for her family. “I know the village is near, but I rarely visited town during my stays in Bocka Morrow.”

“It be that way, m’lady.” He nodded in the direction Lord Lichfield had ridden. It was just as Mallory guessed. “’Bout a ten-minute ride, it be. I can prepare the carriage for ye.”

“No, that is not necessary.” And would garner far more attention than Mallory wanted. Her aunt would not allow her to follow Lord Lichfield. “Just a horse will do.”

If the stable hand had any qualms about sending a lady into the Cornwall countryside—alone—he did not speak of it. Mallory silently thanked Felicity and Tressa for their independent ways as the servants were likely used to women going about unchaperoned.

In quick order, a light brown mare was led into the main room of the stables, and a block set down to assist her onto the sidesaddle. Again, she counted her blessings that Aunt Hettie approved of women on horseback. She was proficient atop a horse and would have little trouble making it to town. She need only catch up to the earl.

Losing sight of him during his ride would only make matters difficult.

Properly mounted, Mallory turned to the stable hand below.

“Sir.” She smiled, hoping her charms would be enough.

“Yes, m’lady?” he asked readily.

“I won’t be gone long. If you’d be so kind as to keep mention of my departure to yourself, I would be ever so grateful.” When the lad’s stare darkened in question, she continued, “You see, I am going to town to buy a gift for my aunt, as well, and I desperately wish to surprise her.”

“I see,” he whispered back as if they shared a grand secret. “I won’t be breath’n so much as a word ta no one, m’lady.”

“Very good,” she said, taking the reins from him. “I shall return as quickly as possible.”

The lad nodded, and Mallory nudged at the mare, pulling at the reins until they were out of the stables and starting across the meadow—not toward the castle but the seaside town of Bocka Morrow.