“Wherein … an invitation to Longwold.”

December 6th, 1817

St Nicholas Day

 

Viscount DeMorte

Damerel House

Gloucestershire

 

My dear friend,

I am to be your neighbour!

There is no need for despair, however, it is only for a few days, I assure you. By some stroke of good fortune (or misfortune, depending on your point of view), Belle has secured an invitation for us to attend the Marquess of Winterbourne’s Christmas house party.

I know that this news will vex you as your cousin is clearly not a man you hold any affection for, if what I read in the scandal sheets is to be believed? Are you really so very wicked as they imply? I wish you would tell me one day. You know by now that I do not believe you mad, though I strongly suspect you would not return the compliment to me, and perhaps you are correct after all.

I honestly don’t know.

Shall we meet at last this year, as your estate is so close by? I intend to ride out and trespass if I get the opportunity, you know. Pray, don’t shoot me!

I shall ask, as I do every Christmas, that you reward my steadfast friendship by replying to this letter. Just one little reply would mean a great deal to me. However, after almost eight years of silence, I know you shan’t; strangely, not even to demand I stop writing (yes, I am smiling a little smugly here), so don’t imagine I shall be nursing a broken heart all the holiday, for I won’t. No. I shall be having a grand time, providing I can escape the deadly dull parties (I know you would feel the same about it) and filling my time ghost-hunting. Such a place as Longwold must be stuffed to the rafters with them, surely?

Are there ghosts at Damerel? I shall discover it for myself one day, you know.

Your friend, etc.

Miss Lucretia Holbrook

***

"How impressive it is!" Crecy exclaimed, her excitement mounting as the huge, sprawling castle appeared. A frail sunlight sparkled upon the frosty landscape, a fine mist hugging the ground and bringing to mind every Gothic novel she’d ever read. "I wonder how many ghosts there are."

Her older sister Belle sent her an indulgent look and shook her head. Try as she might, Belle never could understand any of the things that held Crecy’s interest, but at least she didn’t revile her for them as most people did. Crecy tried to remember that she must do her best to hold her tongue this time. Belle needed a husband, and this was their best opportunity. If she married well, they could escape their dreadful aunt and be comfortable. She could only pray that Belle actually fell in love with a good man who would realise her worth.

"I wonder how much a man like the marquess is worth?" the very same dreadful aunt muttered.

Crecy glanced at Belle and saw her own horrified expression reflected at her. Oh God, if only they didn’t need a chaperone. She stifled a snort of indignation. The idea that Aunt Grimble would keep them on a righteous path and far from sin was laughable. The first wealthy man to offer them a carte blanche, and she well knew the woman would be crowing with delight and urging them to take it.

Not that the idea of it was as troublesome to Crecy as it perhaps ought to have been. She knew well enough that Viscount DeMorte would never marry, after all.

It was strange, how her childish offer of friendship, which had been rejected at every turn, had grown into something far more serious, on her part at least. She had followed news of him as far as she was able, devouring the scandal sheets for any titbit of information. This had become easier once they’d moved in with Aunt Grimble after their father’s death. The woman lived and breathed scandal, and for that reason alone, Crecy found she could bear with the wretched woman without throwing things. Aunt Grimble seemed to know everyone in the ton, and all of their dark secrets, and no one had darker secrets than Lord Gabriel Greyston, Viscount DeMorte.

Crecy had caught glimpses of him from time to time when he was in town, and in recent years her feelings had become more complex. Her offer of friendship to a creature she sensed was as lonely and misunderstood as she had been genuine, and she had held to it. She sent him letters once a month only, despite wishing to do so more often, for she lived in dread of boring him, and she sent him a birthday present every year on the eighteenth of April. She knew that this was wholly inappropriate and dreadfully scandalous, but didn’t much care. She never bought the gifts, after all, only ever sending such oddities that appealed to her own curiosity, and occasionally a small drawing or painting if she did something that she felt would not shame her scant talents.

In a strange way, he had become a kind of confidant, even though he had never once responded and she knew not if he even read her letters, or if he threw them unopened on the fire as he’d promised. Nevertheless, he was someone to whom she only ever spoke the complete truth, and did not attempt to hide the quirks of her own nature. Whether or not this had given him a disgust of her, she had no way of knowing, but her instincts told her it had not. She hoped he was at least a little curious about her.

She was indeed a curious creature, after all, and one where she felt always out of step and strange amongst others. Not for the first time, she wished she’d been born a man, though that would have made her increasingly complex feelings towards DeMorte even more awkward. Crecy smothered a chuckle, pretending to cough as Belle gave her a curious look.

“You’ve not caught a chill?” Belle asked, her eyes filled with concern.

Crecy shook her head and assured her sister she was quite well as the imposing façade of the castle drew closer. If she had been a man, she could have travelled, she could have become an animal doctor or a scientist. No one would have thought her strange or morbid for wanting to draw a decomposing squirrel, or thought her fascination at the complex structure of bone and skin and sinew, anything out of the ordinary. As it was, they did, and she lived in dread of the next moment she would open her mouth and see her sister’s horrified expression as it dawned on her too late that she’d been utterly inappropriate.

Again.

Crecy sighed and banished such thoughts. Longwold drew ever closer and was every bit as rambling and forbidding as she had dreamed. The days of inconsequential chatter to come might be something of a horror to endure, but to search the castle’s secrets and ghosts, and to ride out and set foot on Lord DeMorte’s estate, perhaps even to see and speak with him … that was a temptation which she had every intention of yielding to.

***

Crecy scowled at the snow beneath her feet. It was so startling in its pristine, bright purity as the winter sun gleamed down on it that her eyes watered. She looked up, focusing instead on a vivid blue sky and the glowering walls of the castle. Belle marched behind her, struggling to keep up.

It was no surprise that Crecy was in disgrace, again. Though it had been foolish to walk alone with Lord Lancaster, she knew that, really. Only she was bored to tears, and the idea of going out and discovering the snake skeleton he’d promised to show her was too great an incentive. Not only that, but the idea that he seemed to share her curiosity for it was tantalising. Now she could see that it had been nothing but a ruse to get her alone and kiss her - which he had, much to her disgust. She’d had the satisfaction of pushing him so hard he’d fallen in the snow, at least, and thank heaven Belle had arrived. Yet the disappointment lingered. Not only that, but Belle wouldn’t even let her take the skeleton back with her, so it had been a complete waste of her time. It had been a beautiful thing, too, so perfect and delicate that she had been afraid to touch it, but even Belle had grimaced and shuddered. Belle, who tried so hard to understand her strange and vexing sister.

Crecy sighed with remorse. If only she could be an ordinary kind of woman, then Belle wouldn’t worry for her so. Belle had enough to worry about with her own situation without Crecy making it worse for her. She determined two things as she walked: firstly, she would try much harder not to embarrass her poor sister and give her cause to worry, and secondly, if it killed her, she would find an opportunity to ride out alone and get at least to the borders of Damerel.

If there was some disparity between these two vows, Crecy refused to see it.

She was so lost in thought that at first she didn’t notice the towering figure of a man striding towards his waiting carriage. She glanced at the glossy black carriage and its equally sleek horses; four proud, black creatures, tossing their haughty heads with impatience. The heraldic device on the door was in white, gold, blue, and sable, and Crecy’s heart leapt.

The coat of arms was unmistakable: two black crows, shot through the neck with an arrow.

Her head snapped around, and for the first time since that day by the river, she met the cool, blue eyes of Viscount DeMorte.

Crecy’s breath snagged in her throat and she froze under the power of his gaze, simply staring back at him, unblinking. His hair was every bit as black as she remembered, still unfashionably long and tied back with a black ribbon in the style of the past century. His brows were hard and uncompromising as they drew together, obviously taken aback by her audacity in looking at him so directly. She knew he would tower over her, though he still stood some distance away, and the sheer size of him made something inside her quiver with a thrill of desire. It was hot and molten and threatened to consume her from the inside out.

He stopped, too, returning her frank gaze with one of his own.

He was perhaps not a handsome man in the conventional sense, at least. His features were too harsh; his eyes, though a stunning and deep, deep blue, were cold and forbidding, but, oh my, Crecy thought as her mouth grew dry … he was magnificent.

She was vaguely aware of Belle hurrying to her side and clutching at her arm, but Crecy was too lost in the viscount’s spell to look away.

“Hello,” she said, her voice low and breathless and far, far too intimate.

Those dark brows drew further together, and although his expression was harsh and contemptuous, she saw curiosity in his eyes.

“You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” he said, his voice full of disdain.

Belle tugged at her arm, pulling her forcibly towards the castle doors. “Forgive us, sir,” she said, whilst giving Crecy a sharp pinch that made her gasp. “We did not mean to disturb you.”

Crecy moved away, knowing she could not acknowledge who she was to him, not in front of Belle, but she turned her head nonetheless, wanting to drink in the sight of him for as long as she could. He returned her gaze, watching her with an intensity in his dark eyes that made her heart beat hard and fast, crashing against her ribcage like a butterfly at a windowpane.

He turned as they entered the castle, getting into his carriage and driving away, but Crecy had seen him. She had looked into his eyes and seen everything that she had dreamed of and longed for. Passion and danger and a soul so dark and wounded that it would take everything she had to mend him, and still she might fail. He was everything she should fear and run from, and yet all she felt was exhilaration. Viscount DeMorte was the only man who had ever provoked such heady feelings within her, and she would not let them rest unheard.

***

By the time Gabriel reached Damerel House, the snow was falling again. He shrugged off his coat, handing it to his butler, Piper, as he brushed icy, white flakes from his black hair. Striding through the darkening hall of the great house, he made his way into the sanctuary of his study. No one disturbed him here, ever. Not if they knew what was good for them. Here, a fire was burning, the lamps lit, and he moved to the decanter and poured a small measure, smiling to himself. For one to whom the world believed lost in dissipation and vice, he drank very little. The idea of losing himself in drink was abhorrent to him, not least because of the lack of control. For Gabriel controlled everything with an iron will, and if his grasp slipped, he feared what remained of his sanity might crumble.

No, as tempting as it might be to be able to lose himself in a bottle, what followed as his control slipped and the ghosts forced past the walls he built … it was not worth the risk. As it was, he was finding it harder to keep them at bay, to keep him at bay.

He shuddered, a clammy feeling prickling over his skin. Pull yourself together, he commanded, you’re not some snot-nosed child, afraid of the dark. Taking a deep breath, he sat behind his desk, sipping at his drink, savouring the quality and the warmth of the fine liquor, and resisted the urge to pour another.

Fighting the desire for a drink, he reached instead for the paperweight that held some recent documents in place. It was smooth with wear, a natural stone, but strangely shaped, like a wolf howling, head raised to the moon. He rubbed his thumb over the length of the stone throat, a familiar and somewhat soothing gesture as his brows drew together. His visit to Edward had been amusing, if nothing else. Though he doubted his father would see it that way. He should have ended this long since, but he’d been too weak to strike the final blow that would have won him everything he’d been tasked with gaining. Accusing him of being pitiful and useless, an embarrassment to their ancient name, his father’s voice echoed in his ears, though the man was long dead.

No different than in life, at least.

For a short time, Gabriel had been Marquess of Winterbourne, Earl of Clarendon, and a half dozen lesser titles, too … just as his father had commanded him to be. For a brief and blissful period, the voices had begun to die down, the only one remaining pushing him to take the final step and marry Edward’s sister.

To complete the destruction of his father’s hated brother’s line.

He had hesitated at that. Beautiful she may, be but she held no appeal to him; his skin crawled at the idea of her innocence. Bedding a virgin was not something he craved, taking a wife, less so, especially one that looked upon him as if he was a monster. Not that he believed her wrong, nor cared that she thought it. It was true and he accepted it, relished it in some ways. However, the desire to let the line end with him was a tangible one. The idea gave his soul some measure of peace, but only briefly.

His breath caught as skeletal fingers grasped his wrists. Gabriel closed his eyes as the memory came back to him, as cold and unforgiving as his father screaming in his face, giving him his instructions, to be followed to the letter or his sire swore he would haunt him until he found his own grave. He jolted, as he always did, as the remembered sound of the gunshot exploded in his mind, the bullet tearing through his father’s brain and covering his only son in gore as the man took his own life before his eyes.

The empty glass slipped from Gabriel’s fingers, clattering onto the desk as his breathing became harsh and uneven. Get a grip, you bloody fool, he cursed, clutching at the edges of the desk. Think of something else, he ordered, sending his erratic thoughts into free fall until they snagged upon the young woman outside the castle.

He’d never seen anything like her before, he thought, as his breathing began to steady. There had been something in her eyes that had seemed to call out to him, a look of such wanting that he had been startled into silence. He’d been desired before; there were those who relished his brand of cruelty, after all, and the danger he brought to their dull lives. But never before had he received a look of such wanton desire from one who was so obviously an innocent. What the devil was the girl playing at? Her companion had been aware of the danger she courted, hurrying her from him as fast as she was able. The remembered terror in the older woman’s eyes made him chuckle.

She, at least, had the right of it.