I left Manly to his butler and bed. It was still early. The party had moved from the dining room to the salon. Muted sounds of laughter and conversation floated up the stairs. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts. I needed a drink and the company of anyone who'd talk to me, anything to distract me.

At night, the castle halls and stairs were only dimly lit. Most of the walls were still bare stone in a nod to its medieval roots. The entire lighting system needed an upgrade. Shadows crouched in corners and spread long, extending the darkness. It was easy to feel as if eyes watched you. The paintings of Manly's ancestors did nothing to quell the feeling. I hurried along.

As I came down the stairs, I couldn't help imagining the walk I'd make down them tomorrow to marry a man I didn't love and who wasn't supposed to love me. That was the agreement and had been from the beginning—affection, politeness, gentleness, and friendship. Partners, nothing more.

During our short long-distance negotiations, he'd kept his feelings hidden well. Now a cocktail of emotions welled in me, not the least of which was guilt. How could I live with a man who loved me the way he professed he did? Even though I had some affection for him, I was unsettled by it. And how fair was that to him? A bride shouldn't go to her wedding wishing her groom would die. Although, to be fair, that wasn't precisely what I wanted. I wasn't cruel or evil, but nor did I want a long, protracted life together.

Since my thoughts wouldn't obey, I tried to compose my face. I needed the practice if I was going to fool the crowd tomorrow. Pretending to be in love with Manly was part of the game. I looked to the spot marked for Manly to stand during the ceremony. Directly above hung a portrait of him painted when he was in his early forties. It was a breathtaking picture of a man who looked like a Hollywood celebrity from a period piece.

I came down the stairs and stopped at a spot with the best view of it. It was a masterpiece. Every brush stroke painted Manly to life and gave him texture and vigor in a way a photograph couldn't. Manly wore expensive clothes of the period—a double-breasted navy suit, an elegant patterned tie in muted colors. His eyes were dark and snapping, his expression amused and arrogant, confident to the point of cruel. He held a pipe and leaned insouciantly against a chair, as if life was all a big game and he was the master of it.

His hair was slicked back into a pompadour, a conservative one by modern standards, the precursor to the wild pompadours the bad boys of the fifties wore. But it was edgy for its day. Despite the calm pose, he had a wild, sensual power about him. I could only imagine how untamed and rugged, almost frighteningly handsome he would have been with his hair natural and free instead of slicked down.

The picture nearly took my breath away. The artistry and skill of the painter. The heat of the man. Would the real man have taken my heart, too?

I strained to see any likeness between the man in the painting and the man who'd just professed his love for me. Except for the sparkle in his eyes, I saw very little. The only similarity I saw was to Ren.

Maybe I could have been swept away by that man in the picture. Maybe the wizened old woman I would become would have repulsed the Manly in the picture. We'd never know.

"It's a very good likeness. Or so I'm told."

I jumped at the sound of Ren's voice.

He came up behind me, carrying a bottle of scotch, no doubt my hundred-year-old. "Trying to work up some enthusiasm for the wedding night? He was a fine specimen of manhood in his prime. The good looks run in the family."

"Don't you have some virgins to sacrifice or something?" I said in the iciest voice I could manage.

He laughed.

I didn't trust myself to look at him. As handsome as Manly was in his portrait, he paled compared to the flesh-and-blood Ren and his careless attitude and charisma.

"Lusting after another woman's husband?" Ren came up beside me and studied the picture. "If family history is accurate, he was married to his first duchess at the time that was painted. Sadly, she died young and childless. Cancer." He paused. "They were married here at the castle. Family tradition. My uncle married all of his duchesses here."

"You're saying I shouldn't feel special? I'm not the first woman to walk these stairs as his bride?" I crossed my arms, refusing to look at Ren for fear my reluctance to make that walk would show. I forced a laugh. "You think I don't know?"

"I'm saying be careful. They all died young. Call it the Manly curse. The castle has a dark history associated with Manly's brides. Marrying you here, he's risking this marriage being short and childless, too."

"That's nonsense. Unrelated data points strung together to make a story." If he was trying to scare me off, he was taking the wrong approach. Hoping that my marriage would be short was too strong. I would never consciously wish Manly dead. However, I expected my marriage to be short. With a groom as old as Manly, how could it be otherwise? And if it were childless, the castle would still be mine. But I couldn't say any of that aloud without giving Ren the fodder he was looking for.

Ren took a step in closer to me. "I don't suppose Uncle has told you about the white lady, our most tragic, and possibly oldest, ghost. She walks the halls at night looking for her lost lover, trying to free him before her husband kills him. Her husband murdered her in a fit of passion on their wedding night while all of his guests were still celebrating in the great hall. Somehow, he found out she'd been unfaithful with one of his knights. She'd fallen in love with the knight and lain with him the night before her wedding, giving him her virginity. Romantically, she wanted one night of love and passion before bedding the old duke.

"As the story goes, my ancestor locked the knight in the dungeon and tortured him in the most gruesome ways possible before killing him and throwing his body into the lake, forever separating him from his lady love. The white lady is eternally unhappy in love. It's bad luck for any bride-to-be to see her before their wedding."

I gave him a sidelong glance. "Her lover was the knight who haunts the lake?"

"The very one."

I rolled my eyes. "Manly's mentioned the white lady. But I haven't heard anything about her being bad luck."

"Of course you haven't. Uncle is a savvy man. He has kept her curse under wraps." He whispered in my ear, "You think he wants to scare his brides off? He has enough trouble finding women who will marry him as it is. Without a vindictive ghost sabotaging him, it took him twenty years to find you." He sounded amused, but his comment was barbed.

I let it roll off. He was trying to get under my skin. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you. Your story is a little too convenient."

"Suit yourself." Ren continued studying the painting. "There's a business reason to hide the white lady as well. Weddings are big business. One of many moneymaking options Uncle has considered over the years is renting the castle out for weddings. He hasn't been desperate enough. Yet. He still thinks this place can survive as a private residence only. He prefers to marry money. But should it come to that, the possibility of a curse on couples who marry here would put a damper on a lucrative business opportunity."

"You're terrible." But I had to admire his quick thinking. Intelligence in a man was hot. "And quick on your feet. You have a lie for everything."

"You think I'm lying?" He laughed.

I shrugged, trying to hide my admiration of his ability. He was smooth and lied with the best of them. "If the shoe fits…"

His gaze raked over me. "There is plenty of documentation in the library, a diary of sightings and the things she's supposedly done over the years. If you're interested in a bedtime story, I know exactly where the journal is. I'd be more than happy to read it to you and tuck you into bed."

Be still my rampaging pulse. "Another time, perhaps."

"After you're safely my aunt?" He gave me a lusty look. "That hardly seems appropriate."

I suddenly wasn't sure whether I was more afraid of myself and my desire for him or the nebulous ghost story he'd invented.

"Another time may be too late." He looked around the castle. "So many ghosts here." He glanced at his uncle's picture and whispered, "If the white lady comes for you, my uncle will be no help. Once he hears your scream, if he hears it, it will take him the better part of an hour just to get out of bed. I'm just down the hall. I've been fighting ghosts half my life. I'll protect you. Catch me in a good mood, I might even help you break her curse."

"The last thing I need is your help breaking anything." Including the vows I was about to say in the morning. I took a deep breath to steady myself and lifted my chin. "If you're trying to scare me with ghost stories, you're wasting your breath."

But my heart was racing, and not from fear. I turned and met his eye. "I love a good ghost story. I live for the thrill. If I have the pleasure of meeting the white lady, I'll happily give her a shoulder to cry on. Men can be such beasts." I leaned close and spoke softly, for his ears only. "And if that was a come-on, you need to work on your pickup lines. The advice is free. You're welcome."

I brushed past him, heart still hammering wildly. His laughter followed me down the hall.

Just outside the door to the salon, I paused to compose myself. I'd known Ren only a few hours and already he'd managed to get beneath my skin in a way no other man had. Snubbing him and walking away was harder than it should have been.

As I willed my pulse to stop racing, I overhead two women talking just inside the door.

"It's just like Ren to show up and cause trouble."

"He's not causing trouble. Not yet." I recognized Lady Ellen's voice. She sounded more amused than put out. "Be reasonable. Ren couldn't very well not attend his uncle's wedding. He's Manly's nearest living relative and heir."

"Only because he killed his older brother," the other woman said.

I went cold. Ren, a murderer?

"Really, I caution you, proceed with care," Lady Ellen said. "Ren was barely twenty-one at the time. There's no proof. Only rumor and innuendo."

"He slept with his brother's fiancée weeks before the wedding. He wanted everything William had—the title Will was to inherit and the woman he was going to marry. It's never been a secret that Ren is, and always has been, jealous and utterly ruthless. Too much time spent with his American mother in the States. And now William, the good one and Manly's hope for the estate, and poor, beautiful Zoe, are dead, drowned. Left for dead in a submerged car in the river by Ren. That's indisputable. Now poor Manly, having to marry American trash on his deathbed in a valiant attempt to save his dynasty."

American trash? If that was how she saw me, my acting was better than I thought.

Lady Ellen sighed. "The coroner ruled their deaths accidental. It was a tragic accident. For everyone, including Ren."

"And yet Ren comes out alive," the other woman said. Her tone was harsh and cold, her mind made up based on untruths.

I despised her already.

"He delayed getting help," she continued in the same judgmental tone. "Ren knew Will and Zoe were drowning and didn't help them. That's murder in my book. Ren is the only one who knows the truth, and he's not talking. Not that we could believe his version of the events anyway."

I put a hand to my stomach. I couldn't listen to any more of this from some faceless, sanctimonious bitch. Ren, a murderer? I couldn't believe it. Maybe his beauty blinded me. But no, he didn't seem the type. Maybe he knew a thing or two about ghosts after all.

I turned and walked away. I'd lost my appetite for partying and company. It turned out my own thoughts were less twisted than the party conversation I'd craved. What had I expected? I didn't have any friends here.

I returned to my room feeling uneasy. My fantasies of an uncomplicated life as the next best thing to a princess in a castle were quickly evaporating. I comforted myself with the knowledge that by tomorrow afternoon they'd all be gone, every last guest, including my parents, departed for home. Manly had insisted.

When I opened my room door, I was greeted by a stiff fall breeze. A storm had rolled in during dinner. It had been rattling the windows downstairs, but I was sure I hadn't left the window open.

A chill crawled down my spine. Someone had been in my room. The flutter of white curtains startled me. For a second, I imagined the flutter of long white sleeves and an apparition disappearing through the window. I put a hand to my heart. Damn Ren and his ghost stories. When I blinked, the curtains were just curtains blowing in the wind.

Furious at myself for letting Ren get to me, I strode to the window, closed it, and latched it firmly. No chance it would blow open again.

I stood in the center of the room, rubbing my arms. Nothing appeared to be missing but my sense of calm. Too many ghost stories. One of the staff must have been in and not properly latched the window after airing the room. Logical, simple, and probably true.

The castle was cold under the best conditions. My window must have been open a while. My room was freezing. The room had a fireplace, but it hadn't been used in years. When I got my hands on this castle, I was going to do more than freshen the linens. I was going to update and upgrade. A gas fireplace would be a nice addition to this room. I turned on a space heater.

Manly Manor was one of the most haunted places in England. But her ghosts weren't haunting me. Ren's were. Had he really left his brother and his brother's fiancée to drown? Was he capable of murder? For a title that was almost useless these days?

As I fell onto my back on my bed, exhausted, I jostled the bed. The old bedframe creaked. Something landed with a thud beside my head. I sprang back up to a sit, heart racing.

A crumbling leather journal sat on the bed next to me. I went cold. Someone had been in. And left me a present. It must have been propped up in the pillows where I hadn't noticed it.

Stifling the urge to scream, I gingerly opened the journal, hoping it didn't crumble to ashes at my touch. It felt ancient, as if it belonged in a museum, like so much in this house. And as if I should have been wearing white cotton gloves to protect this antique book. There, written in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting on the first page—Ghost sightings at Manly Manor.