Chapter Two

October 31, 1819

Ivy Cottage

Bedfordshire, England

A s the sun was setting but was unfortunately obscured by clouds, the wind blew up and with it came the scent of rain—a storm was coming. Of course it was, for it was All Hallow's Eve, the time of year when those sensitive to such things believed the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead thinned.

And ghosties and ghoulies were about.

Christian Richard Delamare, the 8 th Duke of Chalmert, shook his head as he vaulted down from the sporting carriage he'd been driving. It was a smallish vehicle without need of a driver or a groom. Not immediately seeing mews or even a barn or stable in which to house his horse, he released it from the harness and let the animal graze at will. Then he stumbled up a barely there path through the forest, and when he came into a clearing, he stared dumbfounded at the whimsical cottage that had appeared before him as if by magic. To be fair, he was a tad tipsy to have invented such a thing in his mind, but not so deep in his cups that he was seeing illusions sprouting everywhere through the forest.

After tugging a sheaf of paperwork from a pocket of his greatcoat, he peered at the handwriting from his solicitor again even though he'd memorized the words two weeks ago when the letter had first been delivered to his townhouse. Apparently, a great uncle he'd never met died of natural causes a few months ago, and more to the point, this uncle owned a thin ribbon of land out here so far from London. On this strip of land was Ivy Cottage, and since Christian was in the area incognito—for various reasons—he decided to pay a visit to what he thought would have been a dilapidated and neglected piece of real estate.

But a curl of smoke issued from one of the chimneys and the front steps had been freshly swept. He sniffed the air. On the breeze came a lingering sweet smell as if someone had recently finished baking. Perhaps his staff had been apprised of his inheritance of the cottage and had dispatched someone to clean it. Even now, there might be tea waiting for him.

It was as good a place as any to cool his heels while the gossip in London died down. Who would have thought that an offhanded comment about wishing to put himself onto the Marriage Mart would have caused such a damned frenzy? Of course, being a bachelor duke made him all that more attractive. He frowned. Those women wanted the bloody title. Was there anyone out there who wished for the man anymore?

Only time would tell.

That had led him to flee Town, and eventually, he'd found himself in Bedfordshire tracking down an abandoned cottage in the woods. Where no one knew he was a duke, since he couldn't retreat to his estate in the Hertfordshire countryside. No hiding from matchmaking mamas there, so he'd continued to the county north. He had a hunting box not far from his current location and had planned to go there if the cottage wasn't habitable.

Another gust of wind blew, and the chill went down his collar. He shivered, and put a hand to the brim of his beaver felt top hat to keep it from blowing away. Vowing to retrieve his luggage after tea, he went up to the door, tried the latch and finding it unlocked, let himself into the cottage.

Immediately, warmth enveloped him like a welcoming lover, and the sweet scent of vanilla and honey wafted to his nostrils. "Hello?" When no one immediately came to answer his hail, he was more convinced than ever that someone had done this in welcome for him. "At least I'll have tea out of it." After shedding his hat, greatcoat, and gloves, he dumped them on a comfortable-looking winged-back chair in blue brocade. Poking about the kitchen area revealed a kettle that was still warm, so he brought that to the table where a plate of small honey cakes waited. "A tea fit for a duke indeed. Honey cakes are my favorite." And perhaps a cup or two would help clear his head of the alcohol he'd imbibed in before setting out for the hunting box.

Then, finding a porcelain cup nearby, he shook some of the tea leaves into the bottom of the cup and added the warm water. No strainer, but he supposed one day living like a peasant wouldn't kill him. While it steeped, he helped himself to two cakes, which he ate straightaway.

Whoever had made the cakes, they were quite excellent, even more so because they'd been soaked in brandy and more honey. And that tiny hint of cinnamon was intriguing. By the time he'd downed half the cup of tea, he'd relaxed in the chair and wished there was a copy of The Times somewhere about.

There was an interesting taste in the tea that he couldn't quite pin down, but after he drank the first cup, he had a second as well as a few more cakes.

Then bored, Christian wandered about the space, poked about the stillroom and kitchen areas, then took himself upstairs by way of the narrow wooden staircase. The largest of the three bedchambers seemed quite inviting, and he very nearly dropped onto what looked like a lovely feather tick mattress. Someone had turned down the bedclothes. A candle burned in a brass holder on a bedside table. Oddly enough, the room had been styled with a woman's sentiments in mind; there was even a nightdress of thin lawn laid out on the foot of the bed as if waiting for someone to step into the room imminently.

But who? If his housekeeper had sent a team to clean the cottage, they wouldn't think of using it for personal enjoyment. With a frown, he crossed the worn floorboards to the window. One of the boards squeaked, showing its age. When he peered down into the back garden, he caught his breath. Two women moved about the shadow-strewn plants that were still alive in the colder weather, or rather, they glided over the earth. Or at least that was how they appeared in the eerily deepening darkness. The breeze clawed at their skirting to perpetuate the illusion.

Were they living, breathing people or were they products of his imagination?

With a lingering glance toward the bed and another to a worn and stuffed chair waiting in the corner with a pile of books stacked on a small table nearby, he moved out of the room. He glanced into the two other rooms across a narrow corridor. Only one was inhabited, and from the spartan way it was furnished, he suspected it might belong to a maid.

Interesting, that. The cottage was small comparatively to other such dwellings, but it would serve well as a hideaway from the world until he could draw breath and think about the type of woman he might wish to pursue and court. Damned responsibilities to the title. He was only two and thirty. Didn't he have all the time in the world to marry and produce an heir? His frown deepened as he continued to monitor the darkened garden. Perhaps he didn't, for his father had perished three years before of his heart attacking him at a relatively young age.

And Christian was the only living son.

When next he focused on the garden, the women were gone. Had they simply vanished into the veil or were they even now in the cottage?

Best discover which. Excitement twisted down his spine. It had been quite some time since he'd had an adventure in his life, and this one might prove vastly entertaining, especially on this night of nights. As the wind howled through the rafters—was the attic space still in good condition?—he went into the corridor. At the same time, a feminine scream echoed through the cottage that prickled the hairs on the back of his neck.

Human or otherworldly?

"Oh, dear heavens. Someone has eaten the cakes and drunk the tea!"

So much angst went through the exclamation that it only added to the puzzlement of the evening. What the devil did it mean? He didn't know, but his pulse thundered through his veins. With a mind a tad fuzzy from the ale he'd had in the village before coming out here and cool apprehension playing his spine, he drew his fingers along the wall as he bolted downstairs, but at the bottom, he received another shock.

The two women stared at him with varying degrees of shock and fright; one was clearly a maid with her pinafore apron over a drab gray dress and a lace-edged cap over her dark hair. However, the other woman was a few years older and still fresh-faced. Her blonde hair had been arranged in a loose chignon that hadn't weathered the breeze well, but those escaped strands framed her face and clung to her neck, calling his attention to the slender throat and the shape of her cheekbones, as well as the sweet curve of her perfect pink lips, but it was her blue-gray eyes, rounded with trepidation, that swiftly captured his imagination and arrested him on the spot.

"Stay back!" The young blonde woman brandished a stick she'd apparently brought in from the garden as if it were a sword. "I don't want to hurt you, but I'll crack this right over your head if you don't exit the premises."

It struck him as hilarious, watching her wave the stick about that had some sort of lichen growing upon one end, but perhaps it was his slightly tipsy brain. "Why should I leave when this is my cottage?"

"What?" She brushed at the leaves and a trace of dirt that clung to her skirting, but there was a faint smudge on one cheek that gave her a whimsical air. "I found this cottage; it was abandoned, so I fixed it up and moved in. Therefore, it is mine." When she brandished the stick, Christian bit back the urge to grin. "Mary, run and get John. He can help evict this man."

When the maid edged toward the rear door, he held up a hand. "Stop." Every bit of authority that made up his person rang in the command. "Return to your room. I would have a word with Miss…?" At least this way he'd learn her name.

"Hasting." The blonde offered up that tidbit grudgingly, then glanced at the maid. "It's all right. You can either go upstairs or return to the manor."

The maid shook her head as fright marched across her face. "It's All Hallow's Eve, miss. Ghosts are about and it will take far too long to walk there."

Hellfire and damnation! "I have a racing carriage outside and a horse. If Miss Hasting summons the footman, will you allow him to take you to the manor?" Not that he knew where that was or what it was. "I wish to have a few words with Miss Hasting about who has the legal right to use this property."

"Ha!" Miss Hasting frowned and shook her head. "What gives you the right to order any of us about? I'm one of Baron Landover's daughters. You are just a wandering vagrant, and from the looks of how you are swaying where you stand, in your cups."

Ah, Baron Landover. The man with pockets to let, taxes due on his country property, and daughters forced to take paying positions. Those ladies were frequent subjects of gossip in the clubs, for their marriages hadn't truly helped out with the estate.

Wedding for love. What a concept.

"Because I'm the Du—" At the last second, he cut himself off, for he didn't want anyone to know who he was, and if he didn't tell them he was a duke, they would treat him like any other man instead of hiding behind respectability. He cleared his throat. "That is to say, I am the owner of Ivy Cottage, and I have the paperwork to prove it." Summoning his most ducal glare, he included them both in it. "Now, if you are going to have the footman accompany you to the manor house, I suggest you do it posthaste. It will rain soon."

The maid threw a panicked look at Miss Hasting. "I shouldn't leave you alone with the likes of him …"

To her credit, the blonde looked at him as if he were something she'd just tread upon. "I shall be all right." Yet the hand holding the stick shook, and he suddenly wanted to know why she was nervous… or afraid. "Take the footman. By the time he returns, I will have evicted our uninvited guest."

"Very well." The maid nodded. "But he ate—"

Miss Hasting held up her free hand. "I know. I shall bear that in mind as well. If worse comes to worst, I'll toss him in the garden and lock the doors."

Christian tamped the urge to laugh, for the whole conversation was ridiculous. He could grind the girl's reputation into dust if he so chose. Then he cocked his head slightly to one side and truly gazed at Miss Hasting. Her pink lips specifically. Would they feel as soft as they appeared? Was she an untried innocent or was she experienced in kissing?

His fuzzy brain didn't care. One way or another, he'd find out for himself before the night was over.