Chapter 7

7

B astian leaned back against the wall next to Jane's closed door. His body was rigid, tension coiled like snakes in his muscles. He had kissed her again, had almost lost control again. But she had tasted so good, like wine and her own natural sweetness. The way she had shivered and gasped, breathless as he held her, still echoed in his ears and made him ache bone deep to go back into her room and finish what he had started. Neither of them spoke about the drawing room incident or how they had been so intimate there yet like distant voyeurs. However, the kitchen and her bedroom…those two kisses belonged solely to them and not to the past.

They couldn't keep doing this, a dance circling closer and closer to each other until they made the mistake of sleeping together. It couldn't be allowed to happen. She didn't seem strong enough to stay away from him, so he would have to be the one to stop it. But damned if he hadn't been the one kissing her! He raked a hand through his hair, tugging hard on the strands in his desperation to think. Maybe if he chose to completely avoid her the rest of the week, then he could just send her packing and be done with it and they'd never cross paths again. Yes, that might work. Stormclyffe was large. He could easily avoid one little bookworm.

He pushed away from the wall, regret making his steps heavy, and his boots knocked into something.

A bag toppled over at his feet. Jane's briefcase. He started to pick it up when he noticed a leather-bound book with a blank spine lay on top of her notebook. It was old, not a textbook or research material. He knew he should just slide it inside the bag and leave it alone, but his hands were already curling around the tome and lifting it up. He hissed as an electric shock pulsed through his skin at his palms and fingers where he held the book. Rather than drop it, he suddenly found he couldn't let go of it. How could a book shock him? They didn't carry electric current…

It fell open, the yellowed paper parting soundlessly. Handwriting in faded ink flowed in delicate swirls and loops across the pages. Bastian's eyes widened as he read the first couple of lines.

This was his ancestor Richard's diary. How had Jane found this? Where had she found it? A part of him snarled. She had kept this a secret from him. He had every right to know what lay in the pages, to see the story his ancestor told. It was his family not hers, and he had expressly denied her access to his family's private papers. His fist was halfway raised in front of her door before he realized he was about to knock. He didn't want to quarrel with her. No. He would simply take the diary and protect it. She could come to him if she really wanted it. And she'd have to admit to him that she'd found it and was keeping it from him. If she wasn't brave enough to confront him, then he'd have the diary safe with him.

He crossed the hall and entered his own bedroom. It was a mirror of Jane's room, only with midnight-blue hangings around the bed, and it lacked a portrait over the fireplace of course. Instead there was a lovely mural of Stormclyffe Hall surrounded by the woods. Several black fallow deer were at the edge of the forest. They were beautiful creatures. There was a wild herd that had lived on the estate's lands for the last two-hundred-and fifty years. They weren't shy, and he had successfully hand-fed a few of them the first week he had moved in. The old groundskeeper he had hired to oversee the estate's lands had advised him on how to work with the deer.

He set the journal down on the bed, a little relieved that he could let go of the book that had clung to his hands like a magnet only a few seconds before. Then he went over to the tall armoire against one wall. The old wood creaked as he opened the door and retrieved his silk pajama bottoms. After stripping off his clothes, he donned the pants and turned around.

"Christ!" He nearly jumped at the sight of the diary on the bed.

It was lying open to a section in the middle. He'd been sure that when he had set the journal down it had been closed. He strode over to the bed, and flipped it shut and then, experimenting, he pressed the bed down next to the book. Bastian wasn't sure what he expected, maybe that the book would flip open due to a dipping spot in the mattress.

The book didn't move.

The fine hairs on his arm stood on end, and a cool breeze teased him from behind as though some cold beast from the far north breathed down the back of his neck. He knew if Jane was here, she would mention ghosts and hauntings. He didn't want to entertain that possibility. He picked up the journal, closed it, and just stared at the cover. What did he expect? To suddenly see visions or hear the voice of a man long dead? He shook his head when nothing happened. Jane was having a bad influence on him. Still…there was no harm in browsing a few pages. The book became heavy in his hands, and when he loosened his hold, it parted again to that same spot. He began to read.

June 1st 1810

I can't escape her. She is hounding my every step. Cordelia Huntington and her father have developed a habit of appearing whenever I go to town. Whenever I attend any social function, they are there. I've seen many a woman watch me with interest and desire, but the way Cordelia eyes me, in a strangely possessive way like a cat eyeing a mouse, is unnerving.

The whispering has started. Witchcraft. There have been cattle dying in town with no visible cause. And birds. So many birds, their little hearts ripped from their chests as their bodies appear outside of doorways, like some portent of doom. My days are filled with handling the concerns of my people and reassuring them that we have no witches in our town, even though I am not entirely sure if that is true. There's only one thing I want. To be with Isabelle. I cannot find a moment alone with her, the woman I crave beyond reason.

Today, though, today I was lucky. Her father and mother joined me as I escorted her to see the ruins of Sandsfoot Castle, an old structure that dates back to Henry VIII. As long as the visitors stay safely away from the more dangerous parts of the shore, which could easily crumble, it is a safe spot for picnics and outings. I knew it was to be the perfect spot to propose to Isabelle.

As I waited outside Braxton's inn, I shifted restlessly in the seat of my carriage, my fingers curling around my mother's garnet ring, which was tucked safely in my waistcoat pocket. My footman appeared at the door, opening it and assisting the waiting guests inside. Mr. and Mrs. Braxton climbed in, taking the seats opposite me. The innkeeper and his wife were all smiles and warmth, something I liked immensely about them. They were genuine people and did not try to befriend me out of any desire to climb a social ladder.

Isabelle's face appeared as she peeked into the coach. Her beautiful eyes lit up when she saw me, and she smiled. My body burst into flames inside. She was so lovely, but it wasn't merely her looks which held me in rapture. It is her kindness, her intelligence, and the hint of passion she tries to hide each time upon our meeting. Last evening, we danced again, and my hand fit to her waist perfectly. A high color had blossomed in her cheeks, and I knew then that we would enjoy lovemaking. The night couldn't come soon enough. I wanted to please her, to give her so much, my life, my love, my soul, my passion. I wanted her to own me. A man shouldn't want to admit to such a desire, I know, but it's true. I wish for her to brand her name upon my heart and never leave me.

She slipped inside the coach and sat next to me before I could even get out and hand her in.

"Thank you for this lovely outing, my lord," Mr. Braxton said.

"You are most welcome," I answered, and I meant it.

The weather was perfect for the picnic. The attending footman saw to it the drinks and food were prepared and laid out on several blankets. The wicker baskets were overflowing with cold roast, boiled eggs, and shortbread. My footman, George, stood by ready to refill our glasses with lemonade or Madeira wine. Isabelle's parents occupied one blanket while Isabelle and I occupied the other.

As always, I engaged Mr. Braxton in a frank and intelligent discussion. Despite the other man's humble beginnings, he was well spoken and very bright. He was much the opposite of a man like Sir Huntington who did not care to know the most basic of intellectual subjects but instead preferred to bandy about names and titles of people whom he could curry favor with. The Braxtons were a far cry from that part of my life, and I relished any chance to escape such social engagements that would bring me into close quarters with the Huntingtons.

After we had finished eating, I politely got Mr. Braxton's attention.

"Could I be allowed to take Miss Braxton on a walk closer to the ruins?"

Isabelle sat up a little straighter on our blanket, her gaze darted between me and her father, the glimmer of hope barely concealed in her eyes. Did she know of my plan to propose? Surely not, I've kept the secret so guarded, she could not know.

"Yes, of course," Mr. Braxton replied, a soft and yet knowing glint in his eyes.

I offered Isabelle my hand and assisted her in standing. We strolled along the green path toward the cliffs, her arm tucked in mine. Another confession had to be made, and I feared weaker men would think it made me a fool. But the pleasure of having Isabelle's hand resting lightly upon my arm as we walked in amiable silence was one of the best moments of my life. When we were only a few yards away from the ruins, I stopped and clasped Isabelle's hands in mine.

For a few moments, she kept her gaze on the ruins. "It's peaceful here." She sighed and turned to look my way.

My heart pounded as I struggled to find the words I had rehearsed a dozen times this morning.

"Isabelle, we have only known each other a few weeks, but in that short time I have come to regard your company greatly." I swallowed, hoping to speak around the sudden knot in my throat. Sweat dewed on my forehead, and I prayed I could be strong enough to ask her. If she refused me…I could not think of that. I decided I had to continue.

Something sad filled her eyes, darkening the gray luminescence to a shadow-stormy blue.

"I know what you must say," she interjected when I would have spoken. Her tone was gentle, and her eyes brimmed with a sadness I hoped never to see in her.

"You do?" Did she mean to reject me?

"Yes. You must, of course. We cannot go on as we are. It's better to end things."

"I must what?" I stumbled over her words. "End things?" I shook my head almost violently and raised her hands to my lips, feverishly kissing them. "No, no, that's not it at all, my love. I was going to propose to you. If you will let me."

I tried to tease her, but she stared at me in confusion.

"Propose? To me?" Her voice rose an octave. "But you must marry someone of your station. I am nobody. An innkeeper's daughter."

The scorn for her station was evident in every syllable. It pained me she thought so little of herself. I wished she saw herself the way I always had.

"I don't care, Isabelle. I want you. Would you prefer me to go to London and marry a simpering bore? Isabelle," I groaned in exasperation. "You!" I kissed her hands again. "You are the only woman I want and need. Please."

I dropped to one knee and retrieved the ring from my pocket and offered it to her. My heart thrashed against my ribs as I waited for her to react. "Please…please do me the honor of being my wife."

She looked away from me, her eyes drinking in the castle ruins and the sea beyond before she returned her gaze to me. When she did, tears streaked down her face.

"Why do you weep, my heart?" I surged to my feet and wrapped my arms around her. Every time we touched, lightning seemed to strike my body and bind me tighter to her. She had to say yes, had to agree to end my torment. I kept the ring cupped in my palm.

"I'm overcome with happiness, my lord." Her words were breathless and hitched as though she fought off the urge to cry.

I stared at her, hope filling me with a secret warmth. "Does that mean you plan to accept my offer?"

I lifted the ring up, watching the way it reflected in her eyes like a shining star.

She held out her left hand. "Yes. A thousand times, yes."

I could barely breathe. My blood thudded in my ears like a stallion across the moors as I slid the garnet ring over Isabelle's finger.

"Oh, Richard, whatever shall we do? The gossips in town will never let us go through with this. We will be shunned."

"Shunned? No. We will not. I'm the earl. You will be my countess. The people can think what they will, but you will have the respect owed to you as my wife."

"I don't care about that." Isabelle's fingertips traced my jaw and my lips. "I only want you to be happy." It was true, every word. Only she mattered; only her joy and love meant anything to me.

I grinned, playful and excited. She was mine; we would be together and be happy.

"The only reason for living is to be with you. You make me happy." I lifted her chin and bent to kiss her. It was everything I had imagined it would be. She gave in to her own desire for me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, tugging me closer.

"We will be so happy, my love." It was our first kiss, but it would not be our last, not for many years yet, I hoped.