Ash never counted the hours at night. Such a task was useless to a man at war with slumber. Eventually, however, in soft, almost imperceptible stages, muted light illuminated Lady Stone.Sheslept the sleep of the innocent—deep and untroubled, her long, even breaths restorative and content.
The contrast to his own restless slumber felt like yet another warning.
Carefully sliding from the bed, he crept toward his retiring room and began his morning ablutions. He peered into his mirror, astonished.
He looked almost human. Almost like an unhaunted man.
She could make a broken man whole, just by standing by his side.
He splashed cold water against his cheeks, trying to shake the sense he’d found something he hadn’t known was lost. Danger lurked in such feeling. Tomorrow, she must go.
He finished washing and then glanced to the door. His morning ride was an unbroken tradition. He glanced back to the bed—one more day. There was no contest.
He slid back into bed. She hardly stirred.
Lady Stone.
The hard name did not fit her at all. She was a multi-petaled flower, each layer sweeter than the one that had come before.
What more awaited discovery? She’d already overwhelmed every sense he possessed.
They’d had two glorious nights. Nights that had been everything he had hoped for from the moment their eyes had locked.
What a fool her husband had been.
The countess, of course, had left kings tongue-tied. Even queens mimicked her style. But the countess could not have rendered Ash so completely undone. No one could. No one but Lady Stone. She had given him back pain and pleasure, fear and anticipation.
Would it be such a terrible thing if he just...kept her?
He could send away the carriage, and lock the doors. He could keep her confined the way he kept himself aloof, and perhaps they could both remain shielded from the gloom.
She’d be hisPersinette, his lady in the tower. And like the witch who’d imprisoned Persinette, he’d provide her with every luxury. Food, books, musical instruments. Any instruction she’d desire, too.
She could be happy.
She could be his.
Perhaps she’d escape Rachel’s fate.
Perhaps not.
Rachel had been chosen for him by his godfather, plucked from the flowers at Almack’s for her pedigree and poise...and for the fact that her family was desperate enough to consider marriage to the heir of a duke once charged with murder. He’d been dazzled by her beauty. Hopeful with a creature of such refinement by his side, he could restore the family name.
On their wedding night, Rachel had come to him dutifully...and then left in tears, her chest heaving with vitriol. He’d mauled her like an animal, she’d said. She could not stomach his tainted touch. And that hadn’t been her worst, or only, accusation.
Another memory intruded, unbidden—Rachel, on the terrace of Wisterley, telling him she hated him as she’d never hated anything before. Telling him he’d ruined her life when he’d brought her to the cursed castle, that she’d rather be dead than married to him.
Less than a fortnight later, she was—along with the father he’d loved and despised in equal measure.
Lady Stone stirred, releasing him from his thoughts. He planted a kiss on her shoulder. Even her skin was sweet.
“Mmmm,” she responded.
Carefully, he brushed the hair from her face. “Good morning, Lady Stone.”
Dream’s mist cleared from her eyes. “Alicia,” she whispered. And then, she smiled.
An unfamiliar feeling entered his heart—light and heady, as if he were galloping free.
