One for every wife he murders.
Cecilia swallowed, cursing her penchant for gothic horror novels, which had been all very well until she’d stumbled into one.
Molly covered Cecilia’s hand with hers. “It’s not too late to change yer mind.”
Cecilia cast one last fearful look at the wide, yawning jaws guarding the cavernous courtyard beyond, straightened her shoulders, and, with a bravado she was far from feeling, stuck her chin in the air. “No, no. I’ve given my word, and I won’t turn coward now.”
Mr. Hinshaw and Molly glanced at each other, but Mr. Hinshaw came down from his seat, retrieved Cecilia’s case from the back of the wagon, and reached up to help her down. “We’ll wait until you’re inside. If ye do change your mind beforehand—”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hinshaw, but please don’t wait on my account.” Cecilia could see the man wished himself and his daughter far away from here, and in any case, she might lose her nerve and flee Darlington Castle if she knew she had sucha ready escape.
She took the hand Mr. Hinshaw offered before she could change her mind, leaving the safety of the wagon behind, and paused at the long stone bridge leading onto Lord Darlington’s property.
Mr. Hinshaw handed over her case. “We won’t go until you’re past the portcullis, leastways.”
“To make certain it doesn’t devour me?” Cecilia attempted a smile as her nerveless fingers wrapped around the handle of her case. “Well, then I’d best get on with it, hadn’t I?” She waved to Molly and Mr. Hinshaw, then stepped forward. The heel of her boot struck the wooden boards of the bridge with ahollow thump.
It didn’t feel like a single step so much as a leap into the unknown, but Cecilia continued to put one foot in front of the other until she was standing at the edge of a second bridge—this one the narrow footbridge that led tothe portcullis.
She allowed herself one glance over her shoulder, but the wagon was hidden behind the tall, thick hedge that surrounded the castle grounds. After a single wary glance at the iron teeth above, Cecilia stepped onto the drawbridge. She took one step, another, looking neither to the right or left, her gaze focused on the tips of her boots.
Don’t look at the moat.
Another step, another, until she passed through the darkened courtyard and intoanother world.
Chapter Two
The frozen leaves crunched under Gideon’s feet as he broke through the tree line and strode onto the formal castle grounds.
Dusk was descending, throwing gloomy shadows across the gardens and the rose walk, but it wasn’t yet dark. The dying glimmers of a pale winter sun caught at the rippling surface of Darlington Lake. Beside it he could just make out the gray stones of the courtyard. Darlington Castle itself loomed over the scene like a hulking beast, casting everything it touchedinto darkness.
It looks like a nightmare.
He hadn’t always thought so. There’d been a time not long ago he’d thought of the castle as his home, but one nightmare had toppled into another this past year, like a row of cursed dominoes, and Darlington Castle had somehow tipped overinto the chasm.
This time, the nightmare was ghosts. And why not? Once a lady’s tragic death became a murder and her husband a murderer, a vengeful ghost made sense, the inevitable next step from one nightmare into the next. He’d say this much for the villagers of Edenbridge—they kept their rumors in the proper order.
Gideon didn’t believe in ghosts…or, no. It was more truthful to say he hadn’t given ghosts any thought at all, other than to consider phantoms, specters, and disembodied spirits figments of fevered imaginations only, an invention of harassed nursemaids and exhausted governesses, meant to frighten childreninto obedience.
Now, well…he still didn’t believe in ghosts. Even if hehadgiven the ghostly rumors any credence, he wouldn’t have concerned himself much with them. The undead were far less terrifying than the living, and ghosts not the worst of the horrors that could haunt a man.
As for the White Lady, in her flowing white gown, with her pale face and trailing locks of white hair, she was nowhere to be seen tonight. Perhaps she’d chosen another castle to haunt.
Gideon’s lips curled in a bitter smile. Not that it would make any difference. The rumors would persist, regardless of whether the ghost ever appeared again. The White Lady was simply too delicious a tale for the villagers to relinquish her easily. There would be more sightings of this terrifying apparition who’d taken up residence in the woods behind Darlington Castle.
She was said to be colorless aside from her lips, which were a ghastly shade of scarlet red. Indeed, she’d been described in excruciating detail, even by those who claimed to have been struck senseless with terror upon seeing her. With such vivid detail, even the good citizens of Edenbridge who were inclined to doubt the existence of ghosts were convinced Gideon’s dead wife was haunting their village. They said she’d come to take her revenge on him—to make the Murderous Marquess pay for his monstrous crimes.
After all,someonehad to.
Half the village had reported seeing her—the more fanciful half. Others claimed they’d seen a mysterious light bobbing amongst the trees. Gideon would have dismissed this as another rumor if his housekeeper, Mrs. Briggs, hadn’t confessed she’d seen the same strange light herself, as if someone were wandering through the woods behind the castle with a lantern.
Poachers, most likely, or pranksters intent on reviving the worst of the rumors and frightening his betrothed away. It wouldn’t work. Gideon had gone to a good deal of trouble to secure a proper mother for his four-year old niece, and he didn’t intend to give her up now.
After his prolonged absence from society and the ugly rumors attached to his name, he hadn’t expected London’s belles would be waiting breathlessly to receive his attentions. He was made to understand by their frigid glares and malicious whispers that most of thetonthought him guilty, but hewasstill a wealthy marquess, and there were those who were willing to overlook the rumors in favor of a title and fortune.
In the end, Gideon had secured his bride.
After more than a year of turmoil and grief, Miss Honeywell was like a sip of the finest champagne trickling down a raw, parched throat—light, sweet, and bubbly. If it was difficult to recall the taste once the bubbles had dissolved on his tongue…well, it hardly mattered. He wasn’t interested in a grand passion, and he didn’t believe in fairy tales, any more than he believed in ghosts.
