Page 44 of A Ghost of a Chance

She lifted a brow and said doubtfully, “Meet your parents?”

He shrugged. “Well, you know... see them. They are hosting for the night, and I will appear frequently enough to satisfy anyone paying attention to my presence or lack thereof. It started out as a way to justify hiring several locals who needed work, but then....” Sobering, he looked intently at her. “I thought you’d be happy.”

He had purchased her ancestral home. What did that mean? She gave him her most dazzling smile. “I am delighted it belongs to you now. Truly. I’m just still getting over the surprise. Then you plan on living here in Madding Hallow year-round?”

“I do. I’ve made very good friends here. This is where I spend most of my time.”

“I am touched and so happy you have chosen Ravenswood Manor as your home.” She smiled warmly. “Knowing you’re living in my ancestral home makes me feel closer to you.”

“I, as well. There is nowhere else I’d rather be. It already feels like home to me, and I want you to feel that way again, too.”

She looked up at the manor. Rafe’s home, now. How lovely. How right.

They walked in together. The evening passed in a pleasant whirl. Osanne adored his parents. She found them to be cultured without being overly stuffy, fashionable without being obsessed with displaying wealth, and polite with subtle, delightful senses of humor. His father was an older, even more distinguished version of Rafe, with silver gilding his thick, dark hair. Lines around kind eyes set in a handsome face gave her a glimpse into Rafe’s future appearance. His mother had the same pale, yet bright eyes as Rafe, and a ready smile.

Osanne admired Rafe as he greeted guests, and reveled in his frequent glances her way to let her know he still saw her—that she was important to him.

After what felt like eons of loneliness, she might never become accustomed to such a wonder.

Would it last or would he tire of her and of the limitations of their relationship?

After greeting the guests, including the Browns, Rafe danced a set with an impoverished middle-aged widow, all the while giving her every courtesy and kindness. A perfect gentleman—kind, attentive, courteous. After the dance, he bowed over the widow’s hand. As he turned away, he gave a meaningful look at Osanne then looked toward the doorway. She met him there. He murmured to a footman, then led the way to the music room.

A rosy-cheeked Fanny, Mrs. Grainger’s great-granddaughter, smiled at Rafe and bobbed a curtsy before rushing off to do some errand.

“You hired Fanny?” Osanne asked.

“She needed employment and housing.”

Osanne gave him a tender smile. “You are a good man.”

Rafe’s lips quirked in a self-conscious smile as he closed the door behind him. “I can only be gone for the duration of a dance set.” He grimaced. “Perhaps agreeing to host the annual ball was a mistake. Now I must divide my attention between everyone else and you.”

“’Tis of no consequence. I shall amuse myself with the pianoforte while you are with your guests.” Osanne led him to a comfortable sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Tell me about your year.”

Rafe settled next to her. “I spent Christmas with my family. My brother and his wife had their third child. I visited a few more of my former comrades, and then came back here.” He darted a glance at her. “Mrs. Grainger died this spring, did you know?”

“My mother’s friend? No.”

“You haven’t...seen her?” He turned sideways on the bench to face her fully.

She carefully avoided looking down lest he notice that his knees passed through her. Such a sight would only serve as an unpleasant reminder—not that they were in danger of forgetting. “I have not seen Mrs. Grainger’s ghost, if that is what you are asking. I only see those who linger here as I do. I don’t see those who move on quickly. I never saw my parents, either. I can only assume they died, since my brother inherited the estate.”

Gently, he said, “Your mother died five years after you did. They say she died of a broken heart. Your father lasted another twenty years.”

She nodded slowly. She had suspected they had both gone, but the news still created a fog of sorrow that settled over her.

Rafe reached for her. She went into his arms, focusing on pushing back against him. His embrace pushed back her sorrow and created that near-sensation of touch. Of life. Of home. How remarkable, and wonderful, to feel again! If only she could sustain it.

He tilted his head to one side. “Do you hear footsteps?”

She nodded. “Coming this way.”

Rafe moved to the piano and played a simple piece by Bach. A soft knock on the door came.

“Yes?” Rafe called, still playing.

“A new set is about to begin, sir,” called a male voice, presumably the footman to whom Rafe had been speaking.