Was it because of the ghost?
No, it was all too far-fetched.
Besides, he could not bring himself to send her away.
What irony?
He prided himself on being impenetrable, but Miss Alwyn had found a way into his heart with remarkable ease. He could not look at her without feeling her warmth penetrating its darkest recesses.
He did not like to think he was attracted to her beyond a casual interest, but he was. Nor did he wish to consider he might be falling in love with her.
Was he?
He certainly hungered for a taste of her mouth, those beautiful lips that fascinated him to the point of distraction. They were in the shape of a bow…or a heart…or a heart-shaped bow, the bottom one plumper than the top, but both of them perfect for kissing.
He groaned, knowing he would have wicked dreams of her tonight.
Very wicked.
He shook his head, irritated by these wayward thoughts, and then opened the book he had been reading on the history of the MacArran family. Several accounts were written of the infamous Dukes of Arran. He hoped they would reveal information on when the Singing Caves had been given the name. More important, he wanted to know precisely when the haunting of these caves had started.
He knew this ghost had been around for a while, perhaps seventy years or more. Few people ever saw her, but those who did described her as a girl with dark gold hair and green eyes.
Just like Miss Alwyn.
He rested his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. “Heather, my little elf. Are you in danger? If so, how am I to keep you safe?”
Chapter Four
Ruarke grew frustratedwhen he found nothing helpful in this first book on his family’s history. If the ghostly creature wanted Miss Alwyn, then how was he to stop it when he knew almost nothing of its origins?
More important, how did one stop a thing that was already dead?
Assuming it meant Miss Alwyn any harm.
He picked up a second book and read on, hoping to learn more. A paragraph, a sentence. Any details about this girl who had drowned so long ago. He knew from local lore that her name was Bella Evans and she had lived around his grandfather’s time, perhaps a generation earlier.
“Bella Evans,” he muttered, “what led you to the Singing Caves that day?”
Well, he supposed most of the villagers were permitted to come and go along the beach without restriction. This still raised the question, why had poor Bella gone there that day and drowned?
Which led him to another question. Having died, why had she not moved on?
When Ruarke heard the opera singer hit the final notes of her last song, he decided to close his book and return to his guests to partake of the various card games. His game was whist, and he chose to partner his aunt instead of one of the peahens. SinceMiss Alwyn was always by his aunt’s side, he motioned for one of the footmen to bring a chair for her as well.
“Do not bother about the girl. Who is she to sit with us? Go away, Miss Alwyn,” his aunt rudely snapped. “I shall have you summoned when I need you.”
“Very good, Lady Audley.” Miss Alwyn walked out of the card room, but Ruarke could not see where she went.
“I noticed her eyeing the silver earlier,” Miss Barclay remarked in her smug, nasal whine that always grated. “Better keep vigilant that nothing goes missing, Your Grace.”
This waspish young woman and her maiden aunt made up their foursome at the whist table. “Trump suit is hearts,” he said, ignoring the comment and doing his best to ignore her, too.
This Marriage Mart business brought out the worst in some people. Cynical as he was, even he was surprised by how much bile some of these debutantes spewed. Was this how they sought to tempt him? By maliciously demeaning others?
His own aunt’s laughter was as brittle as a witch’s cackle. “Indeed, Miss Barclay. I have my housekeeper count every piece of my silver nightly. I am certain Miss Alwyn is going to steal it all and run off with a worthless bounder some day.”
By heaven, he was going to have it out with his aunt. She had been difficult and curt with all her former companions, but he had never seen them dealt with in this venomous fashion.
