The Right to Remain Single: A Ghostly Mystery Romance Novella Page 6

  She set down her box in the Great Hall. “Mr. Tilson, you presume too much. I have not agreed to marry you.”

  He clucked like an elderly hen. “So delightfully coy, my dear, but your father has promised you to me, and as an obedient daughter, you will of course comply with his wishes.”

  She wanted to shriek that no, she would never, ever marry him, but if she did so, he would confront Papa, who would gasp and cough, and might die, and it would be her fault… So she put her nose in the air, saying, “As I said, do not presume, sir.” He laughed indulgently, and she longed to hit him.

  James, coming up behind with a basket of ivy, mimed kicking him in the seat of his ugly yellow pantaloons. She wanted to laugh, but it was so hopeless!

  “All we need do is rid ourselves of the ghost, and the marriage will go forward immediately. Ouch!” Tilson sucked on his finger. “This holly is extremely prickly. The servants will have to put it up.”

  “What’s a little prickle in the spirit of Christmas?” James said. “Miss Warren, tell me where to place the garlands of ivy.”

  Gratefully, she walked away with him to discuss decorating the walls and bannisters. “Don’t worry,” James said softly. “We will get rid of him. Just follow my lead.”

  She couldn’t ask for clarification, because Mr. Tilson had hurried up behind them. Despite his unhelpful interpolations, soon the Great Hall was festooned with ivy, with holly tied here and there.

  Mick arrived with a single sprig of mistletoe, and Mr. Tilson bustled over to take it. “It must go in the doorway to the drawing room.”

  Thomasina opened her mouth to protest, but James did better—he snatched the sprig from Mr. Tilson. “I’d better test it first.” Without further ado, he held the mistletoe over Thomasina’s head and took her lips in a swift kiss. “Seems to be mistletoe.”

  Thomasina laughed.

  “Perfect,” James whispered, and kissed her again. “Mistletoe for sure.”

  “Come now, that’s most unfair.’ Mr. Tilson reddened angrily and reached for the sprig. “She’s my betrothed.”

  James whipped the mistletoe behind his back. “The doorway is all very well if a lady wants a kiss, because she has no choice but to pass through it, but since Miss Warren dislikes the custom, we must find a better place.”

  The suitor scowled. “A lady does not dislike a kiss from her future husband.”

  She was about to expostulate for the thousandth time that she had not agreed to marry him, but James got in first. “That’s not the point, Mr. Tilson. The custom exposes her to the importunities of any man who wishes to take advantage. Unfortunately, there is just such a man in this house now.”

  Tilson stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Her cousin,” James explained. “Mr. Furbelow is a libertine, a gamester, and an altogether disreputable man.”

  How in God’s name was this supposed to help get rid of Mr. Tilson? It would make him even more likely to hover around her!

  Mr. Tilson’s scowl deepened. He turned to Thomasina. “A distant cousin, I presume?”

  “No, he is the son of my father’s sister, and therefore a first cousin.” She dug around in the box of supplies and found a longish bit of red ribbon. “He’s not a good man, but he doesn’t cause trouble here. After a few days of boredom, he will hurry back to London.”

  James tutted. “Kindly keep this to yourself, Tilson, but Furbelow accosted Miss Warren during a previous visit.”

  She had mentioned that in confidence! How dare he tell stupid Mr. Tilson, who would rush straight to Papa? She shook her head. “It was nothing.”

  “I disagree. His behavior was unforgiveable,” James said.

  She narrowed her eyes at him, and received the slightest flicker of a wink in return. She didn’t know what he was getting at, but she had to protect her father. “It was nothing, and I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  She rounded on Mr. Tilson, who had gone scarlet with rage or affront or some other emotion he had no right to feel concerning her. “Don’t you dare attempt to discuss it with my father, for in his failing health, it may do him irreparable harm. The ghost protected me, and that is that.”

  “What a pity everyone doesn’t have such a useful ghost,” James said, “for every family has its dirty dishes.”

  Tilson made a strangled noise. “I am happy to say that my family has none.” He paced in a circle, and paced again the other way, then faced his prospective bride. “I had no idea. Of course, I was aware of the scandalous history of the Warren family, but I assumed, based on your pristine reputation, that your father’s branch of the family was untouched by the taint.”

  Taint? She would have blurted out a vigorous denial that any such taint existed, but at James’s brief shake of the head, she held her tongue.

  “Some families simply cannot escape scandal,” James said mournfully. “It seems the Warrens are one of them. My friend Colin was quite a rake before he married, and Lord Garrison’s scandal was of truly magnificent proportions.”

  “Yes, but—” It wasn’t his fault, she wanted to say, but she stopped herself.

  “Unfortunately, it’s like one bad apple in the barrel,” James said. “It affects all the others. Furbelow’s father was a decent man, but he married a Warren, and look what happened. It is astonishing that Miss Warren has held out so long, but sooner or later she may succumb as well.”

  “I do try not to.” Thomasina’s voice trembled with the struggle not to laugh. How clever of James! Very well, she would contribute her mite. “But remaining The One Good Warren is a frightful strain on my nerves. Scandalous behavior is so tempting. It seems…so much more natural and comfortable to a Warren, you see.”

  Poor Mr. Tilson looked positively ill.

  Mrs. Day came into the Great Hall and curtsied. “Cook is ready to roll the pastry for the Christmas pie—at your convenience, Miss Thomasina.”

  “I’ll come straightaway.” Thomasina handed the ribbon to James. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. Rolling the pastry is one of our Christmas rituals, and I must play my part.”

  “We’ll hang the mistletoe,” James said cheerfully as she fled.

  * * *

  “You needn’t fear for Miss Warren’s safety.” James tied the red ribbon around the sprig of mistletoe.

  Tilson said nothing, seemingly absorbed in unpleasant thoughts.

  “Between the ghost and me, we’ll keep her safe,” James added.

  “The ghost…” Tilson grasped this possibility like a shipwrecked man on a spar in a raging sea. “It has been here for centuries, and no one has been able to drive it away. Surely it will be difficult, in fact well-nigh impossible, to get rid of it?”

  “Not at all,” James said unkindly. “I’ve dealt successfully with ghosts in the past, both as a boy at school and at my father’s estate.”

  Tilson’s face fell. “I see.”

  “And if Max should prove to be a truly evil spirit and unwilling to listen to reason, I am sure Brother Antoine’s exorcism will do the trick.”

  “Yes, that seems likely.” He frowned earnestly at James. “But for Miss Warren’s safety, perhaps it should remain.”

  “No, I’ll take care of her for the moment,” James said. “Unless you wish to keep watch here at night, as her affianced husband?”

  Tilson flinched. “We aren’t precisely affianced. She has not yet agreed to marry me.”

  “But how could she fail to do so?”

  Tilson began to look quite green. “Yes, indeed. I am an excellent match for her.” He sighed. “And her father has given me his blessing.”

  “Then you need not fear. Even if I should fail with the ghost, the exorcist will surely succeed.”

  “But she likes the ghost,” Tilson said. “Which is incomprehensible to me, but so is much about the Warren family. Why would anyone wish to cause a scandal? And yet they do so, with no consideration for those about them.”

  “True, they’re a selfish lot,” James said. “T
hey make their way by means of good looks and charm—which Miss Warren possesses in abundance.”

  Tilson whimpered. “I had hoped that by forbidding any contact with her disreputable relations, she would be safe from the taint. But it seems she is already affected.”

  “She is certainly a practiced flirt. Utterly delightful to a man without serious intentions—or with improper ones, perhaps.” James winked.

  Tilson paled and said heavily, “I fear—I am certain, rather—that saving her is beyond my power.”

  James waited to see how the suitor would solve his now desperate problem.

  “You are a man of the world, Mr. Blakely. It would be…unkind of me, don’t you think, to insist that the ghost be driven away?” Mr. Tilson spread his hands. “Seeing as Miss Warren wishes it to stay.”

  “And yet, what use is a house with a murderous ghost?” asked James. “It can neither be let nor sold. It is the one and only impediment to your marriage plans.”

  Tilson paced back and forth before the fireplace. “Miss Warren prefers it to the modern convenience of Tilson Towers. Perhaps she would be happier remaining at Hearth House.”

  “You would be willing to live here with a ghost?”

  Tilson shook his head. “I could not possibly do so.”

  “Ah,” James said, “then your path is clear. Sometimes, when one loves, a sacrifice must be made.”

  “A noble sacrifice! You are correct, Mr. Blakely.” He fumbled for his watch, muttered something about an appointment elsewhere, and scurried away.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re a genius,” Thomasina said. James had come to fetch her from the kitchen, with the welcome news that Mr. Tilson was having serious second thoughts about marrying her, and had already left.

  “No, I’m merely devious,” James said.

  “It’s scarcely dusk,” she said happily. “Usually it’s fear of the ghost that makes him leave.”

  “Tilson values propriety above all else. Under the spell of your beauty, he lost sight of that.”

  Thomasina blushed. How strange that the same compliment from Mr. Tilson would have angered her. From James…it was dangerous, because his opinion mattered.

  She pulled herself together and confronted the situation with practical eyes. “How clever of you to use my family’s reputation against me.” She should have thought of that herself. She’d spent so long pretending to be proper that she’d almost forgotten how not to be.

  “Think of it as my apology for not ruining you four years ago,” he said with a rueful grin. “Not that this quite makes up for it.”

  She blushed even more.

  “If Tilson returns tomorrow—although I hope he proves coward enough to reject you from a distance—we must make it clear to him that you are a true Warren. You shall prove yourself to be easily led astray.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her lightly. “In this instance, by me.”

  Was he suggesting what she had asked for so long ago—her ruin? Her heart began to thud.

  “I shall flirt shamelessly with you, and you’ll pretend that you cannot resist.”

  Alas, she wouldn’t have to pretend.

  Her heart sighed. James might be a devious, clever sort of man, but he was proper, too—in a way she could respect and understand. He wouldn’t suggest a course that was not only dishonorable, but would probably kill her father.

  Still, she would enjoy flirting with him. “Papa won’t like it.”

  “I will ensure that the blame falls on me,” James said.

  What? “That’s not fair! I realize that I can’t avoid upsetting Papa a little, but as long as he does not become enraged…”

  “Nevertheless,” James said, “the blame will be mine and mine alone.”

  Wisely, she didn’t argue. He was a man and therefore used to getting his own way—but in this instance, he wouldn’t succeed. Blame him, when he had already done so much to help her? Not a chance.

  * * *

  James wasn’t sure about the stubborn tilt of Thomasina’s chin—at least, not in this instance. He liked a woman to be decisive, but not in order to protect him.

  The more he thought about it, the more he needed to protect her—from Tilson, from Samuel Furbelow, from her father…and from himself.

  He wasn’t the same man as four years ago. He was ready for marriage, far more ready than he’d realized.

  She wasn’t. She didn’t wish to marry, and he should respect and honor that.

  But she was old enough to decide for herself whether to engage upon an affair of the heart.

  A vision struck him of lying in bed with her, naked and satiated, laughing over erotic poetry and becoming aroused again…

  He shook himself. “Will Max appear as soon as it gets dark?”

  “Yes, most likely he will patrol the wall all night, unless he sees someone in the house as a threat—you or Sam or Brother Antoine. Let’s go outdoors and wait for him, so I can introduce you.”

  They donned their outer garments once again and strolled in the garden, waiting for darkness to fall. They wandered between beds of herbs, past a well with a wooden cockerel on its roof, and a succession of cold frames. Strange how they had no need to speak, merely enjoying the wintry outdoors and one another’s company. The gathering clouds presaged another fall of snow.

  The perfect weather for languishing in bed with a beautiful woman.

  Damn it all, what was wrong with him? Even if he wanted to, it would be in the worst of bad taste to seduce Thomasina in her father’s house—unless he intended to marry her.

  He pondered his own father’s response, if he announced that he wished to wed Thomasina. Not enough of an heiress, probably. Or, the daughter of that old fool! Not that his father’s opinion would make one iota of difference, once James had made up his mind.

  She doesn’t wish to marry, he reminded himself. He was still engaged in an internal tussle when she said, “There’s Max!”

  She clutched James’s arm and pulled him into the orchard, where they wouldn’t be in full view of the house. The ghost stormed down the wall, spear raised as before, and came to a halt above them. “Quo vadis?” he roared.

  She pointed to James. “Amicus,” she said. “Or—or…amice!”

  The ghost was an impressive figure in his armor, a warrior with a powerful, echoing voice. He lowered his spear, but assessed James with a fierce, relentless stare. In Latin, he said, “It’s you again.”

  James raised an arm in salute. “Ave et salve, centurio.”

  The ghost snarled in Latin, “Why do you call me that? Do not ever call me that. I am no centurion and never shall be.”

  Hmm. Since Max was mostly likely a common solider, James had thought addressing him as centurion would be seen as a compliment. Evidently not…

  “Amice!” cried Thomasina again.

  “It’s all right,” James told her. “Just a…cultural misunderstanding, I think.” He tried again. “After patrolling the Wall for so very long, you deserve to be a centurion.” A clever recovery, if I may say so myself. What a pity Thomasina didn’t understand Latin.

  Good Lord, he actually wanted to impress her. What a fool he was—and how astonishingly serious about this particular folly.

  The ghost jeered. “I shall never be a centurion, but they cannot execute me again, for I am already dead. They cannot disgrace me. They cannot humiliate me and put me in chains. They cannot stop me from guarding the Wall forever.”

  He had been executed? Maybe he really was a murderer, or had been at one time. But he sounded more like a man pleading his innocence.

  James bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Decimus Maximus.”

  “Why?” the ghost scoffed.

  “Because I have never met a Roman soldier before, and because you are the friend of this lady, who speaks highly of you.”

  The ghost softened visibly. Suddenly, he smiled. “You have come for this maiden.”

  James cast a swift glance at Thomasina. What luck that she d
idn’t understand, for there was only one possible response, even if it was a lie.

  Except that it wasn’t a lie at all—at least not from his point of view. In the course of a few hours he had fallen wholly in love with her. He set that delightful thought aside for the moment and returned the ghost’s smile. “That is correct.”

  “You must win her.”

  “I shall do my best,” James said, meaning it.

  “Your best?” The ghost struck his spear on the wall, making a faint echo of a thud. “You will win her. There is no choice.”

  James bridled. Another obnoxious male trying to exert his authority over a female who was perfectly competent to decide for herself! “The choice is hers.”

  “Fool!” cried the ghost, stomping on the wall and poising his spectral spear.

  “Stop it, Max!” Thomasina pointed at James and said “Amicus!” again.

  “Coward!” roared Max.

  She grasped James’s arm. “He sounds dreadfully hostile. Why doesn’t he believe you’re my friend?”

  “He does, but we’re having problems communicating. It’s hardly surprising, given the fourteen hundred years between us.” He shouldn’t expect rational views, with which many men even now disagreed, from a man born in a barbarous age—but nor could he agree. He gritted his teeth and switched to Latin. “Times have changed since you were alive, Decimus Maximus. As I said, the choice is hers.”

  “Evil has not changed,” Max bellowed. “Danger lurks. Deadly peril abounds. Win her, craven barbarian, or—”

  He broke off mid-sentence, his spectral eyes deepening to black pits, and leapt off the wall with a howl of rage. Instinctively, James put his arms around Thomasina and held her close—but Max thudded past them.

  “The Evil One!” he cried.

  They turned, still clasped together. At the edge of the orchard stood Samuel Furbelow and Brother Antoine. The ghost lunged toward them, aiming his spear. “Die, accursed one! Die!”

  The monk cowered, crossing himself again and again, and fell backwards under an apple tree. Snow slid from its branches and landed on his bare pate.