One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1) Read online

  “I’m here, my love,” Alastair whispered in her ear, his face so close to hers, all she had to do was turn her head to the side and she’d be able to kiss his cheek.

  “However did you recognize me?” she teased, though her voice was shaky and uncertain.

  “I sensed your presence before I even saw you,” he said, his voice low and gravely. “But when I did see you, I knew you were in trouble.”

  “It’s all a bit overwhelming,” she admitted.

  “I know.” He pressed against the small of her back, urging her to walk. “Come with me.”

  Alastair wasn’t about to let Daphne collapse in a heap on the floor in the middle of the party. He’d seen her standing there, in all her beautiful glory, dressed as a woodland fairy, and wanted more than anything to lay her down and make love to her right then and there. But then he’d noticed her chalky pallor and the vague look of panic in her eyes behind her mask. He knew that look from their morning in the stables.

  She’d seemed to relax at his touch, and her hand had stilled in her reticule. Now, as he led her away from the drawing room, toward a less populated part of the castle, he asked, “What was it you were looking for in there?”

  “Smelling salts,” she said. “Graham insisted I bring them, just in case.”

  “He’s a wise man, your brother.”

  “Would you be saying that if he hadn’t given his blessing for us to marry?” She turned her face up to look at him, a cheeky smile on her lips, and color back in her cheeks. Alastair released the breath he’d been holding at seeing her recover so quickly.

  “Most certainly not,” he replied. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Much better.”

  He led her toward the doors that led to the gardens. “Good, because you’re going to need all your strength tonight.”

  She stopped just before the doors and turned to him, her body so close and so warm, causing his member to twitch beneath his trousers. Damn, he couldn’t wait to marry her.

  “Do you think it will work?” she asked, and the look on her face nearly broke his heart in two.

  He wouldn’t lie to her, though. The chances of Callie returning to them tonight…well, he didn’t know what those chances were. No one did. And he’d never been much of a betting man, unless horses were involved.

  He put his arm around her neck, drawing her into him and kissing the top of her head. “All we can do is pray,” he said, for truly, what else could they do?

  The closer they got to midnight, the more restless Daphne became. The minutes seemed to tick by far more slowly than they usually did, and Daphne worried the time to draw Callie out would never arrive.

  But then, just when she thought she couldn’t take the waiting anymore, Lila tapped her on the shoulder and silently bid her to follow her.

  Daphne gladly abandoned her spot at the edge of the ballroom floor. She’d spent much of the night there, just near the doors to the verandah. Both Graham and Alastair thought it was the best place for her, so as to not get overheated or overset. They’d both checked on her periodically, and she’d even danced a set with Alastair, but for the most part, she’d simply watched everyone else dance while guzzling cup after cup of the punch that Alastair brought her.

  She probably ought to have used the necessary before now, but it was too late for that. Lila Southward and Sir Cyrus had come to retrieve her and take her to Brighid’s little garden just off the kitchens.

  “Has he seen her yet?” Sir Cyrus asked as they emerged out of doors.

  Chetwey stood by, his head going back and forth between Brighid, who focused upon the crystal, and Braden, who wandered about tossing seeds over his shoulder. Daphne didn’t know the purpose of any of this, but she prayed whatever it was they were doing worked.

  Chetwey shook his head, prompting Lila to point out that it was already past midnight.

  “It just turned,” Daphne replied, hopeful they hadn’t missed their small window to retrieve their friend.

  And then, just like that, Braden announced, “I see her!”

  “Where?” Brighid demanded.

  He reached out and then a moment later, dropped his arm. “She’s gone.”

  “Where is she?”

  Braden turned to them with certainty in his eyes. “The fountain in the gardens. Where we first met.”

  Chaos ensued as Brighid leapt from the ground and led them on a merry chase through the castle and into the gardens, heedless of the party guests in their path. When they reached the back doors, she led Daphne and the others to a small courtyard in the garden beside a stone fountain. A cold wind swept across Daphne’s exposed skin, and now she wished that she had not only relieved herself but had also retrieved her cloak from Bendle.

  Ah, well. No one ever said she had to be comfortable while trying to draw her best friend from the netherworld. But as the cold started to set in, chilling her to her bone, she couldn’t help but hope the process would be a quick one and that Callie would be back with them sooner rather than later.

  She looked toward the castle, wishing Alastair were with her. But they’d already agreed he’d stay behind, and only those necessary to the process would follow Brighid. He’d done his part last night; now it was Daphne’s turn.

  Alastair had done his best to distract the guests from the chaos Miss Glace and the others had caused on their way to the gardens, but it was no use. No matter how many times he uttered the words, “I’m certain it’s nothing,” no one seemed to hear him.

  Now he found himself with the crowd of people standing on the verandah, watching this strange ceremony play out. It was hard to tell what was happening from this far away—all he could say for sure was that they were standing in the shape of a triangle, and Brighid’s lips were moving rapidly in what he assumed was a similar chant to the one she’d delivered last night.

  One could have heard a pin drop on the verandah. The guests held their collective breath, and then—

  Alastair could hardly believe his eyes. A cloud of smoke began to swirl in the middle of their triangle. He felt frightened and hopeful all at the same time. Would Callie come back to them? Was Daphne safe out there? Or were they conjuring someone other than Callie? Someone sinister who was truly supposed to be dead?

  His heart raced as if he’d just run the length of Cumberland and back. And just when he was certain he couldn’t take it anymore—just before he barreled down the stairs to retrieve Daphne from this nonsense—a girl in yellow appeared. In flesh and blood, Callie stood in the middle of the triangle, looking whole and hearty.

  After a stunned silence, a cheer rose from the people around him, and it occurred to Alastair that they’d need some sort of explanation for what had just happened.

  “By God, what a splendid show!” he shouted, clapping loudly as he moved to the front of the balcony. “I’d heard Miss Glace had been working with an illusionist, but lud, I never expected this! Bravo!”

  Heathfield, who stood nearby, winked at him as Lady Flitwick, flanked by her friends Mrs. Lockwell and Lady Heathfield, whispered in his ear, “We’ll make sure no one knows the truth, Lord Wolverly.”

  Alastair looked to his friends—the husbands—quite shocked to learn they’d shared the story of the strange goings-on with their wives. Of course, only one of them needed to be persuaded, and he was certain these women were all aware of their persuasive powers. From there, it would have trickled down to the others. But thankfully, none of them seemed terribly fazed by the bizarre circumstances.

  “Thank you,” Alastair whispered back, his heart finally resuming a normal pace. “We are all forever in your debt.”

  No sooner had they taken their leave than he heard a sweet and familiar voice call his name.

  “Alastair,” she said from somewhere behind him, and he whirled to find Daphne standing at the far end of the verandah, so pale and beautiful in the moonlight.

  Although, as he neared her, it became obvious she was more of a frozen blue than a moonlight
pale. “My darling, you’re freezing,” he said, divesting himself as quickly as he could of his coat and throwing it over her bare shoulders.

  “Did you see?” she asked, clearly unconcerned with her own well-being.

  He gathered her in his arms, holding her close, breathing in her gentle scent. “I did, though I haven’t had much time to feel the relief I ought to.”

  Daphne pulled back. Her azure eyes blinked up at him, and he almost felt as if he were drowning.

  “Damn, but you are beautiful,” he said before she had a chance to ask whatever question was on the tip of her tongue.

  Color returned to her cheeks as she pushed them up with her smile. “Only because I’m dressed as a woodland nymph,” she countered. “I’m afraid tomorrow I’ll be back to plain Daphne Alcott, the doctor’s daughter, purveyor of rum butter.”

  “And wife to the Viscount Wolverly.”

  December 10, 1815

  With a fresh blanket of snow covering the ground, Daphne worried that her dearest friends might not be able to make it to her wedding. As a matter of fact, she worried she might not make it to her own wedding. But perhaps it was only nerves that made her worry so about everything. All that really mattered, after all, was that Alastair and the minister made it.

  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. She was certain she’d never looked so elegant in her entire life, and she owed it all to the man who was so irksome to her upon their first meeting. The memory of him following her back home that first afternoon caused a giggle to bubble to her throat. What a silly man.

  “Something funny?”

  Daphne swung on her tufted stool to find Callie standing in the doorway. Every time she saw her, even though it had been six weeks since she’d reemerged into the living world, Daphne breathed a sigh of relief.

  She reached her hands out, and Callie crossed the room. She took her hands and then knelt down beside Daphne.

  “You are the most beautiful bride that’s ever lived,” her friend said, and Daphne was forced to swallow over the lump that formed in her throat.

  “Well, perhaps for once you won’t outshine me.”

  Callie’s jaw dropped, and Daphne couldn’t help but laugh. “I have never outshined you. You’ve always been a prime article.”

  Daphne wasn’t so sure about that, but there was no more time to argue with her friend over who was the brighter diamond. “I suppose you’re here to take me to the church.”

  “Indeed.” Callie stood to her full height and then pulled Daphne up with her. “Your knight awaits.”

  Daphne’s worries had been for naught. Despite the snow on the ground, it seemed practically everyone had turned up for her wedding. She conceded it was quite the thing—a local girl marrying a viscount. Although, her two friends had already paved the way with their own weddings to members of the ton. One would think the town would be bored of such activities by now, but apparently not.

  As a simple, lilting tune played out on the pianoforte, Daphne walked down the short aisle toward her fate. There were no ghosts about to haunt them anymore. Only the sweet memories of her parents, who she knew watched her from above. The pains of the past were just that…the past. And today, with Alastair Darrington by her side, she would begin a beautiful journey toward love and light.

  THE END

  Jerrica Knight-Catania knew from an early age that she was destined for romance. She would spend hours as a young girl sitting in a chair by an open window, listening to the rain, and dreaming of the day Prince Charming would burst in and declare his undying love for her. But it wasn't until she was 28-years-old, tired of her life in the theater, that she turned her focus toward writing Regency Romance novels. All her dreaming paid off, and she now gets to relive those romantic scenes she'd dreamt up as a child as she commits them to paper. She lives in sunny Palm Beach with her real life Prince Charming, their Princess-in-training and their aristocat, Dr. Snuggle.

  Find me at www.jerricasplace.com

  Other titles available from

  Jerrica Knight-Catania

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  And Many More!

  For Shannon Orrill ~ Thank you for the use of your books, sharing the magic of Wicca and your friendship.

  ~Jane

  Blake Chetwey pulled his greatcoat close around him and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling together. With each bump in the road, his body protested in pain. Bloody hell! Now was not the time for another episode. Not that there was ever a good time, but he had been looking forward to the coming weeks and the party his hosts were planning. What healthy gentleman did not look forward to a celebration where young ladies might not wear undergarments?

  He groaned. He was far from healthy at the moment and could only pray that this episode was of a short duration. Malaria! That is what the doctor in Barbados had called it, and warned him that he would most likely have recurrent attacks, without warning and for no apparent reason, in the coming years before the disease had purged itself from his body.

  Blake turned his head to look out the window at the passing scenery. He should have had the driver take the road to Tolbright a few miles back. Beyond the small town was Torrington Abbey, his home for a good portion of his life, and the estate he would one day inherit from his uncle, the Earl of Torrington.

  He preferred to suffer through this episode in his own bed instead of the haunted Marisdùn Castle. Not that the abbey wasn’t haunted. Well, at least it was for a short time, but Blake never saw evidence of the rumored ghost to be roaming the halls either. And could he really consider the last haunting to be an actual haunting?

  “Do you really believe Marisdùn Castle to be haunted?” David Thorn asked from across the carriage.

  Had the man been reading his mind? Blake assumed Thorn was thinking about ladies without drawers. It was a favorite pastime of his. Blake simply shrugged. Who was he to decide if a place was haunted or not? A year ago he would have scoffed at the idea. Not any longer.

  “And, is it true that Patrick Delaney once haunted Torrington Abbey?” Thorn continued. “Or did you invent the entire story?”

  Blake groaned and glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. He should never have told Thorn or the others about what Delaney and his sister, Laura believed. If he hadn’t been in his cups following the races, he would never have breathed a word of their story. He didn’t understand it all, he doubted that he ever would. He certainly didn’t trust Brighid’s version of the events – that Patrick left his body and hovered near life and death.

  He snorted and returned his gaze out the window. Brighid Glace is a charming yet odd young woman. If Patrick had haunted Torrington for a bit, then Brighid truly was a witch, as he always accused her of being. It was well and good he didn’t truly believe in ghosts or witches. There was a reasonable explanation for all the oddities. He simply hadn’t discovered them yet.

  “Well, did you?”

  Oh yes, he had forgotten to answer Thorn. Why was he having such a difficult time concentrating? Could it be because he was so cold or maybe it was the headache he could no longer ignore? “You’ll have to ask Delaney.”

  “I’ll make sure Braden sends an invitation so I can find out for myself.” Thorn glanced out the window as the carriage began to slow. “I believe we are here.”

  Blake didn’t rise to see for himself. He knew what Marisdùn Castle looked like. As long as it had a warm room and soft bed he didn’t care if it was haunted by two dozen ghosts. They just needed to leave him alone so he could rest until this episode passed.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and a moment later the driver opened the door. Blake jerked away from the bright light that flooded the interior of th
e carriage.

  “You don’t look so well,” Thorn observed.

  Blake waved him away. “I just need rest.” He pushed himself to the end of the seat and tried to stand. His legs protested and his body screamed in pain.

  “Are you having an episode?” Thorn’s brow was marred with concern.

  He could only give a slow nod before letting his head rest against the squabs.

  Brighid Glace tied the strings of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I shan’t be long, grandmother.”

  “Where are you off to?” the older woman asked from her chair beside the fire.

  “I told you.” She offered the woman a loving smile. “I am to go into Ravenglass.”

  “I don’t know why you can’t go into Tolbright,” grandmother grumbled. She never liked Ravenglass and Brighid never understood why, except grandmother always claimed the people had strange ideas and superstitions.

  Brighid grinned. “We can’t get Daphne Alcott’s rum butter in Tolbright and I promised to bring Spikenard, Monk’s-Hood and Horehound to Mrs. Small at Marisdùn Castle. They have none of their own left.” She paused in thought. “I should really see about harvesting the remaining herbs before winter sets in.”

  The older woman frowned deeply. “I don’t see why they can’t gather their own herbs. Besides, Ravenglass boasts a fine doctor.”

  “They don’t have the time to tend the garden, nor anyone who has learned the use and preparation of medicinals since the Widow Wythe passed.” Brighid chastised. “Besides, they don’t wish to send for Dr. Alcott each time one of them has a slight cough or minor injury, and our family were the healers at Marisdùn Castle long ago. It is only right we continue to help when asked.”