Merry Christmas, My Viscount by Emily Windsor

Author:Emily Windsor
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: 0
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Ghosts both past and present…

“Gather around, everybody.”

Lily sat where she was told, a comfortable chaise in the corner that was far enough away from the roaring fire for her complexion but near enough to feel its warmth.

After dinner, the Marquess of Winterbourne had led them all to the drawing room where comfortable seating was set in a semi-circle around the hearth. It all looked most cosy and she wondered if they were to tell jokes or roast chestnuts.

On another sofa sat Catherine and Sir John, and she speculated as to how Jack had managed to sit them together without Stretton causing a fuss.

Her speculation lasted until she heard the purring voice of Lady Sidlow. “Oh, Lord Stretton, that’s so fascinating,” the lady gushed with apparent honesty. “Tell me more of your family’s heroic deeds?”

Clever Jack, thought Lily.

He continued directing people. “Our hosts to the left and Asher – you are seated next to Lily.”

Sinful Jack. Matchmaking, devilish, sinful Jack.

The chaise felt too small. Asher’s body, although slender, was all muscle. She could tell by the way his breeches clung to his thighs when he sat, the material stretching and bulging.

Not that she was looking – her eyes merely happened to be at that level.

“If Henry could snuff the candles except for the one at the very back…”

Lily watched as the footman obeyed, the room growing darker by the moment. A tangible sense of excitement suffused the air, as everyone fell silent and gazed at tonight’s provider of entertainment.

A low stool sat before the hearth and Jack rested himself languidly upon it, leaning forward, his features satanic in the glow of the leaping flames. Lily shivered and found her arm brushing Asher’s. It really was a very small chaise.

Normally, the curtains would be drawn this late, but they’d been left open, the fast-moving clouds causing flashes of moonlight to flicker the room, and every so often, a sharp gust rattled the shutters.

The mighty Tudor fireplaces had struggled to combat the freezing easterly wind of the day, leaving people wrapped to their chins in shawls and blankets.

“Now,” Jack began, “I have a plethora of fables with which I could regale you tonight as this county of Northamptonshire is rich in folk law, mystery and a fair few…ghosts.”

Lily silently quaked. She wasn’t very good with terrifying stories.

From beneath hooded eyes, Jack peered out. “I have been asking all the locals–”

“Well, the barmaids and farmers’ wives,” interrupted Lucas.

“I will not be revealing my sources,” he replied, winking as shadows spilt over the blood-red hearth rug. “But I had to decide betwixt three tales that chill the heart and tremble the soul. Should I tell of the grey lady of Delapré, a shade who haunts that nearby abbey? Or perhaps the legend of Jack of Badsaddle? A stupendously named chap, no relation, who slayed the last wolf in England before meeting his mysterious end in the year of our Lord 1375 or…” Everyone held their breath and his voice deepened to silk. “A different tale.

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