Chapter Eleven
Lucy was still sitting at her dressing table, tidying up her toiletries, when she heard the knock. A jolt of something—anticipation? anxiety? surprise?—set her heart pounding.
But when she called, “You may come in,” her voice sounded calm and steady, as if a man entering her bedroom was an everyday occurrence.
Maybe it was, now.
“Somehow, I seem to have spilled dirty water all over my blankets,” Devlin explained.
Lucy’s heart sank. That was not at all what she’d expected.
“Really? How awful!” How on earth did such a thing happen?
She was afraid to ask, lest he think she was criticizing him.
“Should I ring for a maid to change the bedding?” She had no idea where the linen was kept.
She’d not yet had a chance to adequately explore the house.
“At this hour?” He lifted his brows. The flickering light of his candle cast sinister shadows on his face. “I suppose we could, but I’d rather not. I wondered if I might sleep here again?”
“Oh!” She ought to have guessed. Why else would he have come to her room? “Of course you may.” She tried to sound cheerful, but her hands were already beginning to sweat.
Lucy was painfully aware that she wore nothing but a nightgown. It was a thick flannel nightgown rather than a seductive bit of silk and lace, but she still felt terribly unclothed.
She waited until Devlin extinguished his candle before she approached the bed, hoping the cover of darkness might grant her courage.
She lay down and closed her eyes, but it was impossible to relax with a man lying next to her.
A large, warm, barely-clothed man who smelled of—she paused to sniff—citrus and spice.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
Lucy’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean?” She felt perfectly fine, apart from a surprisingly strong urge to bury her face against her husband’s shoulder so she could savor that scent.
“You keep sniffling. Have you caught a cold?”
The darkness emboldened her. “Not at all. I was only noticing the scent you’re wearing.”
“Scent? I suppose you mean my soap.” The mattress rustled as he turned to face her. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she replied, grateful for the darkness that hid her blush.
“I am glad to hear it. I would not want my wife to dislike the way I smell.” Amusement rippled in his voice. “Lord willing, you will have many future opportunities to appreciate that scent.” He waited a beat before adding, “Hopefully sooner rather than later.”
Lucy caught her breath. “Sooner, as in tonight?”
But why not? He smelled so good. And the kiss he’d pressed against her wrist this morning lingered in her memory. She wanted more of that.
“I did not mean that, but I cannot deny that I would enjoy it.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I have been wanting to hold you for ages.”
It should have sounded romantic, but Lucy could only giggle. “Ages?” she protested. “We haven’t even known each other a week!”
He chuckled, too. “And yet, a good deal has happened since our first meeting. For example, I am now almost completely convinced that you are not a ghost.”
She laughed harder. “Only almost convinced? What would it take to convince you entirely?”
Devlin put his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I have a few suggestions, but we might simply start with a kiss.”
Lucy broke into goosebumps. A kiss? “Yes, please,” she breathed.
Her husband cupped her face with one hand as he feathered a whisper-soft kiss against her mouth. When he drew away, Lucy twined her fingers through his hair and pulled him back down for a longer kiss. Whatever the future had in store for them, this felt perfectly right.
Neither of them noticed when the open door between their rooms swung softly shut.
*
The spirit who haunted Hethersleigh lingered just long enough to be certain that she’d succeeded in giving the newlyweds the nudge they needed. Once it was clear that things were taking their proper course, she sank deep into the bones of the old house, content to rest—for now.
The End