Chapter 3
Chapter Three
This Lola—blast it, it wasn’t even her real name but one of Nana’s silly nicknames she’d come up with, just like she’d called him Bastian ever since he’d been in leading strings—anyway, that woman was everywhere.
Everywhere! There was no escaping her presence.
Nor her chaos.
She left a trail of crumbs, pillows, books, shawls, slippers, and crumpled paper in her wake that bordered on the ridiculous.
Once, he’d wanted to sit in front of the fireplace in the armchair, when he found a single stocking trailed over the armrest.
It was pale pink and decidedly feminine.
He picked it up with two fingers and inspected it.
It had a gaping hole in the toe.
The second stocking he found somewhere behind the decorative cushion on the sofa when he’d lain on it for a nap. The blasted thing had peeked out from underneath the pillow.
He found her slippers, one kicked under the table, the other near the window, half-hidden by the curtain. They were soft, made of kidskin. He held one in his hand and marvelled at just how small and narrow her foot was, just like a child’s.
Then he realized she must be running about the house barefoot.
He’d never encountered a female who was so prone to running about with her feet bare.
With a snort, he arranged her slippers neatly by the door and placed the stockings in a neat little pile next to them.
Then, on his way back to the sofa, his foot struck something on the floor.
A paper ball.
He picked it up and unfolded it. It was filled with pencil scribbles in tiny handwriting.
Entirely illegible, but why would that surprise him? Naturally, her handwriting would be illegible.
He squinted at it. …man in motion. Or was it mansion?
The full moon emerged from behind the clouds, stroking slowly over her creamy bare throat, gliding over the swell of her bosom, the rapid flutter of her pulse under her skin.
She trembled, awaiting his touch, sighing—Good heavens, what was this drivel? It was positively scandalous.
He wondered for a moment whether he should toss it into the fire, then decided otherwise, and in a moment of madness folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
The remaining papers he’d found in the room he flattened and placed on the table, after he’d perused each sheet.
They were full of werewolves, vampires, and other creatures. And the eternal full moon.
He frowned disapprovingly. It appeared they were right when they said that an excess of emotion, of romantic sentiment, caused the brain to rot. That was what one got when one read too much romance. This was proof of it. It must be.
Finding himself unable to take a nap, he stepped outside into the corridor, smack into Viola, who was interrogating the butler.
She stood, barefoot and in her nightgown, her hair streaming down her shoulders to her waist, her pencil in one hand, the notebook in the other, and scribbled eagerly, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth.
“Repeat that, if you please, Rawlinson. You said that according to the legend, the white lady appears exactly when?”
“On the twelfth after every full moon. Every time she appears, it is a portent of something bad happening. An evil omen of some sort. Meaning, death is bound to happen.”
Sebastian gaped at the butler. The normally so reasonable, level-headed Rawlinson surely did not believe in such nonsense?
“…omen of some sort,” Viola repeated, scribbling. “This is fantastic. Just the thing I need. The White Lady. Do you know more ghost stories like that?”
“Indeed, Miss. They say Hampton Court is littered with ghosts.”
She nodded. “That’s only understandable. What with all the ghosts of the beheaded wives.”
“Then there’s the Tower, too, Miss. It’s full of eerie ghostly apparitions.”
She sighed. “Ah yes. One really ought to be going to London to investigate it all.”
Her eyes fell on him. She pointed her pencil at him. “George said you studied in Oxford.”
He stiffened. “I did indeed.”
“George says Oxford is the most haunted city in all of Britain.”
“Tosh and nons—”
She stepped up to him. The scent of lavender filled his nose. He backed away.
“Tell me a ghost story. A good one.”
He took another step back. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
She followed him doggedly. “That’s not what I asked. I asked that you recount one of the many ghost stories you undoubtedly must have heard when staying there.” She tapped her pencil against his chest. He took another step back. She followed. “Well?”
He was trapped. Behind him was a side table with a Ming vase; next to him was Rawlinson, who nodded. “Yes, I have heard that too; ghosts abound in Oxford, indeed. It is well known.”
And in front of him was her.
Why had he ever thought her eyes were dark? They were deep chocolate brown with mischievous golden glints in them. Her lashes thick and creamy. And her mouth—
Her mouth was moving again.
He broke out in a sweat.
“…surely you must have heard something; it’s hardly a secret, and it matters not at all that you don’t believe in it. In fact, it is an advantage if you don’t because then the story is more unbiased, uncoloured by your own emotions.”
Her lips were light pink, a shade lighter than her tongue, which peeked out of her mouth again…
“Well?” Her unshod foot tapped against the floor.
“Oh, very well,” he burst out. “They say there is the ghost of Charles I haunting the Bodleian Library. Is that enough? Yes? Then kindly step back and stop invading my personal space.”
“Charles I. Bodleian,” she muttered as she wrote. “Anything else?”
“Yes, indeed. Now here is another horror too terrible to behold: a young lady, half undressed in nightclothes, no shoes, hair sticking out wildly in all directions, roaming about the corridor. Not at night, no. But in stark daylight, accosting innocent people with her presence. It is truly a terrifying sight.”
“…truly a terrifying sight,” she repeated as she scribbled. Then she paused, frowned, and tilted her head sideways. “You mean me.”
“Of course I mean you,” he growled. “Now kindly, kindly have the decency to dress yourself and appear halfway civilised before terrorising people in corridors. Some of us were raised with a modicum of propriety.” He stepped around her and tugged on his neckcloth.
“You are a menace to the entire household.”
A puce-coloured flush crept into her cheeks. Her eyes flashed. “I apologise if you find my appearance offensive, but then one could not imagine you’d ever do otherwise, prepossessing prig that you are.”
“I am not a prepossessing prig—”
She wagged her pencil in front of his nose. “Oh yes you are, and what is worse, you have no sense of humour at all. Not a single drop.” She paused, then added in a barely audible murmur, “even if you have fey eyes.”
He may have misheard the latter part. But what she’d said about him lacking humour, that stung. Of course he had a sense of humour; George would have attested to it. But when it concerned that woman, his wit seemed to abandon him entirely.
And what was worse, he was having a full-fledged row with her in the middle of the corridor, with the curious servants poking their heads out to see what the matter was.
Rawlinson lifted his head to study the woodwork on the ceiling as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
A footman stepped up to them timidly.
“I apologise for interrupting, sir, but your grandmother would like to speak to you.”
“Very well.” He gave her a curt nod and strode past her and the gaping domestics.
The best thing to do, he decided, was to avoid her company.
Except that was not so easy. For a while it worked that whenever she entered a room, he left it.
He also avoided her at breakfast. It was unfortunate that they both had the habit of rising early.
When he reached out for the door of the breakfast room one morning, and he heard her blithe voice chattering away with Rawlinson, he dropped his hand, pivoted on his heel and marched out through the entrance and straight to the stables, telling himself he’d prefer to ride before breakfast.
To clear his head. Besides, exercising before breakfast was healthy. Or so they said. It was cold and windy, and he did not enjoy the ride, particularly as his stomach growled. When he finally appeared in the breakfast room, tired, peevish, and put out, she had already left. Thankfully.
Then there were other days when there was simply no escaping her. When the weather outside was so bad that leaving the house was not possible.
One afternoon, she wandered into the drawing room with one pencil behind her ear, a second in one hand and a notebook in the other, muttering to herself, and plopped down next to him on the sofa before he could get up and leave.
He was trapped.
Only a minute later she got up again, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, she brushed past him, settled on the floor, right next to him, crossed her legs, propped her elbows on the low table before the sofa and continued scribbling.
Thoroughly put out, he barely lifted his head to nod at her curtly.
If he moved his legs, he would brush against her.
She continued scribbling.
He continued reading.
Except an hour passed, maybe two, and he was still on the same page. He’d been staring at his book for hours on end, discovering in the end that he had not read as much as a single sentence.
It was growing entirely too hot in the room, and he cursed Hawkins inwardly for having tied his neckcloth too tightly.
She, too, gradually seemed to lose her concentration as her scribbling slowed down, the pauses became more frequent, and she cast increasingly furtive looks in his direction.
He pretended not to notice and kept his nose buried in his book.
She cleared her throat.
He turned a page.
She cleared her throat again, this time louder.
He lowered his book and raised an eyebrow.