Chapter One
Miss Lillian Hall frowned to herself as she picked up the pair of white, silk slippers she preferred to wear, as they were the most comfortable on her feet. After months and months of dancing in London ballrooms, her poor slippers were beginning to look a little worn.
“I suppose I should save these for nights of dancing, do you think, and not use them all hours of the day?” she asked out loud with a sigh. “Since tonight is only a dinner, I suppose I can wear the blue ones.” Though she could only imagine how her feet would feel in a few hours and grimaced.
“Yes, miss,” a woman’s voice responded.
The season ended up not being a success for Lillian.
To no surprise to her, the British nobility did not like newly-wealthy Americans.
Father’s import business had provided the family with exceptional wealth and friendships with some of England’s most important aristocrats.
But the nobles’ mingling with Americans did not include wives for their sons.
Americans were good for entertainment purposes and nothing more.
To make matters worse, now it was October, and they were at their last party until returning home.
A party in the moors. At the height of autumn. English autumn.
‘Dreary’ did not do it justice.
Lillian pressed her forehead against her cold, foggy window as her lady’s maid finally chose the jewelry for her to wear to the first dinner of the multi-day stay.
“You are a lucky woman to be here, Miss Hall,” Bumble told her as the lid to the jewelry box shut with a thunk. Bumble was about the age her mother would have been if she were still alive. “I learned from the other servants that this is the event to be at in October.”
Lillian frowned at her strange reflection in the window glass. It was already ink black outside and had been for at least an hour. All she could see out there was mist and the ground directly surrounding the house, grass and wildflowers brown and dead. “Are you sure they are not toying with you?”
Bumble laughed as she slipped a sapphire necklace around Lillian’s neck and attached matching earbobs.
Her gray eyes held merriment. “They are not. I’ve been hearing about it for months now, in fact.
Every October, Viscount and Viscountess Inglewood throw an eerie party at their home in the moors.
Apparently, there is a ghost nearby and people come with hopes of seeing it. ”
‘A ghost’? Now that sounded fascinating, though Lillian didn’t believe in such stories. She straightened and spun around. “Really! Who is the ghost supposed to be?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. I’ve told you all I heard. Now, look at you. Oh, you are a picture of beauty.” Bumble pulled Lillian over to the mirror and clasped her hands together at her heart.
Lillian gazed at her reflection in the glass. Her dark hair shone, and she knew the sapphire blue of her dress would bring out the blue in her eyes. They were otherwise dark enough that they almost looked black.
“Don’t let the nobs get to you,” Bumble said as if reading Lillian’s mind. She crouched to put the blue slippers on Lillian’s feet. “You are tall and beautiful. That terrifies people.”
Lillian smiled at the compliment and nodded in thanks. “When you leave, please tell Father I will meet him in ten minutes.”
Bumble curtsied and left the room, bringing the small bit of merriment with her. The stale, damp air became stifling in her wake.
Lillian hurried over to one of the drawers of the vanity table. After rifling through it for a moment, she eventually found what she looked for.
A silver flask.
The room had a balcony and she hurried out to it, needing the fresh air.
Admittedly, these nobility parties made her anxious now, not excited like they had at first, and being at the very last event until they left to return to America, she felt worn down.
While she stood on the balcony, her heart raced and her hands shook.
She closed her eyes while listening to the morose whistling of the wind.
As she listened, she opened her flask, took a small sip, and relished in the burn, letting it soothe her nerves. Right as she went to take a second sip, though, the wind gusted to a howl and she thought she heard something amongst it.
The distant scream of a woman.
Lillian choked on the sharp liquid and began to cough violently.
“Blast it all, Miss Hall, are you well?” a man’s deep voice asked.
Still coughing, she spun around, trying to locate the owner of the voice and realized the neighboring bedroom had a balcony as well.
And right now, the Duke of Chalworth stood out there in a dark-burgundy tailcoat with matching velvet waistcoat and cravat.
A black top hat sat atop his head. Of all the luck!
With a frown, he somehow effortlessly lit a cigar despite the wind and while studying her intently with his light-colored eyes. He seemed to notice the flask but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he puffed on the cigar. Then grinned at her.
Irritation flared. “I didn’t realize you would be here.” He always seemed to be around.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss this party for anything.
” He puffed on the cigar again, taking his time to do so.
“I heard coughing and came out to see what all the ruckus was. Naturally, it was the American making noise.” He grinned again and it annoyed her how attractive he was.
A duke should have been elderly and priggish and ignored her at all costs.
Not that this one was young, but he was not geriatric, either.
And he was hardly priggish. He could be charming and had often asked her to dance over the season despite who she was.
His station intimidated her. Surely, he looked down upon her.
Bother all of it, that should hardly be front of mind right now. “Did you not come out because of the woman?”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms over a wide chest, cigar still dangling from his mouth. Despite the top hat, she could see the black hair turning gray, especially at his temples, reminding her he was twice her age.
Amusement sparkled in his pale-blue eyes as he pulled the cigar from his mouth. He blew out smoke once more, then snuffed out the cigar and set it on a small, wrought-iron table near the door. “What woman?”
Debating if she should tell him, she glanced out into the bleak expanse of the moors and wondered if he would find her mad. “I heard a woman scream, but I’m beginning to think it was the wind playing tricks with my mind.”
All humor fell from the duke’s face when she looked back to him. He pushed off the wall and came up to the stone balustrade closest to her, gripping it so hard, his knuckles turned white. A good ten feet gaped between them.
“Are you sure you heard a woman scream?” he asked quite seriously.
She placed a hand over her heart, his sudden change in demeanor alarming. “I—I don’t know.”
“Did you hear anything else? Like horses or a rattling carriage, perhaps?” He stared at her unblinking, his hands gripping tighter and tighter.
“No,” she said with a head shake, “I did not hear that. Or anything else. Aside from wind, of course.”
The duke moved to the side of his balcony facing the darkness. His jaw clenched tight. “It was screaming, you’re sure? It couldn’t have been another sound, like crying, perhaps?”
Fear slid through Lillian and she clutched her flask against her heart. “Maybe. It was so faint. And like I said, it could have been the wind.” As she said this, the cold wind kicked up again, this time causing the duke’s top hat to fly off and slam into the wall.
He turned, snatched it up, and shoved it back on his head. “Miss Hall, I would advise you to keep that observation to yourself.”
“Why?”
But not only did he not respond, he bolted back into his room without another look in her direction, his cigar left behind.
Lillian furrowed her brow at the duke’s strange reaction. Alone again, she glanced out to the yawning blackness. What could she have heard?
*
“His Grace, the Duke of Chalworth,” the gray-haired butler announced after a footman opened the door to the large dining room.
Another footman took the duke’s top hat for safekeeping.
The duke, more familiarly known as Quinton Winthrop, stalked into the dining room where the guests were to come together for the first time for the annual ghost hunting party.
Most of the guests had arrived before him, but a few empty chairs remained. Including the chairs at each end of the table.
To set the mood, only a few candles were lit upon the table, just enough to illuminate everyone’s faces with odd shadows, but not the room around them, so it appeared they sat in an unending darkness.
Apples descended from the ceiling from strings, making them look as if they floated.
Hollowed out, candle-lit turnips with carved faces glowed eerily in the middle of the long table.
Decorative wood branches with red autumn leaves still attached made it seem as if they dined in an autumn wood.
Tiny papier-maché ghosts holding name cards stood at each setting, and the porcelain plates had an autumn leaf motif around the edges.
Quinton found his setting near where the Viscount Inglewood would sit at the head of the table.
The seat directly to the duke’s right was also empty.
He read the name with a little glimmer of hope but saw it belonged to a Lady Appleton.
That would not do.
Quinton picked it up and circled the table, causing the low hum of conversation to stop as everyone watched him.
He gave proper greetings to all, getting only confused nods in response.
Finally, he found Miss Hall’s placeholder, picked it up, put Lady Appleton’s in its place, and returned to his seat to ensure his dining companion was Miss Hall and not Lady Appleton.