Now, well…he still didn’t believe in ghosts. Even if he had given the ghostly rumors any credence, he wouldn’t have concerned himself much with them. The undead were far less terrifying than the living, and ghosts not the worst of the horrors that could haunt a man.
As for the White Lady, in her flowing white gown, with her pale face and trailing locks of white hair, she was nowhere to be seen tonight. Perhaps she’d chosen another castle to haunt.
Gideon’s lips curled in a bitter smile. Not that it would make any difference. The rumors would persist, regardless of whether the ghost ever appeared again. The White Lady was simply too delicious a tale for the villagers to relinquish her easily. There would be more sightings of this terrifying apparition who’d taken up residence in the woods behind Darlington Castle.
She was said to be colorless aside from her lips, which were a ghastly shade of scarlet red. Indeed, she’d been described in excruciating detail, even by those who claimed to have been struck senseless with terror upon seeing her. With such vivid detail, even the good citizens of Edenbridge who were inclined to doubt the existence of ghosts were convinced Gideon’s dead wife was haunting their village. They said she’d come to take her revenge on him—to make the Murderous Marquess pay for his monstrous crimes.
After all, someone had to.
Half the village had reported seeing her—the more fanciful half. Others claimed they’d seen a mysterious light bobbing amongst the trees. Gideon would have dismissed this as another rumor if his housekeeper, Mrs. Briggs, hadn’t confessed she’d seen the same strange light herself, as if someone were wandering through the woods behind the castle with a lantern.
Poachers, most likely, or pranksters intent on reviving the worst of the rumors and frightening his betrothed away. It wouldn’t work. Gideon had gone to a good deal of trouble to secure a proper mother for his four-year old niece, and he didn’t intend to give her up now.
After his prolonged absence from society and the ugly rumors attached to his name, he hadn’t expected London’s belles would be waiting breathlessly to receive his attentions. He was made to understand by their frigid glares and malicious whispers that most of the ton thought him guilty, but he was still a wealthy marquess, and there were those who were willing to overlook the rumors in favor of a title and fortune.
In the end, Gideon had secured his bride.
After more than a year of turmoil and grief, Miss Honeywell was like a sip of the finest champagne trickling down a raw, parched throat—light, sweet, and bubbly. If it was difficult to recall the taste once the bubbles had dissolved on his tongue…well, it hardly mattered. He wasn’t interested in a grand passion, and he didn’t believe in fairy tales, any more than he believed in ghosts.
Miss Honeywell was a beauty. If she’d had a title or a fortune or a less vulgar mother, she might have been considered a diamond of the first water, but he hadn’t chosen her for her pretty face. She appealed to him because she wasn’t a demanding young lady, or a complicated one. Her disposition was as bright and sunny as her hair, and she had a sweet, guileless smile. She’d be an affectionate mother to his niece Isabella, and that was all Gideon cared about now.
So, at the end of the next fortnight, Miss Honeywell would become the Marchioness of Darlington, much to her mother’s delight. Mrs. Honeywell was happy enough to overlook a murder accusation if it meant acquiring a marquess as her son-in-law.
He and Miss Honeywell would wed in the chapel at Darlington Castle, just as every Marquess of Darlington before him had done. But first he had a vengeful ghost to exorcise, unless he wished to bring his new bride home to a haunted castle.
Gideon drew in a deep breath of the frigid air as he passed through the formal gardens and approached the courtyard. The cold was sinking into his bones. The darkness was deep and penetrating, bleak in the way only wintertime in England could be, silent but for the murmur of water washing over the worn stones—
Plop.
What the devil? Gideon paused mid-stride, his eyebrow arching.
Plop.
Had he imagined the sound? He went still, listening.
Plop. Then again, a moment later, louder this time…
Splash.
He caught a movement in the darkness ahead, the arc of an arm, a flash of pale skin. A figure, too slight to be anything other than a woman, was poised at the edge of the stairway leading into the courtyard, tossing something into Darlington Lake.
She wasn’t one of his servants. Those who hadn’t abandoned him over the murder accusations had fled when a ghost descended on the castle. He’d recognize those who’d remained with him, and he didn’t recognize her.
This lady was dressed in a plain, dark traveling cloak, not a white gown, and her hair…well, Gideon didn’t have the faintest idea about her hair because it was hidden under her hat, but he didn’t see any trailing white tresses.
Either he had a second ghost—the Dark Lady, perhaps—or else a strange woman had wandered onto his property to assault his lake. Given the choice, Gideon would have taken the ghost. He didn’t care for spirits, but he cared even less for strangers. “Who the devil are you?”
She whirled around to face him, a gasp on her lips. She’d been holding something in her hand, but in her fright she let go, and it scattered at her feet. “I-I beg your…” she began, but her words trailed off into a choked whimper when she saw his face.
She wasn’t the first woman who’d shrunk from him in horror, but she was standing in front of his castle, beside his lake, on his grounds. Was he not to be allowed any peace at all, even in his own home? “You may beg all you like, but do it somewhere else.”
His voice was as icy as the bitter wind blowing off the lake. It wasn’t the sort of gentlemanly greeting that befitted a marquess, but he wasn’t obliged to be courteous to dim-witted chits sneaking about his property. Given the hostility he’d experienced at the hands of the villagers, the girl was fortunate not to find herself on the other end of his pistol.
Her throat worked for some moments before she managed to produce anything coherent. “But I-I’m Cecilia Gilchrist.”
Coherent, yes, but not illuminating. “Very well, Cecilia Gilchrist. Get the hell off my property.”
Her eyes went wide, but to his surprise, instead of scurrying off like a frightened rabbit, Cecilia Gilchrist held her ground. “But I…I’m supposed to be here. Mrs. Briggs is expecting me.”
He eyed her with suspicion. She wouldn’t know Mrs. Briggs’s name if his housekeeper wasn’t expecting her, but why was she creeping about his courtyard like a thief? “Am I meant to know who you are?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, not if you don’t choose to. That is, I suppose you may do whatever you please, being the marquess.” She offered him a tentative smile. “Unless of course there happens to be a duke about?”