Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(57)

They swept up the remains with as much dignity as could be mustered and laid them under a stone in the chapel floor. The vicar said a prayer.

And once the vicar had gone home, taking Miss Pelham and Izzy with him, Ransom was alone. He decided to honor the dead man in a different time-honored way. With heavy drinking.

He was on his second tumbler of whisky when he heard light footsteps traversing the hall.

“Is that a ghost?” he asked.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, remember?”

Izzy.

She walked the length of the hall. “Abigail decided she’d rather sleep at the vicarage tonight. I can’t say I blame her.”

“I can’t say I do, either.” He’d assumed Izzy would be spending the night at the vicarage, too.

But she hadn’t stayed at the vicarage. She’d come back to him.

His chest swelled with some unnameable, unthinkable emotion. He blamed the whisky.

She stopped by the hearth. “Why is the fire dying?”

“All the new servants left. No one wants to work in a haunted castle of horrors.”

“Oh.” She added wood to the hearth and gave it a stir with the poker. “What about Duncan?”

“Sent him down to the village pub,” Ransom said. “He needed a drink, and he’s not the sort to drink alone.”

“But he wouldn’t be alone. He’d be here with you.”

“I’m the sort to drink alone.” He tossed back another swallow. The earthy tang of whisky smoldered all the way down. “Why didn’t you stay at the vicarage with Miss Pelham?”

“She invited me. But I declined.”

“Not three hours ago, we found a dead man in the wall. And spent several minutes with him, in close company. You’re not frightened to stay here tonight?”

“Of course I am,” she said. “I’m always frightened, every night. You should know that now. But this is my house. I’ve waited too long for a proper home just to run away at the first—well, third or fourth—sign of unpleasantness.”

She drew up a chair. “And if I’m honest, there’s another reason I returned.” Her voice softened. “I was worried. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Good Lord. How was it that this woman saw the rest of the world through the gauzy filter of some fairy tale but had an eagle’s keenness when it came to Ransom’s shortcomings? No matter how small the weakness, now matter how he tried to hide it . . . she homed in on that vulnerability and latched onto it with talons.

She sat down next to him. “Finding that poor man’s remains . . .” He sensed her shudder. “Well, it shocked us all. But it seemed to truly unnerve you.”

It had. It had unnerved him greatly. Because it could have been him.

He leaned forward, letting his head hang toward the floor. Two hundred years from now, that could have been him. A wasted, forgotten sack of bones in this castle.

“I’ll have you know, Goodnight, you have been the ruination of all my plans.”

“All of them?” she said. “Really? That sounds like an accomplishment.”

“Don’t be so smug. There weren’t many plans left to ruin. There was exactly one plan remaining, in point of fact, which was to stay here until I rotted to dust.” He sat tall again and pushed a hand through his hair. “Then you came along.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve found the desire to live again, and it’s all to do with me.” Fabric whispered as she slid farther into her chair. “I wouldn’t recognize you.”

“For God’s sake. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Smile.”

“How do you know I’m smiling?”

“I can hear it. Hell, I can feel it. It’s all warm and sweet and . . .” He scowled. “Bah.”

She made a little crooning noise. “Oh, Ransom.”

“That’s even worse.” He lifted his shoulders, as if they could shield his ears. “See, this is why you’ve ruined everything. Just ask that fellow we found in the wall. For centuries now, a man couldn’t find a better place than Gostley Castle to shrivel up and decay. Not anymore. Now there are draperies and dinner parties. It’s insupportable.”

“Maybe,” she said gently, “this means you should return to London. Rejoin the world of the living.”

He shook his head. Return for what? There was nothing for him there.

He had no true friends. He’d never wanted them. He was the Duke of Rothbury, one of the highest-ranked and wealthiest men in England. He didn’t need to go courting acceptance, and anyone who tried to court his favor was a candidate for suspicion. They could only want something from him.

As for enemies . . . In his youth, he’d collected enemies like a boy collects shiny pebbles. If people hated him, at least he knew he came by that revulsion honestly. And it wasn’t as though his enemies could hurt him. He was invulnerable.

Right up until the moment he wasn’t.

Damn his eyes. Of all the injuries to incur. If he’d lost a hand, he could have done without. For that matter, he could have given a leg. Both of them. But unless he regained his sight, he could never manage his affairs unaided. Now he was a prisoner of his own youthful arrogance. Left alone, with no one he could trust.