Bound By The Christmastide Moon: Regency Novella Read online

  “Thank you.” He glanced down into the swirling tea, giving himself a moment to think before the impending questions about his lineage were asked. It was the way of things in England—it was not a man’s integrity or worth, but his family connections that meant everything. “Yes, I was blessed with a younger brother and sister, Slade—or Sladeston—and Sybil.”

  “I have an elder brother, as well. Adam,” Lady Mallory offered, bringing her cup to her lips. “He mainly resides in London and only returns home for holidays. We are not close.”

  She pressed her lips tightly.

  He wanted to smile, offer a measure of reassurance. Speaking of family, no matter the closeness, was a difficult thing. He’d often found himself giving too much information, or none at all.

  “While I am very close to my siblings, it is because it is only the three of us.” Silas would not mention that Slade had had an unfortunate run-in with Lady Mallory’s brother in London only a few short weeks back. Thankfully, word had not gotten back to the marquess, thus affecting his and Mallory’s betrothal. “And you, Lady Mallory, are you enjoying your stay at Tetbery Estate?”

  Silas was no stranger to uncomfortable, awkward conversations. It seemed every interaction with his mother, the Countess of Lichfield, ended in some odd utterance or proclamation. Once, for the brief period she’d fancied herself a sculptor, Mary Louisa had demanded her children refer to her as Charioteer. Many years later, the countess had taken to local superstitions and insisted the trio walk backward whenever in her presence.

  Shaking his head, Silas realized he’d missed whatever Lady Mallory had been saying.

  “…Miss Felicity Fields and her servants, as well.”

  “Very good.” At least he hoped that was the appropriate response.

  “Do give your family our felicitations on their upcoming nuptials.”

  He certainly would, as soon as his aunt acknowledged his existence—if that ever came to pass.

  “I’ve only seen Castle Keyvnor from afar,” she shared, a new light coming into her pale grey eyes. “The place appears menacing yet fascinating at the same time. I have heard—from both Miss Felicity and Tressa—that spirits roam within its vast corridors.”

  Spirits? Silas hoped his betrothed did not believe in the fallacies of ghouls, ghosts, witches, and curses.

  It was not as if Silas could speak of any hauntings within the castle walls. He hadn’t been permitted beyond the front stoop.

  “I only arrived in Bocka Morrow yesterday. I have yet to explore the castle in any regard.” It was not a lie. He had reached Cornwall the day before, and since the butler had turned him away, he’d been unable to sightsee on the property. At her crestfallen look, Silas continued, “However, when I do find the time for exploration, I will certainly keep my eyes and ears open for anything of an occult nature.”

  His answer seemed to satisfy her, and her smile returned.

  The woman would unquestionably do for his countess: demure and cultured, if a bit shy. And agreeable.

  Yet, something hinted that there was more to the woman. He watched her as she took a deep drink of her tea, her eyes closing briefly as she enjoyed the flavor—or possibly the soothing heat—of the liquid.

  Silas only need avoid shackling himself to a woman as flighty and fickle as his mother. Prone to emotional tirades and undeniable shifts in demeanor, his mother, while loved and cherished by all her children, had not been their provider. After fleeing England—and the control of his father—Silas, as a young child, envisioned a life of adventure full of marvelous, grand places and people. Instead, his mother had been content to stow her children in a one-room flat in a seedy part of Paris while she explored her artistic endeavors.

  Years later, Silas had pondered the true reasoning behind his mother’s flight from England. Had there been a man she thought herself in love with? Perhaps pursued a promise of a future together. When he’d asked, his mother had waved off his questions as she did everything. Her children’s hunger, their education, a sprained ankle in need of a doctor’s care—his questions were no more important to her than those.

  Meaning, there was aught that interested his mother beyond her own self-interests.

  Silas would not wed a woman like the countess.

  “Tell me, Lady Mallory, what hobbies have you?” he asked, setting his cup aside but keeping his intense stare on her. Even in her youth, it was said that his mother had such tendencies, and perhaps his betrothed would hint at similar interests, thus allowing him to avoid years of heartache before they commenced.

  Her back stiffened, and Lady Hettie let loose an unladylike snort.

  Did women in England not spend their free time in pursuit of hobbies?

  Truly, what hobby would he deem normal and not in keeping with a woman in possession of a capricious mind?

  Surely, needlepoint was acceptable. Even watercolors were a tolerable pastime. Though, a musical talent would be preferable to a love of oils or sculpting.

  At this point, it would only further tarnish his family name if he walked away from their betrothal at such a late juncture. The banns had been read, the match announced in both London and his local parish, and he’d even found his mother’s simple gold wedding band in his father’s desk at Ditchley Hall.

  When both women remained silent, Silas feared he’d overstepped some invisible boundary between cordial social call and intrusive interloper.

  He pushed to his feet, the stool thankfully remaining upright after his sudden action.

  “I think it is time I return to the castle,” he mumbled. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Lady Mallory. I look forward to our joining in the spring.” There, simple enough as goodbyes went. “Lady Henrietta, also lovely meeting you. I do believe you and my sister will take to one another quickly.”

  Neither woman moved from their seats on the settee as he bowed. In fact, Lady Hettie hadn’t so much as taken a sip from her cup, though she’d brought it to her lips several times.

  “You are staying at the castle?” she inquired, though her focus was on the cup in her hands.

  “Yes, until after my cousins’ weddings. Then I will return to my estate, or mayhap accompany my brother to London.” It seemed important he answer the woman’s question, though he owed her no response. “Safe travels to you and Lady Henrietta. I look forward to your arrival at Ditchley in the spring.”

  For a man who prided himself on knowing what was what, Silas could not determine with any certainty if he was or was not looking forward to Lady Mallory’s arrival at Ditchley. What he could say with all certainty was that despite this short time speaking with her, he did not have any greater understanding of the woman before him, or why she’d need resort to a union with a stranger coordinated by her father’s solicitor. She appeared like every other young woman he’d met since arriving in England.

  “Good day, Lord Lichfield.” Lady Henrietta pushed to her feet, her hunched shoulders making it impossible for her to reach her full height, though he suspected it was shorter than her niece’s. “Mallory and I wish you well. My brother, the marquess, and Mallory’s mother look forward to traveling to Hampshire when the time comes.”

  “My family will be honored to meet the Marquess and Marchioness of Blandford.”

  The door to the salon opened as if the servant had been waiting with his ear pressed to the wood in wait.

  “I will show you out, my lord.” The butler nodded toward the foyer, and Silas had little choice but to follow.

  Their meeting had done little to ease his trepidation regarding their coming nuptials.

  Chapter 5

  The door closed with a thump, causing Mallory to nearly leap from the settee, a splash of tea spilling over the rim of her cup, marring her cream glove. The liquid should have scalded her skin, even with the protective layer of fabric, but the droplets were only room temperature.

  How long had she, her aunt, and Lord Lichfield sat in the Tetbery receiving room?


  Glancing at the window, the dark blue drapes pinned back to allow light into the room, Mallory noted the sun had progressed high into the sky. The day was clear and would be unseasonably warm. Why were icy-cold tendrils of dread racing through her?

  Lord Lichfield was naught more than a stranger, a man her father had selected for her, without so much as meeting him if she’d heard the earl correctly.

  She had no ties to him. She owed him nothing. In turn, he was not indebted to her.

  It should not matter what her visions showed for his future.

  “My child,” her aunt said, taking the cup from her tight grasp. “What is it? What did you see?”

  Mallory swallowed. How could she tell anyone—even her most dear aunt—she’d lose her intended, likely before they were even wed?

  Her vision had shown a winter-kissed garden with a moon glowing from above, lighting the blossomless shrubbery sufficiently enough for Mallory to take in the scene.

  A shiver coursed down her spine, and her aunt leaned into her line of sight that was still focused on the window.

  “I have an awful pounding in my head.” Shaking off her aunt’s hold, Mallory stood, struggling to keep the room from blurring about her. “I think I will retire to rest. The journey from Blenheim Park must have me more exhausted than I’d realized. Do give my best to Felicity if you see her.”

  “You do not look well—“

  Mallory forced a weak smile. “I promise it is only my head. A spot of rest will have me feeling much improved.”

  Neither woman believed Mallory’s lie, and to be honest, she wasn’t concerned with disappointing her aunt. If anyone knew the hardships of their gift, it was Aunt Hettie. For many years, Mallory had watched her aunt fight through her visions and seek refuge in her solitary existence. She could not deny her niece the same recourse, especially if she were to keep her gifts hidden from her betrothed.

  In that moment, Mallory realized that Aunt Hettie’s fate, and the loneliness it brought, was not something she hoped to live with in her own life.

  “I will attend you at supper.” Her voice did not crack on the words. “We can speak of Lord Lichfield at that time.”

  “You worry me, my child.” The woman’s brow knitted as she stared up from under her heavily hooded lids, attempting to straighten her stooped back. “Tell me what you saw, and I can—“

  “I saw nothing…of import,” she added to assuage the guilt that surged at her continued deceit. “Until our meal.”

  Mallory leaned down, placing a quick kiss to her aunt’s plump cheek before she fled the room. She kept her pace sedate and even until she reached the main stairs. The front door was firmly shut, Lord Lichfield gone and the butler disappeared to parts unknown, freeing Mallory to expel a bit of her apprehension as she took the steps two at a time until she was racing down the deserted hall to her assigned room.

  The door closed without a sound.

  The click of the latch falling into place seemed to open Mallory’s airways, blessedly allowing her to draw in a deep breath. Concentrating on the rise and fall of her chest, constricted by her corset and tight bodice, Mallory’s heart slowed its frantic pace. Her headache receded, and she clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides.

  She hadn’t been affected by a vision in this manner since she’d seen her father’s end in a particularly vivid revelation when she was but eight years old. The startling occurrence had rocked Mallory to her soul. No child should see their parent perish, even if only in a vision. Though the same could be said for a father learning of his impending death from his offspring.

  That was the day her brother, Adam, had labeled Mallory a curse, a hex, and a blemish on her family. A lump formed in her throat at the memory. It was the day she’d been sent to Blenheim Park, separated from her father, mum, and brother, to live with her addlebrained Aunt Hettie.

  However, as it turned out, Aunt Hettie was far from senseless. For if she were crazy, that meant Mallory was also afflicted with the crux of insanity.

  Mallory did not feel dull or senseless.

  In fact, her visions were usually clear and precise.

  All too vivid and accurate for her family’s liking.

  Her breathing returned to normal at last, and she moved to the window thinking to push it open and allow in a cool breeze. Perhaps it would also clear her mind and give her some idea of what was expected of her. Rarely did she keep her visions to herself when they so evidently impacted another.

  But death…that was not an omen she easily shared.

  She’d only been presented with such life-changing visions on two previous occasions: her father’s death, and that of Felicity’s guardian, the countess. She’d spoken of it to her father and had been sent away. Mallory had been wise enough to keep her knowledge of the countess’s sudden passing from Felicity, and she’d felt immeasurable guilt since. Felicity, had she known the end was near, could have taken better advantage of her time, perhaps planned for her future in a more sensible manner.

  It was not Mallory’s choice to keep her vision from Felicity, but the countess’s. She’d been right, though. Her dear friend was burdened by many deaths in her life, and the countess hadn’t seen the need to speak of it to her ward.

  Aunt Hettie had agreed, and Mallory had promised to remain silent on the matter.

  That had been during their visit the year before.

  Mallory sighed and released the cord holding her window shut and the winter cold out. The sky was as it had been earlier, without a cloud. The trees in the distance swayed from the wind coming off the ocean. In the distance, Castle Keyvnor stood high and proud along the cliffs, ancient, mysterious, but also, in an odd way, welcoming. Could it be the ghosts—and other less human entities—drawing her to them? Did her special gifts align her with others of her kind?

  Perhaps Aunt Hettie and her companionship was not enough to soothe her ragged soul.

  Male voices drifted up to her second-floor window, and Mallory leaned forward, expecting to see the Tetbery Estate’s groundskeeper or a groom, but she quickly leaned back inside when she glimpsed Lord Lichfield below. Inching out to peer over the window ledge again, Mallory saw he spoke with the duke. Both appeared at ease, as if they’d met before and conversed about something, but their voices were not loud enough for her to discern what they spoke of.

  It was not impossible Lord Lichfield was acquainted with the Duke of Wycliffe.

  England wasn’t an overly large country, as it were, and London could be downright stifling with people, or so Aunt Hettie had proclaimed numerous times over the years.

  She watched as both men chuckled, Lichfield throwing his head back, allowing his mirth to travel up to Mallory above. She couldn’t help but think her betrothed was not one quick to laughter. When their chuckles halted, Lichfield ran his hand through his wayward, onyx curls. She wondered if his hair would be of silky softness or coarse to her touch.

  Her stomach fluttered at the thought of running her fingers through a man’s hair—that it was her soon-to-be husband only caused her pulse to race once more. Mallory was uncertain what she’d expected to happen when they met. Seeing his death was as startling as the realization that she found him pleasing to the eye. Had she ever thought a man handsome before?

  Perhaps, there had been a groom or footman at Blenheim Park she’d fancied herself smitten with, but rarely did she make the acquaintance of a proper lord.

  The Duke of Wycliffe was a decent enough man, yet she hadn’t imagined her fingers in his light brown hair.

  The sound of horse hooves signaled that Lord Lichfield’s mount had been brought round, and he would soon depart for the castle and his family.

  Mallory risked being spotted as she moved ever closer to peer down at the men.

  With the swiftness of a man used to horsemanship, Lord Lichfield mounted his horse and waved farewell to the duke.

  However, instead of going toward the castle, he maneuvered his horse in the opposite direction. But
that could not be. He’d stood before her and claimed he needed to return to the castle.

  Mallory glanced back in the direction of the sea cliffs as unease settled over her.

  Why had he lied about his intended destination?

  They were not wed, only betrothed.

  Until they joined as husband and wife, the earl had little need to share anything of his daily comings and goings with her. In fact, even after they wed, it was not her business to question him on such matters. As her father was wont to say, men—lords especially—were challenged with duties and responsibilities mere females could not possibly understand.

  Certainly, Mallory did not believe a word of it.

  She stood at the window and kept her focus trained on Lord Lichfield as he rode at a leisurely pace away from Tetbery Estate.

  Her mother, the marchioness, might be resigned to such old-fashioned ways of thinking, but Mallory was not.

  The earl had lied to her. Looked her directly in the eye and told a falsehood. But to what end?

  Was this the stepping-stone to what would eventually cause his downfall?

  Her aunt was correct: Mallory had no obligation to inform Lord Lichfield about her vision; however, she did have a duty to keep the man alive, at least until after they’d wed. If she remained unwed, the prophecy of her aunt’s vision would be undeniable.

  Mallory would forever more remain a spinster.

  No home to call hers.

  No family of her own.

  Forever at her brother’s mercy.

  Without another thought, she collected her cloak from the wardrobe and rushed from her room, down the servant’s stairs, and out the back door by the kitchens to the stables beyond. Blessed was she that her dear friends, Felicity and Tressa, had spent so many years showing her ways to get around Tetbery without being noticed. Even if her aunt or a servant caught her, Mallory had no intention of slowing down.

  She needed to follow Lord Lichfield and discover exactly why he’d lied to her…and what else he hid from her.

  She crossed the garden quickly, the early-afternoon wind catching her curls and pulling them out behind her as she ran. By the time she reached the stables—and the warmth within—she’d slipped her arms into her cloak and was fastening the buttons.