Alarm shot through Bea. "An end? In what manner?"

"When the warlock cursed me, he allowed me one night each century to steal my fate back, if I should be so fortunate. One moment, at the stroke of midnight on All Hallows' Eve, during which I may claim my bride whether she agrees to it or not."

"What do you mean?"

"For four hundred years, dozens of maidens have lived in my castle, visited it, taunting me with freedom from this waking death, yet never once agreeing to give me the keys that would unbind me."

"Well, you cannot blame them," she said as evenly as she was able.

"But I can desire them. Desire what I want above all else."

"A living woman?" Tip growled.

"No. The freedom to die."

"To die?" Bea's heart sped. "You mean, when you finally marry a maiden you will-"

"Be no more. Travel to the bowels of Gehenna and cease to exist. At long last, blessed damnation will be mine."

Bea's hands trembled. It felt wonderful and awful at once. But being alive should be just like that. It should be pleasure and pain, both of which she rarely ever felt. Like Lord Iversly, for years she had lived a sort of half life. No wonder this journey seemed like an adventure. She had not really lived in so long, and it was glorious to finally feel something other than disparagement, dullness, and constant disappointment.

"And your wife?" she asked, an undeniable tremor in her voice. "What will become of her?"

"Bea." Tip's hand touched the small of her back, spreading warmth through her.

Abruptly, she hated her body's reaction to him. It felt like a betrayal. She didn't want to feel alive from his touch. She wanted real life-heart and body together-not the same hopeless yearning she had nurtured for years.

With firm resolve, she stepped away from him toward the lord of the castle.

"What about your bride, Lord Iversly?" she repeated.

"She, unfortunately, will die."

Her breath failed. "Die?"

"You cannot do this to an innocent woman, Iversly."

"I can, and I will. Spend four hundred years in lifeless exile, lad, watching warm bodies share their flesh like rutting animals, not knowing what true unity means, what they could have were they to understand, and then accuse me of villainy for wishing to be free of that torment." His tone menaced. "I dare you."

"But must she die, truly?" Bea said quickly.

"Not if she comes to me willingly. If she awaits the midnight hour, however, she will suffer her fate." Light seemed to flicker in his coal-black eyes, almost like a spark. "Would you consent to becoming my bride, my lady?" His tone was thin again, laced with anguish.

"What would happen if I did consent?"

"Bea-"

"What would happen, Lord Iversly? To me?"

"We would both continue as I am now, never dying, but together. No longer alone." His voice seemed to plead, dark and deep and alluring in its danger, sending shivers from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.

"Get out of here, Iversly," Tip ground out. "Now."

The ghost stared at him, the sunlight oozing through him like mist. His gaze returned to Bea.

"Consider it, my dear. We could get along well. With you, I believe, I would not despise eternity."

He vanished.

Bea swallowed jerkily, and took a few quick breaths, but she felt astoundingly giddy and a bit dizzy. She clasped her shaking hands together.

"Is he gone?" Tip's voice grated.

She nodded.

He came to her side and grasped her shoulders firmly, pulling her around to face him.

"You wouldn't do it, Bea. Would you? To save Lady Bronwyn?"

Her eyes went wide. "Of course I wouldn't. What on earth-? Do you think me mad?"

His gaze swept across her face, his eyes bright and, it seemed, bewildered. "You seemed so intrigued. And you- you-" He broke off.

Bea shook her head. "Well, whatever you obviously do not wish to say, I am not out of my mind." She shrugged out of his grasp, her feelings tangled. He could not look at her like this, with anxiety and intensity in his eyes, and not care for her a little. But she knew that already. They were friends, just as he had said earlier. Friends, and he did not wish to see his friend give herself to a ghost for eternity, of course. Just because his touch turned her joints to liquid didn't mean a thing. Her longing for him was her curse, her own living death.

She tried to speak evenly. "I merely wish to learn as much as we can so we have more information to work with."

"Are you certain you don't wish for more than that?"

"Yes, I'm certain. I don't want to be a ghost for eternity. What sort of person do you think I am?"

"One who seems extraordinarily interested in the details of this curse, not to mention in that scoundrel."

"Of course I am." She gave her indignation rein. "I intend to help Lady Bronwyn escape her fate."

Tip's color seemed higher than usual, his stance tense, as though he labored under powerful emotion too. Astonishment? Mounting anger, like hers?

Bea swallowed back the thickness rising in her throat. Here was proof. He could feel strong emotion, simply not the sort she yearned for him to feel for her.

"It is our best chance to ask as many questions as possible," she managed. "Then something useful might suggest itself to us." She moved toward the door. "Lady Bronwyn's grandmother lived here for many years before Bronwyn came to be with her last summer. Perhaps she knows something of the things Lord Iversly spoke of earlier, the maidens who have come through the castle but who have not been trapped here, and the w-warm bodies."

Her cheeks burned, but she could not allow it to bother her. There was a mystery to be solved, a life to save, and it helped distract her from Tip's changeable mood now and the sense of hopelessness washing over her. "Perhaps there is some clue we can deduce from that."

"You are enjoying this drama, aren't you?" His voice halted her. It was strained and hard, entirely unlike him. "Playing the part of an amateur Bow Street Runner. Who will you question next, Bea?" He sounded very strange. "The milkmaid, or perhaps the vicar? Vicars always have a lot to say since they know everyone's business, I understand, although he might be somewhat put off by your line of questioning. Vicar, can you tell me how many virgins remain in the village, and if any of them have ever been to the castle?"

Bea's back stiffened. "That's lovely, my lord. It is really no surprise that all those doting mamas and young ladies in town find you so charming."

"Perhaps they bring out the worst in me," he snapped.

Bea gaped. He had never spoken to her in that tone before.

She clenched her teeth. "Do you think so?"

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "This conversation isn't going anywhere," he said tightly.

"Then I will. I have work to do."

Suspicion glinted in his emerald eyes. "Off to have another chat with him?"

"Who?"

"Your admirer."

Bea lifted her chin. "I believe you are jealous, Peter Cheriot."

"That's ridiculous. Why on earth would I be jealous?"

Her eyes opened wide, her stomach sick again. "I thought I had left Mama behind on this trip. But I see she is here after all, though in clever disguise."

"Perhaps she ought to be here. At least she would recognize the impropriety in your salacious interest in the details of this curse."

"Salacious?"

"Would you prefer prurient?" His voice rose again.

"Because I wish to get to the bottom of this?"

"Because you are clearly taking great pleasure in the minutiae of it."

"You sound like a prude."

"I beg your-" He blinked. "Blast it, I do." But his voice was still stony.

She tilted her head, molten energy pulsing through her veins now, anger surging ahead of helplessness.

"You are not a prude, are you, Tip?" Her words stung her tongue, but it felt good to finally give him back some of the teasing he'd always served her.

"Bea . . ." he warned.

"I cannot see why you would not answer me unless you are one. Are you, then?"

"Most certainly not," he said in strangled tones.

"You still sound like one."

"And you, missy, sound like a doxy."

"So? What does it matter how I sound, closeted in Yorkshire all the time as I am? Do you know what?" Her mouth formed words without thought before them. "I think you are displeased with me now because you are shocked to discover my true character. Who I truly am."

He merely stared.

"You cannot disagree," she said, a wretched quaver in her voice. "See? It's true. You ride up to York when it pleases you to escape whatever concerns you have at Cheriot Manor or in London, or to see Nancy and Lord Marke. You amuse yourself, then you leave the moment you see or hear something you don't like. You never stay long enough to hear more. You might learn the unpalatable truth, then, mightn't you, Lord Cheriot?"

"For your information, Miss Sinclaire, I have never heard or seen anything I dislike when I am in your company." His voice was very low. "Except of course for your repeated refusals of my requests for your hand, which by the way is no small reason for a man to decide it's high time he bring his visit to a close. You are speaking nonsense." But the peculiar gleam in his eyes suggested he knew perfectly well that she was not.

The truth hit Bea with the force of a storm. She stepped back and her words tumbled out.

"Why do you come to Hart House, Tip?"

He seemed taken aback, then his eyes darkened. "I should think that would be perfectly obvious by now."

"It is obvious why you believe you come." She pulled in a harsh breath, screwing up her courage. "But now you may be relieved of your efforts, my lord. You needn't visit again. I pray you, do not. The girl that you believe would make a comfortable wife does not, in fact, exist. She never did. I do. A prurient, amateurish Bow Street Runner with the speech of a doxy who is thrilled, thrilled to be trapped in a dark castle with a bona fide ghost. I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you." The sarcasm slid across her teeth, cold and metallic, but her words trembled.

He stared at her, shocked comprehension suffusing his handsome features.

Bea's heart felt like it imploded. It was true, what she had suspected for years but never wanted to believe entirely. Now, looking into his eyes, she saw that he realized his mistake.

She whirled around and fled.

November 3, 1821 Great character and sense.

Great character and sense.

He thinks I am a girl of great character and sense.

I already knew he thought this of me. It is no surprise whatsoever. It is the very reason I could not accept him today, cannot ever accept the thing I want most in the world. He sees me submit to Mama, perhaps believes that I refuse him because of her dependency on me and my dedication to her happiness. He knows me to be generally content with my lot in this remote corner of England. Thus he concludes that I have great character and sense.

Sense-most certainly not.

Character-I am inclined to doubt.

He has no notion of who I am. No notion of the woman I would be if I could. No notion that I long to be loved the way Georgie is loved, the way Sylvia is loved, the way Nancy is loved. I am practical, sensible Beatrice, serving her mother quietly and steadfastly without complaint, who would serve a husband well in much the same manner.

To be entirely fair, he is not alone in holding that impression of me. Two other gentlemen have asked for my hand, assuming much the same thing. These pages record it, just as they record my refusals. Each professed his admiration. But they were not him.

Diary, he does not know me at all. He has no idea that I long for a towering castle, a wicked count, a dashing hero, and a happy ending. He has no idea that I long for him.

I could tell him, but it would not change him. That, of course, is my true weakness of character.

Is this pride? Perhaps vanity?

No. It is an aching heart. Empty and longing to be loved, adored, and cherished. Not merely required.