August 6, 1822 "Won't you marry me, Bea, and have over with these ridiculous refusals? It begins to grate on a fellow."

This constituted Lord Cheriot's highly intimate and wondrously gallant proposal of marriage to me this afternoon.

Can I be blamed for declining? I don't understand why he won't leave me in peace and go bother some other wretched spinster-in-the-making. Or he might even try proposing to a lady who deserves his oh-so-charming nonchalance. I have it on excellent authority (cousin Amelia spent the season in London) that he is considered a prize on the Marriage Mart. Of course he is. He admitted to me today, however, that he is weary of town. Little there interests him, he said.

Sometimes he looks at me very oddly. Then he speaks of light matters, a glimmer in his teasing eye, and my heartbeats slow again to nearly regular speed. Never entirely, though. My heart beats for him.

It will always beat for him, no matter how shabbily he treats me. I am horrified to admit this.

I should accept him once, merely so that he will suffer a touch of the misery he thrusts upon me each time he asks. What a surprise that would be for him! And a terrible awakening. Ah ha! Perhaps next time, Diary, if I am courageous (and if there is a next time), I shall. But then I would be obliged to cry off afterward. Or to marry him.

I suppose it would not do to accept him, after all.

CHAPTER THREE.

Bea frowned. "Thomas, we are already here. This is not necessary."

Her brother fixed an irritated look on her. "I can't expect you to see the right of it. Only a girl of real understanding, like Lady Bronwyn, would-"

"That is enough, Sinclaire."

Thomas's gaze shot to Tip, momentarily repentant. Bea's remained averted, but pink colored her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Bea, I didn't mean to be unkind," Thomas said, too begrudgingly for Tip's taste. But it seemed to mollify his sister. She set her slender hand on her twin's arm again.

"Thomas, what on earth leads you to believe that a ghost haunts this castle?"

"He doesn't precisely haunt the entire castle. Only Lady Bronwyn." His face grew stormy. "He intends to marry her."

"To whom?"

"To himself!"

"Oh, I see." Bea's hand dropped.

"You don't look as though you do." The petulance had returned to Thomas's voice. "I tell you, Bea, this blackguard says he'll haunt her until she promises to wed him."

"A ghost, Thomas?" Her smooth brow creased again. "How can a ghost marry anyone, let alone a living woman?"

"I'm certain I don't know," he admitted. "But he intends to do it."

"How do you know that?"

"He told her, of course."

"He did? That is interesting. And why doesn't Lady Bronwyn simply leave?"

"At first she chose not to leave because her grandmother is too frail and can't relocate. But when she finally attempted escape, he wouldn't allow it."

"How singular."

Thomas crossed his arms in an attitude of exasperation and looked across to Tip. "What do you think of this, Cheriot?"

"I admit . . ." He paused. "It strains credulity."

Bea's lips quivered, but her cheeks remained bright. Feverishly so. Her soft eyes too. She looked peculiarly agitated and astoundingly pretty.

Tip's mouth went dry.

"Well, I believe Lady Bronwyn," Thomas said staunchly. "What's more, I've heard him speak."

"You have? You've really heard him?" Bea's fingers twisted together, her quickening breaths now apparent through the slight movement of her lovely breasts. "What did he say?" Her voice was a wisp of its normally even tones.

Unthinkable. Beatrice Sinclaire's voice did not waver. Ever. Except, perhaps, once. On the third of November, 1821. Tip would never forget it.

And now again.

He stared at her, thoroughly transfixed.

"He wasn't speaking to me at the time," Thomas said. "He was telling Lady Bronwyn that she wouldn't require a bridal trousseau." He glowered. "He enjoys taunting her."

"Gracious me. He sounds beastly," Bea said, her tone nearly level again. Tip released a slow breath.

"He's an awful beast," Thomas said forcefully.

"Why did he choose Lady Bronwyn, Tom? Why is he haunting this castle, and her in particular?"

"He was once lord here, hundreds of years ago."

"Hundreds?"

Thomas nodded. "Seems so, though only briefly. Then he was cursed."

"Ah. He is not merely an ordinary run-of-the-mill ghost," Tip said, leaning back against the doorpost. "He must be cursed as well." He lifted a brow and withheld a grin. "Intriguing."

"Yes," Thomas said peevishly. "The curse requires him to remain at Gwynedd Castle until he finds a bride who will marry him. A living woman."

"Dear me," Bea put in. "What did he do to deserve that fate?"

"Isn't clear. He hasn't been straight with Lady Bronwyn, and he won't speak to me at all."

"Did he speak to Whitney?" Tip inquired mildly.

"Yes. He told Charlie to sod off, so the bottomless looby did."

Tip could not prevent himself from grinning. Thomas was only five years his junior, but he wore his emotions on his sleeve like a lad of ten.

"Thomas," Bea said quietly. "Must you speak in such a manner?"

"Apologies, Bea," he scowled.

"Your sincerity no doubt touches your sister," Tip murmured. Bea's gaze shot to him, her feathered brows drawn.

"Thomas." She looked back at her brother. "If Lord Iversly has been trapped here for so many centuries, why hasn't he yet had any luck in finding a bride?"

"Would you marry a ghost?" Thomas asked incredulously.

Bea's cheeks glowed even brighter, and quite abruptly, pretty became stunning.

Tip's breath shortened. He had never seen her features suffused with so much feeling. With him she laughed, quipped, and demurred gracefully. Now passion was all over her face. Good Lord, merely watching her blush tightened his breeches uncomfortably. Now who was the boy?

"No, of course I would not marry a ghost," she replied slightly unsteadily. "But you and Lady Bronwyn said he only just returned to the castle. Where has he been?"

"Sleeping, apparently."

"What do you mean, sleeping? Ghosts sleep?"

A simple, rational question. Tip hoped this lasted. Her cool, measured sense he could manage well enough.

"I don't know if his sleep is like ours," Thomas said, as though indeed discussing a rational subject. "But he went away for a time, not leaving the castle mind you, but not bothering the inhabitants for quite a few decades, apparently. Nearly a century, in fact."

"Really?" She seemed intrigued again, her dark eyes sparking with keen interest. Tip took in a slow pull of air. "Why did he wake up, as it were?"

"Well," Thomas flickered an uncertain look to Tip. "You see, the curse has a stipulation."

"What is it?" Bea asked.

"It seems that Iversly must marry a maiden," he spit out the words.

Silence followed this revelation. Finally Bea spoke.

"A maiden?"

"You know, Bea." Thomas rubbed his brow. "A virgin."

"Yes, Tom, I know what a maiden is," she said in a low voice. "Intimately." Her gaze slid to Tip. Now even her lips looked pinker than usual. Nearly red. Shapely and full. Beautiful to the point that the fly of his breeches was not in the least bit suitable for public.

Tip nearly had to turn away, but the door opened behind him and Lady Bronwyn entered, calling Bea and Thomas's attention. Bea seemed to study their hostess with renewed interest.

"Oh," Lady Bronwyn said, "now Lady Marstowe and Miss Dews are settled, with a nice hot pan and a pot of tea and biscuits. Cook bakes the tastiest ginger biscuits. You must have some, Miss Sinclaire. Oh, may I call you Beatrice?"

Bea nodded with a gracious smile.

"Oh, Beatrice, we shall have so much fun now that you are here! I cannot go beyond the estate boundaries, but still there are the stables, and picnics to be had if the weather clears, and the gardener cleared walking paths before he left in July. Perhaps they shall still be usable."

"Have you and your grandmother been here only a few months, then, Bronwyn?"

"Oh, Grandmama has been here for years. I was with my mother's sister in Bath for several years, though not yet out in society. But I grew up in this castle. He was not here at that time, of course. There were no eligible maidens in residence then, you see. Only little girls, old matrons, and men." She sighed, a theatrical trill of sound that filled Thomas's eyes with longing and left Tip cold. "I wish I had believed in the curse then," she continued. "I certainly would not have returned to be with Grandmama this summer if I had known it to be real."

"I daresay," Bea said.

"Oh, but where is the tea? I will fetch it myself. Cook must be very busy preparing dinner all alone in that enormous kitchen. Beatrice, would you like me to show you to your chamber so that you may freshen up?"

"Yes, thank you." She moved toward the door, meeting Tip's gaze as she passed. Her thick lashes fluttered ever so slightly, then she smiled.

Tip's cravat grabbed at his throat, abruptly too snug. Remaining aloof from her during the journey had accomplished nothing except to make him more desperate for the sight of her, for her voice, words, scent, touch. It was the exact opposite of what he had intended.

But that seemed to be his perpetual trouble. Always the less he saw of her, the more he wanted her. Then when he finally had her near, he wanted her even nearer. He was the greatest idiot alive to imagine she would relent to his suit now simply because he escorted her here. Her comment about his business in Porthmadog made it clear she wished him gone already.

Thomas cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Tip, if I don't seem myself today." He thrust out a hand. "I'm glad to see you here."

"Thank you, Tom. I regret to find you embroiled in this situation."

Thomas shook his head. "I don't regret it. I couldn't wish myself elsewhere. Not for a thousand guineas."

"Lady Bronwyn?" Tip could understand how a man might admire a girl as beautiful and vivacious as the castle's chatelaine. He wouldn't, of course, but his tastes ran to women with rather more in their heads than hair and feathers. One woman, in particular.

"She is perfection itself," Thomas said upon a heavy exhalation.

Tip's palms went cold. Perfection itself. His father's favorite phrase to describe his wife, the woman he practiced infidelity upon for over twenty years despite his avowals of pure devotion.

"Is she?"

"I mean to save her from her fate," Thomas said firmly. "I would take her away from here straight off, but the curse traps a maiden here as soon as she arrives. Lady Bronwyn can't leave. You can see now, I must find a way to release the curse and rescue her. That's why I wrote to Bea. She's so clever and levelheaded. I don't know how we got to be twins. She always knows precisely how to-" He stumbled to a halt. "Tip?" His brow wrinkled. "Cheriot?"

Tip's jaw had locked. With extraordinary effort, he loosened it enough to speak.

"I do not know how you came to be twins, either, Sinclaire." His voice sounded dangerously low, even to him. "But then, you do have something in common: She thinks only of your well-being, and so do you."

"I beg your pardon! I have only Lady Bronwyn's safety on my conscience." Thomas had the nerve to seem affronted.

Tip gripped his hands into fists to prevent himself from employing them. "And what of your sister's safety? Did you pause one moment in pursuit of your conscience to consider hers?"

"Bea is perfectly safe. Why, she's the most sensible girl . . ."

Tip's gaze remained hard. Thomas's words stumbled. Slowly his eyes went wide.

"Oh, good God," he uttered. "I didn't even think."

Tip was not as satisfied by the look of shocked dismay on the other man's face as he would have liked. It didn't matter that this whole cock-and-pony story wasn't real. Thomas believed it to be, and so his unthinking behavior was no less noxious. But he rarely ever thought of his sister before himself. He used her when he needed her, the same way her entire family did. Except perhaps Georgianna. Tip knew that Georgie cared a great deal about Bea. Unfortunately, that caring did Bea little good all the way across the Irish Sea.