CHAPTER FIVE.

Bea melted. His lips barely lingered, a brief caress of warm, wonderful heat that stole into her, twined between her lips and across her breasts to explode in unruly sizzles all through her middle and, wickedly, between her legs where she always seemed to grow hot when she fantasized about him kissing her.

But this was not a fantasy. It was spectacularly, miraculously real. A sigh escaped her, so light she possibly imagined it.

He stepped back abruptly, blinking several times and staring at her in obvious bemusement.

"I should-" he said haltingly, "-should go."

She nodded. Her lips tingled. Her entire body tingled. She tilted forward into the corridor, attracted like a magnet to his pole. They could write it on her gravestone like that: Beatrice Sinclaire, spinster, unappreciated companion to her wretched mother, human magnet, b.1799ad.1822.

For now she truly could die. Peter Cheriot had kissed her. She was a whole woman. Or at least she felt like one at the present. The sensation might not last. But for the time being, heaven seemed entirely hers.

"I will-" he began again. He took a sharp breath. "Good night, Bea." He turned and disappeared down the corridor.

In the abrupt vacuum of his presence, Bea nearly fell over. Clutching the door latch, she gulped in breaths of air acrid with torch smoke. It smelled like summer flowers.

He had kissed her.

She didn't know why he had, but for the moment, at least, she wouldn't even think about that. She would simply allow herself to feel, remembering the sensation of his lips passing across hers so intimately, reliving the swirling delight in her body, and reveling in it all.

He had kissed her. Finally.

It had only taken seven years.

What in the devil had he been thinking?

Nothing. Not a damn blast thing. One moment he was watching the pink flush steal into Bea's lovely cheeks, her eyes glimmering with excitement, and the next he was kissing her.

In an instant he realized the mistake. At the gentle touch of her soft, full lips, his cock went hard as rock. If he hadn't halted the kiss immediately-frankly, before it truly got started-he might not have been able to stop it at all. Four years of frustrated lust for a woman was no small thing to control.

Tip fell back against his closed door and put his hands to his face, sucking in an enormous breath.

Dear God, she felt good. And it hadn't even been more than a tantalizing hint, the barest contact.

He wanted more. He wanted to touch every inch of her, to caress the soft skin behind her knees, the palms of her hands, her breasts-her beautiful breasts-her tapered waist, and her sweet, tight womanhood until she begged for release. He wanted to strip her naked and take her in every way imaginable, in every way that would ensure her greatest pleasure and his own. He wanted to be deep inside her when she called out his name in ecstasy, her rich eyes fevered with need that only he could satisfy.

He had never in his seven and twenty years halted a kiss after such a slight caress. Not even close.

How had he let his discipline slip like that? So many times before he'd had the same opportunity with her, and he always stopped himself. He was a gentleman, for God's sake, a man of cool, rational sense. If she wanted him, she would accept his offer of marriage. Until then, he didn't have any business kissing her.

She hadn't shied away.

She'd sighed.

Tip shuddered, heat pounding in his body. He couldn't bear it much longer. But nothing would quench his hunger except her soft, supple curves, her hands on him, her lips and tongue. It was far too long since he'd had a woman. He only wanted this one.

Dear God, was he mad? What was he doing here in this remote castle trying to stave off his desire for the one woman he had ached for for years. He was imbecilic to have come, idiotic to remain, and even more foolish to not march right back to her bedchamber and show her in no uncertain terms how marriage to him could be quite enjoyable indeed.

He groaned and shifted to relieve the pressure in his groin.

He must be insane. He certainly wasn't in his right mind tonight. Not since earlier in the parlor when she'd glowed with eagerness over that damn ghost.

"That damn ghost," he muttered. He peered around the dark chamber. An angle of moonlight slanted through a window, illuminating the space in a silver glow. No fire burned in the grate, of course, a consequence of Lady Bronwyn's cowardly servants.

"Blasted ghost. You don't frighten me," he mumbled, arranging wood in the hearth and searching about for a taper.

"Yet she terrifies you," a deep voice said over his shoulder.

Tip froze, then stood. His gaze slid around the vacant chamber.

"Do you derive a perverse pleasure from intruding on a man's privacy in this manner?" He folded his arms.

"I take no pleasure in the misfortune of others." A pause. "Any longer."

"Then tell me how to save Lady Bronwyn from your villainy." The words tasted peculiar. Speaking them felt peculiar. The ghost was real, and Tip had to admit he was conversing with it. With a man who had once lived, but no longer did.

"I am not the villain," Iversly replied. "The curse binds me."

"A quibbling difference."

"Not to me."

"How can the curse be broken?" Tip persisted, not in the least enjoying conversing with someone he could not see. From what Bea and Lady Bronwyn said, the fellow was a dark character, but someone Tip could take easily enough. He wished he could fight the lout. It might serve to dissipate some of the frustrated fever in his blood now.

"For me," Iversly said, "there is nothing you can do to undo the curse. For the lady, you need but relieve her of her maidenhead."

The face that flooded Tip's imagination was not Lady Bronwyn's. He bent again to the hearth and lit the taper. "Leave, Iversly."

For a moment the ghost did not speak. Then, "Have you no other questions for me?"

Flame flickered before Tip's eyes. His chest tightened.

"Do you know of other dead?" he said. "Can you speak with them or see them?"

A long silence followed. Tip remained motionless, waiting.

"Have you someone with whom you wish to communicate in the world of shadows?" the ghost finally replied.

"You might answer my question before I consider yours."

"No." Iversly's tone seemed thinner than usual, unsubstantial. "I am alone in this exile from humanity."

Tip nodded.

"As are you," Iversly added.

"I am not in exile," Tip countered.

Silence met him. It stretched through the chamber for long enough that finally he concluded Iversly had left. He sat back on his heels and ran his hand through his hair.

He ought to do exactly what Bea wished. Leave. He should take care of his business in Porthmadog and return to Cheriot Manor where he had plenty of work to keep him busy. She didn't want him here, and he didn't need a blasted ghost putting foolish thoughts into his head.

But now that he had tasted her lips, however fleetingly, he could not leave her. Not until she promised him much more.

Damn and blast. In all practical matters, he was a damn good bargain. Her sense of duty to her mother was strong, of course, but Tip feared the reason for her refusals had less to do with Lady Harriet than with the late Lord and Lady Cheriot and their infamous marriage.

Bea had never said a word to suggest it, but no woman of sense would want anything to do with that sort of alliance. Tip was not entirely blameless, either. In his younger days he hadn't been overly discreet. He'd made a dash on the town, eagerly indulging in one loose-screw pursuit after another, including courting Bea's sister, Georgie. Of course, that had been largely for show.

But that had all changed the moment his father died. In the four years since then, Tip had adopted a downright staid existence. He was a model gentleman, the sort any lady would consider an unexceptionable husband.

But Beatrice Sinclaire was not any lady. She was the only one who with a glance turned his mouth dry and with a touch made him randy as a goat. That she harbored a passion for adventure only stoked his desire, to his chagrin.

He wasn't surprised. The foolishness was in his blood.

He would conquer it, and he would win her. There could be nothing else to it.

April 16, 1822 At two and twenty, rusticating in Yorkshire, I am halfway on the shelf. Today a handsome, wealthy, titled gentleman whose character I like very well asked me to marry him again-for the fifth time I daresay (as though I weren't counting!). He did not get upon his knee, but, riding beside me along the lane, simply said he sincerely believed that we would suit.

I have made it as much of a habit to refuse him as he has made it to ask.

I, of course, have excellent justification.

Sylvia once told me that when some young man (I cannot recall who, precisely-there were always so many) begged for her hand, he first attempted to make violent love to her. Georgie is more discreet about such things. But one cannot help notice when she and Kievan visit that he touches her frequently-on the hand, the arm, the small of her back, sometimes even on her face. Of course he is a gentleman, and never crosses the boundary of propriety in the presence of others.

But, Diary, that day in Sir Jeremy's library, when they thought no one could see-days before they became betrothed-I saw Kievan kiss Georgie. He kissed her as though he could not prevent himself from doing so, as though (dare I say?) some passion within him-whether of the heart or otherwise-drove him to it.

Once at an al fresco luncheon in the park, I saw Lord Marke kiss Nancy in that manner, too.

Although Peter Cheriot has offered me his title and name, he has never offered me that. That, however, is all I want of him.

I am the greatest widgeon alive.

End of discussion.

CHAPTER SIX.

Tip came to breakfast late, clearly just returned from riding. He wore breeches, top boots, and a deep blue coat that fit his lean, broad-shouldered frame to perfection. His hair looked dashingly tousled from the removal of a hat.

Bea was rising to leave, weary of watching Thomas cast calf's eyes at Lady Bronwyn and of Aunt Grace's stony silence.

"Ah, I see I am almost too late," Tip said, smiling beautifully at her as though he meant his comment for her in particular.

"We are obliged to serve ourselves." The dowager glowered at the sideboard. "The offerings are pitiful."

"Oh, Cook told me she must go to the village to fill the pantry." Lady Bronwyn's tone tinkled with light regret. "We so hoped visitors would come, but we did not expect any quite so promptly."

"I discovered the village this morning, in fact," Tip said, moving to the sideboard. "The locals were not inclined to speak overly much with a stranger. I hoped, Lady Bronwyn, that we could venture there together this morning." He gestured to include them all. "Perhaps we could encourage some of the more courageous souls to return to work at the castle."

"Oh, I do wish I could, my lord." The girl looked wan. "But the village is beyond the castle grounds. I cannot go there."

Tip's animated expression dimmed, but only slightly. His gaze shifted to Bea for a moment, then returned to their hostess.

"Have you attempted it, my lady?" he asked, his voice gentle.

Thomas stood up, his chair clattering back. "Of course she has. What are you suggesting, Cheriot, that-"

Bronwyn's hand on his arm arrested him. "Oh, goodness, Mr. Sinclaire, you must not chastise Lord Cheriot. You see, I have not attempted it. Lord Iversly simply told me I must not leave the grounds, so I have not."

Bea's gaze shot to Tip.

He didn't so much as blink. "Did he tell you what the consequence would be if you defied his order?"

"He said that I simply would not be able to leave, that the curse would hold me here."

Tip seemed to consider that, then nodded. "Let us take a stroll instead then, shall we?" he directed at Thomas. "The sun is bright this morning, the grounds extensive, and I suspect the ladies would enjoy the diversion."

"I should like that above all things, Peter dear," Aunt Julia said with a cockeyed twinkle. "How considerate you are. Beatrice, will you come along?"

"Of course, Aunt Julia." Tip must intend to challenge the ghost's vague mandate concerning the borders of the castle grounds. If Iversly had any real power over holding Bronwyn here, he certainly would have said so. He didn't seem the sort to withhold threatening information. Bea wouldn't miss this experiment for the world.

Lady Bronwyn's eyes brightened with anticipation. She must have been wretched these past months, such a vivacious girl, all alone but for her frail grandmother's companionship and two elderly servants.

The party dispersed, the ladies to don sturdy shoes, before they all gathered again near the rear gate. The fortress was not quite as large as Bea had at first imagined it, but still sizable enough to require a thorough investigation. After lunch, while the others rested, she would go exploring.

A vast courtyard stretched from the pair of towers to either side of the main gate, accessed over a bridge crossing a waterless moat. The parlor, bedchambers, and dining chamber were situated in this section. The massive front battlement of the fortress ran along a ridge of the hill to a thick, round tower, even taller than the main towers. Another, much lower, rectangular edifice with two modest turrets completed the castle's rough-shaped triangle. It was a marvelously unusual construction and thoroughly menacing.

Thomas and Bronwyn led the way through the rear gate. It stood wide open, a rotten portcullis wedged into the embrasure above. As propriety demanded, Tip offered his arm to Lady Marstowe, who came along with a frown. Bea linked elbows with her other great-aunt. The sun sparkled over the gray stone ramparts behind and the treetops ahead that were gnarled enough to seem as old as Lord Iversly claimed to be.

The path from the castle ran alongside a gently rising hill. Sheep grazed above in velvet pastures bordered with low stone walls, clusters of evergreens and brown- and gold trees stretching into a pine forest as the mountain rose steeply beyond. Nearby, a walkway paved in slate led a distance along the glade to an ancient oak of broad branches scored with mint-colored lichen. Beneath, a stone bench invited dalliance.

Bea stared at Tip's back, trying to imagine his scent. The night before, she'd been far too preoccupied with feeling to fully appreciate the rich, musky aroma of his cologne, but she knew it well enough. He had worn the same for years.

What would he say to her when they were again alone? She had no doubt he would apologize. He was too much of a gentleman not to.

Upon rising, with the memory of his kiss still stirring in her senses, she concluded that he'd been distracted. Her nerves were constantly tingling here. Perhaps his were too. After all, he looked so odd the night before, and Bea's mother and Sylvia often said that men's lustful natures encouraged them to act impulsively on the merest provocation. The discovery of Lord Iversly was certainly a cause for being overset. The close, dimly lit corridor probably helped.