Fair Maiden (21 page)

Chapter
22

Unintentional

From that point on, Contessa had been flickering from
ghostly form into solid at random, but mostly when
he
spoke her name. So
he kept at it.

Desperate to return her to the living permanently, he’d pled
for Contessa to come to his bedchamber that evening. He’d chosen that location
due to Mother’s wish to be near him, while Contessa clearly wished for the
same. Unfortunately, with Contessa shifting back and forth like she was, it was
too risky. The marchioness would surely notice a girl who suddenly popped into
view from thin air. It took some maneuvering to get Mother to go to bed without
first knowing Contessa was there, but he’d managed it, and now she hovered in
the lone chair by his fireplace, the flickering flames glimmering over her
misty personage.

He went to her and sat down upon the rug before her. The
fire bathed his back in heat, and his ghost in a sparkling glow so celestial
that when he saw her like that, he secretly wished he could have the best of
both worlds. But he could not...so he chose the un-shimmering, yet living
version of her. “Contessa,” he said, and was able to touch the golden fabric of
her gown.

“Contessa,” he whispered, smiling up at her. The girl of his
fantasies beamed right back, and he could not see the leather cushion behind
her.

Again, he uttered her name, and she stayed with him, as
tangible as ever, as touchable as she had been within the city. He lunged to
his feet, drew her up with him, and jerked her into his arms. “Oh, Contessa,
Contessa, are you here for good?”

“I want to be here, I want to be with you like this. I feel
so empty without a solid body.” A violent shiver shook her for a moment. “And
lost. I feel so lost when I’m dead.”

“Are you as pleased as I am?”

As moments ticked forward, she remained touchable. “Oh,
yes,” she said.

Christian, for the second time, removed the bridal veil from
her hair, dropped it to the floor, and then passed his hands over her back,
feeling the living heat of her, feeling her ribs expand and shrink with each
breath. He took in the spiced honey scent of her by burying his face into the
smoothness of her hair. He drew back just enough to rain kisses upon her soft
flesh, upon her spiky eyelashes, upon the pulsing heartbeat at her delicate
neck.

She embraced him back, and he wanted to weep with joy. But
as he went to steal another kiss, she stiffened and leaned away. “Christian, I
must leave now.”

Her statement cleared away the fog muddling his brain,
clouding his sense of propriety, and only then did he become aware of their
intimate and inappropriate surroundings. Before, when she’d been a ghost it did
not matter, but now…. He nodded. “You’re right. Forgive me.”

Just as he loosened the embrace, a knock sounded at his
door. Contessa froze, and his fingers curled protectively around her arms. “Who
could it be?” she asked in a quivering voice that no longer sounded wispy like
a spirit. In a voice that was lent a solidness which fanned across his neck.

“It’s probably Jackson with a glass of warmed milk.” When
would the old chap realize he’d outgrown the childish habit?

Christian, though reluctantly, released Contessa and strode
to the door. He opened it and nearly fainted when his mother swept past him in
a flurry of ruby satin. After surveying his room, she halted as she came
face-to-face with a doe-eyed Contessa, and then shot accusing eyes of blue at
him. “Christian! How could you? Lady Contessa is here, and you did not tell
me?”

His mouth worked to find words, but none came. He knew this
didn’t look good at all. For besides being alone with her, he was not properly
dressed. He’d removed his necktie, shoes and coat, and stood before his mother
in stockings, breaches and partially unbuttoned shirtsleeves.

“If you are not engaged, then I must demand it!” Mother
really did not sound as distressed by the idea as her words suggested, and his
insides twisted with a sinking feeling. “Alone with this sweet girl in your
bedchamber. Shame on you!” The marchioness’ hand fluttered to her mouth in mock
shock. He suspected she did that only to hide the smile of triumph upon her
lips which could be seen through the cracks between her fingers.

Guilt slammed into him as his mother ranted about how he’d
ruined the poor girl, and chastised him for his rakish actions. Perhaps he
truly was the scoundrel everyone seemed to think he was.

He hadn’t wanted to become engaged like this. He’d meant to
woo Contessa, romance her, and then on bended knee, offer for her hand in the
way she deserved. Not trap her just as Prince Dominic had done.

Searching for her gaze, Christian returned to Contessa’s
side and gathered her fingers into his. That innocent face of hers lifted, and
the tears coating her lashes broke his heart. “I did not mean for this to
happen, Contessa.”

“I know.”

“Well, I suppose I must begin wedding plans.” His mother clearly
attempted to sound angry about this scenario, but was failing miserably at
portraying anything but pleasure about it.

His heart sank to the vicinity of his knees. The look on
Tessa’s face told him how like her dream this truly was. He felt like such a heel
for taking this risk when Tabitha had warned him against it. Numerous times.

But he’d wanted her back so badly and didn’t know where else
to go to gain the privacy from Mother he needed. Even as the excuses sifted
through his thoughts, he knew the truth. This was his fault and his alone. In
his eager attempt to get her back, he’d not taken care to prevent this scenario
from happening. And now he must face the consequence of his prideful and
selfish choices. He’d set the cheese for parson’s trap himself by bringing her
here and then intentionally breaking the spell.

“Lady Contessa, my darling, I do apologize for my son.
However, I must confess I am pleased to gain a new daughter. We must get to
know one another.”

Contessa nodded silently and offered a weak smile.

He’d give anything to know what was going on in that head of
hers. Was she angry with him? Did she blame him, as did his mother? Did she see
him as she saw the prince? “Mother,” he said, unable to mask the note of
tension in his speech. “Did you come to my chamber for any particular reason?”

“Oh,” she chuckled. “Yes, yes, of course. I came to let you
know that I was leaving in the morning.”

“Ah, I see.” Is she still leaving? he wondered.

“Now, Christian, while I can see how besotted you are, she
must be in her own chamber. Where is it, Son? I will be happy to take her to
it,” offered the marchioness as she linked arms with Contessa.

Biting his tongue, he considered his words. He was unwilling
to let Mother take her to the other side of the castle where Tabitha’s chamber
was, where Contessa was supposed to be. He swallowed and said instead, “The
chamber across from mine is hers.”

The look his mother passed over Contessa’s hair told him
without question what Mother was thinking. He was only glad she’d not noticed
how similar the gown was to the one Contessa had been wearing at the ball, the
only differences being the alterations he and Emma had made. He sent up a
prayer in his heart, thanking God for that. But with her hair styled in the
more casual medieval style, his mother clearly thought they’d done more than
just talk. There was no way they would escape this. If his mother did not, his
father would force him to wed her when he caught wind of this news—and he must
accept it, or be disowned, and he really did not want that either.

Mother bustled Contessa, rather happily he couldn’t help but
notice, from his bedchamber.

Truly he hoped Mother would not suddenly shriek with fear if
she soon found herself with a ghost and not a woman.

But it wasn’t long before his mother did bellow from across
the hallway, “Why is there no fire banked for her!” That fact only served as
another thing to condemn him. Surely if he had not made certain her room was
prepared for bed, then obviously he meant to keep her with him.

Cringing, Christian stepped over the threshold and called
for a maid. As the servant rushed to build a fire within the hearth of the red
room, Contessa’s new quarters, he went to the witch, who kept all of Contessa’s
clothing within her chamber. Now was the time for the woman to play chaperone.
Now that it was too late.

Tabitha informed him she would take care of things, and then
shooed him back to his own bedchamber.

He’d just returned when another knock sounded at his door.
Dear old Jackson had brought the bedtime treat he’d frequently presented in the
past when Christian was a youth. It was something Jackson continued to offer,
even as Christian grew older. He ushered the fellow inside and relieved the man
of the cumbersome tray, wishing for all the world the man had arrived sooner,
before
he’d been apprehended. “Thank you,” he whispered as he shut the door. “I need
your help.”

After nudging the chair closer to the fire, he encouraged Jackson to sit, then he sank onto the ottoman and drank the warmed milk without complaining
about it. It was as comforting as it always had been as a child and he wondered
why he fought it so much now that he was grown.

“I-I…well, it seems I have gotten myself betrothed, but I
wish to make it right. Contessa deserves better than this.”

“What have you done, Christian?”

“Mother caught us together, alone…”

Jackson’s snowy eyebrows tugged together.

“In here,” Christian clarified.

His butler slumped with disappointment. “Were you dressed
like this?”

Christian nodded, and felt the shame all over again. He’d
failed the man who was like a dear uncle to him, he’d failed Contessa, and
Emma, and Peter, and his parents. The scandal would be tittered about all over London. Peter would survive it, and so would his mother and father, but Contessa and Emma,
as unmarried ladies, would be sorely affected.

However, instead of making him feel worse about it, the
gentle butler said, “What can I do to help, little lad?”

The old endearment reached down inside and warmed him more
fully than the milk had. “I must court her as I should have done. As I had
meant to do. And then propose to her in the most romantic way we can dream up.”

Smiling, Jackson offered a kind pat on his shoulder. “Then
it will be so.”

In relief, Christian exhaled slowly.

Then Jackson, with an expression of worry developing upon
his face, asked, “Will you be marrying a
living
girl?”

“I certainly hope so.” His neck was on fire with guilt, and
he rubbed at it with a ferocity that was painful.

“Perhaps you should elope to Gretna Green.”

“Never! Contessa deserves a proper wedding in a church with
a lovely gown, and flowers, and cake.”

“As you wish, Christian, as you wish.”

Chapter
23

Cake

She was trying desperately not to panic in front of his
mother. But three worries assailed her thoughts: Would she suddenly turn back
into a ghost and cause the marchioness to swoon with fright? Would Lady Sparks
notice the excessive length of her train? She’d gathered up as much as she
could into one hand, hoping to minimize it. And she’d managed to be trapped
into a marriage once again, Christian right along with her.

She did not want it to happen this way, and she could not do
to him what was done to her. He must be equally distressed over it.

“My dear girl, must I explain the nature of men to you? Has
your mother not done so?” asked Lady Sparks as she ushered her into a
bedchamber she’d seen briefly before and never expected to be sleeping in.

It was lovely, decorated in elegant shades of deep red,
light tan, and a pale mossy green. A grand bed dominated the center of the
chamber. The enormous posts of it aspired to reach the heights of the vaulting
ceilings. Bedclothes in a creamy beige puddled to the floor around the four
sides. The coverlets boasted of rich velvet and satin and generous amounts of
embroidered pillows. The down-filled bedding begged for her presence as gravity
and sensation surrounded her in awareness that nearly prickled along her waking
flesh.

With the corners of her mouth turning down, Christian’s
mother trailed two fingers along the mantel shelf above the gaping and cold
fireplace, which she had just loudly voiced her displeasure about, then scowled
at the filth marring the ivory tips of her ladylike fingers. “Do not mistake
me, I love Christian dearly. However, I know he is far too much like his father
had been…and not to be trusted,” said the marchioness as she drew a
handkerchief from a pocket within her gown, and then rubbed the dirt from her
skin.

Contessa blinked. “I fear I do not understand, my lady. I
trust Christian. He has been such a noble gentleman—”

After studying her for a moment, Lady Sparks exhaled. Relief
lifted her expression and she said, “Then I am not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Christian’s mother chuckled softly. “Oh, you sweet thing.
All is well.”

She gasped then, understanding what Lady Sparks was saying,
and appalled she would think her son capable of being so…so lecherous. “No,
no…Christian would not. It would not—”

“I am pleased to hear he has chosen to behave.”

A maid entered, it was the one called Anna. The blonde girl
began arranging logs for a fire.

Contessa subconsciously rubbed palms over her arms. “Does
that mean we are not expected to wed?”

“Certainly not.” At the stark response the petite maid’s
shoulders tensed only marginally. “You must marry my son,” finished the
marchioness.

Contessa’s gaze lifted to Christian’s mother and she felt
trapped by the lovely eyes that locked with hers, yet this woman did not
portray the trickery so obvious in Dominic’s mother. Queen Renard practically
radiated cunningness. That was not so with Lady Sparks, and Contessa understood
the reasons behind the required betrothals were quite different. It was not for
gain, but for her reputation, for her safety.  The reasons were not selfish,
but noble and considerate. She could not resent Lady Sparks for their awkward
situation. And respectively, within the secret corners of her heart, she had to
confess—that she too wanted it so. She would not fight marriage to Christian
Henry Sparks, but welcome it…. As long as she was able to remain living this
time.