Bane Beresford. Ann Lethbridge

matter. She had no reason to learn her way around, since she would be departing at once.

      ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She dipped her best curtsy and prayed he would not hear the wry note in her voice.

      He held his candle high and caught her chin in long strong fingers just like the old man had done. But these fingers were warm with youth and strong with vigour and, while firm, they were also gentle. She jerked her head, but he held her fast.

      She stared up at his face, at the beautifully moulded lips set in a straight line hovering above hers. His head dipped a fraction. Angled. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek, inhaled a hint of cologne, something male, mingled with leather and horse and briny air that made her feel dizzy.

      She drew in a deep breath as his gaze fell on her mouth, lingering there, until she thought he would kiss her. Longed that he would to break this dreadful tension between them.

      Nervous, she licked her lips.

      His eyes narrowed and he raised that piercing gaze to meet hers as if he would read her mind. Stroked her chin with his thumb and, she shivered. He leaned closer and for a wild moment, she thought he really did intend to kiss her and her body hummed at the thought.

      Instead, he spoke. ‘Who are you?’ he rasped softly.

      ‘Mary,’ she managed to gasp in a breathless whisper, her breathing beyond her control. ‘Mary Wilding.’

      ‘Wilding?’ A brow went up. ‘And what brought you here, Miss Wilding?’

      She swallowed. ‘I was invited. By the earl.’

      ‘The late earl.’

      She nodded.

      He stepped back, releasing her face. ‘And what is your purpose here, I wonder?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter. I will be leaving first thing.’

      ‘I see. Well, Miss Wilding, I bid you goodnight. We will talk before you go.’

      She remained frozen as he disappeared back down the twisting stairs and she was left alone, in the silence, not hearing even his footsteps and feeling strangely giddy.

      Breathless, from … fear? The fluttering in her belly, the tremble in her hands, could be nothing else. Though what made her fearful, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps her reactions? To him? Would she have actually let him kiss her, had he wanted to do so?

      Could she have stopped such a powerful man taking whatever he wanted? A little thrill rippled through her. Perverse. Unwanted.

      All he had wanted was to question her.

      She pressed cold fingers to her hot cheeks and hauled in a deep breath before stepping inside her small chamber. While thanking her benefactor had been one of the less pleasant experiences of her life, meeting the new earl had been something else entirely. Disturbing and exciting. It might be as well to avoid him before she left.

      Coward.

       Chapter Two

      The maid Betsy, assigned to help Mary dress, arrived at nine the next morning.

      Mary didn’t needed help dressing. Just as always, she’d been awake and dressed by six, before light touched the grey wintery sky. At school, it was her task to see that the girls were washed and dressed before they came to breakfast. The maid had to content herself with drawing back the curtains and putting coal on the fire. ‘This room is always cold,’ the girl announced cheerfully. ‘Will there be anything else, miss?’

      ‘I would like a carriage to take me to St Ives.’

      ‘You will need to speak to Mr Manners,’ the girl said, her Cornish vowels hard to decipher.

      Of course. The butler. He would be in charge of such things. ‘Where will I find him?’

      The small brown-eyed girl raised her brows. ‘In the breakfast room. Serving the family.’

      The grieving family. She wanted nothing to do with any of them, especially the new earl. But since she needed to order the carriage, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to guide me there?’

      Betsy bobbed a curtsy. ‘Follow me, miss.’

      It wasn’t long before she was deposited in front of a large oak door off the entrance hall. ‘In there, miss.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Mary sailed through the door as if she had been making grand entrances all her life. Or at least she hoped she gave that impression.

      What a relief. No brooding earl awaited her in the oak-panelled room with its polished furniture and gleaming silver. Only his cousins sat at the table. Blond and handsome, they rose to their feet as she entered.

      ‘Good morning,’ she said.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Wilding,’ they replied gravely.

      The older one, Mr Jeffrey Beresford, gave her a swift perusal. A slightly pained expression entered his vivid-blue eyes. No doubt he thought her dreadfully shabby in her Sunday-best dress, but it was grey and she’d thought it the most appropriate under the circumstances. The younger one nodded morosely.

      Both young men wore dark coats and black armbands. Of Mrs Hampton there was no sign. No doubt she preferred to breakfast in her room on such a sorrowful day.

      ‘Miss Wilding,’ the butler said, pulling out a chair opposite the Beresford cousins. She sat.

      They followed suit.

      ‘Did you sleep well, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Beresford asked, assuming the duty of host in the earl’s absence.

      ‘Yes, thank you.’ She certainly wasn’t going to admit to her mind replaying the scene with the earl outside her chamber door over and over as she restlessly tossed and turned.

      ‘Really?’ Mr Hampton said, looking up, his face angelic in a shaft of sunlight that at that moment had broken through the clouds and found its way into the dining room to rest on him.

      ‘Is there some reason why I should not?’ she asked a little stiffly, surprised by his sudden interest.

      He looked at her moodily. ‘They do say as how the White Lady’s ghost haunts the north tower.’

      ‘You are an idiot, Ger,’ the other cousin said. ‘Don’t listen to him, Miss Wilding. It is an old wives’ tale.’

      ‘‘Tis not,’ Gerald said, his lips twisting. ‘One of the servants saw her last week.’

      ‘And that is a bouncer,’ his cousin replied repressively. ‘One servant saw her fifty years ago.’

      The younger man scowled.

      Mary felt sorry for him. Boys liked their ghost stories as much as foolish young girls did, no doubt. ‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me,’ she said calmly, ‘if I actually believed in them.’ It would take a tall dark earl with a sinful mouth to make her quiver in fear. Or quiver with something.

      The young man looked a little insulted. ‘If you see her, you will tell me, won’t you? I’ve been keeping track of her sightings.’ He pushed his food around with his fork. ‘They say she appears when there is to be a death in the house.’ The utter belief in his voice gave her a strange slithery sensation in her stomach. It also reminded her of last night’s events with a pang of guilt.

      ‘Although I had never met your grandfather before last night, I hope you will accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.’

      Both young men nodded their acceptance of her condolence.

      ‘Coffee, miss?’ the butler asked.

      She usually had tea in the morning. And only one cup. But there was another scent floating