shambles of his life to torment him. This morning he’d made inquiries about lumber mills, then he’d ridden across parts of his estate to see firsthand what years of neglect and avarice had wrought. He’d seen the bare fields, the tumbled cottages, the abandoned gristmill. The children of his own tenants—the ones who’d remained at St. Sevrin because they had nowhere else to go—had those same pleading eyes.
When Sloane returned from his inspection, he’d started drinking the brandy. Now it was well after dinner—chicken, as expected—and he wasn’t done yet. No, he was still sober enough to see the damp spots on the ceilings of the Priory, the warped floors where priceless Aubusson carpets used to lie, the empty gallery walls, the boarded windows. Worse, he could hear his mother crying.
Hell and damnation, he’d hated everything his father was. Now he was his father.
*
Two hours later the Duke of St. Sevrin was propped against one of the windows that still had glass in it, in one of the parlors of the Priory’s modern section. This addition was only one century old instead of two or three, and it overlooked the rear of the Priory, toward the home woods. He could just make out the distant trees in the hazy moonlight, spreading as far as he could see in either direction. The next duke, he told himself, Humbert or whoever, would likely be looking out this very window right at Neville Hall. The two estates weren’t all that close, but the land was flat. ’Twould be just like Humbert to purchase a telescope to peek in his neighbor’s bedrooms.
Sloane had long since dispensed with the glass; but the bottle of brandy, the second bottle of brandy, dangled from his right hand. He wouldn’t trust his unreliable left arm with such a fine vintage, such a fine, mind-numbing companion. When he saw the ghost walk from the woods, the bottle slid, unnoticed, to the floor anyway.
St. Sevrin blinked to try to clear his eyes, but the figure didn’t disappear. It was definitely a woman, her light-colored skirts billowing around her in the breeze. She couldn’t be real, of course. Women did not float out of forests in the middle of the night, not even in Devon. The Priory ghosts were all said to be monks, so those old stories of the woods being enchanted must be correct after all. A fairy creature was coming to visit. Either that or he’d finally had too much to drink. Sloane rather hoped it was the brandy.
The woman held neither lantern nor torch, yet she was walking directly toward him across the unscythed lawns. Her hair looked silvery by the moonlight, and his experienced eye told him she must be small-boned and thin, perhaps still a girl.
She kept coming closer until she stood just outside his window. St. Sevrin did the only thing possible, of course, for a gentleman so deep in his cups. He opened the window, not without a struggle with the rusted latch. “‘Well met by moonlight, proud Titania,’” he greeted her.
“That’s ‘ill met,’” she corrected automatically, worried lest the real quote prove true.
Sloane held out his hand. “Won’t you join me anyway, sweet fairy queen? There’s a fire, and wine.”
Lisanne was suddenly undecided. She’d come this far out of necessity, but her courage was failing her at actually facing the rogue. He was large and broad-shouldered, wearing a shirt with an open collar, no neck cloth. With his reddish hair fallen over his forehead, he looked sleepy, unfinished. Mayhaps this was a bad idea after all.
While Lisanne was studying the duke, St. Sevrin was owlishly peering out the window at her. “No, you cannot be Titania, for surely you haven’t enough years in your dish to be queen of the ether. But come in out of the chill, fairy child.”
For a moment Lisanne’s heart soared. He understood! He knew about the woods! But no, she realized, he was only teasing, flirting with her. He was a rake, after all.
St. Sevrin watched the expressions flitter across
When Sloane returned from his inspection, he’d started drinking the brandy. Now it was well after dinner—chicken, as expected—and he wasn’t done yet. No, he was still sober enough to see the damp spots on the ceilings of the Priory, the warped floors where priceless Aubusson carpets used to lie, the empty gallery walls, the boarded windows. Worse, he could hear his mother crying.
Hell and damnation, he’d hated everything his father was. Now he was his father.
*
Two hours later the Duke of St. Sevrin was propped against one of the windows that still had glass in it, in one of the parlors of the Priory’s modern section. This addition was only one century old instead of two or three, and it overlooked the rear of the Priory, toward the home woods. He could just make out the distant trees in the hazy moonlight, spreading as far as he could see in either direction. The next duke, he told himself, Humbert or whoever, would likely be looking out this very window right at Neville Hall. The two estates weren’t all that close, but the land was flat. ’Twould be just like Humbert to purchase a telescope to peek in his neighbor’s bedrooms.
Sloane had long since dispensed with the glass; but the bottle of brandy, the second bottle of brandy, dangled from his right hand. He wouldn’t trust his unreliable left arm with such a fine vintage, such a fine, mind-numbing companion. When he saw the ghost walk from the woods, the bottle slid, unnoticed, to the floor anyway.
St. Sevrin blinked to try to clear his eyes, but the figure didn’t disappear. It was definitely a woman, her light-colored skirts billowing around her in the breeze. She couldn’t be real, of course. Women did not float out of forests in the middle of the night, not even in Devon. The Priory ghosts were all said to be monks, so those old stories of the woods being enchanted must be correct after all. A fairy creature was coming to visit. Either that or he’d finally had too much to drink. Sloane rather hoped it was the brandy.
The woman held neither lantern nor torch, yet she was walking directly toward him across the unscythed lawns. Her hair looked silvery by the moonlight, and his experienced eye told him she must be small-boned and thin, perhaps still a girl.
She kept coming closer until she stood just outside his window. St. Sevrin did the only thing possible, of course, for a gentleman so deep in his cups. He opened the window, not without a struggle with the rusted latch. “‘Well met by moonlight, proud Titania,’” he greeted her.
“That’s ‘ill met,’” she corrected automatically, worried lest the real quote prove true.
Sloane held out his hand. “Won’t you join me anyway, sweet fairy queen? There’s a fire, and wine.”
Lisanne was suddenly undecided. She’d come this far out of necessity, but her courage was failing her at actually facing the rogue. He was large and broad-shouldered, wearing a shirt with an open collar, no neck cloth. With his reddish hair fallen over his forehead, he looked sleepy, unfinished. Mayhaps this was a bad idea after all.
While Lisanne was studying the duke, St. Sevrin was owlishly peering out the window at her. “No, you cannot be Titania, for surely you haven’t enough years in your dish to be queen of the ether. But come in out of the chill, fairy child.”
For a moment Lisanne’s heart soared. He understood! He knew about the woods! But no, she realized, he was only teasing, flirting with her. He was a rake, after all.
St. Sevrin watched the expressions flitter across
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