Captive Bride by Katharine Ashe

grate seemed to recede, the very mists outside invading the chamber as though attracted by his words.
    Tip’s brow lowered. “Beg the lady’s pardon for that.”
    “Why must I beg her pardon for speaking the truth? My senses are uncommonly acute—those I have remaining, of course.”
    “Those you have remaining?” Bea asked Lord Iversly , but she couldn’t take her eyes off Tip. He seemed to be avoiding looking directly at their host. That was not at all like him.
    “Smell, sight, hearing,” Lord Iversly replied. “Alas, I forfeited taste and touch when I perished, or this immortality would be a great deal more interesting, no doubt.” He pushed away from the wall and moved with careful steps to a candelabrum. Lifting his hand, he passed it slowly through a flame, holding his palm in the fire for a long interval then presenting it for her inspection. “You see?”
    His skin was unmarked.
    Bea’s breath petered out. She turned to Tip. His face was taut, his cheeks pale as he stared unfocused across the chamber.
    “Can you see him, Bea?” he said.
    “Yes, of course,” she said, somewhat shaken by his intensity and Lord Iversly’s trick.
    Tip took a quick, hard breath and turned to her. “I cannot.”
    “Because you are not a maiden.” Iversly’s voice mocked, the sound hollow and seeming to come from everywhere now.
    Bea stepped back.
    “Oh, no,” Lady Bronwyn’s voice wavered at the door, “he is here.”
    “Drawn by beauty, as always, my lady,” Lord Iversly replied, a wicked glint in his black eyes.
    “How charming,” Aunt Julia said. “A ghost who knows the value of flattery.”
    Bea turned to the door. Her great-aunts entered, but Lady Bronwyn hesitated, Thomas hovering behind.
    “Aunt Julia,” Bea said, pushing back her shoulders, “Lord Iversly is not a ghost, after all, as you can see.”
    “I cannot see anything of the kind,” Lady Marstowe said sharply. “Lord Iversly , show yourself this instant and cease this foolish charade.”
    Iversly’s face grew, if possible, more shadowed. Bea’s heart raced, her hands abruptly clammy.
    “I shall take my leave of you at this time,” he intoned, “but I shall return.” He moved across the chamber toward the door. Lady Bronwyn leapt out of the way, Thomas flattened his back to the wall, and Lord Iversly passed them by and was gone.
    “There, you see,” Bea said bracingly. “Ghosts do not use doors.”
    “He does occasionally,” Bronwyn said, trembling noticeably. “At least to leave. Usually he arrives any which way and at the most unexpected moments.” She clutched her shawl and Thomas hurried to assist her.
    “Do you see now?” he said. “He is real. The curse is real and we must find a way to save Lady Bronwyn.”
    “This is preposterous.” Lady Marstowe sniffed.
    “Or wonderfully sentimental.” Aunt Julia furrowed her brow and nodded. Her cap was tied atop her unruly gray locks at a slant and bobbed to one side like a blancmange on a tilted plate. The ridiculous image was so much easier to contemplate than the conclusion Bea’s thoughts currently rushed toward.
    “I beg your pardon to disagree, Aunt Julia,” Thomas retorted, “but there is nothing whatsoever sentimental about Iversly . He is a monster intent upon ruining this poor lady’s life.”
    “Thomas, you are a besotted fool,” the dowager said sharply. “A man who does not exist cannot ruin anyone’s life.”
    Lady Bronwyn’s cheeks went from white to red.
    Thomas stuttered, “You heard him, Aunt Grace. He stood right in this chamber and spoke to us.”
    “A magician’s trick.” She snapped her fingers.
    “A very good one, I should say,” Aunt Julia nodded again.
    “Julia, do not encourage this foolishness.”
    “But he was here, I tell you,” Thomas insisted.
    “He was, Lady Marstowe .” Lady Bronwyn’s voice was thin. “Oh, why won’t you believe me? I saw him!”
    “So did I .” Bea’s words brought all eyes to her.
    While the