The Love Affair of an English Lord Read Free

Yesterday I caught myself talking to the ducks in the pond. My only hope for salvation is to be found dead in bed myself, ravished, if I have any luck, by the Stratfield Ghost.”
    Her aunt gave a loud groan of chagrin, which prompted Uncle Humphrey to absentmindedly pat her hand while pretending to frown in disapproval at Chloe. The truth, as her uncle had admitted in private to Chloe, was that he adored her outspoken views and had not enjoyed anyone’s company so much in ages. He claimed that Chloe had done wonders to draw his daughter Pamela out of her lonely shell. He appreciated, or so he said, the unpredictability Chloe had brought to their home. And Chloe actually laughed at his jokes, Lord bless her. Her dear uncle was a staunch ally.
    â€œPerhaps you ought to go to bed, Chloe,” Aunt Gwendolyn said in a tremulous voice. “Delia can bring up a pot of chocolate if you wish.”
    Chloe headed for the stairs, bearing herself like a heroine in a Greek tragedy. “I don’t suppose I could have a pot of sherry instead?”
    Pamela hobbled after her, speaking in an excited whisper. “I’m dying to have another peek inside the two trunks that came for you today. I’ve never seen so much silk and lace in all my life.”
    â€œOh.” Chloe paused to glance up the stairwell. “Not that I’m liable to need them in Chistlebury, but I’m glad that my undergarments bring you some measure of enjoyment. Between my drawers and your ghost, this should be a year of scandals for your village.”
    They continued up the creaking oak stairs in companionable silence until Pamela, apparently inspired to wickedness by her cousin’s influence, said, “Plenty of women are praying for that ghost, I reckon. Praying that they’re the one he visits tonight and has his otherworldly way with.”
    â€œHis otherworldly way?” Chloe burst into deep laughter at that and veered down the narrow hall to her room. “Heavens, what a thought.”
    For Chloe’s part she did not believe in ghosts. At least she hadn’t until last week when, from her bedroom window, she had spotted a lone masculine figure standing on the outskirts of the empty Stratfield mansion in the dead of night.
    Was it Stratfield’s restless spirit or his human male cousin who had inherited the estate? Strangely the apparition had made her feel more sad than frightened. He had a melancholy air, this spirit, if that’s what he was. The viscount had been dead just over a fortnight. Chloe’s only experience with the man, unsettling enough, had been during her first days here in Sussex.
    She had gotten caught in a downpour on her way back from the apothecary’s on an errand for her aunt. The footman who’d accompanied her had run home to fetch her an umbrella.
    Stratfield had come thundering across the field on his stallion like Sir Galahad going to battle. Reared in a family of males who excelled in athletics, and a competent horsewoman herself, Chloe had been nonetheless so impressed by the sight that she had stepped up to her ankles in a mud puddle to get a better look at this masculine vision. Unfortunately she did not seem to make a similar impression on him.
    Before she could even shake out her cloak, he wheeled his horse to circle her in patent disapproval, his gray eyes as dark and hard as pewter. Chloe found herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. From all appearances, he was not as easily impressed.
    The steady patter of rain formed a veil between them, creating an illusion of a man who was not entirely part of the world.
    All the interesting angles and planes of his strong face had arranged into an amused smirk as he surveyed her sodden state. Not perfectly handsome, but compelling. Probably the most unforgettable face Chloe had ever seen, with a clefted chin and those dark slashing eyebrows drawn into an unfriendly scowl.
    â€œWell, get on.” He’d