human….
Christian had no idea how long he watched her before he too
began to doze and consciousness slipped from his control.
Not at all used to feeling warmth next to him in bed, it
seemed Christian had gravitated toward it while he’d dreamed. But that puzzled
him and a crease formed between his brows. Who was in his bed? Then it came
back to him. The ghost…. No…Contessa. He must have rolled into her transparent
form. His eyes popped open.
Frowning again, he pushed up onto one elbow. He was not on
top of her as he’d feared, just close enough to feel her heat. And she looked
different to him. He peered closer and then cursed. He couldn’t see through
her! Moving to brace a hand on either side of her, Christian studied her sleeping
outline, unbelieving. Was she corporeal? His fingers lifted to her face, slid
along her pale skin, and then any hope in his heart sank with the weight of
reality. It must have been a trick of the light, because she felt just as
transparent as before. Warm, yes, but still a ghost.
He ran another gaze over her latent body. Her tresses of
gold spilled out around her head like a halo. Again, his hand lifted and his
fingers slid through the gilded hair. Drawing in a measured breath, and then
slowly releasing it, Christian yearned to let those strands sift through his
fingers, feeling the texture of silk.
Groaning, he dropped onto his back next to her. The mattress
bounced under his weight. With fingers raking through his hair, he remembered
his plans for the day. Fisting his hands, he tugged. Unwanted plans. Today was
the ball he’d promised to go to. Mentally, he cursed again and moved from the
bed carefully trying not to wake her.
Once upright, his gaze shifted to her another time. And then
guilt slammed into him like a sucker punch to the gut. Leaving her like this,
attending a ball without taking her felt like betrayal, and she’d already been
betrayed. And he feared how upset she was going to be after having such a
dream, and then finding him not here.
But he’d given his word. And he needed the money.
Another angry oath blew past his lips as he dressed and left
the room.
He’d arrived early enough to visit a number of secondhand
bookstores and libraries before the soirée began. Again searching for anything
that might tell him who Contessa was and where this prince was from.
And as before, he’d found nothing in his hunt, and this time
he’d even had names to look for. Surely there should have been record of this
prince somewhere, Christian thought angrily, as he moped about the edges of the
dance floor at the Wimple’s.
Irritation simmered to a roiling heat inside his
stomach—Muriel Spencer had her sights set on him. He could practically see the
cogs of her brain twisting as she followed his movement with those pretty yet
cold blue eyes of hers. Her lashes fluttered, and she offered that practiced
smile which many men had fallen for. But not him. Never! Christian could see
right through her lovely but false mask.
In attendance, he felt he’d done his duty as a gentleman.
He’d danced with a variety of ladies, including a couple of the known
wallflowers. Yes, he had avoided Lady Spencer specifically, and it was obvious
she was expecting a turn with him. He avoided her gaze, considering the other
women available, and hoped to continue dodging her, but it seemed he’d dallied
a moment too long…. A growl rumbled inside him, and he was grateful for the
music that covered the sound. How dare she use his mother! He mused angrily as
Muriel approached Lady Sparks now seated with Mrs. Wimple. Mother smiled at the
little snot, completely taken in by her acting, and then her eyes shifted in
his direction as she rose from her seat.
With a sharp curse, he moved to escape the room, but it was
too late, they’d managed to block his only exit. He wanted to bite out another
profanity, but choked it down. Christian didn’t really want his mother to
notice what a
Christian had no idea how long he watched her before he too
began to doze and consciousness slipped from his control.
Not at all used to feeling warmth next to him in bed, it
seemed Christian had gravitated toward it while he’d dreamed. But that puzzled
him and a crease formed between his brows. Who was in his bed? Then it came
back to him. The ghost…. No…Contessa. He must have rolled into her transparent
form. His eyes popped open.
Frowning again, he pushed up onto one elbow. He was not on
top of her as he’d feared, just close enough to feel her heat. And she looked
different to him. He peered closer and then cursed. He couldn’t see through
her! Moving to brace a hand on either side of her, Christian studied her sleeping
outline, unbelieving. Was she corporeal? His fingers lifted to her face, slid
along her pale skin, and then any hope in his heart sank with the weight of
reality. It must have been a trick of the light, because she felt just as
transparent as before. Warm, yes, but still a ghost.
He ran another gaze over her latent body. Her tresses of
gold spilled out around her head like a halo. Again, his hand lifted and his
fingers slid through the gilded hair. Drawing in a measured breath, and then
slowly releasing it, Christian yearned to let those strands sift through his
fingers, feeling the texture of silk.
Groaning, he dropped onto his back next to her. The mattress
bounced under his weight. With fingers raking through his hair, he remembered
his plans for the day. Fisting his hands, he tugged. Unwanted plans. Today was
the ball he’d promised to go to. Mentally, he cursed again and moved from the
bed carefully trying not to wake her.
Once upright, his gaze shifted to her another time. And then
guilt slammed into him like a sucker punch to the gut. Leaving her like this,
attending a ball without taking her felt like betrayal, and she’d already been
betrayed. And he feared how upset she was going to be after having such a
dream, and then finding him not here.
But he’d given his word. And he needed the money.
Another angry oath blew past his lips as he dressed and left
the room.
He’d arrived early enough to visit a number of secondhand
bookstores and libraries before the soirée began. Again searching for anything
that might tell him who Contessa was and where this prince was from.
And as before, he’d found nothing in his hunt, and this time
he’d even had names to look for. Surely there should have been record of this
prince somewhere, Christian thought angrily, as he moped about the edges of the
dance floor at the Wimple’s.
Irritation simmered to a roiling heat inside his
stomach—Muriel Spencer had her sights set on him. He could practically see the
cogs of her brain twisting as she followed his movement with those pretty yet
cold blue eyes of hers. Her lashes fluttered, and she offered that practiced
smile which many men had fallen for. But not him. Never! Christian could see
right through her lovely but false mask.
In attendance, he felt he’d done his duty as a gentleman.
He’d danced with a variety of ladies, including a couple of the known
wallflowers. Yes, he had avoided Lady Spencer specifically, and it was obvious
she was expecting a turn with him. He avoided her gaze, considering the other
women available, and hoped to continue dodging her, but it seemed he’d dallied
a moment too long…. A growl rumbled inside him, and he was grateful for the
music that covered the sound. How dare she use his mother! He mused angrily as
Muriel approached Lady Sparks now seated with Mrs. Wimple. Mother smiled at the
little snot, completely taken in by her acting, and then her eyes shifted in
his direction as she rose from her seat.
With a sharp curse, he moved to escape the room, but it was
too late, they’d managed to block his only exit. He wanted to bite out another
profanity, but choked it down. Christian didn’t really want his mother to
notice what a
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