Chapter One
London, England
December 24, 1820
It had come to this. Confining himself behind the
walls of his study to avoid the festivities of the Christmas
holiday.
Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, wanted
nothing more than to forget this season and all the foolery that
went along with it. There would be no wreaths hung on the doors and
no candles adorned with greenery would line the mantel. He'd
threatened to dismiss Cook if she served him syllabub or Christmas
pudding. Even so, I wager one of the servants will at least put
a Yule log on one of the fires.
Donovan lounged in his high-back
chair, sipping brandy and watching the fire. The snapping
and crackling of the logs soothed him, broke the eerie silence of
the townhouse.
He glanced sideways at the polished walnut table on
his left, and his gaze settled on the silver tray bearing the
decanter of brandy. Firelight flickered off the cut crystal and
splintered, sending amber glints dancing across the floor. When
Lawrence, the butler, had brought the spirits, Donovan had told him not to bother lighting the oil lamps, just one of
the candles on the mantel and another on the small table by his
chair. The dull glow did no more than place the study in shadow.
That was fine with Donovan; the dark ambiance fit his grim
mood.
A draft swept through the study, dimming the fire.
The flames on the candles swayed, and the darkness swooped closer.
Shadows climbed from the corners and loomed over him. He glanced
toward the bay window, checking that it was securely latched. But
the reflection of the fire in the panes was all he could see.
As he started to turn back toward the fire, a circle
of bright light, high up near the top of the glass and just beyond
the window, caught his attention and he squinted, trying to make
out what the object was. Perhaps starlight? Even as he tried to
convince himself of that, the orb grew bigger, floated closer and
lower to the ground.
Donovan sat transfixed, unable to
look away as an illuminated figure approached the window,
passed through without pause as if the glass and wall weren't
there, and glided across the room, stopping close enough to the
fire to be cast in its light.
Donovan blinked several times, his mind warring with
what he saw. He glanced down at the glass in his hand. "I could
have sworn this was my first brandy." Lifting his head, his gaze
again met the vision. "But I must be foxed and seeing things. Or my
eyes fool me."
Dark brown eyes — his dark brown eyes — stared
back at him. Had it not been for the fact that he was sitting and
the phantom was standing, he could have been looking in a mirror.
The vision before him had the same dark wavy hair, broad shoulders
that seemed to fill the room, and chiseled jaw.
The apparition crossed his arms. "Could there not be
another explanation?"
Hearing the phantom speak with his voice unnerved
Donovan, gave him pause. It took a moment for understanding to sink
in.
"Ah. Dreaming, then. And not a very good dream, since
I'd never wear such an outrageous burgundy tailcoat." Donovan
gestured in the specter's direction with his glass. "Then again, I
suppose I'm not actually wearing such foppish attire but having a
nightmare."
A smile tugged at the corners of the ghost's mouth.
"So you'd prefer to reason that you're dreaming—"
"Having a nightmare… and a bad one at that."
"Very well, having a nightmare, rather than actually
believe I'm real?"
Donovan drained his glass then reached for the
decanter, desperately in need of another. "On the contrary, I'm a
logical man. And as such, I know it's impossible for me to be
lounging in my chair and standing in the middle of the room at the
same time. Not to mention that you cannot be me if I'm me, unless
this is a bad dream."
"Yet you see me… you're speaking with me."
Donovan waved his hand. "That proves nothing." He
brought the refilled glass to his lips and drained the
contents.
"Well then, you won't object if I pour myself a
London, England
December 24, 1820
It had come to this. Confining himself behind the
walls of his study to avoid the festivities of the Christmas
holiday.
Donovan Ellis, Seventh Duke of Gatewood, wanted
nothing more than to forget this season and all the foolery that
went along with it. There would be no wreaths hung on the doors and
no candles adorned with greenery would line the mantel. He'd
threatened to dismiss Cook if she served him syllabub or Christmas
pudding. Even so, I wager one of the servants will at least put
a Yule log on one of the fires.
Donovan lounged in his high-back
chair, sipping brandy and watching the fire. The snapping
and crackling of the logs soothed him, broke the eerie silence of
the townhouse.
He glanced sideways at the polished walnut table on
his left, and his gaze settled on the silver tray bearing the
decanter of brandy. Firelight flickered off the cut crystal and
splintered, sending amber glints dancing across the floor. When
Lawrence, the butler, had brought the spirits, Donovan had told him not to bother lighting the oil lamps, just one of
the candles on the mantel and another on the small table by his
chair. The dull glow did no more than place the study in shadow.
That was fine with Donovan; the dark ambiance fit his grim
mood.
A draft swept through the study, dimming the fire.
The flames on the candles swayed, and the darkness swooped closer.
Shadows climbed from the corners and loomed over him. He glanced
toward the bay window, checking that it was securely latched. But
the reflection of the fire in the panes was all he could see.
As he started to turn back toward the fire, a circle
of bright light, high up near the top of the glass and just beyond
the window, caught his attention and he squinted, trying to make
out what the object was. Perhaps starlight? Even as he tried to
convince himself of that, the orb grew bigger, floated closer and
lower to the ground.
Donovan sat transfixed, unable to
look away as an illuminated figure approached the window,
passed through without pause as if the glass and wall weren't
there, and glided across the room, stopping close enough to the
fire to be cast in its light.
Donovan blinked several times, his mind warring with
what he saw. He glanced down at the glass in his hand. "I could
have sworn this was my first brandy." Lifting his head, his gaze
again met the vision. "But I must be foxed and seeing things. Or my
eyes fool me."
Dark brown eyes — his dark brown eyes — stared
back at him. Had it not been for the fact that he was sitting and
the phantom was standing, he could have been looking in a mirror.
The vision before him had the same dark wavy hair, broad shoulders
that seemed to fill the room, and chiseled jaw.
The apparition crossed his arms. "Could there not be
another explanation?"
Hearing the phantom speak with his voice unnerved
Donovan, gave him pause. It took a moment for understanding to sink
in.
"Ah. Dreaming, then. And not a very good dream, since
I'd never wear such an outrageous burgundy tailcoat." Donovan
gestured in the specter's direction with his glass. "Then again, I
suppose I'm not actually wearing such foppish attire but having a
nightmare."
A smile tugged at the corners of the ghost's mouth.
"So you'd prefer to reason that you're dreaming—"
"Having a nightmare… and a bad one at that."
"Very well, having a nightmare, rather than actually
believe I'm real?"
Donovan drained his glass then reached for the
decanter, desperately in need of another. "On the contrary, I'm a
logical man. And as such, I know it's impossible for me to be
lounging in my chair and standing in the middle of the room at the
same time. Not to mention that you cannot be me if I'm me, unless
this is a bad dream."
"Yet you see me… you're speaking with me."
Donovan waved his hand. "That proves nothing." He
brought the refilled glass to his lips and drained the
contents.
"Well then, you won't object if I pour myself a
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