These Haunted Hearts: A Regency Ghost Story Read Online Free Page B

her face,
fugitive as summer lightning. Fear. Puzzlement. Anger. Then a
profound sadness to match the stabbing grief he’d felt when he’d
woken without her and realized that he and his beloved were both
dead.
    Grim premonition gripped him. “Isabella?”
    Her black gaze settled upon him, somber and lightless
as he’d never seen it. “You murdered me, Josiah.”

Chapter Three

     
    GINGERLY CALISTA INCHED inside the Chinese
bedroom, feeling her way ahead with fumbling hands. There was a
full moon tonight so sneaking down from her eyrie in the east tower
hadn’t posed a problem. Unless she counted her nagging conviction
that this was a mistake and once Miles discovered how inadequate
she truly was, he’d cry off from marrying her, never mind the
promises he’d made.
    This room was pitch-black. The curtains remained
drawn, blocking out the moonlight. With every step through Stygian
darkness, the temptation to turn and run like a frightened rabbit
grew.
    She leveled her shoulders and told herself that
ghosts didn’t exist. Which did nothing at all to stifle her
nervousness about giving herself to Miles. And very little to
overcome her awareness of the oppressive, ancient spite infesting
the air in this chamber.
    Miles would mock her, but perhaps she might change
her mind about insisting this would be their bedroom. The views
were lovely, but the walls seeped with the memory of old tragedy.
The possibly mythical princess. The far too real Josiah Aston and
his murdered bride Isabella.
    No, they’d choose one of the numerous pleasant
chambers on the floor below. A girl could take her commitment to
modern scientific thought too far.
    “Miles?” she whispered, although there was little
chance of being heard outside the room. Everyone in the house was
asleep and this entire floor had been left empty for the guests who
arrived tomorrow.
    No answer.
    Dear Lord, had he decided even before he had her that
he was no longer interested? Calista told herself that it was no
more than she’d expected, but even so, her belly cramped with
misery.
    “Miles?” she hissed more loudly, wishing to heaven
she had a candle, even if it increased the chance of discovery.
Then instead of staggering around like a blind woman, she could
check the room, confirm he’d let her down and leave.
    To try and stitch her broken heart together up in her
lonely room.
    Too mortifying to contemplate. She straightened,
although nobody was present to witness her revival of spirit, and
reached in front of her.
    She’d sit on the bed and wait a few minutes—at least
that proved her courage, the bed was said to guarantee a violent
death to any bride who lay in it. Easy to scoff at ridiculous
superstitions in the light of day. Less easy when she stood in a
closed room, straining to hear another person breathing.
    A month ago, opening this beautiful, neglected house
for her wedding had seemed a brave, positive act. Now, Calista
reclassified the whim as rash and stupid. She counted herself the
most rational of creatures, but something in this room wasn’t
right. Even someone as insensitive to the occult as she sensed the
deep sadness surrounding her. The atmosphere’s heaviness was more
obvious now that she couldn’t see. Air that should be still moved
on her bare arms, making the hairs stand up on her skin. Since
Isabella Verney’s grisly death last century, there had been
numerous accounts of specters at Marston Hall. That disciple of
scientific method, Calista Aston, had always dismissed these
reports as the victory of imagination over reason.
    At this moment, she wasn’t quite so sure.
    Calista ventured another step and slammed into
something big and warm.
    Like a ninny, she screamed.
     
    ***
     
    “Calista, you goose, hush now. You’ll have a
crowd in here. And if we’re going to face down a scandal, I damn
well want the pleasure first.”
    It was Miles. Living, breathing, provoking Miles.
Nothing unearthly visiting from the other side of the