What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

He glanced down at the last slice of cold ham on his plate. “Give me five minutes and we shall go upstairs.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the licentious implication of his words even though she knew what he meant. “I’m intrigued to know what we will find. I cannot imagine how someone was able to dress my bed so quickly only to disappear with no trace of ever having been there.”

“Are you not eating?” he said nodding to her plate. She glanced down, realised she had hardly touched a morsel. “Anxiety has a way of suppressing one’s appetite.”

A broken heart and pining for a lost love made one dissatisfied, too.

He stood and placed his napkin on the table. “Then let us get to it. Once we have discovered the truth, I am sure you’ll be ravenous for dinner.”

Tristan sat on the bed in Lord Fernall’s room and stared at the words painted on the wallpaper. His initial observation had been correct. The luminous effect of the phosphorescent substance was diminished slightly by the daylight.

“But we would have seen or heard someone moving about in here.” Isabella glanced at him, her furrowed brow evidence of her confusion. “People do not just disappear.”

“I agree,” he said, rubbing his chin, “which means they found somewhere to hide during the process.” He paused briefly while he considered the possibility. The gap between the wooden bed frame and the floor proved too small. A child would struggle to fit inside the armoire. “Let us go and inspect your room.”

They walked across the hall and into her bedchamber.

“Perhaps they hid behind the drapes,” she said as they stood in the middle of the room and scanned their surroundings. “Whoever dressed my bed had but a few minutes to do so.”

“So, the aim is to frighten you into thinking the house is haunted, and that your life is in danger,” Tristan reiterated more for his own benefit. He noted the bookcase on the wall opposite the bed. “Do you read often?”

She followed his gaze to the shelves of leather-bound books. “No. Everything you see is as it was when I took up residence. Whenever my funds permit it, I stay at the house in Brook Street.”

Tristan struggled to suppress his irritated sigh. He did not approve of her flitting from one place to another. But in her refusal to marry him, she had denied him the right to pass comment.

“How long have you been experiencing the strange phenomena?”

Isabella tapped her lip as she gazed up at the ceiling. “Well, after Samuel’s death I remained at Grangefields for a time. Samuel constantly accused me of being Henry’s lover, so I was not surprised to discover he had made provisions for me to live alone here.”

The muscles in Tristan’s throat constricted, to the point he feared his words would sound more like a croak if he tried to speak. “Is … is there any basis for Samuel’s fears.” He swallowed deeply. “After all, you are the same age as his son.”

Isabella’s expression darkened. “Of course not. Set aside the fact that I am his stepmother, and consequently, any affair would appear incestuous in my eyes, but I cannot abide him. I find him rude and overbearing. He has gone out of his way to belittle and undermine me at every opportunity.”

Some men played the arrogant card when trying to entice a woman into their bed. “Hence the reason you rent a house when in London.”

She nodded. “Precisely.”

Perhaps Henry Fernall was smitten with his stepmother. Tristan’s gaze drifted over her ebony locks tied in a simple knot. The grey dress was just as drab as the one she had worn the previous day, yet she had an inherent appeal that fuelled the fiery passion raging within. Henry Fernall could not have failed to notice her. Indeed, what better way was there to lure a woman into your arms than by making her believe her house is haunted?

“So did these strange events begin as soon as you moved to Highley Grange?” Tristan attempted to clarify.

“I spent the first year after Samuel’s death either at Grangefi

elds or the house in Brook Street. Since then, whenever I have stayed here something untoward has occurred. During the last few months, the incidents have become more frequent, more terrifying, though I have never experienced anything along the same scale or magnitude we did last night.”

Tristan suspected his presence had motivated the culprit to put on a better show. He walked over to the window seat, checked to ensure the top panel was secure and did not conceal a secret hiding place, before dropping onto the cushion.

“Was your h-husband a voracious reader?” Tristan asked.

“Not that I am aware.” She glanced down at a nondescript point on the floor, twisted her foot back and forth in a ritual that revealed her slight embarrassment. “I doubt an interest in academia was at the forefront of his mind when he came here.”

“Oh, and why would you think that?”

She swallowed audibly. “The house was used for private parties. The sort ladies never dare speak about.” A weary sigh left her lips, the sound suggesting mental fatigue.

Isabella did not need to explain. Tristan knew men who spent many a night catering to their licentious tastes and lewd appetites.

“But you implied Lord Fernall had a problem in that regard,” Tristan said. God, he hoped it was true. The thought of the old lord failing to join with Isabella was the only thing keeping him sane.