Theory of Magic Page 17

  The voice in her head cackled in delight.

  20

  Ashford added a dollop of brandy to his tea and listened to the confusion outside his study.

  The interview with Townsend had been as amusing as it had been appalling. The man was a disgrace to his title to use a gentlewoman like Christie for a bargaining chip. He’d enjoyed running the man into a corner and letting him scrabble about like a trapped rodent.

  As soon as her stepfather departed, he waited for Christie to present herself. Instead, she seemed to have disappeared. He assumed the tea had been her way of diverting fisticuffs, adding a layer of civilization he’d forgotten. The servants hadn’t delivered it of their own accord, he knew.

  So where was she?

  He could wander out and ask, but he was fairly certain he heard Moira and her interfering witch of a mother in the salon. How big of a dolt did he wish to make of himself by looking for his misplaced not-quite-a-fiancée?

  He detected the low rumble of Erran’s voice, so that might be Celeste laughing. Shortly after that, he heard the twins tumble in the front entrance. Miss Chris had blessedly kept them away as he’d asked, although Townsend had been defeated more easily than he’d expected, which had kept his shouting to a minimum.

  Overall, he was pretty damned satisfied with his negotiations. He hadn’t had anything interesting to cut his teeth on in a long time. He had Pascoe to thank for finding the connections to the Dorset property that he wouldn’t have found while he was imprisoned here by his useless eyes.

  He needed to persuade Christie to the altar before a duke showed up to fling his weight around.

  Restlessly, he waited for Erran to join him in the study. Or he supposed . . . Ashford toyed with his pen. He could go out there and make his announcement about his betrothal to a room full of eager women.

  He needed Christie with him to do that.

  He probably should have planned ahead for a celebratory dinner . . . except she never really had given him her promise. That brought him out of his chair. Confound it, he couldn’t keep hiding in his own damned house. He needed to find the woman and seal the deal he’d just made with Townsend.

  If he wanted marriage, women were a necessary nuisance, ergo, he must deal with them. In fact, he could consider it a new challenge—how to keep Christie at his side while scattering all the other birdwits.

  Using his stick to detect any stray objects in his path, he counted his steps until he knew he’d reached the foyer. Voices emanated from the front salon, so he walked in, hunting for the scent of lilies.

  “Ashford, there you are! We’ve prepared a proper announcement for the papers. You really should have held a dinner to declare your betrothal. You cannot do it in front of shopkeepers! What were you thinking?” Lady McDowell asked in indignation.

  “I was thinking that it was my own accursed business how I make my announcements.” Well, so much for making a proper declaration with his bride at his side. “Where’s Christie?”

  “She isn’t with you?” Moira asked in concern.

  “Of course she’s not with me. Do you see her with me?” he asked in disgruntlement. “And it would be highly improper if she were. Hartley, run out back and see if she’s in the garden. Check the kitchen on the way.”

  “Yes, sir. How did you know I was here, sir?”

  Ash could hear his son approach and recognized the motion of a short shadow. When the boy came near, he cuffed him on his shoulder. “Because you stink of mangy dog.”

  “He found a hurt puppy in the bushes at the abbey,” Hugh explained as Hartley ran off. “Shall I check Miss Townsend’s room?”

  “Do that, and I thank you.” With the boys out of the way, Ashford glared at what he presumed was a roomful of women if he gauged the variety of scents and shapes correctly. “The rest of you may fly away on your brooms. Erran, do you have the license?”

  “I have the license.” Erran’s deep voice came from near the mantel, where there was no window light to give him shape. “I even have a vicar ready. But you seem to have lost your bride.”

  Which made Ash extremely uneasy, but he refused to show it. “Is the vicar here already?”

  “Of course not,” Celeste said in her serene voice. “We needed to consult with Christie first. This salon is too small for a wedding. We need Iveston.”

  “I don’t have time for Iveston or a big hurly burly. The administration is about to fall, and I have meetings every day.” And he wouldn’t have the support of Townsend’s men if he didn’t marry his damned stepdaughter and draw up the settlements immediately. If the Duke of Sommersville caught wind of a scandal . . . all bets were off.

  Ash maintained a grip on his rising panic. Where in the devil was the woman? Christie had known Moira had gone to fetch the wretched viscountess. She should be down here, entertaining the guests.

  She wasn’t his wife yet. She couldn’t be his hostess. He almost groaned in impatience and swung his stick in the direction of the whispering women. “We need the words said and the deed done. I don’t need all of you making a circus of it.”

  “And do my wishes matter, my lord?” Christie asked from behind him, in a cool voice unlike the warm, welcoming one he’d come to expect.

  He swung around as if he could see her. The foyer was too dark to easily discern her shape. He stepped aside and bowed so she could enter. Once he knew she was close and could see a portion of her silhouette against the front window, he caught her hand and kissed the back of it.

  “Your opinion is why I sent for you, my lady. Will you tell these slubber-de-gullions that all we need are the vicar and words? I haven’t time for more.”

  “Insulting my family is probably not the best way to ask that,” she said, withdrawing her hand and drifting away.

  “Your family? Is Townsend still here?” Irritated that he couldn’t tell, Ash glared at the entire company.

  “Aster says Christie is a descendant of Christina, the third duchess of Sommersville and is thus a Malcolm, just as we are,” Moira said with a hint of triumph. “So we are her family.”

  “Impossible,” Ash said in disgust. “She is much too level-headed to be one of you. But the dukes have always been good, logical men. I suppose we should send them an announcement.”

  “Exactly what we thought—about the invitation, anyway,” Celeste said sweetly. “But the dukes are gifted healers, and their siblings and offspring often have interesting abilities, Aster tells us.”

  Ash waved this nonsense away. “Christie, tell them you are perfectly normal and harbor no weird abilities to talk with ghosts or whatever foolishness they encourage.”

  “Actually, my lord,” she said, “I’ve given it some thought lately. I’ve been hearing my mother’s voice in my head ever since she died. Since moving here, I’ve learned it’s possible to hear other ghosts. If you wish to cry off, I’ll understand.” She said this defiantly, as if expecting him to cry off.

  The other women exclaimed in excitement and all began nattering at once. He wished he could see Miss Chris. She hadn’t sounded happy about her announcement. Ghosts? She heard ghosts? Not saw them—heard them. Irrational, mad . . .

  And meant to scare him off.

  Fighting a rising panic, Ash pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he could twist this conversation back to the beginning and start over. “I do not wish to cry off, and this is not amusing. What do your voices say?” he asked, because he couldn’t think of a more appropriate response.

  “The one who calls you her grandson says you need me,” she said in what sounded like relief and amusement. “I really haven’t heard other people’s ancestors until I moved in here.”

  “Oh, I bet that’s Ashford’s great-grandmother Ninian,” Moira said excitedly. “Aster told you this house enhances our abilities!”

  “I need a physician to give me a headache powder,” Ash muttered. He had proposed to another jingle-brained Malcolm. Perhaps he really was as mad as they.

  He had defini
tely gone soft in the head, because he couldn’t find it in himself to cry off, even though she was giving him the opportunity. That was what this scene was about. He’d pressured her into accepting his ring, and now she was showing him with her defiance what he hadn’t wanted to hear when she’d said she wasn’t suitable.

  Bloody hell, she needed him. And he needed her. They’d muddle along just fine, if they didn’t throttle each other in the process of learning to deal with their differences.

  “If my ancestors were healers, perhaps I should be a physician,” Christie said, with amusement underlying her coolness. “I know how to fetch headache powders, however.”

  He caught her arm before she could leave. “Don’t go, please.” To hell with Malcolms and ghosts, he knew he needed this manipulative, elusive female more than he hated the irrationality women brought into his life. “Erran has a license and a vicar. Your stepfather has agreed to return the funds on your property and release your entire trust to me, but only if we marry. Do you really want a duke bearing down on me breathing fire for compromising you? The sooner we do this, the better for all.”

  Christie studied the handsome but flawed aristocrat clutching her upper arm. She had almost choked on terror when she’d forced herself to be honest and mention her ghosts. She had feared he’d take a complete disgust of her—or that he wouldn’t.

  The idea of spending her life with another man who would control her and who didn’t love her was even more daunting than imagining a lonely life of independence. So she had dumped her fear and the decision onto Ashford by trying to scare him with her voices.

  She sensed him fighting panic, just as she was, which was comforting in its own way. She couldn’t read his mind, however. Did his panic mean she had put him off?

  Perhaps the ghosts really had given him a disgust of her. She couldn’t imagine he was too worried about a weak man like Townsend. And the idea of a distant duke defending her was almost as ludicrous as Ashford believing she was his only chance at a wife. He could have any woman he liked.

  She was the one who could never find a better man, and she desperately wanted a family to love. That was the factor swaying her—even if Ashford couldn’t love her, she could hope that their children would.

  After overhearing his conversation with Townsend, she’d gone to her room to decide whether to pack and flee—or stay and fight. Harriet had fled, perhaps permanently. Christie had chosen to stay and fight for what she wanted. If she was to be more than a pawn, if someday she actually hoped to take the lead as his ghostly great-grandmother had recommended, she had to learn to stand up to a powerful marquess, one accustomed to having everything his way. She swallowed her fear and forged on.

  “Can you accept that I might be a Malcolm with ghosts in my head?” she asked, to make herself perfectly clear.

  Given a problem to solve, his panic lessened. “As long as you’re listening to me and not to them,” he said warily.

  The other women had fallen silent and waited expectantly.

  Christie tilted her head and considered that possibility. “I’ve never really listened to them until I moved in here. I think I know you better than I know them. What if I just listen to myself instead of you or the ghosts?”

  His lips turned up wryly. “I think I can trust your wisdom in that. What’s more important is that we keep your stepfather from spreading scandal.”

  Well, no, there were many other considerations more important in marriage, but he knew that and for whatever reason, was using the political advantage to manipulate her. Keeping her mind open like this, she would soon have his headache, but she needed to know how he truly felt beneath the truth he twisted to his advantage.

  “I do not like being rushed on such an important occasion as this,” she said frostily, in a voice she’d never ever used to anyone. She ought to be terrified to speak to him in such a way. Correction, she was terrified.

  But if it came down to living under another man’s thumb or being thrown from the house—she’d choose being thrown from the house. Otherwise, her lonely heart would become more involved with these people, and Ashford would own her as Townsend had.

  She waited, holding her breath, for his response.

  His grip relaxed. “Shall we go in the other room to talk about what you want without all . . .” He hesitated, bit back whatever insult he meant to use, and indicated the women. “Without all your family making choices for us?”

  She almost smiled at his struggle to offer this concession. Ashford was not accustomed to yielding power.

  “I rather like having family to help me, but if we are to marry. . . perhaps we ought to find ways of dealing with each other in private.” She took his arm and allowed him to lead her out with a measure of dignity, ignoring the protests rising behind them.

  He led her into the anteroom and left the door partially open, so there could be no complaints of impropriety, at least while there was company to notice. Christie knew the arrogant marquess wouldn’t observe such niceties otherwise.

  He assisted her to a cushioned settle. “You have never actually said yes to my proposal, Miss Townsend.”

  Her lips quirked at his formality, but he couldn’t see her, so she must convey what she felt with care. “I would be more than honored to accept your offer, my lord. I think you know that.”

  “That was not an enthusiastic acceptance. I sense a ‘but . . .’” He took the cushion next to hers. The solid wood held both their weights without sagging. “Do you trust me to return your dowry untouched? I truly do not need more land or funds, and will gladly allow you to do as you wish with them, although I hope that you will set them aside for any children we might have.”

  She thrilled at the mention of having children—or at the idea of the process leading to them. But if he was offering to let her manage her own property, she must not sound missish about the opportunity.

  “I trust you on matters of money, but I wish to be part of the settlement negotiations to determine what is mine to control and to establish that control,” she said, threading her fingers together and trying to gather her wits when he loomed so close and spoke of such intimate matters. “I do not trust you, however, to treat me as more than an extra appendage to be used as you see fit. I have been nothing for too long to ever wish to be treated as such again. If I am to be nothing, I wish to be so on my own.”

  Which was a huge horrible lie. She hated the idea of being alone for the rest of her life. But she hated even worse what would become of her once Ashford grew bored and moved on, as he most certainly would.

  To give him credit, he actually took the time to consider what she was saying rather than laughing at her fears or pressuring her to say yes. Unlike Townsend, Ashford always knew when she was lying, which was uncomfortable. But he couldn’t know about what part, so he had to stew, just as she did.

  Sitting there in his form-fitting coat, his white neckcloth askew, his square, beard-darkened jaw jutting, he clicked his stick against the floor and stared at the empty wall for a while before replying, “I will admit that I have not led a life that gives you reason to trust me in matters of the fairer sex. It’s impossible to make promises for the future, but can you trust that I have learned my lesson and take you more seriously than the others?”

  Christie bit her lip. This was the crux of the matter. They had no way of knowing if he’d recover his sight. If he did, he wouldn’t need her. He might despise looking at her. But by then, might they have learned to rely on each other? Without love, what else could they have?

  At her silence, he rubbed her cheek and touched her lips as if she were a precious piece of porcelain, which thrilled her to the marrow.

  “I cannot imagine using you as an extra appendage, my dear, wise Miss Chris, except perhaps as my eyes. For that, I would be eternally grateful. I took my eyes for granted before. I’d never be so foolish as that now. So I’m not entirely certain what you ask of me.”

  “Respect,” she said with decision, not darin
g to ask the impossible. “I know I am not your equal in many things, but I am my own person and not an extension of you. I do not wish you to make my decisions for me, and I would like my preferences to be consulted on matters such as where I’m to be married.” She added dry inference to the latter.

  He uttered a snort of amusement. “It won’t be easy,” he warned her. “I’m accustomed to making all the decisions in my life without consulting anyone.”

  “I gathered that.” She relaxed her grip and tried smoothing her skirt. “And I am not accustomed to making decisions, having had them taken from me all my life. From here on, I mean to have my voice heard, so it will make me angry if I must fight to have my say. I may not be a pleasant companion.”

  “I want to kiss you senseless right now and carry you off to make mad, passionate love,” he said cheerfully, with apparent relief—although she could no more interpret the source of his feelings than he could her lies. “I think we will manage. Since I cannot seek that prize until after we are wed, how soon can it be done, my dear? I’d like to get on with this business of fighting.”

  She bit back a grin at his perspective. “And I would rather not,” she said as sternly as she could manage. “But I understand if we are to save my property from enclosure, and you are to twist arms for the votes you need, we must wed quickly. Therefore, I must ask that you let me be the final arbiter on the negotiations of my settlements.”

  “You wish to sit in on a dry meeting even I have no desire to attend?” he asked in amazement. “I meant to set Erran on it, but I will happily agree to you sitting in with him and arguing to your heart’s content. Now may I ask Erran to fetch the vicar?”

  “You are to tell Lord Erran that I have the final say in the agreement, and then we may ask the vicar if we may use his church. You may be tired of public spectacle and wish a private life, but I am tired of hiding in the shadows. I want a spectacle.”