O Night Divine A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,37

the drawing room, settling herself on one of the lovely blue damask settees. Despite her age, her spine was perfectly erect and her posture completely rigid. Elizabeth followed, though she certainly seemed less than pleased about it all. No sooner had the younger woman seated herself than a knock sounded upon the door.

The dowager duchess smiled. Well, no. She smirked. It was a different thing entirely.

“He’s quite prompt, isn’t he?” the dowager duchess observed.

“It hardly matters,” Elizabeth replied. “No doubt, I have but to tell him of my sordid past and he will either make me an improper offer or make a hasty exit. We should wager on it.”

“Wager?” the dowager duchess questioned. “I’d never be so crass. I prefer to simply gloat when I am right.”

Elizabeth’s lips firmed into a thin, hard line in response.

The butler appeared in the doorway. “The Marquess of Whittendon, your grace.”

“Show him in, please,” the dowager duchess instructed with an impatient gesture.

Burney, if he was still in possession of actual lungs that required breath, would have been holding his. As it were, he just went completely still and waited for the marquess to enter. The moment the man stepped into the room, the marquess’ gaze fell unerringly upon Miss Burkhart and there it stayed. It was quite easy to see that he was entirely smitten with her and that given an opportunity, that state of infatuation could easily progress to something much deeper and infinitely more permanent. If she would let it.

Miss Elizabeth Burkhart was more than just prickly, much more than just a woman who had suffered disappointments and degradation in her life. She was afraid. Having lived almost all of his life in a similar state of fear, terrified that people would know the truth of who and what he was, Burney identified very strongly with her. And that was why he knew that Whittendon was the weak link for his attack. He’d have to keep Whittendon on course and make certain that the man, through the power of a bit of ghostly encouragement, would not lose hope in the face of what would surely be a rejection.

“It would be so much easier if only I had more time,” Burney mused.

And at that very moment, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Both Whittendon and Miss Burkhart turned their gazes toward the fireplace where he stood. Both of them looked directly at the spot where he stood. They hadn’t seen him. Of that, he was certain. Their equally puzzled expressions were proof of it. But they’d heard him. They’d heard what he’d muttered aloud and now they would be looking for answers.

Biting back another curse that would only compound his issues, he slunk toward the door, all but tiptoeing to reach it. Again, it was pointless. Being non-corporeal, he’d hardly trip over the rug or fall and knock over a valuable vase or figurine. Eventually, he swore to himself, he’d get the hang of ghostly interference in mortal lives. But until that time, he’d just exit the room and eavesdrop outside the door like a normal person.

Oliver was certain of two things. First, he’d heard the voice of the mysterious Burney when there was no physical presence in that room to account for it. Secondly, from the shocked expression on Miss Elizabeth Burkhart’s face and the direction of her gaze, he could be fairly certain that she’d heard it as well. Which begged the question, why had no one else? Neither the footman nor the Dowager Duchess of Templeton even glanced in that direction. It could be accounted for that perhaps the dowager duchess was, in her advanced years, somewhat hard of hearing. It could also be accounted for by the fact that the servants in the dowager duchess’ household were impeccably trained and would never be so gauche as to be caught staring at a guest. But he was also fairly certain that was not it.

He wasn’t the sort to consider all the mysteries of the universe. He left that for men with a far more philosophical bent than what he himself possessed. Still, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was some metaphysical element at play in what they were experiencing. But in order to answer that question, he’d need to talk to Elizabeth Burkhart alone, without the eagle-eyed and clearly quite sharp dowager duchess overhearing.

“Your grace,” Oliver said, sketching a bow, “Miss Burkhart. Thank you again for the very gracious invitation.”

The dowager duchess let out a harrumph. “Gracious…