said Charlie, glancing over at her, flicking the whip above the head of the horse. They passed through the gates of Charleston and traveled through the thick woods before reaching the stone gates of the manor. The iron gates were thrown wide open, heedless of any intruders. Charlie slowed the carriage to a stop, then turned to look at her. “Penny,” he said, patting her on the shoulder, “promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I will. I promise. Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”
“I always worry when Mrs. Capshaw is scheming.”
She picked up the valise and climbed down. “This time, it will work out grand. You’ll see.”
“I hope so, dear. I hope so,” he said, snapping the whip in the air. With a neigh, the horse came to life and the carriage pulled away. It had gone a few paces when he called out to her. “Remember, Penny, you can always come back and start again if you’d like. Don’t think you’re trapped. You’re never trapped.”
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said, and watched as the carriage rode out of sight.
She set off down the manor road with nervous steps, unsure exactly what she had gotten herself into. Only one thing was certain. The choice had been her own, so she deserved whatever the future held for her.
Oak trees lined the bone-white road like sentinels, and she walked beneath them until the road spilled out onto a wide clearing of land. Some distance away, the house floated, eerie and ghostly white under the moonlight. She settled under one of the large oaks at the end of the path, her eyes trained on the ghostly house. Two windows were illuminated. They glowed like orange eyes and she saw the dark figure of a man cross in front of them. Her heart beat wildly. Was that him? Was that Carrick Arundell?
Once more the figure passed by the window, except this time he stopped and stood in front of it. Her skin pulled tight in gooseflesh. It seemed that he stared through the darkness and looked right at her. Her heart beat wildly, and her thoughts ran unchecked. Perhaps right now he was practicing his dark magic. Stop it, she chided herself. He was only a man. He couldn’t be that bad.
The light of day would bring answers. Tomorrow she would know everything. Tomorrow her future would become the present. In the meantime, she must sleep. But she couldn’t stop herself from watching the dark figure pace back and forth in the window. Back and forth, again and again. Endlessly.
Penrose opened her eyes, her body stiff, the dew from the evening before settled on her skin and hair. Arundell Manor stood before her, no longer ghostly, but regal, and she couldn’t stop staring at the sight. The early sun poured pink rays of light over the white stone walls. The windows—and there were dozens of them—all glistened in a gold sheen. The rich green grasses that stretched before her were silvered in morning dew. A pond, invisible to her in the night, lay under a blanket of mist. The home slept in quiet splendor.
Her gown was damp. She stood, brushing away the pine needles and drops of dew before straightening her hair and bonnet and pinching her cheeks for color. Lifting the valise, she walked along the bone-white gravel path, each step of her boots a loud crunch in the still morning air. There were forty-four steps leading to the massive front doors, she thought as she climbed and counted each one. She was aware of every move as if someone was already watching her from behind the glittering windows. Penrose couldn’t shake the sensation.
Standing in front of the brass knocker, she took a deep, steadying breath. You can do this, she told herself. The rising sun warmed her backside and seemed almost to agree. Lifting the heavy knocker, she let it fall and listened as the hammer strike echoed on and on behind the door. She waited, then waited some more, but there was no answer, so she tried again.
Finally, there came a fumbling noise; a latch turned and the door swung open. Sunlight streamed past her and into the house, striking a crystal chandelier that hung low in the foyer. Glass orbs and shards grabbed the light and tossed about a brilliant rainbow of colors, blinding her. She flinched and stepped backward, her boot heel catching on the fabric of her skirt. Down she went, limbs akimbo, the piazza floor rising up fast to greet her. But as she fell, she caught a glimpse of a man—a dark outline of his tall frame. His features were invisible against the white stone of the house.
Then the ground slapped her hard enough to rattle her teeth. So much for a good first impression. The sunlight poured relentlessly on her. She shielded her eyes and looked up.
“You find me that offensive?” His voice was low and sleep-filled, tainted with anger. No, she realized, the voice wasn’t tainted with mere anger—it was laced with something close to rage. Or worse.
From beneath her hand, her eyes darted left and right, searching for the man who spoke with such venom. “I can’t see you,” she said, feeling foolish.
A face swung into view, inches from her own. “I’m easy to miss,” he said. Eyes the color of a thousand sunsets swept over her face in a harsh gaze. Reds and purples and blues shifted and swirled within the irises. She shrank from him and sucked air into her lungs like a dying woman. Her hand fell away from her brow, revealing the man in his entirety. Stupidly, she sat there, blinking, trying to fathom exactly what she was seeing.
He stood there in the bright sunlight, white as snow, clad in black sleeping trousers and a robe that lay open to his waist. His skin was powder white—white beyond fathoming—as if milk had been added to an already pale skin tone, bringing forth an unnatural brightness. To look at him was to look upon the facets of a diamond; it hurt the eye to take him in. His muscles were etched into hard lines on his torso and he had a winter’s blaze of white hair that crowned a youthful, vigorous-looking face. All that white hair and he couldn’t be more than thirty-five. She stared, openmouthed.
“At least have the courtesy to shut your mouth while you stare at me,” he said, each word scraping out exactly as her boots had on the walkway moments before. He held out a hand.
She hesitated, swallowed hard and then finally slipped her hand into his. His hand was warm and she couldn’t help but be surprised by this. She had half expected his touch to have the cold chill of death on it. He pulled her to her feet, yanked her right up, and she stood in his shadow—for he was very tall, indeed—panting, trying to collect her thoughts.
“Well?” he said, a sneer twisting his features. Was he handsome?
“I’m sorry,” she said, her brain scrambling for words. “The agency sent me, sir. I’m here for the position.” She chanced one more look—she couldn’t help it. His face was too young, too beautiful and too strong for that white hair. And those eyes. God help her, those eyes.
He said nothing, merely watched her as she watched him. He seemed determined to shock her, unconcerned as he was with his half-dressed state. “Have you seen enough?” he finally asked. A touch of sleep lingered in the drawl of his voice, giving him an almost casual arrogance.
“I apologize,” she said, busying herself by leaning down to pick up her valise. “I was surprised, and all the lights startled me.”
He sniffed and shook his head. “The agency sent you? And who exactly are you and why did you come to my door at this ungodly hour?”
“Heatherton.” She extended her hand. “Penrose Heatherton.”
He didn’t take it. His eyes held hers. She thought of the crystal rainbow from the chandelier;
