Page 38 of This Haunted Heart

“I love it. It’s without a doubt the grandest house I’ve ever seen. Honestly, Finley, this is splendor fit for a storybook.” I glanced up and up at it. I had to put a crick in my neck to see it all. “It’s so luxurious, I feel like a poor wretch standing here in comparison. A peasant before a castle.”

“Come on, peasant,” he said playfully, hoisting the trunk up off the ground, eager now. “I want to show you the rest. There are 50 rooms, so we probably won’t see all of them before Cook has dinner ready, but let’s see how far we get.”

Even empty-handed, I had to jog to keep up with him, hewas so spirited. He led me inside to a grand foyer so large it echoed the sound of our footsteps and carried the awed noises I made. Everything was done up in white oak and gilt fixtures. It gleamed and smelled like lacquer and clean wood.

I was not a fan of the dark, and I loved how brightly lit it was with bronze gas chandeliers and torchiers shaped like songbirds.

The grand foyer led to an even grander staircase that split before a central room. Whatever was inside, it seemed to be the focal point of the house. A ballroom perhaps? The two heavy doors secured by a sizable lock immediately drew my curiosity like a beacon.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

Finley set our trunk down in the hall. “We’ll get to that. Stay right here for a moment. I need to check in with Cook.” He started to leave, then he stopped suddenly. “I mean it, Rynn: stay put.”

“All right,” I told him.

I intended to obey, but as soon as he quit the room, wonder wriggled inside me. I made it one more minute before I left to explore the halls.

I found a drawing room with a hutch full of fine silver. It wasn’t even locked. Convinced that Finley had no intention of paying me the money he owed, I helped myself to the pricey presentation flatware, tucking the pieces out of sight in my garters and the tops of my stockings. I picked up two more spoons, weighing them in my hands. As restitution for all my pain and suffering, I wanted to keep both.

But then I recalled the intensity of the orgasms he’d given me. My skin pebbled and my heart stuttered in my chest.

I put one of the spoons back.

“What are you doing?” Finley said, appearing in the doorway.

“Exactly what it looks like,” I replied, leaning around the hutch door.

He stuck his lip out at me. “I don’t care about your pilfering. I told you to stay put because I want to watch you while you experience the manor for the first time. I like that you like my house. I don’t often show it to people.”

“Oh?” I didn’t know what to say to that. It was such a surprisingly sweet sentiment that I was tempted to put another spoon back.

“Come on, hellcat. Steal from me later,” he said cheerfully, waving me over.

He was hard to resist when he was in this sort of mood. When I crossed to him, he offered me his hand. I stared at it, trying to decide whether I still wanted to catch flies with honey or whether I’d be better serviced if I skipped all that and simply beat them to death with a rolled-up newspaper . . . ?

He took the choice from me—which was his habit—engulfing my hand with his large palm, his skin pleasantly balmy against mine.

Finley guided me all the way up the stairs first. There were three floors. He showed me bedrooms and sitting rooms, a billiard room—even the attic didn’t go ignored. On the second floor, he lit a lantern and carried it with us. Darkness had fallen beyond the windows, and the home relied on gas lighting that was spaced well apart.

He showed me a lavatory so lavish I didn’t want to leave it. It was twice the size of my bedroom at the Lark, and it had a fountain in it. The taps were decorated with a copper figureof a naked man stretching his arm out desperately toward the beautiful mermaid below. Her tail wrapped around the faucet. The tub could fit three people, and the floor was a stormy-gray shade of marble.

“You made this house for her, didn’t you?” I asked, my voice quiet to fit the somber setting. He didn’t answer me right away, so I turned to face him to see what had delayed him. “The woman you loved and lost. You built it for her.”

I regretted my words when I saw his face.

The cheerful glint in his gaze was smothered, like rain clouds rolling in to block out the sun. Sadness crept back in. “I built it after she died.”

“Why after?” I asked.

“I wanted to bring her back—not from the dead. I know that’s not possible.” He brushed a hand through his hair, and his lashes lowered. “But if it was perfect enough, I thought it might call her ghost right out of the mire where she’d died. Bring her out of the trees and back to me. I wanted to feel her presence again, wanted her to haunt these halls.”

Overtaken by the sentiment, I pressed a hand over my heart. “Finley, that’s . . .” My words trailed away. I didn’t wish to contribute to his melancholy. “You did well,” I said instead, touching his arm. “This is a house worth haunting. It’s stunning. She’d love it.”

He glanced at my hand, then he peeked up at me through his inky lashes. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.Iwould haunt this house. I’d haunt it so enthusiastically no holy man could chase me out. I’d squeeze myself between bookshelves, hide in that gorgeous bathtub, move through the pipes making spooky noises. No one could ever get me to leave.”

His lips quirked and a bit of sparkle returned to his eyes.

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