Beloved

by Stella Cameron

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

In Beloved, Saber, the mysterious Earl of Avenall can no longer resist Ella, a young woman he met 5 years ago. He has to win her trust by divulging his murky past. She has scandalous secrets too that have to be confronted if they are to win each other.

Release date: January 1, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

London, 1828

Only madmen see Sibley’s ghost

“Your call, I believe, Avenall.”

Saber, Earl of Avenall, heard his name and remembered to breathe again. “Sorry, Langley. I’ll fold.”

Mumbling into a glass of hock, Lord Langley squinted at his cards.

Only madmen see Sibley’s ghost.

Probably true, Saber decided. After all, he’d doubted his own sanity for four years—ever since the first endless days and
nights of half-life after he’d been left for dead by a hill tribe in India.


And now any doubt had been removed. He must be mad. Dressed in a flowing gray gown, its head and shoulders draped about with
a drifting gray veil, the ghost of Sibley’s Club stood, quite still, upon a small raised platform at one end of the smoking
room.


“Things aren’t what they used to be, eh, Langley?” Sir Arthur Best remarked querulously. Ropes of twisted blue veins showed
in his thin, ancient hands. “Time was when there were five or six full tables in this room every night. Deep play in those
days, too. When there wasn’t a poetry reading or a damn good political wrangle in progress, eh?”


Langley inclined his head. Meager light glimmered on his mane of white hair. Coals burned low in a smoke-stained marble fireplace,
as low as the candles guttering in sconces around mahogany-paneled walls.


Saber’s skin prickled. He was grateful that his overlong hair served to shadow the pallor he felt upon his face.

“Thomas,” Colonel Fowles, the fourth at the table, summoned a hovering steward. “The fire, man! And two more bottles.”

“Make it three,” Langley said.

They didn’t see it.

Of course not. They were old, but not mad. He was a young man in an old men’s club, and he was quite insane.

Saber rested his jaw on a fist and contrived to look toward the velvet-curtained dais without entirely turning his head.

The ghost revolved, its full silken robe billowing wide, only to wrap tightly about the form—or should that be lack of form?—as
it reversed direction.


A female form. Oh, certainly. Very female.

Coals clattered in the grate.

The colonel coughed, his lungs rattling as if in an empty cavern. He cleared his throat. “Fine weather for March, hmm?”

“Should say so,” Sir Arthur agreed. Purplish hammocks of skin hung beneath his eyes. “The gay young things will be showin’
off their finery in the Park, no doubt.”


“I’m feelin’ good enough to chase a gay young thing or two meself,” the colonel announced, guffawing, before another gale
of coughing shook him.


Sir Arthur’s pale eyes flickered to his companion. “I might just keep you company, sir,” he said, chuckling. “Never felt better
meself, either.”


The platform was intended for readings and the like. Heavy gold ropes looped back the deep-red, faintly dusty curtains at
each side. The lady in gray hovered near one of those curtains.


Lady?

A ghost was a ghost. Plain and simple. A manifestation of who knew what?

Saber looked from one of his companions to another. They studied their cards, clearly oblivious to any apparition.

But they were not mad.

Thomas returned, passing within feet of … She danced! Danced. Twirling, her feet barely touched the boards. Ghosts’ feet didn’t have to touch anything, did they? Saber glared at Thomas.
The man proceeded serenely past the dancing spirit, his face in its customary impassive folds.


Sibley’s ghost was a joke! Tales of sightings were without foundation. The names of those who had supposedly seen the thing,
and been borne away in restraining jackets, were unknown.


Saber closed his eyes tightly and opened them again.

Her ankles were slim. As she turned, a suggestion of shapely calf showed.

He became hot, then, just as quickly, deeply cold once more.

“Fill Avenall’s glass,” Langley bellowed. “The man looks positively peaked. The young aren’t what they used t’be. What d’you
say, Best?”


“Couldn’t agree with you more,” Sir Arthur said. “Fill ’em all around, Thomas.”

Tall and slender. A slender waist and small but curvaceous hips.

Sweat broke on Saber’s brow. He sat straighter, but bent his face over his drink and trained his eyes on his laced fingers.

Surely there was the faintest shuffling of … slippers on wood?

“Should think it’s about time to replace those curtains,” Langley announced loudly. “Old place is lookin’ a bit frayed around
the edges, wouldn’t you say?”


Muttered assent followed.

The curtains?

Saber raised his gaze to Langley, who stared directly at the red velvet curtains…flanking the platform… where…“I rather like
a nice patina of age on things,” he ventured, all but swallowing his words. If he continued to sit mute someone might twig
his discomfort.


“Patina?” Sir Arthur Best filled his sunken jowls with air, then pouted before shaking his head. He regarded the curtains
in question. “Might be a good thing on fine silver, I suppose. Hmm. Patina, eh? Hardly think it applies to threadbare velvet.
A coat of polish wouldn’t hurt the floor, either. Now, that’d produce a little patina, what?” He laughed at his own weak humor.


Langley and Colonel Fowles slapped their knees and rocked in their chairs. “Floor polish,” they sputtered in unison, pointing
at each other. “Pa-patina!”


Saber slid his eyes toward the stage.

Long, elegant hands wove slowly upward to wrap at the wrist high above the veiled head. The body undulated.

There was a sound. The slippers did make a soft scuffing. Silk clung to small, pointed breasts as if those breasts were concealed
by nothing other than that silk, nothing other than thin, floating silk…


He shifted in his seat.

A spear of arousal hit with a force that was sweet agony. Aroused by a ghost! “I certainly do feel fit,” Langley said. “And I do believe my wits grow sharper as I grow older.”


Sir Arthur downed the contents of his glass and smacked his lips. He leaned back in his chair. “I was about to say the same
thing myself. A regular game of cards, gettin’ about a bit, and good company. That’s what I put it all down to.”


“A three-bottle man always has the edge, I say,” Colonel Fowles roared, raising a glass in one hand, a bottle in the other.
“When the wine’s in, the wit’s… the wit’s in too, I say.”


Saber frowned. The rising babble raked his nerves. He came here to St. James’s Street from his rooms in Burlington Gardens
to escape any possible visitors—and to find peace. He’d chosen membership in a club frequented by antiquarian gentlemen because
no one from his former life would consider tolerating such dull company. No one except his determined friend, Devlin North,
and even Devlin avoided the place unless he was too foxed to give a damn about his surroundings.


Burlington Gardens would have been a better choice tonight. Even the disapproving comments of his gentleman’s gentleman, Bigun,
would be preferable to this jabbering tribe—and the sensual ghost on the stage.


“D’you remember the old story about the ghost, Thomas?” Langley asked suddenly.

Saber jumped. “Y’know the one, man?”

“My lord,” Thomas said, making a valiant effort to straighten his permanently stooped shoulders. “Certainly do, my lord.”

“D’you recall the name of the madman who last saw her?” A crawling sensation attacked Saber’s insides. He raised his glass
to eye level and swirled the contents rapidly. From the corner of his eye he noted a slowing of the apparition’s dance.


How long could a ghost’s manifestation last?

Thomas scratched his head and bunched up his face. “Can’t say as I do recall who it was, your lordship. Before my time. There
was a mention of it in the book.”


“Bring the book,” Saber demanded abruptly. He’d forgotten the bloody book.

Sir Arthur poured more hock. “Good idea,” he said. “Bring the book, Thomas.”

“Can’t do that, Sir Arthur,” Thomas muttered. “That would have been the one before the one before the present book. Never
did know where that one went.”


Saber pounded the gaming table. “Find the thing anyway!”

“I say.” Langley tapped Saber’s arm. “Steady on, old chap.”

If he didn’t control himself, they’d realize he was unbalanced. Saber shrugged. “Thought it might be entertaining. Forget
it, Thomas.”


“Good thing madness doesn’t run in families,” Colonel Fowles noted.

Lord Langley arched his neck inside his stiff collar. “No madness in my family, I can tell you that.”

“Nor mine,” Sir Arthur said.

Shifting gray, with the floating quality of cobweb gossamer, wafted at the edge of Saber’s vision. “Where’s it written that
madness doesn’t run in families?” he asked, aware of the truculence in his voice.


Graceful hands lowered and rose again, taking the veil with them.

Saber’s heart stopped beating.

The veil swirled in circles above sleek black hair.

He dared not look at her directly. Somehow he must get out of here, out and away before his condition was noted—before he
said something that would brand him crazed.


Colonel Fowles said, “It’s a scientific fact. About strong families having strong minds.”

Saber’s hands shook. He set down his glass. “Never a whisper of that sort of thing in my bloodlines,” Sir Arthur said.

Saber bowed his head and contrived to tilt his face just enough to see his ghostly nemesis more clearly. Straight and shimmering,
the black hair fell well past her shoulders. Her brows winged gently upward over dark, almond-shaped eyes. Rather than waxen
or transparent, her skin bore a golden sheen and a rosy tint colored a full mouth some might consider too large.


Her mouth was not too large.

Not too large for a ghost?

He was completely mad!

She smiled. She smiled and wiggled the fingers of her right hand enticingly. At him.

Saber’s eyes swiveled to his companions. All three studied the yellowing molded ceiling.

He returned his attention to the stage and barely grabbed his glass before he would have knocked it to the floor.

“Probably time I got along home,” Colonel Fowles announced.

“Probably,” Saber said evenly. He did not add that the colonel should leave before he admitted he’d seen a ghost. And the
colonel had definitely seen her.


Langley stirred and checked his fob watch. “Yes, indeed. Lady Langley worries if I’m too late.”

Would that be the same Lady Langley who was supposedly in Northumberland to attend the birth of her daughter’s latest child?
Langley, too, must get away. He had also encountered an “apparition” and feared—despite his marvelously stable family—that
he’d be branded a lunatic.


Damn, but she made a beautiful ghost. How long was it since he’d last seen her? Three years, of course. Three years

while he’d ignored her letters, and refused to see her—as much as he’d longed to do so.

“I’ll come out with you, then,” Sir Arthur said, pushing back his chair. “Call my carriage, will you, Thomas?”

The steward retreated so quickly he all but fell into the echoing, stone-flagged vestibule.

Another man fearful for his sanity.

Saber rose with the others.

She had grown still. He felt her stillness, her will demanding that he remain where they would be alone—and he would be forced
to confront her.


“You too, Avenall?” the colonel asked. “Calling it a night, are you?”

“A lady awaits me, also,” he announced, loudly enough for anyone to hear.

Sir Arthur chuckled and slapped Saber’s back. “The fair Countess Perruche? We’ve all heard about her, man. Exotic, eh? Demanding? From what they say, it’s a marvel you can tear yourself away at all.”


Saber looped an arm around Langley’s shoulders and ambled toward the door. “A man has to get his strength back now and again,”
he told them.


They all laughed. Men together, they strolled from the room.

Saber knew that Best, Langley, and Fowles controlled their urges to run from the “ghost” each thought he, alone, saw.

How had she learned the legend of Sibley’s Ghost?

How had she gained entrance to so male a sanctum?

How? Hah! By using the quicksilver mind that seemed to curl around his even now.

Without another glance, Saber did what he had to do. He walked past the only woman he would ever love, the woman he could
never bear to burden with the dark, damaged thing he had become.


He walked past, and away, from the most beautiful, vibrant creature in the world—Ella Rossmara.

“Ella Rossmara!” Dressed in a peach-colored satin night robe, Lady Justine, Viscountess Hunsingore, rose from a chair by the
window in Ella’s bedchamber. “There you are at last. Close the door and present yourself at once. At once, do you hear? What
have you done? Where have you been? Explain yourself. If your father awakens and misses me you will have more than my disapproval
to deal with, miss. Out and about in the middle of the night wearing … wearing… Oh, sin’s ears, this is the veriest muddle.
Tell me—”


Ella interrupted her adoptive parent. “Please, Mama! How can I explain anything if you will not be quiet long enough for me
to speak?” She closed the door and leaned against it.


With one long forefinger jabbing the air, Mama approached, her limp more pronounced than usual. “Do not take that tone with
me, young lady. You have quite frightened me out of my wits. What is that thing you’re wearing?”


“A ghost costume.” Oh, perish a foolish girl’s careless mouth.

Mama’s mouth formed soundless words. Her lovely amber eyes grew quite round.

Without thinking Ella said, “Who is Countess Perruche?” Oh, fie!

“Ella!”

“Mama?”

“I shall rouse your papa at once.”

“I shall cry if you do.”

“No you won’t. You never cry. Where have you been?” Ella pressed her hands to her cheeks and willed herself to be calm and
sensible. “To Sibley’s Club in St. James Street.”


Once more Mama’s voice failed. She backed to the little pink damask chair and sat again—with an audible bump.


“I had to—”

Mama held up a silencing hand. “That is a gentlemen’s club, Ella.”

“Yes.”

“You went inside this place?”


“Yes.”

“You… How did you get there?”

“Potts—”

“Potts!” Mama closed her eyes for an instant. “Naturally. How can I even think of chiding the poor man? He is butter in your
wheedling fingers.”


“I seem to recall that he is also butter in your fingers, Mama.” Potts had been a coachman in the employ of Mama’s family
for more years than he claimed to remember. After her marriage, Mama had persuaded him to work for the Ross-maras. “Papa has
told me how you made some risky journeys in Potts’s company.” Potts invariably did his best to dissuade his employers from
questionable excursions, but could always be relied upon to do as he was asked eventually—and to hold his tongue.


“We will not refer to those occasions. Why did you go to this club?”

“To make Saber see me.”

Silence followed. Mama sat further back in the chair. Saber was her cousin, and she loved him dearly. She plucked at the ribbons
on her robe and turned her face away.


“Saber belongs to Sibley’s Club. He goes there frequently. I found out a legend about a ghost that only madmen see, and I
pretended I was that ghost.”


“Oh, Ella, how could you?”

“You know how I could! I love him and he loves me, yet he will not even see me.”


“He will not see any of us. He has not seen any of us for years—not since, well, not for years.”

“I love him,” Ella repeated stubbornly. “You think you love him. You’re little more than a child.” Ella tossed the gray veil
on top of her pink counterpane. “I am twenty. And, in case you have forgotten, I am in London at the urging of you and Papa
because you want to get rid of me.”


“Ella!”

“Well, anyway.” Mama’s stricken expression chastened Ella. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to get rid of me, but you do want me
to find a husband and marry. Children don’t marry, or they shouldn’t. So you must consider me a woman, mustn’t you?”


The ribbons suffered considerable punishment. “You will always try to twist my words,” Mama said.

“No. For three years you have urged me to make a Season. Surely that means I am all but an old maid by now.”

Mama’s chin rose. “Since there was a certain Lady Justine Girvin who did not marry until she was an ancient of five and thirty,
I doubt if that same lady considers you an old maid.”


Mama referred to herself. Hoping only to be near him, she had followed the man she loved to Scotland and become not only his
good friend, but his wife. Struan, Viscount Hunsin-gore, had swept Justine away and refused to accept less than her hand in
marriage.


Orphaned Ella and her younger brother, Max, had already had the great fortune to be rescued from dire circumstances by the
viscount. After the marriage the couple had promptly adopted Ella and Max. That had been three years earlier and there were
now two more small Rossmaras at home in Scotland. Edward was two and his sister, Sarah, just a year old.


“I asked about Countess Perruche,” Ella persisted. A flush rose on Mama’s cheeks.

Ella tapped a toe impatiently. “What does it mean when a lady is referred to as demanding? And when a gentleman says he needs time away from her to regain his strength?”


Mama closed her eyes and kept them closed. “Is she a ladybird?”

“You know entirely too much, my girl.” Mama rallied and sat quite straight. “These are not matters for an innocent like yourself
to consider.”


“Innocent?” Ella tossed her head. “I have seen things—”

“Do not mention that. You are an innocent. If your father and I could erase the memories, we would. We are grateful you were blindfolded
through much of your time in that place. But regardless, what you were forced to witness did not touch your person, thank
goodness. You are not only innocent, you are the dearest daughter any parent could have. I will not listen to you saying otherwise.”


Unfamiliar tears sprang into Ella’s eyes, and she turned quickly away. “I love you,” she said softly.

She heard Mama sniff before she said, “Come here. We must talk about this situation. We should have talked about it a long
time ago.”


Ella went to her and sat on a plump tapestry stool near her feet. “He pretended he did not see me,” she mumbled.

Mama stroked her hair and placed a kiss on her brow. “I know the legend. Surely no man would admit to seeing a ghost at Sibley’s
unless he was prepared to be considered insane.”


“True. But I took off my veil and I know Saber recognized me—even though he never looked at me directly.”


“Ella! What of the other gentlemen there?”

“All about two hundred years old and all pretending they saw nothing. They’ll never mention the incident. Saber could have
remained behind if he’d wanted to.”


“That is an extraordinary gown,” Mama said, perusing the gray silk more closely. “What exactly is beneath it?”

Ella hunched her shoulders. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, Mama. It’s supposed to appear ethereal. Under-garments might spoil the impression.”

“The lack of undergarments presents far too much impression. Where did you acquire the … Where did you get that thing?”


“I cannot say,” Ella told her. “Please do not ask again.” Rose, a favorite maid, had been coerced into buying the garment
from a woman who made theatrical costumes.


“If your papa learns of this we shall undoubtedly ask about the finer points again.” A faraway expression entered Mama’s eyes.
“How did Saber appear? Is he completely recovered from his injuries, do you think?”


Ella’s frustration resurfaced with fresh force. “His hair is long. It curls over his collar. I saw nothing more than his sideways
glances while he pretended I was not there. But when he left he stood straight and walked well.” She swallowed. Sad longing
crept about her heart. “He is Saber and I love him. Why has he decided to ignore me?”


“Who told you this ghost story?”

“Do not change the subject,” Ella said, changing the subject herself. “Tell me about Countess Perruche? Have you heard of
her?”


“She is French,” Mama said simply. “A toast with a great many vague rumors circulating about her. Some refer to her as a courtesan
sought after by many men who want …I cannot imagine Saber having any connection to her.”


“He said he would love me forever.”

Mama’s hand grew still in Ella’s hair. “You never told me that.”

“I was a child then. When Papa first brought Max and me to Cornwall and we all met you. Saber told me he would look after
me forever—that I could always go to him. He helped me when I discovered my birth mother had died.”


“Ah, yes.”

“I have not forgotten even if he has,” Ella said vehemently. “And if he has forgotten I shall find a way to remind him.”

“Ella—”

“This French toast had best seek another admirer. Not that I believe for a moment that Saber would dally with such a person.
I only agreed to this Season because I heard he was in London. He is trying to deny his natural desires, and it will not do.
It will not do at all.”


“Oh, Ella, please—”

“No! No, I shall not be diverted. Some might consider this evening’s events a calamity. I see them in quite another light.”

“You are so headstrong.” Mama held Ella’s face between her hands. “We will talk to your father, my poppet. I know he will
consider your plea, but you cannot assume that his wishes and yours will be the same. And, in the end, we must abide by his
decisions—even if we do not always fully appreciate his wisdom. Promise me you will go on no more wild excursions, and that
you will allow us to deal with these matters for you.”


“By all means deal with whatever you can, as long as it means Saber and I are together at last.” She heard her own demanding
tones but could not turn back. “If I made him uncomfortable tonight, just wait until I decide how to approach him next!”


“Sin’s ears! I shall have to watch you every moment. We cannot have you running around in the night. You will be ruined. And,
lest you forget the way of things entirely, we are in London to launch you. We shall do so admirably, I assure you. I, too,
embrace the power of love, but there can be no question of any hasty decisions regarding your future.”


Ella collected herself. She was being foolish. Under no circumstances must she risk her freedom. “I am being silly.” She laughed
lightly. “This has been too much. Too long a day and night after all the excitement of arriving in London. The modiste. The
shopping. Getting ready for such lovely affairs. Don’t worry for another instant.”


Mama narrowed her eyes. “You change your tune too quickly, my girl. Don’t think you can trick me so easily.”

“I mean it.” Lying was wrong, but her life was at stake— any chance she might have for happiness. “Isn’t there a soiree the
day after tomorrow?”


“Yes,” Mama said slowly, still looking deeply suspicious. “The first major event of the Season. The Eagletons’ soiree. It
will be good to see James and Celine again. It’s been too long.”


“I’m so looking forward to that,” Ella said. “I must decide what to wear.” What she wore concerned her not one bit. She would
direct a note to Saber at once, informing him that she would hope to see him at the Eagletons’. Not that he would respond—or
appear—but meanwhile she would contemplate her next move.


“There was a particular reason for my visiting your rooms this evening,” Mama said in a tone that assured Ella’s complete
attention. “Your papa had suggested we await further developments before mentioning the subject to you. I decided I would
at least give you a hint that something momentous may be afoot. Men do not always understand the way a woman’s mind works,
do they?”


There was something indefinable, something ominous hidden in those words. “You are the expert on these things.” Mama had written
a book on the subject of relationships between men and women, a famous volume that Ella had yet to be allowed to read. “What
exactly is this momentous something?”


With the rustle of sumptuous satin, Mama got to her feet once more. “Nothing definite yet. Not until Struan has received them.”

Ella wrinkled her brow and got up too. “Them? Until Papa receives whom? What can you mean?”

“I really mustn’t go entirely against his wishes. You shall learn about it tomorrow if he decides there is something we should
consider.”


“Consider?” Ella all but squealed. “Consider what?”


“Ooh”—Mama waved a hand airily—“I do not know them personally. I’m not even entirely certain how well Struan is acquainted
with them.” She approached the door.


“I shall explode! You cannot leave me with such intriguing hints and nothing more.”

“Tomorrow, Ella. You must be patient until tomorrow. But I will tell you that serious interest has been tendered. Interest
in you. In your hand in marriage.”




Ella remembered the smells, the sights, the feel of London in the early hours of the morning. She remembered them too well.


Smoke and dust, and a suggestion of animal sweat and leather… and old fear. A bite to the air. And over and around it all,
a faintly silvered mist unfurling beneath the blue-black sky.


Tonight the scent of fear was imagined, of course—a recollection of her wretched days in Whitechapel. There, in the eastern
reaches of the city, the buildings crowded meanly together and most of those about at this time of night were about mean business.
She was not in Whitechapel now. Between Hanover Square and her destination lay nothing but the fine homes of the wealthy.
The wealthy who were all tucked into their sweetly scented sheets preparing for the next day of pampered appetites.


The wheels of the Rossmara town coach ground through the streets, echoed over the sounds of the horses’ hoofs and creaking
tack. Ella huddled in a corner and tried to feel nothing but the jarring sway of the carriage.


Not thinking about what she had set out to do was impossible. She was on a desperate mission. Nothing less would have sent
her to awaken poor Potts and beg him to perform yet another service guaranteed to make him grumble fiercely, if quietly.


Desperate. Desperate. Desperate.

The word repeated with the turning of the great wheels. She had no choice but to take desperate steps to avert a desperate
situation.


Papa was to receive some people who would discuss the disposition of her person as if she were a body without a mind? Never.
She would die before she would submit to such horror.


The coach slowed.

Perhaps she should just die anyway.

The coach crunched to a halt.

Ella covered her mouth. Her heart felt in danger of leaping away completely.

There was no expected sag of the springs under Potts’s dismounting weight.

“You’ll change your mind, Miss Ella,” he said when she’d at last coaxed him into making the journey. “At least, I hopes t’Gawd
you changes your mind.”


Now he was waiting for her to do exactly that.

Beyond the windows lay the dark facade of a terrace of grand houses. Very dark. Barely a glimmer of light showed anywhere.

Ella reached up and rapped for Potts.

The trap slid open. “Miss?”

“Oh, Potts, don’t be so difficult.”

“Difficult? Me? Oh, no, I mustn’t be difficult, must I? Drivin’ around in the middle of the night. Runnin’ the risk of ’is
lordship ’avin me guts fer garters.”


Despite her agitation, Ella grinned. Potts had never been one to temper his language. “I shall pay my visit now, if you please.”

His grumbling fell so low, she no longer heard the words.

When he handed her down, she requested, “Await me her