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“A sense of belonging,” she murmured.
“I want to marry you, Ashley. Will you think about that while you mix with your friends tonight?”
“Harry…” It was a breathless little gasp, as though he’d punched the air out of her lungs.
Her eyes widened wonderingly.
“Don’t answer me now. I just want you to know,” he said with quiet seriousness. To imprint it firmly on her mind, he repeated,
“I want to marry you.”
EMMA DARCY nearly became an actress, until her fiancé declared he preferred to attend the theater with her. She became a wife and mother. Later, she took up oil painting—unsuccessfully, she remarks. Then she tried architecture, designing the family home in New South Wales, Australia. Next came romance writing—“the hardest and most challenging of all the activities,” she confesses.
Mischief And Marriage
Emma Darcy
Dedicated to my
beloved husband, Frank, who shared all the stories of great love with me.
Dear Reader,
Four years ago my husband became very ill with a rare condition that affected his whole system. It was a devastating blow, but we determined then to find all the joy we could in the time that was left to us. It was especially hard when my husband lost most of his vision, but he could still live the stories I read to him in his mind.
Through it all he wanted the stories to go on, to give what he could to them. Mischief and Marriage was our last book together and features a ghost. My husband made up the rules for ghostland. One of them was that love knew no boundaries. The only boundaries that existed were those that people imposed themselves.
My husband passed away on 14th March 1995.
I hope that reading Mischief and Marriage brings you as much joy as it brought to Frank and me while we were creating it.
Best wishes,
Emma Darcy
IT WAS a butler’s duty, George Fotheringham assured himself, to remind the master of the house of his duty. It was a touchy subject, a highly touchy subject, but after this last near fatal incident, the matter had to be raised.
It wasn’t that Master Harry was irresponsible. He had a good heart. If Miss Penelope hadn’t succumbed to her tragic illness, everything would have been quite different. Nevertheless, the indisputable fact that Master Harry now took life far too lightly could not be ignored any longer. It was three years since Miss Penelope’s sad demise, It was time for this frivolous recklessness to stop.
‘May I point out, sir, you could have been killed in the avalanche,’ George began with portentous emphasis. ‘To risk skiing in uncertain conditions…well, it is improvident, sir. It may not be of any concern to you, sir, but there is the matter of an heir to be considered. I wondered if you might give it some thought.’
Harold Alistair Cliffton almost sighed. He remembered his cracked ribs in time and eyed his butler wearily instead. ‘Sorry, George. I’m not up to getting married at the moment.’
Not up to anything, he thought, staring broodingly into the huge log fire that kept the chill of winter at bay. The winter of my discontent. Impossible to remove that chill deep within his soul.
Having been rendered immobile with a broken leg, not to mention the damaged rib cage and some internal bruising, boredom was fast setting in. And depression. It had been a bad choice to convalesce at Springfield Manor. It conjured up too many memories of Pen and their last months together when each day had been so precious. Now…he didn’t care if he saw another day.
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do, sir. I merely propose that you consider possible outcomes,’ George persisted, determined on raising Master Harry’s awareness of what would result should he die prematurely.
There was no response.
George frowned. He had to focus Master Harry’s attention on the future. It was a matter of position and positioning. The agreement between the Cliffton family and his own was extremely significant to George, and to his mind, Master Harry had a solemn duty