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She pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. “I must have known you in a past life, myself.”

Bridget retracted her initial assessment of the man she’d met in the Amity. His eyes had reminded her of the sea on stormy days, gray and haunting. The threads of silver at his temples had intrigued her, how they broke the otherwise impenetrable midnight black of his hair. His broad shoulders, large hands she wanted to feel on her body.

No, he wasn’t attractive. He was an arse and a liar.

Damn her terrible fortune. She’d finally met someone who stoked her interest, who promised a night of escape and pleasure. And now that briefly held fantasy was gone, disappeared in a puff of smoke like the illusions she faked.

She swallowed the knot of frustration that threatened to choke her. “Mrs. Keenan, would you set the earl’s belongings in the blue room?”

The housekeeper, who had been watching the tense exchange, startled. “The blue room? Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” She directed a dangerous smile at the earl. “It is a pleasure to have you at Ashveil Manor, but you’ll forgive my surprise, given you’re only passing through⁠—”

“What is this?” he cut in. The storms in his eyes crested. “Is this some sort of joke⁠—”

“Madame Bridgette?”

Bridget spun. “Y-yes?”

One of the American sisters—Pearl, perhaps?—stood on the threshold, watching them expectantly. “Are we starting the reading soon?”

She forced her placid expression to remain in place. “We are. In fact—” she turned to the earl, “—I was explaining to his lordship that Ashveil Manor has a special energy that allows me to see more clearly. Down to the very bones of those who enter these doors.”

He blinked at that, and a thrill cast out the worry twisting her gut. He may have put her off-balance, but this was her home, and she held the power.

“I was about to show his lordship the art of palmistry.” Her mask firmly in place, she motioned for the woman to join them.

When she directed her attention back to the man in question, he was glaring at her. But she was a practiced actress, and she would not let him intimidate her.

“Your hand, for example.” She gestured toward the fist at his side. “May I see it?”

He stared at her as if she’d asked him to strip naked and take a swim in the river. Finally, he extended his right hand, closing the space between them.

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and electricity jolted at the touch. His pulse thundered beneath her touch, but she didn’t dare meet his gaze, not while she was unsettled herself. This connection had sparked between them at the Amity, but he’d lied to her, withholding the truth of his purpose. She resolved to feel no guilt for lying to him.

She cleared her throat and guided his palm to face up, leaned over, and studied it in the low light. “Every hand tells a story if you know what you’re looking for. This—” she dragged a fingertip from his wrist to the skin between his thumb and forefinger, “—is your life line. It’s strong and unbroken, meaning you’re dependable and loyal. But it barely curves. You’re a cautious man, especially when it comes to trust.”

“Perhaps I have reason to be distrustful.”

She peered at him through her lashes, catching the slight flare of his nostrils. Her palmistry was about as reliable as her spirit summoning—not at all reliable. But she wanted to rattle him, as he had rattled her.

“Your head line is straight as well, meaning you’re realistic and thoughtful, but stubborn in your views.”

His pulse kicked a little faster under her fingers, and she resisted the urge to preen.

“This is fascinating,” the American said. The earl shot her an irritable look.

“Ah, and here—” Bridget traced the crease from beneath his forefinger to the base of his smallest finger. “Your heart line. It tells the story of the great loves in your life. Do you see how it is straight but not well-defined?”

He swallowed, made an indistinct grunt of acknowledgement.

“It means you had love, a love based on logic and duty. And here it breaks.” She lifted her eyes. “A trauma. A loss. But after this break, the line is deeper and curved. That indicates a passionate love awaits, just out of reach⁠—”

He yanked his hand away and wiped his palm on his trousers. “That’s enough,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“Oh, that’s just the beginning, my lord.” She stepped closer, her tone approaching a snarl. “While you’re at Ashveil Manor, the spirits are in control. And I am your means of understanding the spirits.”

His gaze narrowed, but she didn’t miss the jump of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.