The Haunting of a Duke (14 page)

Crossing the room, she collapsed onto the bed and battled the urge to hide beneath the covers. Even if she left Briarwood Hall and retreated to London, she would not be able to forget the way he made her feel. She was well out of her depth, and she knew it.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Rhys couldn't say what alerted him. Sleep had been eluding him. He'd been lying in his bed contemplating the events of the day. The carriage accident had pressed heavily on his mind of course, but in the dark, it was his reaction to Emme that preoccupied his thoughts. He'd been considering what to do about her and his growing attraction when he heard the faint fall of footsteps in the corridor. That brief kiss in the garden had been a tantalizing taste and it haunted him. Restless, he rose from the bed and moved to the window, but a noise in the corridor halted him mid stride.

Donning his dressing gown, he stepped into the hall just in time to see a flash of white disappearing up the stairs to the tower. That door had been locked. He checked it often, not wanting any more accidents, or with events such as this house party, any curiosity seekers. Elise had fallen from the tower, or been pushed, he mentally corrected. It was common knowledge that the tower had been her sanctuary and that it was the last place she had been seen alive. His expression turned grim as he strode toward the door, and took those stairs two at a time, until he reached the upper chamber. Again, the door was open when it should have been securely locked. A deep unease settled inside him then, but he pressed onward.

Entering the room, bright moonlight poured through the tall narrow windows. The room was frigidly cold. He could see his breath, although the windows were firmly closed. Standing in the center of the room, Emme wore only her night rail. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She stood there staring blankly for several seconds. He watched her, uncertain of what to do, knowing that she wasn't awake, but neither was she asleep. She was locked somewhere between.

As he watched, she cocked her head to the side, almost as if she were listening to someone. The hair on his arms rose as he watched her. She looked directly at him then, but her eyes were different, pale and distant. “The book is here,” she said, and her voice was strange, breathless, and not entirely her own. It was not Elise's voice, but it was close enough that it brought a chill. She turned away and strode toward the windows.

He wanted to stop her, fearing for her safety, but she didn't touch the windows. Instead, she knelt before the window seat and began pulling the pillows and cushions away from it. Her movements were frantic, almost fevered, until it was only bare wood and stone. She calmed then, and pressed a small rosette that had been carved into the wood. The panel opened and she reached inside, removing a small bundle wrapped in a paisley fabric. He recognized it as a shawl that had belonged to Elise. She unwrapped the bundle to reveal a small journal, the leather cover worn. She didn't open the book, but rose from her knees and walked toward him.

She extended the journal toward him. “Your answers are in here."

He took the book from her, his fingers brushing hers. They were like ice, he thought. Her sightless eyes closed, and she began to collapse. He caught her, crushing her to him. With one hand, he slipped the book into the pocket of his dressing gown, and then carried her over to the small daybed. It was draped in Holland covers, but dust was hardly a concern at the moment. Carefully, he placed her on the bed and wondered what sort of phenomena he had just witnessed.

Emme stirred, and sneezed. As she opened her eyes, she immediately recognized that she was not in her own room. She also recognized that she was not alone. The heat of his body was a welcome refuge from the frigid room, and the scent that had become so agonizingly familiar teased her senses. Slowly, she sat up and met his gaze.

"Sleepwalking again?” he said.

She hadn't been sleepwalking, and he knew it as well as she did. The evidence was written all over her face. “Did you follow me?"

He nodded, “It's an interesting talent you have. The door to this room and the door to the tower were both locked. Your present attire lends me to believe you are not hiding either a key or lock picking tools on your person. Someone must have unlocked the doors for you."

"Someone?” she queried him, her gaze challenging.

"Or something,” he conceded, though it pained him to do so. “You've never been in this house, certainly never in this room, and yet you discovered a hidden compartment that apparently had only been known to Elise.” He held up the book and the shawl as evidence.

When she spoke, her voice trembled with emotion. “I don't seek this out. I don't want it. I've never wanted it."

The words were spoken so softly and with such sincerity, he didn't doubt their truth. He looked at her, peering into her wide, troubled grey eyes. He eased his arms about her and pulled her to him. He had meant to offer comfort only, to hold her and perhaps warm her as he had no doubt she was freezing. But the softness of her body pressed against his own, the sweet scent of lilies, which clung to her defeated his higher intent and sparked his base desires. The memory of their earlier kiss pulled at him, tempting him with the remembered taste of her sweet lips. He tipped her chin up and claimed her mouth. Her lips were soft beneath his, untutored and sweet for it.

It was not merely a repeat of the innocent kiss he had bestowed on her earlier. It was more insistent, more intense, and all the more dangerous for it, because it was even more tempting. She'd fought off clumsy advances and had generally avoided situations with gentlemen that might result in such activities. In spite of that, she had been curious. And in the darkened tower with Rhys, her curiosity easily superseded her good sense. All of her reasons for avoiding just that sort of situation with him fled.

She relaxed against him, pressing closer to the warmth and strength of his body, accepting what he offered, willingly. Eagerly, she fitted herself to him, into his warm embrace. The feel of his strong arms closing about her, of the hard, warm planes of his chest beneath her palms was heady.

It was like lightning. The hunger flared in him with a ferocity that left him stunned. It consumed him and any thoughts of propriety fled in the face of his desire. His hands were in her hair, angling her head so that he could deepen the kiss. She sighed against him, and he slipped his tongue between her parted lips. He felt her stiffen, obviously startled by the invasion, but then she relaxed against him, welcoming the touch. He delved deeper, exploring the taste that intoxicated him—the taste of her mouth, the pillowy softness of her lips beneath his, her hair tangled in his hands. It was what he had longed for since that first night. The need rose in him, hot and insistent, and the kiss took on a life of its own. Passion flared between them, as his lips played over hers. With lips, teeth and tongue, he explored her, learning each sweet contour.

This was not one of the sweet, romantic kisses that she had read about in poetry or in novels. The kiss was as frightening as it was thrilling. She didn't hear music or see stars. There was only heat and the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against her. She felt as if she were on fire, burning from the inside. His mouth on hers was like nothing she had ever experienced. She craved something she could not name. Instinctively, she pressed closer, wanting more.

When his hands seized her shoulders and pulled her more firmly against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, she gasped into his mouth. The peaks of her breasts were taut and aching where they brushed the velvet of his dressing gown. His hand roamed down her back, pressing their bodies together. She kissed him back with equal ferocity. Emme could only marvel at the heat of his flesh, the hard press of his body as her own softer form yielded, molding to him. She was breathless, trembling from the onslaught of unfamiliar sensations. But she didn't want it to end. So she clung to him, her palms running over his shoulders, one hand testing the texture of his dark hair as she caressed the nape of his neck.

When he laid her back on the bed, the thought of protesting never entered her mind. His long legs tangled with hers, as his heated mouth continued its sensual onslaught. Everywhere he touched her, she felt heat and pleasure. When he brushed the curve of her breast with his knuckles, she moaned, the sound echoing in the silence of the room broken only by the rasp of their breath. When his hand closed over her breast, caressing the tender flesh, her back arched involuntarily, pressing more fully against him. His touch became more insistent, more deliberately arousing. Her nipple pebbled beneath his questing fingers, and her hips moved against him, of their own volition. His lips returned to hers, swallowing the soft moans that escaped her.

Even in his raging hunger for her, Rhys knew they had to stop. It was insanity to continue. If he didn't end it, he soon would not be able to. That she was innocent, untried, was not in doubt. It would be up to him to end the encounter before she was utterly ruined. He eased back from her lips, and rested his forehead against hers. They were both panting, both aching with unfulfilled desire.

"We have to get you back to your room,” he said, cursing himself for a fool even as he uttered the words.

Emme couldn't speak. She was both stunned and mortified. Sanity had reared its head, and her embarrassment came swiftly on its heels. Her pulse still thrummed in her veins and the heat that pooled low in her belly was damning evidence of her wantonness. Humiliated, and feeling utterly rejected, she nodded her agreement. She didn't trust her voice to respond. He held out his hand, intending to help her up, but she ignored it. Touching him again, even in such an innocent way, would be unwise.

Rhys gritted his teeth, and tried to ignore the agony of his aroused flesh. He damned himself for a fool, for not being libertine enough to take what had been so sweetly offered. Cursing himself, cursing her and whatever otherworldly element that had led them to that moment, he guided her down the stairs and toward her room.

They had barely reached the corridor of the guest wing when a door opened down the hall. There were no empty rooms. His mother had filled them all with guests. That meant one thing and one thing only. They were well and truly caught. When his mother stepped into the hallway, his aunt beside her, he felt Emme stiffen.

Phyllis looked at him, her satisfaction glaringly evident while Lady Eleanor stared with cold disapproval. Had Mrs. Haverston and Lady Isabella not been in their company, as well, an explanation might have sufficed. Their presence complicated matters exponentially. Mrs. Haverston was a known gossip, and he didn't doubt for one moment that she would enjoy spreading this juicy bit around. Lady Isabella was not a fool, either. Having a niece who was a duchess would increase her social cachet significantly.

"Mother, Aunt Eleanor, Mrs. Haverston, Lady Isabella,” he said, coolly. His voice did not betray his ire, or his frustration.

"I assume, Rhys, that you have an explanation for this!” Phyllis demanded.

"Mother, I hardly feel explanations are necessary at this point. Suffice to say, Miss Walters and I will be announcing our engagement tomorrow.” Emme gasped again, but he tightened his hand on hers and gave her a warning look.

The following morning was a flurry of activity. Mrs. Haverston's maid shared her information with the other maids, who then shared information with footmen and valets. All those servants then shared the information with their mistresses and masters, and soon there was not a soul in all of Briarwood Hall who did not know that Emme was thoroughly compromised. Many guests begged off and cited pressing matters that necessitated a hurried return to the city, where the gossip would no doubt spread even more quickly.

On the terrace, wrapped in her warmest shawl, Emme considered her options. She didn't want to marry Rhys. If she were honest with herself, she would say she didn't wish to marry him under such circumstances. No other man had ever tempted her, had ever made her forget herself the way that he could. If she had to marry, he was certainly an impeccable choice. But he had no wish to marry her, she knew. Being forced into matrimony, would they ever be content with one another? Or would resentment grow and fester between them until they were both miserably unhappy?

With a heavy sigh, she rose and traversed the narrow path that led to the garden. The roses were still in bloom. In spite of his previous edict that she not leave the house unescorted, she needed to be alone with her thoughts. She was not foolish though, and intended to remain in sight of the house.

She walked idly down the path, impervious to the drizzle that had begun to fall. Her mind and her heart were heavy. The feeling of his lips on hers was a fresh and torturous memory, as was the feel of his hands on her body. It had been sinful and wicked, yet glorious at the same time. Had he not halted their lovemaking, she knew she would not have. She would have given herself right there. It was lowering to realize that she had so little strength of will.

Could she really go through with it, she wondered? Could she marry him after only a handful of words had been exchanged between them? Did she have any choice? The answer to that was obviously no. If she had any hope of maintaining her standing in society, she would have to go through with it. It wasn't simply her standing; it was her family's as well. Her younger sister had not yet had her debut and with her family's less than stellar reputation and utter lack of fortune, it was the only option to preserve Larissa's chances for a secure future.

Emme looked up and realized that she had gone further than she had intended, and turned to head back to the house. As she turned, she saw the dark shape on the path behind her. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her palms grew damp with fear. It was not a ghostly visitor who followed her, but a man. She didn't know what instinct propelled her, what primal knowledge came, but she sensed the danger and ran. Her feet slipped on the wet stones, but she didn't stop. She could hear him behind her, the soles of his booted feet crunching on the loose stones. Without slowing her pace or looking behind her, she rushed forward, heading toward the maze. Hiding wasn't the best solution, but her pursuer was blocking the way back to the house. The maze would at least provide cover, and perhaps a way out that he would not be aware of.