The Haunting of a Duke (17 page)

The fire had died down and the chill of the room helped to curb his libido. Heedless of his nudity, he strode to the hearth and stoked the embers back to life, adding another log to the fire. When he turned his wife was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up over her breasts and her hair wild about her. She was looking at him curiously.

"Yes?” he queried.

"I realized that you have a very unfair advantage,” she said, her smile as tempting as any courtesan's. Soft and coquettish, it shaped her divine mouth in such a way that it could do little but stir carnal desires.

"And what is that?” he asked, desire deepening the timbre of his voice.

"You know what I look like everywhere and I barely had time to look at you at all."

God preserve him, he thought, as his good intentions fled entirely. He rose, poker stiff and eager to show her. Her eyes took in every detail as he walked back to the bed in the weak morning light.

He was magnificent, Emme thought. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. He was all muscle over bone—broad of chest and shoulder, long limbed, with powerful thighs and lean hips.

She eyed his sex with a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. It grew larger beneath her gaze. “May I touch you?"

He would have begged, he thought, and she was asking permission. “Yes,” he said simply.

She explored his body, tracing his shoulders and running her hands over the powerful muscles of his chest. When the flat discs of his nipples hardened beneath her exploring fingers, she leaned forward and licked him as he had done to her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought the sigh that escaped his lips then, was her name. She turned her attention to the other nipple, scraping lightly with her teeth and his hands fisted in her hair. She trailed her fingers over the ridges of his abdomen, explored the indentions at his lean hips, and ran the flat of her palms over his hair roughened thighs. He groaned then, his erection jutting powerfully from the nest of dark hair.

With more courage than she'd ever given herself credit for, she touched it, her fingertips gliding over the satiny smooth skin. She hadn't expected that it would be so smooth, that the skin would be so velvety, or that the heat of him would sear her.

His breath hissed out through his clenched teeth. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked.

His nearly virginal young wife had him randier than any well-trained courtesan ever had. “No, you did everything right, and if you kept doing everything right I would have spilled myself in your hand and our lovemaking would have been over far too quickly."

"Oh,” she said, her lips forming that exquisite bow. “In that case, I should repeat it."

Rhys didn't give her the opportunity. He laid her back on the bed and came down on top of her. “You are playing with fire, wife."

She smiled, “I know... and I think I like it."

"It's too soon,” he said, kissing her neck, then rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, so that she straddled him. Her hair spilled over them, tangling about their limbs. “You'll be sore. Now, behave."

Emme considered it. She was sore, but she didn't care. “You can't mean to sleep like this,” she protested. “I'm too heavy."

"You're not too heavy, and I don't intend to sleep. I intend to rest, momentarily, and then enjoy a morning ride."

Emme snuggled against him, enjoying the feel of the crisp hair of his chest against her own smooth skin. “It's too cold outside for a ride."

He chuckled. “That's quite all right. I won't be riding; you will."

Hours later, after he had made love to his new bride for the second time, Rhys had watched Emme retire to her own room to bathe and dress for the day. He couldn't help but compare his wedding night with Emme to the disastrous one that he had shared with Elise. Aside from the first night of their marriage, when their ill-fated union had been consummated, Elise had never shared his chambers or invited him to her own. She had preferred another wing of the house, one where her lovers could come and go without running into her husband or mother- in-law. The rest of the time she had spent in the tower, writing in her rambling journal.

Leaving his chambers and heading for the breakfast room, he realized that it had mattered little even then. He had been content to let her entertain other men because he'd had no interest in her. As he had been led to believe that she was already pregnant with someone else's child when they'd wed, the idea of having his own child as his heir had already been denied him. But her body had never altered. Her belly had never rounded with child. When he had confronted her, she had confessed that she had lost the babe. He had demanded then that she curb her wild ways and take no other lovers until the succession of the title was secure. She'd laughed then, bitterly, and upon reflection, quite madly. She'd assured him that she knew well how to prevent pregnancy as she had no intention of ever going through it. That had been the first time he had mentioned divorce. Lady Eleanor had intervened then, telling him to give Elise time. It had been only a few short months later that she had died. The gossip had been rampant, that he had killed her for denying him his husbandly rights.

The truth had been that he had taken no joy from bedding Elise. She'd been cold and unresponsive. It had been spite, and she'd said as much. She'd vowed on that one occasion, that he would never enjoy her passions as he'd once denied her his. Elise, he realized, had always been somewhat mad. She'd been a study of extremes, even as a child. It had always been elation or agony, and never anything in between. He did not expect his marriage to Emme to be free of strife, but in only twenty-four hours, he'd enjoyed more contentment with her than in his entire marriage to Elise. He was still smiling at the thought when the door opened behind him.

"You're woolgathering."

The soft statement brought him back to the present, and to the wife he'd just been considering. “Yes, I suppose I was."

Idly, he began to fill his plate from the sideboard. When she was beside him, he kissed her. It was not a passionate kiss, but a simple gesture. He kissed her because she was his, and because he could. He eased back from the kiss, before passion consumed him again. Her hair was tamed from the wild disarray of their morning debauch. It was dressed in a neat coiffure, revealing the slender column of her neck, and the faint traces of red left by his whiskers. Some part of him, something dark and possessive within him, reveled in the knowledge that he had marked her.

They broke their fast together. It was an intimate moment, shared only by the two of them. Rhys decided that it was something he could grow used to. She didn't chatter at him, but sat in companionable silence with him as they enjoyed their meal. He read the morning papers and shared the more interesting information with her. She responded sensibly, and he was once again struck by her intelligence. If there was one thing about his wife he would have altered, it wasn't her birth or lack of fortune. It was her strange abilities. They disturbed him, shaking his comfort on levels that he didn't wish to acknowledge.

After finishing their meal, they strolled through the gardens and he gave her a more extensive tour of the estate than she'd had previously. It was nearly noon before they returned to the house and joined the others.

Upon entering the drawing room he noted that Mrs. Haverston had departed, risking night travel to London with her niece, Miss Stone. She had waited to receive word of their wedding so that she could carry the gossip back to town with her. The murdering duke and the mystic, Rhys thought somewhat bitterly. What a tale they would make for the gossips.

Eleanor was baleful and his mother appeared to be cool and collected as always. She had Emme sit beside her and began to discuss the skills required to run a household like Briarwood Hall. He stood back from the group watching them. Michael approached him and discreetly poured a measure of brandy from his flask into the teacup he held.

Rhys smiled. “Ever prepared, Michael."

"You're looking content, my friend."

"Tread easy, Michael. I'd hate to have to call you out.” In spite of the threat, his voice was infused with calm and good humor.

Michael chuckled. “Good Lord, yes. It'd be a shame if I had to make her a widow already. Speaking of content, she looks equally satisfied with life, if a bit fatigued."

Rhys said without umbrage, “You really are an ass, Ellersleigh."

"Perhaps I am merely jealous of your connubial bliss? It was blissful, wasn't it? Surely you can spare that much for your old friend, who is now deprived of all female company save for your sainted mother and your aunt. One I love like a mother myself and the other, well, perhaps if she were the last woman on earth, but even then, I'd need a drink. Several drinks, actually."

"It was paradise. Now, shut up."

Michael smiled, happy that his friend was, if not happy, at least on the path. Rhys deserved it after the hell of Elise. “Well, so you can punch me in the face and get it over with, I should tell you that I am the one who alerted your dear mother that you had followed Miss—excuse me, Her Grace, into the tower."

Rhys felt a flickering of anger, but only a flickering, and then asked, “Why the hell did you do that?"

Michael's reply was deceptively casual. “Because she's perfect for you and you couldn't keep your eyes, your hands or your mind off her. You'd already dutifully married once and it was disastrous. I thought this time you should have what you wanted instead."

Rhys stared at his friend for a long moment. He should have been angry, but he couldn't muster the ire that he should have felt. “I won't thank you for it yet, but I won't beat the hell out of you either. I'll reserve the right to do either at a later date depending on whether or not the connubial bliss, as you put it, sustains itself."

"Fair enough,” Michael answered with a shrug, and added another healthy dollop of brandy to his tea.

It was his mother who interrupted them. “The both of you are being impossibly rude! Rhys, you are neglecting your bride, and Michael, you rotten boy, you are plotting something."

Michael held a hand to his heart, as if mortally wounded. “Never, Lady Phyllis! I worship at your feet. You are a goddess amongst women."

Eleanor remained quiet, her cold glare never leaving the new duchess. Rhys noted the dark looks and sinister glares that his aunt continued to direct at Emme. If she was attempting to disguise her hatred of Emme, she was doing a poor job of it. A confrontation was brewing on that front, but he elected to let it simmer for a bit longer. He would have that conversation with Eleanor in private. There was no need for Emme to be exposed to more unpleasantness.

The remainder of the day continued in a similar fashion. He and Michael went for a ride, and he examined some of the outbuildings and tenants’ cottages that were in need of repair. It was during their ride that he introduced the topic of Elise's journal.

Pulling the small book from his pocket, he passed it to Michael. “I can't make heads or tails out of it. Every detail of her debauchery is outlined in glaring detail, however, her partners in her peccadilloes are identified only by their initials."

Michael took the book and flipped it open to a random page. His only outward response was to raise his eyebrows. When he spoke, his voice was laced with a mixture of amusement and disgust. “I had no idea your late wife's interests were so varied. However did she find the time?"

Rhys didn't take the bait. Instead he focused on the more important issue. “I need your help, Michael. I need you to help me identify the people in that book. I haven't moved in those sorts of circles in a very long time. If I were suddenly to reappear at the halls or at one of Belmont's parties, it would arouse suspicion."

"But with my dark reputation and even blacker soul, my appearance will go unremarked?"

"Something to that effect,” Rhys agreed, “You know who her compatriots were—the like-minded ladies that she swapped tales with. Will you help?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Well, you certainly don't need my assistance here. I will leave in the morning."

When Emme joined her new husband, his mother and the extended family before the evening meal, they were gathered in the small drawing room. She had napped in the afternoon. No one had commented on her absence or the possible cause for her exhaustion, for which she was thankful. She would have been utterly mortified. She chose to ignore Michael's knowing glance and wink.

Rhys and Eleanor were squared off. As she entered, Emme couldn't help but be aware of the tension between the two of them. That they were discussing her was of little doubt, as they both abruptly stopped speaking when she entered the room. Rhys stood, ever the gentleman, and waited for her to be seated. Eleanor regarded her coolly. Rhys was the first to break the uncomfortable silence that descended upon them.

"Aunt Eleanor has been suggesting that we travel to London. She feels it would be beneficial in allaying any scandal and in assuaging any fears your family might have regarding our marriage."

Emme was afraid of that. She didn't wish to face her family. Her stepfather's disapproval was always expressed with as much cruelty as he could muster. Nonetheless, she understood the necessity of it. “If you think its best,” she said, simply, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Rhys cocked his head slightly, and leveled an assessing stare on her. He sensed the hesitation in her answer. “We will leave the day after tomorrow then,” he said.

Emme's stomach churned at the idea, but she said nothing. Dinner was announced and Rhys offered her his arm, leading her into the dining room. She could feel Eleanor's eyes boring into her back. It was obvious that the other woman was not pleased to have her position usurped in the home, especially by someone of Emme's standing. This fact was underscored by the snide comments and sugarcoated venom that she spewed during dinner. The dowager duchess did not involve herself in the fray but remained polite and poised throughout.

The main course had just been served when Eleanor looked at Emme and said, in a voice that was sickeningly sweet, “Well, this has been quite fortuitous for you, Emmaline. You came to Briarwood a gossip-shrouded spinster and now here you sit—a duchess. I imagine your family will be overjoyed to have such elevated connections."