The Haunting of a Duke (2 page)

Rhys sensed the tension draining from her. He couldn't imagine that it was anything other than the girl's will that prompted the reaction. Hoping that he was not overestimating her state of calm, he removed his hand and stepped back, allowing her to step away from him. Instantly, he felt the loss. He resisted the urge to reach for her and pull her back into his arms.

He doubted that the gesture would be well received. His belief was borne out when she wasted no time in quickly putting at least an arm's length between them. When she turned to face him, the moonlight rendered her night rail all but transparent, revealing every sensuous curve. His breath caught and his desire, already piqued, spiked within him. It was only years of intense self-discipline that allowed him to tamp down his response. With purpose, he stepped forward out of the shadows to meet her defiant stare.

He saw the recognition in her eyes, and the spark of fear that followed. Did she believe the rumors, then? Did she think him a murderer? Of course, it was quite possible that he had not managed to fully disguise his response. If she had recognized his body's reaction to her nearness, then perhaps she was more experienced than he might have originally imagined. If so, there was no reason for him not to pursue her, discreetly, of course. The spark of hope that flared in him with that thought was ridiculous.

Emme's bravado faltered as she met the shuttered gaze of her host. The Duke of Briarleigh still wore the impeccable evening clothes he'd looked so fine in at dinner, though his artistically knotted neck cloth was now hopelessly rumpled.

His close-cropped, dark hair was disheveled as well. Even in the dim light, the dark shadowing of whiskers on his square jaw was visible, deepening the cleft of his chin and silhouetting his sculpted mouth. Looking at his mouth made her breathless, so she quickly brought her gaze up to his startling eyes.

They pinned her to the spot, rooting her to the floor with as yet unasked questions. She recalled their color from her earlier meeting with him, even as the moonlight concealed it now. They were the lightest shade of brown, so pale that in the light they glowed like gold. Thickly lashed and topped with slashing, dark brows, they could make him appear quite fierce.

Everything about him was masculine—overwhelmingly so. His sharp, chiseled features, his deep, rich voice, and the sheer size of him, for he towered over her, even at her own impressive height—all of those traits combined to make him seem larger than life, and in her current state, incredibly intimidating. When he met and returned her assessing stare, the heat of embarrassment and something else she could not name, snaked through her veins.

"A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was lost, I fear, and then, I am afraid that I panicked."

Her voice was low and husky, like velvet. The sound of it shivered over his skin like a caress. Wide-eyed, pale and disheveled, she was lovely and tempting. With the distance between them, he managed to reign in his libido, though only barely.

He reminded himself that she was out of reach for a multitude of reasons. As an unmarried woman of good breeding, let alone one he suspected of activities that, if not criminal, were certainly immoral, she was most unsuitable.

With chagrin, he acknowledged to himself that it was the latter and not the former that placed her entirely out of his reach.

While he had little patience for the magic and mysticism that his mother was so very fond of, he had even less patience for the idea of being leg-shackled again.

Aware that the silence had stretched taut and uncomfortable between them, Rhys spoke. “And you lost your wrapper as well, I see."

The phrase had no sooner escaped his lips than he realized they would do little to ease the tension. He gave a mental shrug. Perhaps if she were unsettled, he would have more answers.

Emme blushed. “Indeed, Your Grace. I am quite chilled and would very much like to return to the warmth of my—".

Bed
had been on the tip of her tongue, but in her present state of undress there were few men who would not see that statement as an invitation.

Quickly rephrasing, she said, “To my room".

Her hesitation had not been subtle. He might have told her that any man blessed enough to view her in that diaphanous gown would be thinking of her and a bed regardless of whether she said it or not. Nonetheless, the unspoken word hung in the air between them.

Again, he cursed her purported abilities and her presumably chaste status, both of which made her completely unavailable. With her dark hair and pale eyes, she was striking.

The moonlight cascading through the windows had painted her body silver and illuminated her lush form through the fine lawn of the garment. The exaggerated curves of her generous breasts, small waist and flared hips would haunt him.

It had been far too long since he'd been with a woman. That the mere sight of her body could incite such lust in him was proof of that.

"Can you find your way?” he asked solicitously, though that was not what he wanted to say.

Speaking was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted to pull her to him and feel the softness of her flesh against his, to taste the sweetly voluptuous lips he had so recently felt pressed against his hand. There were other things, far more wicked and wondrous, that teased his mind and stoked a fire in his blood.

Emme was hesitant to admit that she didn't know the way but it would be foolhardy to deny it. She barely knew her way through the public areas of the house, much less the convoluted twists and turns she had undoubtedly taken to get to her present location.

There were other concerns, of course. Though it appeared her host was a gentleman, to a point, there were others who were not. Falling down a flight of stairs or getting lost were not the only perils she faced in an unfamiliar house. He was the devil she knew in this instance, even if their acquaintance was brief.

"I am not sure, Your Grace. If you could but direct me,” she said.

Her voice sounded tremulous and uncertain even to her own ears. There was a faint breathiness to her voice that was unfamiliar. She attributed it to her anxiety of being discovered, but the truth was far more damning.

Rhys would have cursed. It would not do. For the most part, the guests were an honorable sort, but some of the gentlemen were questionable. Lord Pomeroy was thoroughly debauched and thoroughly enamored of her. His own friends who were in attendance were little better. Though he'd left them in the billiard room, there was no way to be certain she wouldn't cross paths with them. Many of the gentlemen had only recently retired, having consumed copious amounts of brandy and indulging in numerous games of chance.

Letting her wander alone through those halls would be like setting a fox in a circle of hounds. In her present state of undress, she was fair game for any lecherous sot she might stumble across.

Though his own thoughts were painfully carnal, he was determined not to act on them. Considering the distance to the wing where the guests were being housed begged the question of how she had come to be so far from her chambers in such a state.

It was undoubtedly a mistake to allow his thoughts to linger on the subject, still he asked, “If I may ask, Miss Walters, what are you doing about at this time of night in such a state of undress?"

What could she say? That she had been in a trance, communing with a spirit who had led her to the dungeons for reasons as yet unknown?
Hardly
, she decided. That was asking to be locked up in Bedlam. In fact, it hadn't been so long ago that one of her female relatives had been placed in an asylum for far less. She had not fared well there. When she replied, her voice was calm, even if her pulse was not.

"I sleepwalk, Your Grace. Normally my maid will prevent me from wandering too far afield, but she had a megrim and had taken a sleeping draught,” she said smoothly.

It was a lie. He couldn't say exactly how he knew that, only that he did. A pretty explanation, but too rehearsed for his liking. He sensed that he would get nothing further from her, and decided that the best option then would be to appear as her ally.

With that thought in mind, he said crisply, “We will use the secret passageway, Miss Walters. It is much quicker and there is far less risk of discovery."

As an afterthought, he shrugged out of his coat and placed it around her shoulders.

The weight of the dark blue superfine settled around her shoulders, and Emme was grateful for the warmth, but disturbed by his scent, which clung to the fabric. It was pine and sandalwood, with a hint of smoke and something else that was simply him. It wasn't unpleasant, not at all, but it left her very unsettled.

It made her even more painfully aware of him and how intensely masculine he was. Its absence from his person also revealed the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, which owed little to his tailor's skill. Quickly, she averted her eyes. It didn't matter, for the image would be permanently etched in her mind.

For Rhys, offering his coat had been as much for his own benefit as for Miss Walters'. This sight of her full breasts, their dusky tips faintly visible through her gown, had been having a disastrous effect on him. Of course, covering her up did not erase the memory. He doubted that anything could. But he could not afford to become entangled with an innocent, and for all her perfidy and mysticism, he could not afford the temptation that would result from thinking her less than chaste. He needed all the impediments he could find between himself and the temptation she presented.

"The passage entrance is through here,” he explained, leading her into the library and directly to a bookcase beside the fireplace.

He depressed a small lever beneath one of the shelves and a small section shifted backward, revealing a narrow staircase. Striking a flint, he lit one of the candles from the side table. The flare of light cast menacing shadows over the hard planes of his face. With the candle gripped firmly in one hand, he took her smaller hand with the other.

"The stairs are quite steep and can be treacherous,” he warned.

With her hand clasped firmly in his, Rhys led her up the stairs and into another long narrow corridor. He was distinctly aware of her in that small space. She smelled faintly of lilies, and her hair, which was loose and wild, brushed the back of his hand where he held hers. It was like silk and his traitorous mind could envision that silken mass tangled about them. He cursed himself, he cursed her, and he cursed his raging libido. This dangerous level of attraction was not something he had expected to encounter.

"Secret passageways,” Emme said, aloud, a touch of wonderment in her voice. “It's rather macabre, like something from one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."

Receiving no response aside from a noncommittal grunt, Emme sensed that conversation was an unlikely event, and focused instead on keeping her footing. They moved through what seemed an endless labyrinth of tunnels, with various twists and turns, before he opened a door that led into the corridor only a few doors from her chamber.

At the door, she slipped his coat off and returned it. “Thank you, Your Grace."

"Rhys,” he corrected.

It might be a disastrous mistake to encourage the familiarity, but in private, at least, he wanted to acknowledge the strangely intimate if painfully platonic encounter. It would also keep her wary and he wanted to rattle her, he realized, to shake her composure. That desire wasn't due entirely to his concern for his mother. His desire to unnerve her was far more self-serving than that. He wanted her to be as disturbed by his presence as he was by hers. The idea that she might be utterly unaffected by him was lowering.

"That would hardly be appropriate, Your Grace,” Emme said, demurely.

He let his eyes travel the length of her, from the wild, disheveled waves of her dark hair, over the length of her voluptuous figure, pausing at the generous swell of her breasts and again at her hips.

"Indeed, Emmaline,” he leaned closer as she spoke, until his face was only inches from hers, “but I think following this night, clinging to propriety for its own sake would be hypocritical. I shall see you at breakfast."

Emme had felt the weight of his gaze as surely as if he'd touched her with his hands. For one brief moment she had thought he meant to kiss her, and in all honesty had hoped that he would. Her entire body suffused with heat and it shamed her to admit that it was not the flush of embarrassment that warmed her skin. She couldn't breathe and she didn't trust herself to speak. Backing toward her chamber door until she bumped against it, she stepped over the threshold, her eyes never leaving his. It took all of her willpower to sever the contact of his penetrating gaze and close the heavy door.

Behind the closed door she reminded herself that he was not a man to be trifled with. He could and more than likely would ruin her, and in spite of his apparent helpfulness, there was still a very real possibility that he had murdered his wife. She could not afford to forget that. With effort, she raised her hand and turned the key, before resting her forehead against the heavy door and trying to calm her racing pulse.

Rhys heard the snick of the lock engaging and smiled with satisfaction. Curiously pleased, he contemplated the enigma she presented as he made his way back through the maze of tunnels. It was a balm to his ego to know that he unnerved her as he returned to the billiard room and the company of the gentlemen he had left behind.

Lord Michael Ellersleigh looked up at him when he entered. “Where did you run off to? Some enchanting widow or better, some bored wife awaiting you in the corridor?"

Michael could always be counted to bring women into the conversation. He had many vices, but none that he indulged as thoroughly or with such relish.

Rhys grinned. “I could hardly call myself a gentleman if I were to divulge such information.” He had known Michael for so many years that there was an ease to their repartee.

Michael eyed him with amusement as he idly chalked the cue. “Ah, but we are not gentlemen. You are a murdering bastard, and I am a womanizing scoundrel. Therefore, that particular rule does not apply to us."