The Haunting of a Duke (26 page)

In the library, Rhys handed Michael the cravat pin. He didn't tell his friend about seeing Melisande. Though she had been his sister and he had loved her dearly, he knew that Michael's grief was no less real. He'd often wondered what Michael might have been like had Melisande lived. Would they have married as they had talked about?

In his heart, he believed that they would have. Though they had been children, there had been nothing childlike in their devotion to one another. Michael was a dissolute rake now, though not without honor. Would he have been a good and faithful husband to his sister? Rhys wanted to believe that, that perhaps it was Michael's grief that had driven him to the depths to which he had sunk, but it was all supposition, and he would not hurt their friendship by asking.

"I found it in the south wing. There was evidence that someone has been making frequent trips there. I believe this is what they were looking for."

Michael turned the pin over and over in his hand. Something about it tugged at his memory, but he could not place it. “And this fiend has been here, walking the halls of this house?"

Rhys nodded. “I need to search the passageways. This house has a rabbit warren of them. Elise knew them almost as well as we did. It would not be surprising to me that she might have shown them to her lovers as well. I've heard from Spencer. He's returned from the continent and will be arriving soon."

Michael nodded. In truth, he didn't want to see Spencer. They'd been the best of friends as children, but Spencer was ever disapproving of him and his reckless ways. Under the circumstances however, the assistance would be appreciated.

With a weary sigh, he picked up the brandy snifter that Rhys had refilled for him and took a hearty sip from it. As he did so, his eyes were drawn to movement in the garden. “Rhys, your wife is half-naked in the garden."

Rhys turned to the window and cursed. He unlocked the French doors and headed out into the garden. Curiosity had Michael following him. Emme had headed deeper into the garden, toward the maze. She was just entering the maze when Michael caught up to Rhys. Emme stopped before the entrance of the maze and turned back to look at them.

"Hello, Michael."

A chill raced across Michael's flesh as he stared at the woman before him. It was Emmaline's face, but the expression, the turn of her lips, the glint in her eyes; all of it belonged to Elise. The voice was Elise as well.

Sensing his distress, Rhys said, “Be calm, Michael. We simply have to see what message she has for us this time."

"Do I have to have a message, husband?” she asked haughtily.

Michael felt his hair standing on end. The taunting voice, the words that should have been innocent were twisted somehow, threatening—it was as if Elise herself were standing right in front of them.

She continued, furthering his unease. “Perhaps I am enjoying inhabiting a physical body again. What would it take, I wonder, to keep this body? There are ways... Eventually, I will find them. But then perhaps I won't want her body. She will have grown fat and heavy with that brat inside her."

Rhys didn't respond to the goading, to do so would only have encouraged more. “Why the garden, Elise? What are you leading us out here for?"

She laughed and the sound was cold and brittle. “So clever, my husband. You are always so clever. Not so clever to avoid being saddled with me and my little, imaginary bastard, were you?"

"Who is ‘A,’ Elise? Alistair or Ambrose Pommeroy? Or is it someone else altogether?"

"Identifying all my trysts? Don't forget Allerton. Lord Allerton. He was one of them. And then there was Adam, the footman. What a randy one he was! And then there was Alice, that lovely chambermaid. She didn't want to come to my party but I told her that if she didn't I would see her tossed out without a reference. We had such fun with her... So many and yet none of them were enough. I tried to seduce Ellersleigh there, but sadly he had greater moral fortitude than I anticipated. The Great Libertine,” she intoned dramatically, “and he was too scandalized to fuck his best friend's wife."

The obscenity coming from Elise was no surprise, but seeing Emme's face and hearing that language left Michael reeling. He couldn't imagine what it was doing to Rhys. He had once believed that he could not be shocked, that he was so debauched and so heavily inured in his ennui that nothing could shake his mask of cold, world-weary composure. He had been wrong.

Emme/Elise continued. While she spoke, she touched everything. The fabric of her chemise, the dampened leaves of the hedge rows—her fingers were never still. It as if she craved sensation. “I brought her to the garden because he comes here. He likes to come here and watch. Maybe he'd like to do more than watch for a change. Sometimes, he slips in through the open doors or windows and goes into those secret passages you love so much.” Her smile was cold and sharp, cunning. “He watched you yesterday, you and your little harlot of a wife. And to think, he and I used to pay for that privilege at the brothels and all this time there were peepholes throughout the whole house. Had I but known."

It was as before. Elise was there and suddenly, she was gone. Emme sank to the ground, her eyes closed, and her face relaxed as if she were merely sleeping, rather than having been possessed by a spirit.

Rhys removed his coat and draped it over her, then lifted her carefully.

Michael was behind him, his face more pale than it had been upon his arrival. “You've seen her before; Elise?"

Rhys nodded. He didn't acknowledge the slight quaking of Michael's voice, just as he wouldn't acknowledge it in his own. It terrified him to see Emme that way—mentally he searched for the right word—inhabited, he supposed. “Twice before. Let me get her inside and then we'll discuss it."

They strode up the stairs, Michael at his heels. He opened the door to his chamber, rather than hers, and placed Emme in the center of his bed. She slept on, oblivious. He walked over to the connecting door but Michael was already there. In the duchess’ chamber they found the entrance to the secret passage, hidden behind the armoire. They moved it carefully and Michael grabbed a candle before they entered the narrow corridor.

Carefully, Rhys searched until he found it, the peephole that she'd spoken of. He peered through it and anger flared deeply inside him. He could see the doorway clearly and recalled only too well what had happened there the previous day. There was also a reasonably unobstructed view of the bed. The cold fury swelled. “Don't speak of this to Emme. There is no need for her to know that this bastard spied upon us."

Michael nodded, vaguely sickened himself. He turned to pick up the candle and as he did, his boot sent something skittering across the stone floor. It pinged against the wooden frame of the door, and he bent to retrieve it. Holding it next to the candle flame, he examined the button. It was ornate, obviously expensive and had been lost in haste.

Michael held out the button. “These would have been ordered through an exclusive tailor. Perhaps by finding the tailor, we might be able to identify our killer."

Rhys nodded. “He is growing careless. On the one hand that means he is more likely to be caught. But it could also mean that he is more dangerous than ever before. There is too much at stake, Michael."

"Have one of the footmen take it by messenger to town, to Lord Hycliff. He can be trusted, and if anyone will know how to find its origins, it will be Hycliff."

Rhys knew Hycliff socially and the man was a fop. Nearly half a head taller than him, the man's clothing was blindingly garish, his shirt points dangerously high, and his cravat was rumored to take hours to tie.

"Hycliff is one of your trusted compatriots?"

Michael shrugged. “Not everything is as it seems, Briarleigh. Hycliff is perfect for this."

"Very well. I will trust your judgment on the matter. There is too much at stake, Michael. I won't lose her now."

"I do not make many promises, but I know that I owe you my life. She will be protected, and that is a vow that will not be broken."

Hours later Emme awoke in Rhys’ bed. He was beside her, fully clothed, staring down at her while he absently twirled a lock of her hair between his sun-browned fingers.

"I suppose this means I went for a stroll?"

He smiled. “Poor Ellersleigh. You terrified him. He looked up from his brandy and you were strolling in the garden in your chemise."

Emme covered her flaming face with her hands, “Dear heavens! I will never be able to look at him again."

Rhys chuckled. The sound was somewhat forced, but Emme didn't seem to notice it. “Well, I doubt that he will ever be able to stop looking at you. I know I certainly can't."

"It's mortifying. An inveterate rogue and my husband chasing me through the garden in my nightclothes. It's like some ridiculous farce for Drury Lane."

"There was nothing humorous about it. And your state of undress was the least shocking thing about the entire episode,” he replied gravely. Without another word, he pulled her close, holding her tightly.

"What happened in the garden?"

Rhys hung his head, resting his forehead against hers. “Elise is toying with us. She uses these episodes of yours, where she can control your body, to torture me. She made threats again that she might be able to take control of your body permanently. She claims she could restore her life by taking over yours. Is that possible?"

Emme was frightened, more frightened than she could ever recall being. Was it possible? Could Elise's spirit take her over entirely? The very thought made her blood run cold. “I don't know. It would be the first that I've ever heard of such a thing. But then I've never encountered a spirit as venomous. I wish I could say no, but I simply don't have the answer."

As Rhys watched, she unconsciously pressed her hand to her abdomen, directly over her womb. He placed his hand atop hers, warming it, stilling the soothing motions she had been making with her hand.

She sighed. “Michael told you, didn't he?"

He smiled then. “You were unconscious in his arms when I walked into the room. If he hadn't told me I might have shot him... I was planning on it in fact."

"You have no reason to be jealous. When I first came here, I wondered that as handsome as Michael is, he didn't make me breathless. That was only you. Even when I wanted to loathe you for being high-handed and presumptuous, you still made my stomach flutter and my blood heat."

He kissed her cheek, then her neck. “You thought Michael was pretty, and I gave you indigestion. I shall endeavor to remember that when my ego is flagging."

He didn't want to think about Elise anymore, or Melisande, or the fiend who was dogging their every step. He wanted to lose himself in her, to let the fire that raged in his blood consume them both.

She smiled, self-deprecating and lovely. “I had no idea then what desire was. But I understand it now, and can recognize that it is what I felt for you from the beginning."

He rolled to his back and pulled her with him. He parted her thighs so that she straddled his hips. He could feel the heat of her through his clothes.

"Walking you to your room that night, maintaining even a semblance of propriety was next to impossible. I don't know if you realized it at the time, but standing as you were in front of those windows, with the moonlight streaming in, your night rail was rendered almost completely transparent."

"You're wicked!"

"If I were wicked,” he said, “I would have had my way with you that night. Lord knows I wanted to. You smelled of lilies and that glorious hair of yours... Do you know what I did that night?” he asked her, rising on his elbows, to kiss the slender column of her throat and the delicate arc of her collarbone.

He felt the shiver that rippled through her and smiled against her skin.

She shook her head. “Hired a Bow Street Runner to dog my every step?"

"No,” he said, his teeth scraping lightly against her tender flesh, “I asked Michael to dog your every step. After speaking to him, I came back to this room and I laid here, wide awake, picturing you. Have you ever pleasured yourself, Emme? Ever touched yourself where you've been told you ought not?"

She was blushing. He was such a wicked man. “No, I have not."

He continued the torment with his skilled mouth. He explored her silken flesh, finding the spots that made her shiver, and the ones that made her moan. “That is a shame. I would like to see that. I cannot imagine anything more erotic than watching you touch yourself... Watching you bring yourself to release... That is what I did when I came back to this room that night. I lay here in this bed, tormented by the scent of you, by the images of your glorious body in that diaphanous gown."

She didn't know what to say. Her entire body was suffused with heat, partially from embarrassment and partially from a keen desire. His words and the searing heat of his lips on her flesh were more than she could bear. Her back arched, her head falling back, as she gave herself up to his questing touch.

He trailed his hand over her stomach, “I am thinking now of what you will look like when my child is growing large in your belly. You will look ripe and lovely, a vision of feminine glory. Your breasts will grow larger and more sensitive, and when your belly is too large, we will have to find very creative ways to make love, but find them we will, because I cannot imagine not making love to you. Every time I look at you, I want you more."

She shivered, trembling at his touch. But she raised her head and met his gaze. Her face was flushed with the heat of passion; her softly parted lips were plump and swollen from his kisses. She was the most tempting thing he'd ever seen.

When she spoke, her voice was soft and husky—carnal. “Then take me,” she said.

He flipped her onto her back and grasped the neckline of her chemise. Rather than strip it from her, he rent the fabric, baring her to his voracious gaze. He opened his breeches, buttons skittering in his haste. She reached down and took his shaft in hand, her slim fingers gliding over the velvet-covered steel of his manhood. He gritted his teeth, his breath hissing out between them. He gripped her wrist, tugging her hand away, and drove into her, again and again. She gasped and moaned beneath him, crying out as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her. Her body contracted, clenching him tightly, pulsing around him as she took her pleasure. In that moment, he was lost.