The Haunting of a Duke (8 page)

The door slammed resoundingly and Rhys felt the reverberation in the floor beneath his feet. That confrontation had not gone as he intended, he realized. His attempts to predict Miss Walters’ responses were becoming increasingly futile. With a heavy sigh, Rhys turned and walked back down the stairs. He would have to watch Hornsby to be certain the man didn't bully someone into sending him to the gallows.

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The following day, a picnic by the lake had been suggested to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. It had also been suggested as a means of avoiding the larger drawing room, in light of the previous night's catastrophic events. Rhys had prayed for rain so that he might avoid that particular fate, but it was not to be.

Dutifully, he smiled at his unwanted guests as they took their seats at the lavish tables. Phyllis loved to entertain, and as a hostess, few could surpass her. She was in her element now, steadfastly ignoring the unpleasantness of the previous evening and seeing to the comfort of her guests. By unspoken agreement, little was said about the demise of Madame Zuniga. If guests did speak of it, they chose to do so in hushed tones. Despite the reports of Miss Walters’ alibi for him, he felt the weight of accusing stares.

With those thoughts preying on his mind, Rhys surveyed the tables. The seating was informal, and the tables arranged in a square. He tracked Miss Walters’ progress to a table and quickly followed suit. He did not take the seat next to her. Doing so would have been tantamount to an admission he was unwilling to make, but he did manage to seat himself across from her, where he could monitor her conversations with others.

He'd been considering Michael's statements about Miss Walters’ supposed contact with Melisande. Though few people knew of her, it was not impossible for Miss Walters to have learned of his sister from a guest, as many of them were ancient enough to recall the tragedy. If Miss Walters was as impressionable as he imagined, it would not have taken much to plant such a seed in her mind. It was a far more palatable version of events, to believe her the victim of a highly suggestible nature rather than the opportunist he had first envisioned.

He noted that Lord Pomeroy had managed to gain a seat that would again grant him a favorable view of Miss Walters’ charms. Though he would be the first to admit it, her dress was remarkably modest, but with her generous curves even the most puritanical of styles could be alluring. The decolletage was remarkably conservative, yet he had little doubt that every gentleman present was imagining the glories hidden beneath the fabric of her gown. His reaction to that knowledge was primal. Deep, instinctive, possessive—he wanted to snatch her up and cart her off so that everyone present knew that she was his. It would be the height of foolishness. She wasn't his. She could never be his for a host of reasons, not the least of which being that she was either a liar or utterly mad.

He decided that he needed to be dispassionate in his perusal of Miss Walters, to use the discipline that had served him so well in the army to tamp down the attraction that was such an unfortunate complication. It was no mean feat. Whenever he looked at her he recalled the luscious curves that had been displayed so beautifully by the diaphanous night rail and the errant moonlight. The scent of lilies was burned forever in his mind, as was the feel of her silken hair on his skin, even if the touch had been unintended and not designed to inflame his lust. There was little about her that did not incite rampant desire in him. It didn't help that other men were equally enamored of her charms. It wasn't like him to play the dog in the manger, and yet he was very much acting the part.

His objective review a dismal failure, he conceded defeat. In an attempt to ease the physical discomfort of his unfulfilled lust, he began to survey the crowd and noted that his cousin, Alistair, appeared immune to Miss Walter's considerable charms after her dismissal of him at dinner. Alistair was not precisely giving her the cut direct, but he was being far from gentlemanly.

Rhys sighed, knowing that a long talk with Alistair was due. It wasn't a task that he relished, as they habitually rubbed one another the wrong way. He didn't want him ogling Miss Walters, of course, but ignoring her so pointedly was bad form. It could be damaging to her reputation and it would certainly be noted by the gossipy Miss Stone and her equally gossipy aunt, Mrs. Haverston. They would carry the tales back to London with glee.

Rhys didn't intend to turn his gaze back to Miss Walters. Nonetheless, he found himself gazing surreptitiously at her. Recognizing futility, he gave in to the temptation and allowed himself to enjoy looking at her. Her remarkable hair, so glossy and thick, was swept back in a loose knot. The breeze teased small curls about her ears and against her neck. Her alabaster skin glowed in the afternoon sun, and he had to clench his fists at the urge to feel its silken texture. Fringed with thick lashes that fanned against her cheek, her eyes drew him, as did her wide, full lips. They formed a perfect bow, like that of a doll. Her face was heart-shaped, with a slim, piquant nose and high cheekbones, though there was a softness about her that he found beguiling.

Altogether, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but she hid her charms well. Her dress was a pale, sickly color, the shawl that she draped over her shoulders also muted and dull. The spectacles perched on the end of her nose could not hide the beauty of her face if one bothered to look for it, but Miss Walters was doing her best to deter anyone from looking, he realized.

Of course, none of that mattered to Pommeroy. He had never actually looked at a woman's face, only her figure. While Rhys couldn't find fault with a man for enjoying the lushness of the female form, Pomeroy's interest in Miss Walter's was having a disastrous effect on his mood.

"Lord Pommeroy, I meant to ask after the health of your mother,” Rhys said.

He couldn't have cared less about the old bat's health, but it was the one topic he was certain would divert the other man's attention.

Pommeroy smiled beatifically and responded effusively, “Oh, I say, Your Grace. Mother is quite hale and hearty these days. She's made a remarkable recovery!"

Rhys raised his glass and sipped his wine. He wished fervently that it was something stronger. If there was one subject Pommeroy could wax poetic on for hours it was his sainted mother. Better to endure his prattle, Rhys thought, than to suffer another second of the man's leering gaze on Emmaline.

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind, than she looked up at him and bestowed a smile on him, as if he were the conquering hero. Watching her full, rosy lips curve so delicately, he realized he wasn't all that different from Pommeroy himself.

Emme knew that he had rescued her, but she couldn't for the life of her determine why. Perhaps, she mused, thinking her a lunatic rather than an opportunist, he felt pity for her. He had apparently known just the trick to distract Lord Pommeroy from his lecherous attentions toward her.

She watched him from beneath lowered lashes as she sipped her wine. While her experience with men was very limited, she had to acknowledge, at least to herself, that what she felt for him was more than just attraction, or even infatuation.

It was visceral and unrelenting. It was also a very dangerous thing for her, as well as futile. She was well below his station. Men of his standing did not marry women of hers, and anything other than marriage was unacceptable. Her family was clinging to respectability by the slenderest of threads. Even one brief lapse would ruin not only her, but her younger sister as well. Larissa deserved a chance to have a season and to find love, and given her exquisite beauty, Emme did not doubt that all of London would be swooning at her sister's feet, as long as she was given the opportunity.

A little voice inside her declared that she was entitled to happiness too, but she pushed that voice aside in favor of logic. Given the complications in his indecision between thinking her mentally challenged or morally bankrupt, the attraction was hopeless at any rate, and best ignored. She repeated that to herself in endless variation, and still couldn't stop her traitorous gaze from feasting upon him.

With his restrained, and some would say austere clothing, he was unlike any other gentleman present. He avoided the garishly colored waistcoats that so many favored and also eschewed the various fobs and ornamentation of other, more dandyish, gentlemen. Remembering how he had looked in only his shirtsleeves, with his broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms, she knew that he had no need of padding to create his divinely masculine form. His hand, when he had taken hers, had been warm, strong and slightly ridged with calluses.

She felt her face flaming as she recalled that touch and how her heart had pounded. Emme fanned herself and tried not to consider the cause of her heated flush.

The meal ended and the mallets and wickets for a game of Pall Mall were produced. Emme smiled politely but declined Lord Pommeroy's invitation to partner her in the game.

Given the manner in which he leered at her bosom, she could only imagine how he would leer at her bottom when she leaned forward to hit the ball with the mallet. Instead, she retrieved her reticule and the slim volume of poetry she'd tucked into it that morning and sought a quiet spot beneath a tree.

Lord Ellersleigh appeared almost immediately.

"Are you still reading ‘not Shakespeare’ today?"

Emme sighed. She was not to have a moment's peace it seemed. “It is Byron actually, Lord Ellersleigh."

"Ah,” he said. “I'm not a fan, I must say. I knew him at Harrow."

Emme gave him a puzzled glance. “Do you have to like the man to enjoy the words?"

Michael appeared to be somewhat startled by her question. “Well, no, Miss Walters. I suppose you do not. Perhaps I will read it and give it a fair chance, then."

He wouldn't, Emme knew. But he was charming, and unlike being in the presence of Rhys, she could still breathe when Lord Ellersleigh was beside her.

"I saw you speaking with His Grace. Are you here to guard me from Lord Pommeroy, or to guard everyone else so I don't pick their unsuspecting pockets?"

Michael chuckled before responding, “I am here simply to ensure that Lord Pommeroy maintains a suitable distance from your person."

He had his own personal agenda, however. He wanted information about Melisande from her, and he wanted to make Rhys jealous. He'd never seen the man become so bothered by a female. In point of fact, he'd never seen Rhys react so strongly to any woman.

His friend had never gone without female companionship, but while he had indulged physically with the fairer sex, his true passions had never been engaged. Michael had never fancied himself a matchmaker before, but he enjoyed the novelty of the experience greatly.

Emme chuckled in spite of herself. “That's a bit like setting the fox to guard the hen house, is it not?"

Michael raised an eyebrow at her and in a supercilious tone, he replied, “I am not a hen, Miss Walters, and if you have designs on my person, I should warn you that I am a virtuous man."

Her responding giggle was charming. It was also precisely what he had wanted to achieve. He wanted her feel comfortable and relaxed, and he wanted her to trust him with the information he needed. It would have the added benefit of driving Rhys insane with jealousy.

After a few minutes of idle chatting, he dove in to the deeper matters that disturbed him. “So tell me about your meeting with Melisande."

Emme cocked her head. “I can't help but wonder why you are so curious, Lord Ellersleigh".

Michael didn't talk about Melisande, or at least he never had. But if he wanted information, he would have to be more forthcoming. He smiled somewhat sadly, and said, “She was my first love, Miss Walters. I was seven when I met her and she was just eight. Only three short years later, we were married under that tree across the lake. Jeremy performed the service. Rhys was my best man, and I believe the family dog was performing its duties as her maid of honor. It was lovely."

Emme could picture them so clearly. If his beauty as a man was any indication of what he had looked like as a fresh-faced boy, they would have looked like angels standing together.

"I didn't realize. I am so very sorry. You've been friends with Briarleigh for some time, then."

"From the cradle it seems. Our mothers were dear friends. When my own mother passed away, Lady Phyllis would often have me here to visit for long periods of time."

There was no secret that Lord Ellersleigh and his late father had not gotten along. Their rows had been famous in society. It appeared their relationship had never been a close one.

"It sounds rather idyllic, actually—the four of you running wild about the place as children. Growing up in town, my sisters and I were always under watchful eyes. We were never able to run wild about the place and engage in such games."

His smile was sad as he agreed. “It was idyllic, though we did not realize it at the time. It all changed, of course, when Melisande was killed. Lady Phyllis became a different person, instantly it seemed. Where she had been warm and incredibly vibrant before, she became withdrawn, and—well, I hesitate to say cold, but certainly detached. She's better now, more like herself, but she still seems apart from things somehow, as if she isn't quite focused in the present.

"Rhys’ father became quite bitter. He was always angry and very often he drowned that anger in copious amounts of brandy. Jeremy and Rhys were left to their own. I would come here to escape the coldness of my own home, and then that coldness followed me."

Emme shook her head. “You should not discuss this so freely with me. It is as if you are breaking a confidence."

She could not imagine that Rhys would be receptive to her having such intimate knowledge of his family. It seemed wrong to her, invasive.

Michael smiled sadly, but voiced his disagreement. “Not at all. I am telling you my history, as much as his, because I was here for all of it, Miss Walters. You, by virtue of speaking to the dead involved in this history, are right in the thick of it."