The Haunting of a Duke Read online

  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 murdere
d 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."

  As far as society was concerned, Michael was correct on both counts. Rhys considered for a moment how much to reveal. Michael, in spite of his devil-may-care attitude, had been a true friend. He could trust Michael to keep his unintended rendezvous with Miss Walters a secret. With a glance, he noted that the other gentlemen were either far enough away or sufficiently foxed that he could speak freely.

  "It was our resident psychic, if you must know,” he said, his voice laced with derision.

  Something in his expression, or perhaps in his voice, alerted his friend to the undercurrent of attraction.

  Miss Emmaline Walters was a contradiction, and in spite of everything he believed about her, an appealing one. He might have truly enjoyed the enigma of Miss Walters, if only there wasn't so much at stake. The attraction he felt for her was an unforeseen complication, and one that he could ill afford to indulge. But, he admitted to himself, if he had to keep a close eye on an adversary, it would at least prove to be a pleasant task.

  Michael raised an eyebrow at that. “A virgin, Rhys? The gossips will think you have finally sunk to my level."

  Rhys gave him a caustic look, “I didn't sink to anything.” Curiosity then prompted him to ask, “And how can you be certain she's a virgin? Not all young ladies are the innocents they would appear."

  Michael chuckled as he leaned over the billiard table to take a nearly impossible shot that naturally sailed gracefully into the pocket. He always knew. True innocence was impossible to feign if the person searching for it did not desire to find it. Personally, he never desired to find it. It was a hindrance for him, as innocents required promises he was unwilling to make. Charming and willing company could be found that was of a far more temporary nature.

  "Your charming wife jaded you, Rhys. Miss Walters, in carnal matters at least, is as pure as the driven snow."

  Rhys didn't question Michael's assessment of her virtue. If Michael said she was innocent, then innocent she was. His knowledge of the fairer sex bordered on unnatural. Michael was also privy to more gossip, as women were far more inclined to converse with a rogue than a possible murderer.

  "Other matters are more concerning to me. Her supposed carnal ignorance aside, Michael, what else do you know of her?"

  Michael took another shot, this one sinking as gracefully and beautifully as the last. He rose to his full height and met Rhys’ stare with a challenging one of his own. “Do you really want to exchange on dits about a green girl? We have brandy, cigars and billiards and yet you wish to talk about a woman neither of us can touch without getting leg-shackled to?"

  Michael was being deliberately obtuse. It was a ploy that Rhys recognized well.

  "I'd like to know if I should confiscate mother's jewelry for safe keeping. Miss Walters is a charlatan, of course, but I have yet to ascertain how it benefits her. Money, attention, a bit of notoriety?"

  Michael snorted. Lady Phyllis was unlikely to hand over her jewelry to anyone, and with Lady Eleanor about, acting as her guard dog, he doubted the crown jewels themselves could be any safer.

  "You needn't worry about Phyllis’ jewelry, old friend. It would take a far stealthier villain than your Miss Walters to part her from her sparklers. And as for what the lovely mystic wants, I do not believe it's money, attention or notoriety.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I watched her for a bit. She's very easy to watch, you know? There are other women present, whom it would be quite a chore to stare at, but she is lovely, understated—a diamond in the rough. She has several very alluring qualities. I can think of two immediately."

  Rhys knew he was being baited, but he rose to the occasion regardless. “Enough! Discounting what I might suspect of her, she is still a guest here. She is an innocent young woman, as you yourself stated. You are many things, Ellersleigh, but crass has never been one of them."

  Michael chuckled. So that was the way of it, he thought. He hadn't seen Rhys so torn up over a female in, well, ever he thought. Smiling, he said, “Very well. I promise not to speak of her with anything but the utmost respect. But even you have to admit that she is quite lovely; try as she might to disguise it."

  At Rhys’ reluctant nod, Michael grinned at him before continuing, “She's a bit on the shy side, and obviously feels out of place. Since she arrived everyone has been after her to do parlor tricks like she's some sort of trained monkey. Personally, I think she'd rather be holed up in the library with a copy of the Bard. That is how I found her this afternoon during that blasted game of charades we were all hiding from."

  Michael missed his next shot. Rhys eyed him dubiously. Michael never missed a shot. He'd done so purposely to provide a chance for Rhys to actually play in the game, or perhaps it was a simple diversionary tactic, considering the information he'd just lobbed at him like a bloody cannon ball. Ignoring his friend's attempt to discreetly forfeit the game, he selected a cue and made a quick study of the table.

  "You found her in the library and didn't think to mention it?"

  Michael's response was a Gallic shrug, a gesture that had served him well during their years in France. “I didn't know you were so bloody curious."

  Rhys lined up his shot with care and watched it sink into the pocket. “She's an enigma. I want to know what her intentions are. Find out what you can."

  Michael rolled his eyes heavenward and took a healthy swallow of his brandy. “By any means necessary?"

  Rhys’ shot went wide, which prompted Michael to raise his eyebrows. “I think you're curious about more than her motives, my friend."

  Rhys didn't deny it as he watched Michael clear the table.

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  Chapter Two

  The following morning, Emme was seated at her dressing table trying desperately to untangle the rat's nest that was her hair when Gussy entered, bearing a tray. Emme had awoken earlier from fitful dreams where the mysterious duke had kissed her. The dreams had been a bit vague, but having never been kissed, so was Emme's knowledge.

  Gussy took in her already dressed mistress and clucked her tongue. “It appears the duke ordered one of the maids to bring you chocolate this morning. It's unlike a man to be so considerate, ‘less he's something to gain from it,” Gussy said knowingly. Gussy's heavy Scottish accent had taken some adjusting to.

  "Yes, Gussy, in answer to your unasked question, I did have an episode last night. His Grace helped me find my way back to my room,” Emme said, keeping her tone light and breezy.

  Not much escaped Gussy, but she could only hope that the maid would be distracted.

  Gussy shook her head, her lips firmed into a hard line. “I should never have taken that draught! Did ye at least have on your wrapper?” Her mistress’ blush was answer enough. “Ye out wandering around, practically naked! Was he a gentleman, then?"

  It was a diff
icult question to answer. In the strictest sense, he had been. But there had been something in his eyes when he had looked at her. The memory of it, and of her own shameful response, deepened the blush that stained her cheeks.

  Trying to reassure her maid, she said, “He was a gentleman, Gussy. He didn't so much as attempt to steal a kiss."

  Gussy nodded, her relief apparent. “It's a dangerous thing when they lead ye about in the dark and I don't mean the ghosts."

  Emme's lips quirked, but she tried not to encourage Gussy by laughing. Changing the subject, she said, “I will have a cup of chocolate. I am quite fatigued today, and then we'll begin on this mess of my hair."

  After more than a quarter hour spent untangling her hair, Emme descended the stairs to the breakfast room. In spite of her late night wanderings, she was still one of the earliest risers. Early mornings were a habit for her, as her stepfather disapproved of idleness. As she entered the breakfast room, her heart stuttered in her chest as she realized she would not be breaking her fast alone.

  At the head of the table, the duke was perusing his morning paper. Upon her entrance he folded the sheet and set it aside.

  "Good morning, Miss Walters,” he said, his greeting polite but carrying an undertone of inappropriate familiarity. “I find the morning's news to be tedious. Perhaps some enlightening conversation might be a better way to begin the day."

  Rhys observed her as she said a quiet good morning and then walked to the sideboard. Noting the pallor of her skin and the deep shadows beneath her eyes, he recognized that she was obviously exhausted. It was petty, but he was gratified to know that he had not been alone in having a sleepless night. For him, it had been burgeoning lust that had kept him from slumber. Each time he had closed his eyes he'd pictured her generous curves silhouetted by the moonlight, and the wild tangle of her silken hair. As he sipped his coffee, he wondered what images had haunted the lovely Miss Walters as she had drifted off to sleep.