The Haunting of a Duke (18 page)

Phyllis gasped, unable to simply ignore the barely veiled insult. Michael sipped his wine and waited for the explosion of temper he knew would come.

Rhys sharply, and with a single gesture, dismissed all the servants from the room before turning to Eleanor. His eyes were hard, and his words were cold when he spoke. “Aunt, you will speak to my wife civilly, and with all the respect due her according to her station. If you find that too difficult a task, perhaps you should remove yourself to your own residence, assuming your reprobate son hasn't lost it gaming."

Eleanor appeared instantly contrite. “Rhys, I don't know what you mean! It certainly was not my intent to offend! I was merely pointing out—"

"Enough!” he bellowed, and Emme jumped. The volume and the authority that his voice carried were stunning. “I know precisely what you are doing and I have had enough of it. You have two choices—either be civil or leave."

Alistair intervened then. “Mother, perhaps you should retire early. You've been so worried about scandal, it's understandable that you would be overset."

Eleanor met his gaze and after a moment, nodded. She rose from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I find I've developed a headache and wish to retire."

Rhys watched her go and then turned to Emme. “I am sorry for that. She has always been a stickler for propriety in this house, although she had little of it in her own."

Phyllis cleared her throat softly. “I for one couldn't be more thrilled to have you here, dearest. I think that both you and Rhys have made a wonderful match. I have no doubt that you will have a blessed and happy union."

Emme sipped her wine and said thoughtfully, “It's all right, really. From anyone else's perspective I truly am nothing more than an upstart, social climbing, opportunist. The rumors will undoubtedly grow worse. When the London gossips get hold of it, I will have been communing with your late wife to learn how to snare you. She has a right to her suspicions."

Michael, quickly seizing upon any subject to ease the tension in the room, said, “I had meant to tell you earlier, I am returning to London myself. I had planned to leave on the morrow. Since you will set the tongues wagging in your direction for at least a week, I will have ample opportunity to misbehave."

Phyllis harrumphed. “Michael, you are incorrigible."

After Eleanor's departure, dinner was a reasonably peaceful event. They adjourned to the library with brandy for the men and sherry for the ladies.

It was there, before the fire, that Phyllis broached the subject. “I hate to ask, but have any of our resident spirits contacted you?"

Emme sought Rhys’ gaze and he shook his head imperceptibly. “Lady Phyllis, for the most part, I deny having that ability, but as we are now family, I will confess to you that it is true that I can see spirits. However, I have not seen the spirit of your late daughter-in-law."

Emme was quite proud of herself after that little statement. She'd managed to avoid telling the truth, but without actually uttering a lie.

Phyllis nodded. “These things take time, I'm certain. I think, in spite of her atrocious behavior this evening that I should check on Eleanor. She does mean well and does have the family's interests at heart."

That was debatable, but Emme elected to accept the statement for the olive branch that it was intended to be. With that, Phyllis bade them all good night and left the room.

Michael applauded quietly and said, “Bravo, Your Grace. That was worthy of the greatest actresses of Drury Lane!"

"Really, Lord Ellersleigh, what would you have me say?” Emme demanded, somewhat irritated by his flippant manner.

Rhys interceded. “It was for the best not to mention the possibility that Melisande is still here. It would only cause Mother pain."

"Possibility?” Michael queried. “After all that I've told you, you still have doubts?"

Rhys wasn't sure how to answer that question without damaging the burgeoning relationship between himself and his new bride, who waited expectantly for his answer. “I don't know what I believe, Michael. Nothing seems certain anymore."

Emme considered his answer, which wasn't really an answer at all. But she didn't have the heart to argue. She understood so little about her abilities that it would have been pointless. Pointing out that she had found the journal, that she had been able to get into the tower when the doors had been securely locked, would only further a conversation that could have no good outcome. “I think keeping an open mind is the best anyone can ask for."

"I will strive to do so,” he said.

The smile she bestowed upon him before sipping her wine was artificially sweet, but appealing just the same. Watching her full lips close on the rim of the glass, the flexing of her throat as she swallowed, and discussing religion became the furthest thing from Rhys’ mind.

Sensing his friend's change in focus, Michael discreetly made his escape.

When they were alone, Rhys said, “Come upstairs with me."

Emme met his gaze, felt the heat of it course through her, and new by the husky timbre of his voice that he wanted her. “What about the servants?"

"They will be well and truly scandalized,” he said, and held out his hand.

Emme placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her up the stairs. When they reached her chamber, he dismissed Gussy who raised her eyebrows, but went peaceably. When they were alone, he claimed her lips in a searing kiss that left little doubt as to the intensity of his desire. He parted her lips with his marauding tongue and staked a claim that branded her. Then she was spun around and her gown was loosened and removed with alarming efficiency, but she pushed that thought from her mind. Her stays soon followed and then his hands were snaking around her waist, reaching up to cup her breasts, shaping the tender flesh, tugging at the ruched peaks.

Emme leaned back against his chest, allowing him to explore her body, while he trailed hot, openmouthed kisses over her neck and shoulders. She shivered in response. She couldn't stifle a gasp when he slid one hand over the gentle curve of her abdomen, and palmed the soft mound at the apex of her thighs. He pressed hard against her, and her hips moved of their own volition. It was such a glorious sensation, the heat that arced through her.

She had never dreamed, never imagined that she could feel such passion. The feel of him, the taste of him, accompanied by the light scrape of his unshaven jaw over her tender flesh had her gasping with pleasure. Her heart was pounding in her chest and heat pooled in her belly. Everywhere he touched her, she caught fire. She moaned as he increased the pressure, parting her thighs and leaving her breathless. The sensations were overwhelming and her knees threatened to buckle. She stepped away, turning to face him, clinging to him as she met his kiss eagerly.

She nearly moaned in protest when he backed away from her. But he did so only long enough to shed his coat and waistcoat. His shirt and cravat followed quickly, leaving the broad expanse of his chest bared—bronzed skin and crisp, dark hair. It was irresistible.

She ran her hands over the well-defined muscles of his chest, tracing the faint scars that marked him, her fingers tangling in the dark hair of his chest. It thinned to a small line as it bisected the hard ridges of his abdomen and disappeared behind the placket of his breeches. When he closed his arms about her, she stepped into his embrace eagerly, raising her lips to his. His kiss was hungry, his lips and tongue plundering her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless. She clung to him, her hands curving over his muscled shoulders.

Rhys was impatient, his control strained to the breaking point by his need for her. He pushed her chemise off her shoulders, the fabric catching on her pebbled nipples until he tugged it lower, letting it fall to her hips. He closed his hands over her breasts again, and watched with delight as her back arched, her head tipping back. He leaned forward and took one pebbled bud into his mouth, pulling gently. She cried out, and her hands delved into hair, tugging insistently. Had he not been so consumed by his own desire, he would have reveled in inciting hers. But he had lost the capacity for higher thought. Hunger drove him, clawed at him. He wanted to consume her. Forcing himself to be gentle, he laved the lush globe of her breast with his tongue and nipped with his teeth until she writhed against him. Her soft cries of pleasure tested his resolve.

Eager to see her, to bare her delicious curves to his gaze, he gave the chemise one final tug that sent it pooling to the floor. She wore only her stockings and garters, and the vision was so decadent, so wanton that it was all he could do not to thrust himself into her there and then. He struggled for control. He wanted to prolong the pleasure for them both.

Tamping down his lust, he lifted her in his arms and placed her on the bed. Coming down on top of her, he worshipped her body with his mouth; her neck and shoulders, her breasts. He followed his questing mouth with his hands, kneading and shaping the flesh, committing each curve to memory. His hands followed the curve of her hips and traced the line of her thighs. He gloried in her honest response. Every moan, every sigh, the arch of her back—they fanned the flames of his own desire.

Liquid heat consumed her, and her flesh burned with need. Everywhere he touched her, she felt heat. It pooled under her skin, making her writhe beneath him and arch into his touch. When his hand slid between her thighs, pressing against her, while his lips played over hers, she couldn't contain her cries. That sound spurred him on and he parted her legs more fully, opening her to his questing hands.

She felt the callused pad of his finger sliding inside her, parting the slick folds of her sex. He found the tiny nub of flesh, and flicked gently. She cried out, arching into his touch. He repeated the movement, increasing the pressure slightly, and she gasped beneath him. He moved down her body and pressed a soft kiss against the dark curls. His hot mouth was wicked as it played over her tender flesh. He licked and sucked at her slick swollen flesh before easing back and blowing gently, the cool rush of his breath making her gasp.

He could feel the tension building inside her, in her thighs and in the quivering of her belly. He became relentless, his mouth moving over her in lush, languid strokes, tasting and teasing her heated flesh. Her hands gripped his hair and he gloried in her primal response. He closed his lips over the tiny pearl, sucking gently. Her body shuddered, and then she came apart beneath him. He surged upward then, coming to rest between her parted thighs, eager to be inside her. He claimed her mouth again, kissing her deeply, hungrily, claiming her. Never had a woman driven him to such lengths, incited such madness in him.

Emme was breathless, unable to find words for what she had just experienced. She accepted his kiss and the hunger that it conveyed. She understood, in that moment, why women fell—how they could be tempted and seduced. She had never thought herself beautiful, but his passion for her made her feel beautiful, and powerful.

She was still gasping when he rolled her to her stomach and pulled her up onto her knees. She didn't have to ask what he was doing. She understood that there were many ways in which their bodies could be joined. He pressed himself against her, his erection nudging against her sheath, the thick head pressed against her slick opening. He entered her then, parting the dewy walls of her sex with his own turgid flesh. There was a slight burn as her body stretched to accommodate his in this new position. There was no pain, just the sensation of being filled by him, and it was wondrous.

When he was seated fully within her, he thrust against her. The sensation was exquisite, his shaft pressing against her most sensitive flesh in delicious friction with each thrust. The feeling was so intense, the pleasure so complete, that she began to spasm around him, her body gripping him tightly. Rhys gritted his teeth, thrusting inside her, feeling her clenching about his shaft. His movements grew faster, more fevered, and when she cried out, her body pulsing beneath his, his own release ripped through him. He thrust deeply, one last time, his body quaking with the power of his release.

He rested his head against her shoulder and pressed his lips against the indention of her spine in a whisper-soft kiss. His breathing was ragged, and his heart pounded in his chest. He was crushing her, he knew. Summoning the strength, he withdrew from her body. No sooner had he done so, than he regretted the loss. He craved her. He'd known many men who'd given themselves up to the demons of drink and opium. She was his vice, his weakness. The depth of his desire for her left him shaken. Forcefully, he put those thoughts aside. He was complicating matters far more than necessary, he rationalized. She was his wife. The novelty would wear off soon enough, and they would settle comfortably in with one another. Ignoring his inner voice, he pulled her close, her back against his chest and their legs twining together. There was no impediment to enjoying his newly-wedded bliss.

It was Emme who spoke first, her hands stroking the hair roughened skin of his forearms, and skimming over his hands, until he clasped hers and twined their fingers together. “I think I will like married life,” she said, her voice low and sultry.

He could hear her smile. Rhys chuckled. “My wanton wife."

She was a wanton. It was shocking for her, when she'd struggled to maintain propriety throughout her entire life, to give in with such reckless abandon. But she was a wife not a mistress, and the rules governing her behavior as such were very different. What men desired in their wives and in the mothers of their children was very different.

Emme raised herself on her elbow and looked over her shoulder at him, “Should I not be wanton? Would you prefer a wife who was more proper?"

Sensing her concern, he pulled her closer and kissed the sweet curve between her neck and shoulder. “What could be more proper than a wife who welcomes her husband's touch? I would hate for you to ever look on our marriage bed as a duty. Be as wanton as you like. If you allow me to sleep for a bit, when I awake I'll introduce you to more wanton wickedness."