The Haunting of a Duke(20)

Rhys studied her face intently as she spoke. She believed it wholeheartedly, he realized. What was probably nothing more than nightmares and sleepwalking had become something much more. “The first night here, when you were wandering about in your night rail, where was this alleged ghost leading you?” He trailed off, waiting for her answer.

"The dungeons, I suppose. It was some sort of underground tunnel. I am not sure what I was intended to find there. I simply awoke there in the dark,” Emme replied.

Rhys nodded. “And this afternoon in the garden? If ghosts visit you in your sleep, why were you allegedly conversing with one this afternoon?"

Emme's lips firmed. “I see Lord Ellersleigh is not a wise choice of confidante."

"He was very upset by the—encounter. He loved Melisande very much. I do not believe that your intent is malicious, Miss Walters. But I cannot help but believe that your family and others have misguided you, have convinced you of a truth that is simply impossible."

Her face flushed with anger then, and she felt an uncharacteristic rage boil within her. No one in the course of her existence had incited her to anger as much as the man before her. Tamping it down took every ounce of self-control she possessed. Somehow, she managed not to slap the sympathetic expression from his face. Instead, Emme opened her chamber door and stepped inside.

Over her shoulder, she tossed out words that were clipped and sharp. “I would rather be thought a villain, Your Grace, than a Bedlamite."

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.

[Back to Table of Contents]





Chapter Five

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.