The Haunting of a Duke(21)

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.