The Haunting of a Duke(43)

With that pithy statement, Gussy left the room and had left her alone with her thoughts.

It had been a well articulated point, she mentally conceded. As Gussy helped her undress, and helped her into her night rail, she tried valiantly to think of anything else. She wasn't afraid of Rhys, or even of the act that remained shrouded in mystery. It was more that she feared not pleasing him, that in her ignorance she would make a horrible cake of herself.

No sooner had the thought occurred than she felt the overwhelming sensation of no longer being alone. She turned to the door, but it was still vacant. She couldn't shake the feeling however, that someone was watching. Warily, she scanned the room, stepping backward until her back was against the wall. It was a most disconcerting feeling.

"Is the prospect of our wedding night truly that frightening?"

Emme gasped, and turned toward the adjoining door of their chambers. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

"Just now,” he replied. “Is everything all right?"

Nerves, she thought. It was nothing more than an attack of nerves. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it was more. She shivered. “It's fine. Everything is fine."

Rhys studied her, noting the pallor of her cheeks and tightly clenched fists. She was frightened, but he didn't think it was of him. “Why don't you come to my chamber instead?” he suggested.

She could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She turned and noted his deceptively casual stance in the adjoining doorway of their rooms. He had discarded his boots and his coat. His waistcoat was open and his cravat had vanished. The exposed skin at the V of his shirt was sun bronzed. It made her heart race, as did the heated look in his eyes. Anticipation and nerves warred within her. Though his touch inflamed her, the unknown was still daunting. As her blood raced in her veins, she acknowledged that it was equal parts fear and desire.

"Very well,” she said, and placed her hand in his large, outstretched palm.

Rhys knew that she was nervous, but he also knew that she was eager as well. Emme was a passionate woman and her passions had been awakened. Still, he understood the value of patience. He led her into his chamber, the room dark and masculine. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on a table.

"Should we have a toast?” he asked.

"And what should we drink to?” she responded, hating that her voice sounded tremulous to her own ears.

He smiled as he pressed a glass into her hand. “A harmonious union  ?"

"Very well,” she agreed, and he touched his glass lightly to hers. Her hands were trembling.

Rhys sipped his wine. He had hoped that the wine would relax her. He sipped his lightly, and watched while she drank liberally from the glass. He didn't want her foxed, just relaxed.

The wine was stronger than she was used to and she could feel a different kind of warmth stealing through her. The tension that had knotted her muscles throughout the long day began to seep away. The warmth and languor created by the wine was preferable by far so she continued finishing the glass.

"More?” he asked.

"You will turn me into a drunkard,” she said lightly.

"We would hardly want that,” he said and plucked the goblet from her hand, placing it beside his on the table. He took her hand in his, tracing the delicate bones with the tips of his fingers, savoring the silken texture of her skin. He pressed her hand to his chest, and taking her other hand, pulled her closer, so that mere inches separated their bodies. Even then, the distance was too great.

She could feel the warmth of his body and could smell the mix of pine and sandalwood and man. It was as heady and intoxicating as the wine had been. Beneath her hand, his heart beat a steady tattoo, unlike her own, which pounded erratically. Her eyes traveled over the chiseled planes of his face, and dropped to the full curve of his lower lip, against her will. The feel of his lips was permanently imprinted in her memory. She wasn't aware of moving closer, of stepping nearer, so that her breasts pressed against his chest.

Rhys bit back the earthy groan that welled inside at the press of her lush body against him. Instead, he dipped his head and settled his mouth firmly over hers. He explored every dip and curve of her soft, yielding lips. He nipped gently at her lower lip, his teeth scraping lightly, before soothing the abraded flesh with his tongue. She trembled against him and pressed closer. He closed his arms about her, burying his hands in the silken mass of her dark hair. A low moan of pleasure escaped her, and at that soft sound, he deepened the kiss. When he felt her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt, he felt triumphant.

Without breaking the kiss, Rhys scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. She was no longer passively accepting his kiss, but was returning it, her lips and tongue stroking, surging against him. She tasted like heaven and her response spiked his own passion. The kiss grew, transformed, into something hot and wild. Lying on the bed beside her, her body pressed against his, he relished the heat and softness of her. He tried to reign in his passions to slow the raging lust that was overtaking him. His breath shuddered out of him, as he reluctantly drew back from her, abandoning the sweet haven of her mouth.