"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 murdered 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."