The Haunting of a Duke(50)

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.