It seemed strange to think that if his sister had lived, she would now be a grown woman, married no doubt, and with children of her own. He recalled seeing her with her dolls and how she’d cared for them so tenderly.
If Miss Walters could tell him who had ended her life, had deprived her of the future that had been her right, there was nothing he would not give her. Nothing would stand in his way.
He turned toward the stairs and headed towards the breakfast room. He knew that Miss Walters was an early riser. He found himself anxious to see her, and purposely chose not to examine that feeling too closely. He had ceased trying to deny his attraction, but at the moment, that was unimportant. There were other matters that required tending to, and he meant to address them.
Entering the breakfast room, he spied her alone at the table. She appeared lost in thought.
“Good morning, Miss Walters,” he said, “I was hoping to find you here. Would you like to accompany me to the village today? I will be taking the phaeton, and thought you might like to see the sights, such as they are.”
While he could never have issued such an invitation to another young woman, Miss Walters’ status as a spinster and her advanced age meant the rules didn’t have to be followed in the strictest sense. As it was an open carriage, and it was a brief outing, he did not foresee any difficulties.
Emme glanced up from her plate, and felt the now familiar stuttering of her heart. He was dressed in doeskin breeches, riding boots, and a coat of blue superfine. His shirt points were modest, his cravat simple and exquisite, and his waistcoat a simple brown and blue brocade. He didn’t carry a quizzing glass and there was only a simple watch fob on his waistcoat. The lack of excessive ornamentation only heightened his appeal, which was already considerable.
“I would enjoy that tremendously, Your Grace.” The answer was out of her mouth before she could even remind herself that she needed to be cautious with him, and to discourage her growing ten´dre for him.
He nodded, while filling his plate at the sideboard. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown that was vaguely blue. The color undoubtedly had some ridiculous name, but he didn’t know what it was. He only knew that the pale blue enhanced her gray eyes, until they appeared almost silver.
Her glorious hair, which he ached to bury his hands in, was pulled back in a sleek chignon, its mass testing the fortitude of numerous pins. He had not found a woman so desirable, so tempting, since before his marriage. Certainly, he hadn’t been so tempted by any woman since his wife’s death. Elise had managed to put him off women for some time, and when physical desires could no longer be denied, he had chosen to indulge with a discreet mistress. A former opera dancer, Madeline had been lovely, uncomplicated, and content to part ways with the gift of a ruby necklace. He had been without a mistress for months now. That accounted for his physical arousal, but he could not lay his curiosity for Emmaline firmly at that particular doorstep. He could desire a woman physically and not long for her company.
“I understand you are quite the historian, Miss Walters. There is a Gothic chapel in the village that dates from the 12th century that I believe you will find quite entertaining.”
“That sounds lovely. I’ve always found Gothic architecture fascinating, but even more so when not on the grand scale of cathedrals. It is more charming than intimidating in such applications.”
She was blathering, and she knew it, but it seemed impossible to stop. She clamped her teeth together in an effort to stifle her loose tongue.
“Indeed.”
He really couldn’t have cared less. If it meant an hour in the phaeton, with her seated beside him, he would have looked at a dung heap.
“There are a few shops in town that might interest you as well. I must visit one of the merchants on a matter of business.”
“When did you wish to leave?” Emme asked, making it a point to keep the question succinct and to the point.
Rhys consulted to watch discreetly tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. “I should think half an hour?”
“I need to fetch my wrap and inform my maid of my departure.”
“I will await you in the morning room,” he said.
Emme told herself, as she made her way up the elaborately carved staircase, not to make more of the invitation than he’d intended. He was concerned for her safety. He needed to go to the village and the best way to ensure that she was safe was to keep her at his side. He still had questions about her motives for being there, and about her moral character. There were many reasons that had nothing to do with a desire to be in her company that might have prompted him to offer the outing. Nonetheless, her heart thrilled at the idea of being alone with him, even in the open phaeton.
When she returned to the morning room, a paisley shawl draped about her shoulders and her new poke bonnet dangling from her fingertips, he was waiting for her. He rose when she entered and offered her his arm. Placing her fingertips atop the rigid muscles of his forearm sent heat spiraling through her. She flushed, and her pulse pounded, her blood coursing through her veins at a dizzying pace. The heat of his nearness was intoxicating, and her visceral reaction frightened her.
He helped her into the phaeton and then climbed up beside her. His hip pressed against hers, and she could feel the heat of his thigh pressed against her own, even through the layers of their clothing. She wanted alternately to press closer and to move away. Instead, she stared at the road, determined to make polite conversation and to behave as if he had no effect on her at all. Her reputation was precarious at best, and any improper behavior on her part would be catastrophic. She could only imagine how viciously her aunt would scold her, let alone the reaction of Lady Eleanor.
Beside her, Rhys was fighting a battle of his own. He exerted all his considerable control to keep his libidinous urges in check. He’d gone rock hard the minute he’d touched her. Her ability to arouse him without any apparent effort was inconvenient to say the least. No doubt the drive into the village, over the rutted road, would be just punishment.
“Emmaline,” he began, when they’d cleared the estate’s drive.
“Emme,” she corrected, “Since you intend to make free with my name when we are alone, please at least use the more palatable version of it.”
It suited her more.
“Emme, then. I’ve spoken with Lord Ellersleigh about your visitations for lack of a better word.”
Her heart sank, and cold dread washed through her.
“Indeed.”
He looked at her intently. “I find myself wondering, why you confide to him about the spirit of my late sister, but will not even discuss it with me?”
The question was whisper soft, his voice like velvet.
Emme shivered slightly. “Perhaps I don’t feel that Lord Ellersleigh thinks me a fraud or a lunatic.”
He sighed heavily. “I never thought you were a lunatic. I will confess to believing you a fraud, and to thinking that perhaps you are impressionable, but I am reconsidering that. Michael believes, wholeheartedly, and while you are something of an unknown to me, I trust his judgment. Still, it’s difficult for me to believe in what I cannot see for myself. I think your motives are pure, even if your methods are beyond my limited imagination.”
It was significant admission from such a man. She doubted that Rhys changed his mind about many things, or that he ever admitted to being wrong.
“I am not certain how I should respond to that.”
He wasn’t certain either. She was rocking every belief that he had.
“What I would like, Emme, is to have you tell me if you see this child again, or anyone else.” He paused, considering how to proceed. He couldn’t blindly accept what she would say.
“I cannot promise to understand, but I will attempt to listen without judgment.”
Emme put him to the test then, almost unwittingly. She opened her mouth to reply and found herself divulging the secrets that Melisande had imparted.
“She told me that E
lise was murdered—that they were both murdered by the same man, but for different reasons.”
The admission had tumbled out quickly, the words falling over one another.
He hadn’t expected that his promise to listen without judgment would be challenged so quickly. Whispers that Elise had been murdered had dogged him for the three years since her death, though he usually played the villain in those stories. It seemed that those rumors were only just beginning to die their own quiet death, and now it appeared they would have to be revived.
“When did this happen?”
“In the garden, the day before yesterday,” she said haltingly, “I had stopped by the folly, the grotto with the statue of Poseidon, to read my book, and she came to me.”
“The day when you ran out of the garden as if you were being chased by the hounds of hell?” he asked, remembering the chill that had overtaken him when he’d seen the flash of a weapon.
Emme nodded. “Yes. I was walking back and I heard a noise, as if someone were walking in the woods just off the path. When I stopped, they stopped. At the time, I assumed that could mean only that they were following me. When I heard them step onto the path behind me, I felt certain of it, but I didn’t look back.”
If she’d looked back, she would know who her pursuer was, he thought. But if she’d made eye contact with them, if she’d been able to readily identify them, they would not have hesitated to kill her in cold blood, if they were indeed responsible for the other murders.
“And you ran,” he said.
“I did. I kept walking until I rounded a bend and was out of their sight. Once hidden from view, I ran.”
Whatever he thought of her abilities, in that instant, he could not fault her instincts.
“You are not to leave the house alone.”
“Lord Ellersleigh and I discussed this already. He told me what you saw.”
Rhys bit back a curse,.“I didn’t wish to frighten you.”
Emme laughed, but the sound was humorless. “I was already frightened. I prefer to know what it is I need to fear.”
They phaeton rolled into the village and Rhys helped her down from the carriage. He ignored the curious looks of the villagers. Bringing her there, taking her for a drive, it all smacked of courtship, and it was only natural that people would make that assumption. With the phaeton safely tucked away at the livery, they strolled down the main thoroughfare of the village, lined with small shops. They stopped at the milliner’s shop so that she could purchase more ribbons for her bonnets. He left her there while he went to the wine merchant, with strict instructions to remain there until he had concluded his business and returned for her. Afterward, they ambled aimlessly through the small village, stopping for pastries before heading toward the chapel.
It was a small church with elaborate stained glass windows and lovingly carved pews. Each stone on the floor was a work of art, fashioned with intricate inlays and carvings.
He showed her the tombs of his various ancestors, including the first Duke of Briarleigh and his duchess.
“They were said to be deeply in love,” he told her. “She was the betrothed of his most bitter enemy and he stole her from him, marrying her himself and taking her dowry. Years later, his enemy sought his revenge by abducting her,” he paused for dramatic effect, before continuing, “ It is said that my ancestor killed dozens of his enemy’s knights single handedly, until finally, the remaining retainers of this enemy lord were so fearful of his rage, they betrayed their liege and returned her to her husband.”
Emme wasn’t so sentimental. While her parents had loved one another deeply, with her mother’s remarriage, she understood all too well what a woman could sacrifice for her husband.
“Or perhaps she was simply his possession?”
“What a shockingly unromantic point of view.” He chuckled. “You are jaded for one so young. But it is a fair assessment. Some men certainly do see their wives in such a light. However, in this case, I fear you are incorrect. One of my industrious ancestors in the 14th century copied their now crumbling letters to one another from his time in the crusades, and they wrote to one another of their love, their desire. I shall find the book for you later. With your love of romantic literature, I imagine you will find it to be quite moving.”
Henry VIII’s letters to Anne Boleyn had been filled with lush, romantic prose and that certainly hadn’t ended well.
Rather than say something so ungracious, she said, “I’m sure it’s lovely.”
Her doubt was written across her too-expressive face. He chuckled and continued the tour, pointing out various artifacts and points of interest in the church. They ended by having tea with the vicar, where Emme was naturally charming and at ease.
Afterward, they returned to the phaeton and he handed her up. He steeled himself for the torture of having her so near for the next half hour. Climbing up beside her, he took the reins and set the horses at an easy pace that would extend the length of their short journey. It was a sweet torment, he thought, as he inhaled the soft scent of lilies.
Emme braced herself for the intimacy of having him so near, of feeling the heat that emanated from his body, but it didn’t seem to matter. She had never been so acutely aware of any gentleman, nor had she ever felt the insistent tug of attraction as she did with him.
It was fruitless, of course. His station was too elevated, their fortunes too disparate, and allowing his chivalrous actions to lead her mind down any other path would prove disastrous for her. She continued the internal lecture, underscoring for herself all of the many reasons not to allow her romantic imagination to run away with her.
They were more than half way to Briarwood Park when the phaeton hit a particularly deep rut in the road. The vehicle lurched alarmingly and a loud crack sounded on the deserted road.
Rhys tugged the reins viciously, attempting to slow the horses, but the conveyance tilted to one side and then the wheel collapsed entirely. The bottom of the vehicle on one side was bumping along the rutted road, the shattered wheel in pieces behind them. He heard Emme’s shriek of alarm. She was clinging to the phaeton’s narrow seat, her fingers digging into the wood, her knuckles white with effort, as she struggled not to be thrown from the carriage. He transferred the reins to one hand, as he reached for her with the other. His hand closed about her upper arm, preventing her from being ejected from the vehicle as it listed dangerously. The horses had slowed, but not enough.
Rhys braced his feet against the phaeton’s frame. The muscles in his thighs strained as he tried to keep them from falling from the carriage. When the horses finally came to a halt, pieces of the curricle littered the road. But they were both safe.
He lowered her to the ground and then climbed down behind her. He checked the remaining wheel and what he saw made his gut clench. The pins had been loosened. It was a miracle that the second wheel hadn’t shattered as well. With shaking hands, he led the horses towards a small stand of trees, towing the shattered remnants of the coach from the roadway.
He was thinking, analyzing as tried to calm the horses. Because he’d been determined to enjoy what little time he had with her, he’d set the horses at a leisurely pace. If they’d been traveling more swiftly, both he and Emme would be dead or at the very least, seriously injured.
Once he’d freed the horses from their wrecked albatross, he tethered them to a tree and walked back to Emme who was seated on the small stone wall that bordered the road. She was pale, but otherwise was unharmed, except for her arm. He noted the dark circles of his fingerprints on her pale skin. He touched her arm gently, an attempt to soothe the angry marks and his own guilty conscience.
“Are you injured?”
She glanced at the rapidly forming bruises, “A small price to pay for not being trampled by the horses or run over by the phaeton itself.”
He was grateful that she was not given to hysterics, though he felt perilously close to them himself.
“This was not an accident. The wheels wer
e sabotaged.”
“It was fine on the way into the village,” she said. “It was tampered with while we were there, wasn’t it?”
He’d reached that same conclusion himself. “I believe so, yes. Our more immediate concern is whether or not the saboteur intends to inspect his handiwork. I don’t want to just sit here and wait for our would-be assassin to come along and finish the job.”
Emme nodded. Though her legs were trembling, she rose. “We had best hurry.”
She truly was remarkable, he thought. She possessed more resolve and poise in the face of danger than many men that he knew.
“We’ll take the path through the woods that will lead us to the Park,” he said.
She was wearing her study kid boots, rather than slippers, for which she was thankful.
“It certainly seems our best alternative.”
He glanced back at the horses. The villain, if he pursued them, would know where they were by the location of the horses and the wreckage of the phaeton. There was little to be done for it, though. He would send a groom back for them. He wanted them to be as unobtrusive as possible, and if they needed to hide, the beasts would be a hindrance.
He took her hand and led her through the trees, until they reached a path that was near overgrown.
“I should have this path maintained more carefully,” he said aloud, “It comes out by the lake.”
She sensed how difficult it was for him to traverse that same path, to retrace the steps he had taken the day that his sister had died.
“We can follow the road. We don’t have to go this way,” she said.
Rhys shook his head. He hated those woods. He avoided them at all costs, but there was no choice. It was a matter of their safety.
“We do, actually. The road is too open and carriage accidents too unpredictable. He will want to assure himself that his plan worked, and if he chooses to come looking for us, we’d have no place to hide. Here at least we can seek cover, though it goads me to do so.”
The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set Page 10
