The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  Lord Ellersleigh was seated in the box already. He eyed them dubiously, no doubt well aware of their recent carnal encounter. As it was written all over Emme’s face with every blush, he would be hard pressed not to note it. “Perhaps I should find another box for the evening? But if I leave you alone, I can only begin to imagine the scandalous activity that would take place—“

  “Do hush, Michael,” Emme said, her face flaming, but her voice was stern.

  He chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender. The play commenced and they turned their attention to the stage, aware that every pair of eyes in the house was on them, but not all were simply curious. One glared with hatred, with vitriol and with rage.

  After the theater, Lord Ellersleigh accompanied them home for a late supper.

  In the carriage, Rhys spoke of their plans. “We will attend a few key events this week, and then return to Briarwood. Emme has little taste for the social whirl and neither do I.”

  Michael nodded gravely. “And there are other matters to be addressed.”

  “There was another accident on the road here. The carriage wheels had been sabotaged in much the same way that the phaeton had. Whoever is doing this knows Briarwood Hall very well and is familiar enough to our staff that his presence goes unnoted.”

  Michael considered that. Rhys had already apprised him of the revelation that Melisande had gifted to Emme; that both she and Elise had perished at the same hand. “It would make sense. We’ve moved within the same circle for decades. The same families are always in attendance at Briarwood.”

  “Have there been other incidents in the area? Other murders?” Emme asked.

  Rhys shook his head, “Not that I am aware of. I haven’t heard of anything, but then I would be the last person anyone would come to in such an event.”

  Michael shrugged. “There have been disappearances, but always easily accounted for—maids running off and such. Mrs. Haverston commented on it at the party.”

  Rhys considered it for a moment. “It is worth looking into. Maids do run off but perhaps there is something more sinister afoot.”

  Emme shivered. “Elise was not murdered in the same way that Melisande was I can’t help but wonder why? The viciousness of the attack on Melisande speaks of rage. and perhaps insanity, but with Elise, it was very cold, and the murderer went so far as to make it look like a suicide. That was very cunning and calculated.”

  Michael considered and then weighed in. “Perhaps the motivation for killing them was different.”

  Rhys looked away, staring out the coach window before speaking, “It seems even murkier now than it did before. Melisande was a child. How could she have driven someone to that kind of rage, when Elise, who was the most maddening creature on earth, did not?”

  Michael braced his hands on his knees. “Then perhaps the rage was not directed at Melisande. She might have only been a pawn, her death intended to inflict pain upon others. Perhaps the viciousness of it was directed more at those left behind.”

  The carriage rumbled to a stop and Emme was glad. She would far rather converse with the dead than attempt to understand the mind of a vicious murderer. The latter was far more chilling. The door was opened by a footman and Michael and Rhys exited first. Rhys had taken her hand to help her down, but her feet had no more than touched the paving stones of the street when a loud crack echoed through the darkness.

  It was instinct more than anything else that prompted Rhys to react. He shielded Emme with his body. There was a searing pain across his right shoulder, and he knew that the bullet had grazed him. He ignored the pain and reacted quickly, pulling Emme away from the carriage and propelling her toward the door. Michael raced off on foot, in pursuit of the shooter.

  Inside the house, Emme collapsed against the door, trembling and weak. The dark fabric of Rhys coat hid the spreading bloodstains. After a quick rap, Michael strode through the door.

  “He got away. A hireling from the looks of him, dressed in rough clothing and none too clean.”

  Rhys cursed. “This has gone too far.”

  Michael sighed, “I believe that ball took quite a bit of your hide when it went past.”

  Emme paled. “You were shot?”

  “It’s nothing,” Rhys protested.

  Emme squared her shoulders and began issuing orders to the servants. With hot water and bandages ordered, she followed Rhys and Michael up the stairs to their chambers. Rhys’ valet was there, and Emme thought the man would weep as he had to cut the coat and waistcoat from her husband. There was a shallow gouge that arced across Rhys’ shoulder. It did not appear to be a severe wound but it was bleeding terribly. Rhys was stripped to his breeches and seated on the bed, where Michael began to poke and prod at the wound, eliciting more than a few curses and threats.

  Satisfied that his friend would not die from the wound, Michael cleaned the blood away with brisk economical movements.

  He turned to Emme. “Bring me the Scotch,” he said, gesturing to decanter on the table.

  Emme did as he asked. She watched as Rhys took a healthy swallow from the decanter, and then braced himself for what was to come. Michael poured the whiskey over the wound, and Rhys’ breath hissed out between his teeth. When it was done, Michael applied a few stitches to the wound and then bandaged it. It took only a few moments, but she felt as if it had taken years off of her life. Wearily, she collapsed onto the large chair before the fireplace.

  “This has to stop,” she said. “Broken carriage wheels, gunshots, being followed—no, being hunted! We cannot live this way.”

  Michael recognized the rising hysteria. He gave a brief salute to Rhys and quickly made his escape. With Michael gone from the room, Rhys beckoned her.

  When she stood beside the bed, within reach, he took her hands in his and said, “We will stop it. But for now, come to bed. Let’s forget about the outside world at least until tomorrow morning.”

  Emme wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her. With his assistance, she shrugged out of her gown and stays, stripping off her stockings with no thought as to how seductive her movements were. Wearing only her chemise she slipped between the covers and took solace in the warmth of his body against hers.

  Chapter 11

  The Somerfield ball had been pleasant enough, though in light of Rhys’ injury, Emme had wished to beg off. He had refused, of course. He wanted to get their society duties over with and return to Briarwood Park. He also wanted the person who had hired the thug from the previous evening to see him about, hale and hearty. Unable to fault his logic, Emme had relented and endured the stares and whispers. She’d waltzed with Rhys and that had made it all worth it. No one would guess that he had been shot the night before. His movements were as sure and confident as always.

  Only the unexpected presence of Lord Alistair Brammel had marred the evening. He’d requested a dance and had done so in such a manner that it would have been rude to deny him and would have undoubtedly resulted in a scandal. Though she’d wanted to run away when he’d taken her arm to lead her onto the floor, Emme had allowed him to lead her in a quadrille. It had taken all of her will not to pull away from him. She couldn’t pinpoint why he made her so uncomfortable.

  From the tightening of Rhys’ jaw and the icy glare that he had directed at Alistair, she knew that he been less than pleased, as well. She didn’t fully understand the enmity between them, but she suspected it had far more to do with Elise, than with Alistair’s rapscallion ways. Nonetheless, the tension between the two men was palpable. Thankfully, Alistair had been on his best behavior.

  The rest of the week had passed in a blur of parties. Each one had been indecipherable from its predecessor. She had been greeted by whispers, smirks and knowing stares at every turn. She was viewed as the worst sort of upstart by society—a social climber and a fortune hunter. Their reception had little impact on Rhys.

  Their last night in town, they attended a small gathering. It was a quiet evening, with a literary theme
. It was a terrific bore for Rhys, but was the most enjoyable evening Emme had spent in society. The evening had been devoted to Shakespeare’s sonnets and she’d found both the conversation and the company to be convivial.

  They had left early, using their pending journey as a convenient excuse. The return to trip was less tumultuous than the trip to London had been. There were no accidents and the roads were marginally better. Making better time, meant fewer nights at posting inns, which was a relief for Emme. It was also a relief to get back so that they could turn their attention to finding Melisande’s killer. Emme felt compelled, as if something was pulling her back there, urging her to return the entire time they’d been away. She didn’t say as much to Rhys, as she knew he would think her mad.

  Rhys had begun deciphering Elise’s journal, though it was difficult for him. She had spewed her rage and madness on the page about her parents, his parents, and his brother. Elise appeared to fancy the lot of them as her enemies. She had also written detailed accounts of her sexual exploits. He’d never imagined her innocent and he’d known that her desires were dark, twisted with her madness, but he’d had no idea how perverse she could truly be.

  They were only a few short miles from Briarwood, when he closed the journal in disgust and laid it on the seat beside him. “I simply can’t tolerate any more of it.”

  “Have you discovered anything?”

  “I’ve discovered that my late wife was indiscriminate in choosing her bed partners. Age, sex, race or social standing had little importance to her.”

  “Sex?”

  He had forgotten for a moment how innocent she truly was. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t speak of such things to you, but yes, there are people, male and female alike, who prefer the sexual attentions of their same sex.”

  “And did Elise prefer women?”

  “No, but apparently they would do if she were bored.”

  “Oh,” Emme said. She simply couldn’t fathom it. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but how?”

  Her innocent curiosity was killing him. “Well, as for men, neither of us is prepared for that conversation. But for women, they use their mouths to pleasure one another. You certainly liked it when I did that to you.”

  She blushed, but said honestly, “I like everything you do to me.”

  His breeches grew painfully tight, and every jolt of the carriage was an agony. “If we don’t change the subject, I am going to take you in this carriage.”

  “Is that possible?” she gasped.

  He grasped her hand and pulled her onto his lap, positioning her so that she straddled him. “You tell me if it’s possible.”

  She pressed down, feeling the hard ridge of his arousal against her now fevered flesh. “I think I wish we were further from home.”

  He chuckled. “I imagine that if the coach continued rocking after it stopped in the drive, the servants would be forever scandalized.”

  “And Lady Eleanor!”

  He shuddered. “Well, thank you for bringing her into the conversation. You’ve effectively wilted me.”

  She shifted experimentally. “You don’t feel wilted.”

  “Forgive my hyperbole. Move to your right just a bit.”

  She did as he suggested, and then the ridge of his erection nestled against the most sensitive part of her. The pressure was a delicious sensual onslaught. When he flexed his hips, she gasped with pleasure.

  “Oh, my goodness. Do that again!”

  He did, several times, swallowing her gasps of pleasure in a dizzying kiss. He maintained the pressure, thrusting against her, until she shuddered against him, her body going limp.

  After a moment, she lifted herself up, and looked pointedly at his erection which was still nestled between her parted thighs. “You haven’t—“ she stopped, uncertain of the words.

  “We are far from finished. If you look out the window, we just turned into the drive.”

  He helped her onto the seat beside him, and together they restored order, as much as possible, to her impossibly crumpled skirts. She smoothed her hair, but there was no disguising her kiss-swollen lips or the flush that marked her pale skin.

  When the carriage rolled to a stop, he disembarked quickly and handed her down. He ignored the servants, ignored his mother and Eleanor, and quickly ushered her up the stairs.

  Emme was blushing furiously and laughing by the time they reached their chambers. Her laughter died the minute the door closed behind them. He pressed her back against the door and plundered her mouth.

  She returned his ravenous kisses, all the while fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, until at last, his manhood sprang free, hot and hard in her hand. She gripped him, sliding her fingers over him as he’d shown her. He groaned, thrusting against her hand. It wasn’t enough. He lifted her skirts, hooked his hands beneath her thighs and lifted her, entering her in one swift motion, pinning her against the door with his body.

  Emme gasped at the exquisite fullness. The feel of his body had become familiar, but no less thrilling. He shifted his hands, until the firm globes of her buttocks were nestled in his palms. He kneaded the tender flesh as he thrust deeply inside the heated velvet of her body. He struggled for control, clinging desperately to it, to give her release before surrendering to his own.

  He pressed his mouth into the valley between her breasts, kissing and nipping at the tender flesh through the thin muslin of her gown. He lifted her higher, driving deeper into her, and she shattered against him.

  He felt the familiar tension in his balls, the tingling at the base of his spine, and then he thrust deeper still, emptying himself deep inside her.

  He felt her thighs quivering about him, and slowly lowered her, so that her feet were once again on the floor. But her legs wouldn’t hold her, and they buckled. He caught her, holding her, touching his forehead to hers, as he fought to regain his breath.

  “You’ve destroyed me,” he said. “You have me behaving like a randy lad.”

  “It’s only fair,” she whispered, as her hands fluttered over him, stroking his roughened jaw, “You’ve turned me into a brazen hussy.”

  When his pulse slowed, and he could breathe without gasping, he withdrew from her, and lifted her into his arms. He carried her to the bed, where he helped her remove her dress. He went to the washstand and returned with a moistened towel, and cleaned them both before shucking the rest of his clothing and climbing into the bed with her. Exhausted slumber claimed them both.

  It was dark when they awoke. He donned his dressing gown and rang for a servant. He ordered food for them both and a bottle of wine, while Emme stayed safely hidden behind the bed curtains.

  When the food arrived, he filled a plate for them with cold meats, fruit, and cheese, and filled their glasses with wine. He then tossed several pillows onto the rug before the fire, as Emme emerged from the bed, wrapped in the sheet. Her dark hair was a wild tangle down her back, and he could see faint traces of red on her neck and breasts from his whiskers. She walked towards him and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek.

  He touched his fingertips to her abraded flesh, and said, “I’m a brute.”

  “I love the feel of your whiskers on my skin,” she said.

  He considered his response carefully. It was an admission that he felt compelled to make, but that he was uncertain of.

  “This craving I have for you is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I’ve always kept a tight rein on my passions, but with you.”

  She kissed him, marveling at her own boldness. “For which I am incredibly grateful. It would be rather inconvenient if my endless desire for you was one-sided.”

  They sprawled on the carpet, his head in her lap as she fed him bits of cheese and fruit. Along with the meal, the servants had delivered a letter. It had arrived by special messenger from London while they slept. He opened it and read the familiar scrawl.

  “Is anything wrong?” she asked.

  “Alistair has gotten himself into a fix financially, again. I’ll tak
e care of it tomorrow. I don’t wish to discuss him.”

  Emme smiled and stroked his hair. “Then what shall we discuss?”

  “Tell me about your sister. She seems like a lovely girl.”

  “Larissa and I have always been close. Our father was distracted, I suppose is the best way to describe him, and mother never really understood us. If we spoke of something that was outside the realm of normal experience, it always unnerved her.”

  “What is Larissa’s gift? Is it like yours?”

  “No, Larissa has visions of things that will happen. Sometimes they appear disjointed or out of context, and it can make them difficult to interpret. When Papa died, she saw it happen, but the vision was so confusing, she couldn’t do anything to prevent it. She’s always blamed herself.”

  “Guilt is a hard thing to live with, especially for one so young.”

  Emme smiled. “Larissa has always been very defiant, fierce and full of life. She’s never worried overmuch about the proprieties.”

  He reclined again, his head nestled beneath her bountiful breasts. “Unlike my properly wanton wife?”

  She laughed. “Yes, unlike your wanton wife.”

  They feasted and then returned to the bed. They made love slowly, languorously, with the initial urgency sated. They slept again, and as she slept, the spirits came. Emme rose from the bed, disentangling herself from Rhys’ arms. He stirred and rolled to his back, but did not wake. She left the room, naked, her steps slow and sure as she made her way down the hall toward the tower.

  The draft woke him and the cold air chilled his naked skin. He noted the empty bed and rose immediately, donning his dressing gown, and grabbing hers as he walked into the hallway. She was already out of sight, but the open door gave her direction away. Quickly, he traversed the steps into the tower room. She stood before the window again, naked in the moonlight, her eyes pale and sightless as she stared out into the cold night.

  “I could make her jump,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder. Her features were different somehow, there was a tension in her face, a tilt to her lips that was Elise. The hair on his body stood on end, and gooseflesh rippled over him.