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The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©
First published in 2012, 2012
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
A word about the author...
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The little girl smiled. “I'm Melisande. But I don't want to hear a story, I want to tell one." Her voice had a slight lilt to it, the singsong pattern of a child with a secret.
She was a bit odd, but she was a pretty child and had an amiable nature.
Emme nodded. “I think I would like to hear it very much."
The little girl seated herself on the grass and cocked her head to the side, and then began to speak.
"There was a princess who lived here, in this house. But the princess was very unhappy. She was forced to marry a man she didn't love. He was a kind man though, or tried to be, but the princess was angry at having to marry him, when her own love was so close by. She met her love in secret. But the princess had loved unwisely, and her love had a price. A very dear price."
Emme shivered. It was not a story, at all. It was thinly veiled gossip about the duke. “That isn't a very nice story, Melisande."
The little girl nodded. “Not every story can be nice, Emme."
A chill swept Emme's body. “I didn't tell you my name. Who are you?"
The little girl smiled again and her eyes were knowing as she met Emme's startled gaze. “You never have to tell us your name. We always know who you are."
Gooseflesh raised on her arms, Emme looked at the apparition before her. It had never happened when she was awake; it had never been so clear. She looked to be flesh and blood, but Emme had no doubt the child before her was a spirit.
The Haunting of a Duke
by
Chasity Bowlin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Haunting of a Duke
COPYRIGHT (C) 2012 by Chasity Bowlin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-332-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-333-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Denise and Tracy.
I couldn't have asked for better cheerleaders.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter One
Emme Walters emerged from the dark, damp dungeons of Briarwood Hall in a state of dishabille that would send her aunt into apoplexy if she saw it. Thankfully, it was well into the wee hours of the morning and most people at the small country gathering had found their own beds, or someone else's, to occupy for the remainder of the night. Noting that the corridor appeared to be deserted, Emme sighed in relief. The dungeon undoubtedly contained endless horrors of mice and spiders, and she wanted desperately to be free of it. She shuddered a bit and gave the door a push. Having freed herself, albeit clumsily; she stepped further into the hall.
Unfortunately, the door was closing much more freely than it had opened, and in a panic, she grasped it to prevent it from banging shut, managing only to smash her fingers. She uttered a mild oath, though it was the strongest one she knew, and clasped her battered fingers to her chest. It would be an interesting addition to the cadre of other scrapes and bruises that she had accrued during the night. Her nocturnal wanderings usually resulted in at least a few injuries that her maid would have to work diligently to camouflage.
There was a candle on the table, but the shadows provided some protection for her. Sleepwalking, or spells, or whatever one chose to call it, would be the ruin of her. She ducked into an alcove, molding herself to the wall, before peering out to be certain that no one was about. The corridor remained deserted and she uttered a quick prayer of thanks before making her way to the next shadowy recess. The last thing she needed was to be found in such a compromising position. It was all well and good for people to call her a medium or mystic, and to speculate about her and her strange ways, but to be caught outside of her room in such a state—wearing only her night rail, her hair disheveled and various scrapes and bruises covering her body—her reputation would soon be as tattered as her appearance.
Shoving those thoughts forcefully from her mind, she stepped forward and her hip bumped the edge of a small table. It teetered ominously, but she managed to right it. The noise, to her ears at least, was deafening. When no one rushed forward to brand her a thief or a woman of loose morals, Emme continued toward the guest wing of the ducal estate, or rather in the direction she believed the wing to be. In truth, she had no idea where she was or how she'd come to be there. Briarwood Hall was massive, and though she'd only been there for a single day, she'd already been lost several times. Her aunt, the imperious and glacial Lady Isabella Harding, had already taken her to task for it.
With the thought of her aunt's glaring disapproval in mind, she forced herself to move, to continue the trek back toward her room. Her bare feet were silent on the marble floors as she crept along the hallway. Her heart thundered in her chest and she trembled. The fear of being discovered was so intense, it left her weak. She tried to calm herself, to reassure herself, that most of the servants were abed, and the guests as well. There were a few stragglers still roaming the halls, and of course there were the romantic assignations that were the very reason for house parties. She was attuned to every noise, every creak as she made her way toward the stairs and she wished fervently that she knew the house better and knew where the servants’ stairs were located, as they would greatly decrease her chance of discovery.
Just as Emme neared the main staircase, as she could see the intricate carving of the banisters, a noise from behind her made her thundering heart skip. She froze mid-stride and peered over her shoulder at the growing triangle of light emerging from the doorway of the billiard room. Tension coiled in her stomach, and her breath seized in her lungs. Someone was coming, and her wits fled her entirely.
From the shadowed recesses beneath the staircase, Lord Rhys Brammel watched the stealthy movements of the shadowy figure traversing the hall. At first glance, painted in the silver
y light and long shadows of the darkened hall, she had appeared more phantom than flesh and blood. As she had moved closer, her identity as an exalted guest had been unmistakable. In truth, she was not his guest. She had been invited by his mother without his knowledge. It was not an unusual occurrence. His mother frequently invited inappropriate people to their home in her quest for truth, enlightenment and a direct line of communique to the spirit world. His aunt, Lady Eleanor Brammel, had attempted for years to dissuade his mother from such pursuits, but had met with little success. That was to be expected, of course. Lady Phyllis Brammel, in her own quiet way, was a force to be reckoned with.
He had ducked into the stairwell upon first observing the “apparition.” Was that part of her game, he wondered? Was she a thief and a liar, or simply returning from a midnight tryst? He didn't have the answers, but he meant to find out. If Miss Walters was playing at being a ghost, or attempting to frighten other guests to raise her own social cachet, he would send her packing, regardless of his mother's protests. He knew from experience that it was impossible to dissuade his mother from anything once she'd set her mind to it. She had issued the invitations regardless of any protests, but if it came to it, he was the head of the household. It was at his discretion to rescind the invitation at any time and for any reason of his choosing. He would, of course, pay dearly for utilizing that authority, but that was neither here nor there.
Rhys watched her moving along the hall, wondering what could have prompted her to move about in such a state of undress. Given that her behavior earlier in the day had been so circumspect, he found it curious that she would so recklessly court the ruin of far more than her reputation. In truth, everything about her was rather curious. She was known to the ton as a psychic, yet disdained any discussion of ghosts. For that matter, she was reputed to be an innocent, and yet she was wandering the halls practically nude, displaying her figure to any passerby. As the only passerby, he really couldn't complain overmuch, as he found himself enjoying the display quite thoroughly. Of course, he wasn't the only man to have noted Miss Walters’ many charms. Nearly every man present had been intrigued by her, including the lecherous Lord Pommeroy.
Rhys’ ruminations were cut short by a widening arc of light at the door to the billiard room. It froze Miss Walters’ in her tracks as well. Swiftly, he considered his options. Allowing her to be discovered and ruined would result in her being packed off to her family. It was an effective method of removing her as a complication in his own life, but hardly an honorable course of action. It seemed, he thought grimly, he was to play the knight in less than shining armor.
Acting decisively, he stepped forward, grasped her wrist and pulled her to him. He brought his other hand up to quickly cover her mouth as he pulled her into the deeper shadows beneath the stairs. He turned them so that her body was imprisoned between him and the wall, his body shielding her from view. His black evening clothes blended with the shadows, rendering them almost invisible.
When he whispered next to her ear, his voice was low and gruff. “It's a bit late for a stroll, Miss Walters."
He felt her shiver against him. Was it fear or something else equally primal? The delicate scent of her skin was heady. It was as soft and feminine as the lush curves of her body that pressed so intimately against him. His body's libidinous response to her nearness was immediate. It had been far too long since he'd held a woman in the circle of his arms, and felt the yielding of softer flesh, the satin of pampered skin. It was torture, but he relished it.
In the hard circle of his arms, Emme managed to turn her head slightly, so that she could see over the curve of his arm. Raucous laughter boomed down the hall and the shadows of two gentlemen came into view, dark shapes distorted over the pale marble of the floor.
As they neared, Emme blushed at their ribald comments. She could feel her face heating as they discussed the attributes of one of the female guests. Her face flamed even hotter when she realized that she, or more particularly, her bosom, was the subject of their speculation.
Their coarse laughter and even coarser comments dissipated as they turned onto the staircase. Their voices faded to the merest whisper, but they were hardly the only danger she faced.
Emme shivered with something that was not entirely fear as the whiskered chin of her captor and possible savior rasped against the shell of her ear and his breath fanned over the delicate skin of her neck. She struggled for a moment against his hold, but he shushed her, hissing sharply against her ear. Quickly, she catalogued her avenues of escape and came upon the disturbing realization that she had none. If she continued to struggle, the other gentlemen might overhear and return and she would be discovered. If she stayed where she was, and remained quiet, she might avoid discovery, but risked being compromised fully, rather than in name only.
She could hear her aunt's snide voice drifting through her mind. “It is possible to have a good reputation in the absence of virtue, but virtue in the absence of a good reputation is worthless.” Counting the number of times Lady Isabella had uttered that phrase was impossible. Detest her social climbing aunt, she might, but given her current predicament, she could not doubt the wisdom of her words. Against every instinct she possessed, Emme stilled against him, as it seemed to be the best option.
Rhys sensed the tension draining from her. He couldn't imagine that it was anything other than the girl's will that prompted the reaction. Hoping that he was not overestimating her state of calm, he removed his hand and stepped back, allowing her to step away from him. Instantly, he felt the loss. He resisted the urge to reach for her and pull her back into his arms.
He doubted that the gesture would be well received. His belief was borne out when she wasted no time in quickly putting at least an arm's length between them. When she turned to face him, the moonlight rendered her night rail all but transparent, revealing every sensuous curve. His breath caught and his desire, already piqued, spiked within him. It was only years of intense self-discipline that allowed him to tamp down his response. With purpose, he stepped forward out of the shadows to meet her defiant stare.
He saw the recognition in her eyes, and the spark of fear that followed. Did she believe the rumors, then? Did she think him a murderer? Of course, it was quite possible that he had not managed to fully disguise his response. If she had recognized his body's reaction to her nearness, then perhaps she was more experienced than he might have originally imagined. If so, there was no reason for him not to pursue her, discreetly, of course. The spark of hope that flared in him with that thought was ridiculous.
Emme's bravado faltered as she met the shuttered gaze of her host. The Duke of Briarleigh still wore the impeccable evening clothes he'd looked so fine in at dinner, though his artistically knotted neck cloth was now hopelessly rumpled.
His close-cropped, dark hair was disheveled as well. Even in the dim light, the dark shadowing of whiskers on his square jaw was visible, deepening the cleft of his chin and silhouetting his sculpted mouth. Looking at his mouth made her breathless, so she quickly brought her gaze up to his startling eyes.
They pinned her to the spot, rooting her to the floor with as yet unasked questions. She recalled their color from her earlier meeting with him, even as the moonlight concealed it now. They were the lightest shade of brown, so pale that in the light they glowed like gold. Thickly lashed and topped with slashing, dark brows, they could make him appear quite fierce.
Everything about him was masculine—overwhelmingly so. His sharp, chiseled features, his deep, rich voice, and the sheer size of him, for he towered over her, even at her own impressive height—all of those traits combined to make him seem larger than life, and in her current state, incredibly intimidating. When he met and returned her assessing stare, the heat of embarrassment and something else she could not name, snaked through her veins.
"A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was lost, I fear, and then, I am afraid that I panicked."
&n
bsp; Her voice was low and husky, like velvet. The sound of it shivered over his skin like a caress. Wide-eyed, pale and disheveled, she was lovely and tempting. With the distance between them, he managed to reign in his libido, though only barely.
He reminded himself that she was out of reach for a multitude of reasons. As an unmarried woman of good breeding, let alone one he suspected of activities that, if not criminal, were certainly immoral, she was most unsuitable.
With chagrin, he acknowledged to himself that it was the latter and not the former that placed her entirely out of his reach.
While he had little patience for the magic and mysticism that his mother was so very fond of, he had even less patience for the idea of being leg-shackled again.
Aware that the silence had stretched taut and uncomfortable between them, Rhys spoke. “And you lost your wrapper as well, I see."
The phrase had no sooner escaped his lips than he realized they would do little to ease the tension. He gave a mental shrug. Perhaps if she were unsettled, he would have more answers.
Emme blushed. “Indeed, Your Grace. I am quite chilled and would very much like to return to the warmth of my—".
Bed had been on the tip of her tongue, but in her present state of undress there were few men who would not see that statement as an invitation.
Quickly rephrasing, she said, “To my room".
Her hesitation had not been subtle. He might have told her that any man blessed enough to view her in that diaphanous gown would be thinking of her and a bed regardless of whether she said it or not. Nonetheless, the unspoken word hung in the air between them.
Again, he cursed her purported abilities and her presumably chaste status, both of which made her completely unavailable. With her dark hair and pale eyes, she was striking.
The moonlight cascading through the windows had painted her body silver and illuminated her lush form through the fine lawn of the garment. The exaggerated curves of her generous breasts, small waist and flared hips would haunt him.
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