It did. It meant so much that the hair at the back of his neck stood up. “What did Melisande look like? I've never seen a ghost. I find myself quite curious."
Emme shook her head. For a carefree rake there was an intensity in him that made her somewhat uneasy. “She looked like a child, like a little girl of perhaps ten. She had dark, curling hair and green eyes. I had thought at first, that she must be a relative of Lord Rhys'. You are asking very unusual questions, Lord Ellersleigh."
Michael's skin prickled. He felt as if the temperature around him had suddenly dropped. When he opened his mouth to answer, he was surprised to see his breath misting in front of him.
"Find your way to the portrait gallery, Miss Walters. On the southern end, third from the window on the eastern wall, you'll find your Melisande."
Emme rose, unable to stop herself and headed in the direction he indicated. She looked behind her but Lord Ellersleigh was still standing at the statue. In the rosebush beside him, Emme could see a pale, shadowy face. She didn't warn him, she couldn't.
Turning, she hurried to the portrait gallery, to stare at the face of a dead child with green eyes and dark hair. It was a family portrait, and the girl was seated in the grass, beside her brothers, the previous duke, Lord Jeremy, and a younger, more carefree version of Lord Rhys.
Staring at the portrait, Emme wished herself anywhere but Briarleigh, anywhere that she wouldn't have to communicate with the long dead sister of a man whose mere presence unnerved her almost as much as the spirits.
Outside, Michael straightened when she was gone. There was a charge in the air around him, a prickling sensation that he had felt only a few times before, and every time had been at Briarwood Hall. He had always dismissed it, blaming it on spirits of another kind.
"Are you here?” he asked aloud, and his voice sounded tremulous even to his own ears. Huskily, he added, “If you can hear me, I am so dreadfully sorry."
He cursed the tears that burned behind his eyes. It had been almost two decades, but the guilt still clawed at his belly, and left him weak. Without a backward glance he turned on his heel and marched back to the house. He'd spent his life burying his memories in brandy and women and had no intention of stopping.
He had watched from the shadows. He was too far away to hear what had been said, but he had seen the easy smile and the flirtation between them. His fists clenched at his sides and the rage built inside him. He knew why she was there. He knew what everyone whispered about her. None of it mattered. She was simply a slut like all the others. They always acted so uppity, as if they were better than him, as if he were somehow less. They panted after the titled lords like bitches in heat and turned their pretty noses up at him. He wanted to shout. He wanted to follow her, to track her through the house and force her to ground. He would see how haughty she was then.
The blackness that existed within him swelled, reaching out with sharp tentacles, stabbing into his guts and twisting them, until he burned with fury. She wanted them, with their fortunes and their titles, either one of them would do, Ellersleigh or the bloody duke.
Yes, he thought, the resolution forming deep inside him, twisted and dark. She was just another uppity bitch that wouldn't look twice at him, but would have hiked her skirts in the garden for Ellersleigh if he'd so much as crooked his finger at her.
He wanted to bellow his fury and his resentment; he wanted to see her cringing with fear before him. He would make her pay, he thought, he would make her beg and scream, just like the others had.
His dark fantasies took flight in his mind. Her pale flesh bared before him. Her whimpering cries as she pleaded with him for mercy. He could almost feel the firmness of her supple flesh beneath his gloved hands, could almost smell her fear, the sweet scent tantalizing him. He would close his hands about her throat and watch while her pale eyes went blank and empty. He would feel the life and the warmth seep from her. She would be his forever, just like the others were.
He smiled then, the dark seed taking root deep inside him. He would wait. The anticipation would make it sweeter. Turning on his booted heel, he walked toward the woods and his waiting mount, softly whistling a jaunty tune.
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Chapter Three
Emme returned to her room after her sojourn to the portrait gallery. She was reeling and simply couldn't face the idea of having to make small talk with the other guests, or heaven forbid, the duke himself. Then, there was her aunt. She'd rather face an army, she thought bitterly. The portrait had been a revelation. She had known that Rhys had been a second son, had known of his older brother Jeremy only in the vaguest sense from studying Debrett's Book of Peerage. She hadn't known that they'd had a sister.
More disturbing was that the experience was entirely new. There had been a handful of times in her life when she had seen a spirit while awake, but they had been shadowy figures, and obviously not of this world. To speak with a ghost, to have a conversation with one and be unaware that the person she was speaking to was non-corporeal was unfathomable. Why was her “gift” changing, she wondered? She'd never before seen a spirit so clearly. Had it not been for the portrait, she would have thought it was a harbinger of encroaching madness. But having seen that child's face peering back at her from the painting, she had no choice but to accept that it had been real, no matter how much she wished to deny it. Trying desperately to push those things from her mind, she was grateful when Gussy bustled in to her chamber to help her dress for dinner.
Emme's wardrobe was up to par, but only just. Gussy had already laid out a gown for her of pale silver satin with black piping at the puffed sleeves and around the rather daring decolletage A black velvet sash cinched just beneath her breasts. It wasn't really a gown for a debutante, but then she was approaching the shelf, even if she wasn't quite on it yet. She no longer had to abide by the strictest rules and wear only white and pale shades of pink that made her look like a walking corpse.
She had a simple necklace of jet beads that would serve as her only ornamentation. Gussy dressed her hair, creating a coronet of dark braids intertwined with black and silver ribbons.
Once the look was complete, she stood and gave her reflection one final survey. “I believe I am as presentable as possible, Gussy. Thank you."
The outspoken maid clucked. “More than presentable, Miss. Ye look lovely, as ye well know."
"Thank you, Gussy. You are a miracle worker, never doubt it."
Gussy started to leave the room, but then turned back. “A word of advice, Miss. His Grace's cousin arrived from London late last night. He's already been after one of the maids today. He's not a good sort at all, so steer well clear of him if ye can."
Emme nodded. Lord Alistair Brammell had a reputation that preceded him. “I've heard the rumors of his dissolute behavior. I'll be careful to avoid him, as much as possible."
Gussy waggled a finger at her warningly. “This is one time when even the worst of the gossip pales next to the truth."
Moments later Emme made her way to the drawing room with Gussy's warnings still ringing in her mind. Though it was not a large crowd, there were enough people about to make her somewhat self-conscious. She took a seat on the periphery of the room and accepted a glass of sherry from a footman. Conversation hummed around her as she idly sipped the sherry, but she did not feel compelled to join in.
She spied Isabella across the room, flirting with a gentleman she did not recognize. Though Isabella was married, she and her husband maintained largely separate lives, as was customary amongst the ton. Many of the dinner guests were local gentry and a few neighbors of significant social importance who had come just for the evening, most of whom would leave before the evening's entertainment started.
Across the room, two young women were whispering behind their hands and looking at her. It was not an uncommon occurrence. The real question was not whether or not they were whispering about her, but whether they were discussing the rumors of her ability to speak with s
pirits, her scandalous relatives, her lack of fortune, or the fact that she had worn the same gown last season. Their choices were many.
The gentlemen trickled in from the library or the billiard room or wherever they had been congregating. Almost against her will, Emme's eyes gravitated toward Rhys. Lord Ellersleigh stood beside him, still looking ill at ease.
Rhys stood taller than most of the other gentleman and his broad shoulders dwarfed the other men in the room. His dark hair, the pale gold eyes, everything about him set him apart. Her awareness of him, the visceral reaction she had to his very presence was alarming. He was simply more, in every way, and everything in her responded to that.
As she looked at him her breath caught and her pulse skittered. She didn't understand why, however. It was beyond her comprehension. In the traditional sense of the word, Lord Ellersleigh was undoubtedly the more handsome of the two, certainly the more dashing. But he did not captivate her attention the way the Duke of Briarleigh did, or set her traitorous pulse racing.
"He is magnificent, isn't he?"
Emme turned to look at the young woman who had joined her on the settee. She was a pale blonde beauty with large cornflower eyes. Her gown was a pale peach silk that made her skin glow like cream. She combed through her memory until she could recall the young woman's name. Miss Penelope Stone.
"Miss Stone, I'm not sure I understand what you're alluding to."
Miss Stone's laugh was brittle, the accompanying smile not reaching her eyes. “I'm referring to our host, my dear Miss Walters! He's positively delicious, and just a bit wicked, though not nearly as wicked as Ellersleigh. Of course few gentlemen are."
Such confidences were dangerous, and Emme chose to respond tactfully. “He is very handsome, but as to his wickedness, I really couldn't say."
The cool smile became positively frigid. Miss Stone's small, pearly teeth took on a predatory appearance. “Of course you couldn't. Such circumspect behavior is admirable."
She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a sotto whisper, as if they were the best of friends. “Tell me Miss Walters, have you spoken with his late wife?"
Emme knew what she was asking, but chose to be obtuse, hoping that the subject would be dropped. “I was not acquainted with the family prior to her passing, but I have heard that she was very beautiful. It is a tragic loss."
"You have no need to be coy with me Miss Walters. Have you spoken with her since your arrival here?"
Emme met the other woman's gaze, noting the coldness and the calculating nature so evident there. Her pretty face hid a viperous nature. “That would be impossible, Miss Stone."
"For some of us, yes it is—but not for you. That is what you do, isn't it, Miss Walters? You talk to spirits and see beyond the veil, no?"
Miss Stone's theatrical tone attracted far too much attention for Emme's peace of mind.
"No,” Emme replied, tightly. “I am afraid you have been misled. While I have been of assistance to several people in difficult situations with loved ones who had passed, Miss Stone, it is a matter of being observant and using deductive reasoning. There is nothing mystical about it."
Penelope laughed, but the sound was hollow, false. Her eyes were sharp and her smile was so hard it could have cut glass. “What a dull answer you've given. Deductive reasoning! Ghosts are surely more interesting."
Emme was saved from further reply by the announcement of dinner. She stood, as did Miss Stone, and a young man stepped forward to lead Miss Stone into the dining room. Emme's own escort arrived and nothing could have branded her as ineligible more patently. They had been introduced the day before, but his name escaped her.
He was not an old man by any stretch of the imagination, but a dissipated life had left its mark. He was portly with an alarmingly red face and bulbous nose accompanied by an unfortunately balding pate. He offered his arm to escort Emme into the dining room. With a leering smile, he kept his gaze glued to her cleavage as he led her to her chair. He took his seat beside her, never averting his lecherous gaze.
The conversation strayed to town gossip and Emme let her attention drift. Miss Stone was watching her and that knowledge left her uncomfortable. Miss Stone was spiteful and not to be trifled with. Emme had the distinct impression that the young woman was definitely dangerous. Thoughts of danger prompted thoughts of her host, and she found her gaze drifting toward the head of the table and toward Rhys again. He raised his glass in a silent salute, and she flushed nervously.
At the head of the table, Rhys watched her. He had seen how uncomfortable she had been when faced with the abrasive, gossipy Miss Stone.
Miss Stone was one of Eleanor's pet projects. His aunt was convinced that the grasping harpy would be a perfect bride for him. The young woman was simply intolerable and he'd gone to great lengths to avoid her. Pushy and forward, she had gone so far as to let it be known that she was open to a match with him, whether he'd murdered Elise or not. It hardly spoke well of her. That Miss Walters had so obviously found her off putting was a point in her favor.
He noted that Lord Pommeroy's gaze was fixed on Emmaline's lush bosom, and couldn't help the flash of irritation that caused him. She obviously did not welcome Lord Pommeroy's attentions but that did not make it any easier for him to bear. He was torn between the urge to slap the leer from Pommeroy's face, and the urge to wrap Miss Walters in the table linens to shield her lush curves from others’ view.
"Tell me, Miss Walters, how are you finding country life?"
Emme looked up to see Lord Alistair Brammel speaking to her. He was seated across from her. She had taken Gussy's warnings to heart and had made it a point to interact with him as little as possible.
"I am finding the countryside very much to my liking, Lord Brammel. Thank you for inquiring."
"I'd be delighted to show you more of it,” he offered. “Perhaps a ride?"
Emme thanked him. “I'm sorry, I don't ride, Lord Brammel. Also, I'm afraid I would only be able to accompany you if Lady Phyllis or my aunt were to go as well, as they are my chaperones. I fear Aunt Isabella does not ride either, and Lady Phyllis is far too busy with the party."
He smiled easily enough, but Emme sensed the resentment simmering inside him.
"Of course, Miss Walters. How remiss of me not to realize you were without an appropriate chaperone."
"I have to beg your pardon, cousin, but Mother is hardly an inappropriate chaperone, and Lady Harding is Miss Walters’ aunt. Surely you misspoke,” Rhys intoned loftily.
He despised Alistair's behavior. He was ever the spoiled child.
Alistair's smile never faltered. “Of course she is an appropriate chaperone. How clumsily I have spoken to make it seem otherwise. Your pardon Aunt Phyllis? Lady Harding?"
Phyllis smiled coolly. “No offense was meant Alistair and none was taken. Eat, drink and be merry!"
Isabella raised her glass, but her smile was cutting. “Certainly, Lady Phyllis. It is a party, after all."
Michael had paid little heed to the conversation about him, and he didn't really care that he was being rude. He couldn't take his eyes off the interplay between his friend and the now frightening Miss Walters. She had spooked him in the garden to be sure. Even now, hours later, he hadn't been able to convince himself that it was all imagination or artful trickery.
No one really knew about Melisande, certainly no one spoke of her. Decades later, the tragedy was still too great. As Michael looked back at Rhys, he saw his friend's intense gaze once again settle on Miss Walters, and knew that both Lady Phyllis and Lady Eleanor were equally aware of the interplay. Phyllis was looking at her son hopefully, while Eleanor was coiled and tense, like a serpent ready to strike.
It had been some time since he'd seen Rhys so intrigued by anyone or anything. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Lady Phyllis looking hopeful about anything. As for Eleanor, he doubted that anyone could ever please her. He decided to stir the pot and see what happened. Decision made, he reached for his glass of win
e and made a silent toast to the couple.
"You're staring, Rhys,” Eleanor said, leaning past Michael to reprimand her nephew.
She was right, but he didn't really care. Nonetheless, Rhys managed to avert his gaze and resume his place in the innocuous conversation that swirled about him. Even then, his awareness of her did not dim. He recognized the disastrous consequences of his preoccupation with her, but he found himself unwilling to alter it.
After dinner, as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the music room, Lady Phyllis called out for everyone's attention. “My dear guests, I have a special entertainment arranged for us tonight. While I understand this may be frightening to many of you, I assure you that you needn't participate if you are concerned. Madame Zuniga, a renowned mystic will be joining us tonight, and we will attempt to make contact with our departed loved ones."
Rhys was unprepared for the fury that assailed him. He tracked Miss Walters with a livid gaze and then crossed the room to her, where she was seated at the pianoforte.
He noted that no one had offered to turn the pages for her, and so he said, “Might I offer my assistance, Miss Walters?"
Emme looked up at him. His smile was almost fiendish, and while it had been phrased as a request, they both knew she could not decline. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your assistance is most appreciated."
He watched her fingers fly over the keys as she played one of Mozart's newest compositions. She played well, passionately and with skill. When she had finished, he offered her his arm and led her away from the piano. Across the room, Miss Stone watched them with venom in her eyes.
"I fear your attention has garnered an enemy for me, Your Grace."
Rhys glanced toward Miss Stone and shrugged nonchalantly. “I doubt that Miss Stone would ever secure my attentions, regardless of who may or may not be present. Surely her enmity is leveled in my direction rather than yours?'
The Haunting of a Duke Page 4
