The Haunting of a Duke

by Chasity Bowlin

  Rhys hadn't said anything about the circumstances surrounding the broken wheel that had left the animal lame but it had troubled him greatly. He'd decided he didn't want to worry her, but he had the sneaking suspicion that she knew it was more than just an accident. Sabotage was an ugly word and he hesitated to bandy it about with little proof. Because of that incident and those that had occurred at Briarwood prior to their departure, he had been hyper-vigilant while they traveled.

  He knew it must have seemed that he had been preoccupied and lost in thought for much of the journey. It wasn't untrue, but it had been necessary to insure her safety. He couldn't abide the thought that something might happen to her, and given the events that had occurred, he could not doubt that someone meant her harm. His hyper-vigilance and the numerous delays had created a strain for everyone.

  Emme's thoughts mirrored Rhys’ as she considered the disastrous nature of their short sojourn to town. They had spent the first evening at the Ye Olde Bell in Barnby Moor.

  The food had been fair and room reasonably clean, but the clientele had left something to be desired. Rhys hadn't come to her bed that night, but had guarded the door and told her to sleep in her traveling gown. When she'd considered the leers of the men in the taproom, she had not questioned his request.

  She hadn't slept at all that night, but had lain awake starting at every noise. Worry for Rhys, as well as worry for herself and Gussy, had kept her awake. She'd been more than happy to leave the “Bell” the following morning, as had Gussy, who'd slept on a pallet beside her during the night.

  The second day of their journey had been equally trying. The continued rain had slowed their progress considerably, further deepening the ruts in the road. They had spent the better part of the afternoon mired down in the muck and had only made it as far as Grantham the following evening. Rhys had worked alongside the coachman and the footman to free the vehicle, but it had been a long and dirty process. Their accommodations had been much better at least, staying at the Angel and Royal. Rhys had come to her that night, but they had both been too tired to do more than sleep. Despite that, it had been a comfort to wake in his arms.

  Emme was quickly realizing that his touch could provide her with more than passion. That she desired his touch not just in the bedchamber, but relished the simple touch of his hand or a sweet kiss petrified her. She recognized it as a sign of growing infatuation or perhaps something even more disastrous. Being infatuated with one's husband could be a dangerous thing. She could imagine nothing worse than loving him and not having that love returned. If that happened, how long would it take for love to turn to hate, for jealousy to rear its ugly head? She had never spoken with him of fidelity. She had no idea if he kept a mistress but it was only safe to assume that he did. Those thoughts plagued her and the better part of the journey was spent pushing them away.

  Rather than focusing on her feelings, Emme turned her attention back to the journey and the difficulties they had faced. She thought of the previous night, the third of the journey, spent in Bedford, at a place called the Butcher's Arms. That night had been the most difficult by far. Her exhaustion from the journey had made her even more vulnerable to her “gift.” The inn's ghosts had allowed her no peace. She'd done everything in her power not to sleep, knowing that if she did they would have her walking the halls. She'd known that Rhys had sensed something was not right with her from the moment they entered the inn, but she had not been able to tell him.

  Though he was no longer as certain of the black and white nature of death as he had been, he still was not a believer. He'd said as much. Now, under the scrutiny of his gaze, she squirmed.

  "Tell me,” he said, simply.

  He would think her mad, but she wanted to tell him. She also wanted him to believe her. “You won't believe me,” she said, resignation in her voice.

  He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and took her hands in his. “I cannot see what you see and I cannot hear what you hear. But I no longer doubt that it is there."

  "There were restless spirits at the inn last night. I could sense them immediately. That is why I tried not to sleep, but it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Now I see them asleep or awake. Apparently, seeing Melisande so clearly has altered my gift considerably, and now they are everywhere. I know you must think me mad. Sometimes I think myself mad."

  "No,” he said simply, and brought her hand to his lips. “I don't think you're mad. But I don't think that what you have is a gift. It's a heavy burden and there is no need for you to bear it alone."

  She didn't know how to respond to that. It humbled her and terrified her at the same time. Between the lack of adequate sleep, her worries over her growing feelings for her husband, and her jangled nerves from being in so many new places she simply couldn't cope. Reluctantly, she drew her hand from his and settled back against the seat, attempting to shore up her emotional defenses.

  Rhys didn't protest as she pulled away from him. He couldn't gauge her mood, but he knew instinctively that pushing her would be a mistake. He focused his attention out the window of the coach and watched as the woods gave way to the outskirts of the city. He would find out what was behind her mood but it would require patience. With that in mind, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, willing himself to obtain a few moments of rest.

  Entering London, the noise grated on her nerves and she fought back the urge to snap at Gussy, who was fidgeting on the seat beside her. She'd been irritable the entire day. She'd been so short with both Rhys and Gussy all day that everyone in the coach had finally lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Snow fell as the late afternoon sun faded to dusk. The snow and the dimming light made traffic even more difficult.

  She couldn't help but wonder what awaited her once the coach stopped. Rhys had told her little of the townhouse. She knew that it was on Upper Brooke Street, an impeccable address. Her own family's home was on Swallow Street, a much less fashionable area of Mayfair. As the carriage rolled along Charing Cross Road, and toward St. James Place, she felt both relieved to be in familiar territory and petrified of what would happen once they were back amongst London society. The carriage slowed, mired in the congested traffic of the city.

  "You are very quiet,” Rhys said. “Are you still troubled?"

  Emme sighed. She hated the stilted silence that had settled between them. She wasn't ready to share the truth with him, though. Seeking peace, she said, “I haven't been quiet. I've been a miserable hateful wretch all day. It isn't you. I've simply been imagining what my parents will have to say about all of this, our hasty wedding, the rumors that have undoubtedly preceded our arrival, and what will happen when we go into society. Our peers are not known for their kindness."

  That was certainly part of it. He didn't doubt that those things plagued her, but he knew there was more.

  Electing not to press, he replied, “You cannot stop their gossiping, Emme. But I assure you that it will all die away on its own. It always does."

  He didn't really understand. He'd been whispered about after Elise's death, but most of his life, he'd been normal. He'd been a paragon amidst the rabble. But that wasn't something he could change, so she smiled at him, “You're right, of course."

  Society didn't really matter in the overall scheme of things. She would be perfectly content to return to Briarwood and never leave it again. It was her family that caused her the most anxiety, and until he met them for himself, until he felt their glaring disapproval of her, he wouldn't understand.

  They lapsed into silence again as the carriage rolled into Mayfair. When it turned onto Brook Street Emme couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. She wanted nothing more than to stand up, stretch her legs, and never again place her bottom on the bench of a moving vehicle. By the time the carriage stopped, Emme was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the seat. Rhys stood and opened the carriage door, as eager as she to be out of the conveyance, and hopped down to the cobbled sidewalk. He lowered the steps and then helpe
d her down. Her entire body was stiff and she ached from head to toe.

  As they entered the house, Rhys took charge. He escorted her up the steps and made short work of presenting the staff to her. He then immediately ordered a hot bath brought to their chambers and a cold supper.

  Emme's impressions of the house were fleeting. It was beautiful and opulent, with decadent frescoes on the ceilings, all of which were beautifully gilded. The floors were marble, as were the stairs, and there was intricately carved woodwork throughout the house. As he ushered her quickly up the stairs to their chambers, there was little time to take in anything more.

  Rhys took the steps two at a time, and she was all but running to keep up with him as he pulled her behind him. Once inside their suite, he let go and she leaned against the doorframe, gasping for breath as she surveyed their surroundings. Their chambers were on the third floor of the townhouse. There was a small sitting room and a bathing chamber. The bathing chamber had a large marble tub with a drain that allowed the water to run out and into the sewers. The tub was decadent, and she'd never seen anything quite like it.

  Emme immediately noticed that her things were not in the second bedroom, but had been placed in the larger, more deliberately masculine room. Before she could ask, Rhys supplied the answer, “I know it's unusual for a man and wife to share a chamber, but even an unlocked door between us is more than I would like."

  He said it matter-of-factly and Emme knew that he was not speaking of love. It was his desire for her that had prompted the request, but it made her stomach flutter nonetheless and it left her weak and breathless. A knock on the door interrupted further analysis of the matter. A servant entered carrying a plate of cold meats, cheeses and fruits. There was also a bottle of wine. A table was laid in the sitting room, and while they ate, the tub was filled with steaming water. After they had finished eating Rhys disappeared into the bedchamber and Gussy helped Emme into the tub. Gussy had just finished rinsing her hair, when Rhys reentered the room wearing only his shirt and breeches.

  Emme gasped, and sunk further into the water, but it did little to conceal her glorious flesh, slick with the water from her bath. With a simple gesture, Rhys dismissed Gussy. When she had left the room, he removed his shirt and breeches and stepped into the tub.

  "What are you doing?” Emme demanded.

  "I'm sharing your bath,” he said. He sluiced water over his hair and soaped it quickly, “Now, help me rinse this."

  Emme reached for the pitcher of warm water, still trying to keep her body concealed beneath the water. After his hair rinsed clear, he leaned back against the tub, his knees resting on either side of hers. He could feel the press of her delicate, little toes beneath his thighs. He smiled, and lifted one of her feet. He gently massaged and kneaded until it was all she could do to keep from sliding into the water. She'd given up keeping herself covered and he could see the perfect globes of her breasts and her pebbled, pink nipples rising above the water. He started on her other foot, and when he placed his mouth against the arch of her foot, and his teeth scraped that tender flesh, she nearly came out of the water. He laughed, and then pulled her forward until she was straddling his hips. Water sloshed over the side of the tub.

  "You're making a mess,” she protested.

  "I don't care,” he said.

  He spread her thighs, easing her down on top of him until he was poised at her entrance. She was slick and ready. “Do you care?"

  "No,” she said, “I don't think that I do."

  Perhaps, she thought, their seemingly insatiable desire for one another might be enough to sustain them, to provide them some measure of happiness. As he pressed into her, filling her with his heat and easing the longing she felt, thought fled.

  The following morning found them once again in the carriage as it rolled toward her parent's home on Swallow Street. Rhys couldn't help but note Emme's nerves. She had plucked and smoothed at her skirts since he'd handed her into the carriage. When she wasn't doing that, she was picking nervously at her kid gloves and shifting restlessly on the seat.

  "Will he wrap you on the knuckles like my old schoolmaster?"

  "I don't know what you mean,” she said.

  "You are so anxious I can feel the tension over here. Your stepfather, will he call me out, will he beat you?” he asked the questions jokingly, but when she didn't respond he grew serious. “Did he beat you?"

  Emme shifted uncomfortable. “No, he didn't exactly beat us, but he did strike us. Larissa tends to defy him more than I ever did. He locked her in her room the last time. I thought she would starve before he let her out."

  Rhys couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You are my wife. You have nothing to fear from him. If he raises his hand to you, he will not live to do so again. He will not lock you away or interfere in your life ever again. You are well beyond his power, and your sister is welcome at our home. You do know that, don't you?"

  Tears stung her eyes. “Thank you."

  She believed him. Rhys was not a man to make promises lightly. When they arrived at the house, Rhys stepped out and handed her down. It was a modest home, in a modest but still very respectable neighborhood.

  They were greeted by a butler who was stiff and unwelcoming. He left them standing in the foyer while he went to see if Mr. and Mrs. Stidham were at home. Rhys glanced back at Emme to see her nervously chewing at her lip. Would her mother truly refuse to see her?

  A few moments later, the butler returned. “Mr. Stidham has requested that you join him in his study."

  Rhys knew then that it would not be a social call. The only reason the man would entertain them in the study rather than the drawing room was because he intended to call them on the carpet or to talk money. Rhys expected a bit of both. Rather than offer his arm formally, as would have been proper, he tucked her hand into his and gently squeezed, providing what reassurance he could.

  Entering the library, he noted the dim light and the man who was seated behind the desk. Mr. Stidham possessed a florid complexion along with a bulbous nose and an alarming number of chins. His hair was thick, but was unwashed so it hung limply around his head. That Mr. Stidham didn't rise when a peer entered the room was telling.

  "Good morning, sir,” Rhys said.

  Stidham didn't acknowledge him, and instead turned his attention toward Emme. “You've behaved like a common whore and shamed your mother and me."

  The man's vitriol was cut short because Rhys had reached across the desk and lifted him by his neck cloth, twisting it mercilessly. “That was uncalled for, Stidham. Now, I understand that it is difficult for you to speak at the moment, so if we are in accord, simply nod."

  The man's eyes were throwing daggers, but he nodded regardless. Emme was stunned. She had known Rhys was powerful, and formidable, but she had not expected him to challenge her stepfather so directly.

  Rhys loosened the man's cravat slightly, so that he could speak. “Now, are Mrs. Stidham and Larissa in the drawing room?"

  "Under the circumstances, I don't want her around Larissa. We still have hope for her,” Stidham said.

  His tone was brusque, but Rhys recognized that it was little more than bravado. Ignoring Stidham's protest altogether, he said, “Emme, why don't you join your mother in the sitting room. I'll join you there shortly."

  Emme met Rhys’ gaze, noted the reassuring smile, and that although he had loosened the pressure, he still held her stepfather by the throat.

  When she had left, Rhys turned back to the man in front of him and unceremoniously dumped him back into his chair. It creaked ominously under his impressive girth, but held firm, unfortunately.

  "You have a hell of a lot of nerve coming into a man's house and issuing orders!” Stidham blustered.

  "I am a duke,” Rhys said simply. “I am used to being obeyed."

  Stidham's jowls trembled unflatteringly while he sputtered. His already purple face had darkened alarmingly, when he said, “Yes, and now she's managed to trap you and make herse
lf a duchess! She's a cheeky girl and a sly one to boot."

  "It wasn't a trap. It was an unfortunate event that had a surprisingly pleasant result. I couldn't be happier with my new bride,” Rhys said. “And I find that I wish to ensure her happiness, as well. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, publicly you will display nothing but the greatest of joy at our newly found happiness."

  A vein in the elder man's forehead began to throb visibly and sweat beaded on his forehead. “And if I don't?"

  "I wasn't making a request, Stidham. It was a ducal command, if you will. Emme is far more concerned about the scandal than I am. I should also remind you that any scandal you monger about Emme will only reflect poorly on Larissa, as well."

  The man cursed and his face was a mask of anger. He barked his answer, spittle flying from his fleshy lips. “I've already made a match for Larissa! She will wed Lord Moreland."

  Moreland was the foulest sort. He had been a compatriot of Elise. The idea of an innocent young woman landing in his clutches was fiendish. “That will never happen. Larissa will be joining us at Briarwood Hall when we return. You will stay far away from her."

  "Insolent bastard!"

  "I may be insolent, but in deference to my mother's sterling reputation, I must take issue with any slur toward my legitimacy. Now, my wife has a marriage portion from her late father, I understand. I'll want that transferred to me immediately."

  "She married without my consent. I'm not required."