The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set

by Chasity Bowlin

  He couldn’t fathom his behavior of the night before. That she was compromised was not at issue. Regardless of what had happened between them, just being in one another’s presence, without a chaperone, in varying degrees of undress as they had been, was more than enough to see them wed. It was the visceral reaction he had that disturbed his peace. He was not some green lad to lose his head at the sight of a pretty girl, or a shapely figure. This was something more. The intensity was alarming. Excessive passions had never plagued him before. He certainly had not lived like a monk by any stretch of the imagination, but never had he felt such an intense and consuming desire.

  Unable to concentrate, he stepped outside onto the terrace and moved towards the rose garden. He couldn’t say that he was being directed, but he did feel compelled, as if pulled in the direction of the maze. As he neared the boxwoods, he could hear the sound of footsteps, of running. Emme rushed out of the maze towards him, her hair and clothing disheveled, and a scratch upon her neck. What he noted more than that, was the other footsteps, still inside the maze, receding now. Someone had been chasing her.

  “Emme, what is it? What’s happened?” he demanded.

  She was gasping for breath and shaking, but she shook her head, and he understood that she wasn’t yet able to speak. His every instinct told him to go into the maze and find whatever or whoever had frightened her, but he couldn’t leave her unprotected. He wiped her face, pushing her hair back. Her eyes were wild and panicked. She was obviously frightened.

  “Come,” he said, “We need to get you inside.”

  “Yes, I think that’s wise,” she said, still breathless and trembling.

  Rhys helped her to stand and walked her back to the house. They entered through the library and he seated her before the fireplace. He stoked the fire to blazing and called for a footman to bring a lap robe.

  “Miss Walters was lost in the maze when the rain began,” he explained, “We need blankets and hot tea, quickly.”

  When the footman had gone, Emme looked at him. “I wasn’t lost. Someone was following me.”

  Rhys nodded. “I know. I heard them. But there is no reason we should alert the household to it.”

  Emme nodded, relieved that he did not think her hysterical. He moved back to the desk and retrieved the journal she had given him the night before.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t recall ever having seen that book until last night.”

  Rhys settled himself beside her on the settee, “In the tower, hidden behind two locked doors and in a secret compartment, you went to it unerringly, as if someone had told you exactly how to find it, or as if you had been in that room before. I am trying to wrap my very rational mind around it, but I can’t. ”

  Emme stared at the book in his hand. “It’s hers?”

  “Yes. It is Elise’s journal. I do not wish to hear that you were sleepwalking, or any of the other excuses you’ve given people. I need the truth. How does this work?”

  Emme shook her head, “I can’t tell you that, because I don’t understand it myself. Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I will wake up in strange rooms, unsure of how I came to be there, and sometimes unsure of how to get back.”

  He nodded. He didn’t understand, of course, but he was attempting to. It was beyond his comprehension, as he imagined it would be for almost anyone.

  “Does this happen wherever you go?”

  “No. It happened at the Henderson’s’. That is how I located Lady Henderson’s necklace and at the Montclaires’. That is how I found out about Lord Montclaire and Lady Cuthbert. I rarely go anywhere as an overnight guest, unless I have been invited for such a purpose.”

  Rhys had known about that, or at least known about the rumors. Emme had solved the mystery of Lord Montclaire’s murder. His mistress, Lady Cuthbert, had become furious when he had thrown her over and had poisoned him. He had heard, but he had not believed. He still did not, but the certainty was not so great. Something had happened in that room that was beyond understanding.

  “Do you believe it was Elise who led you to this journal?”

  Emmaline shook her head, “I don’t know. I don’t know if it was Elise, or if it was someone else. If you recognize the journal as being hers, then it must have been. But I have no memory of being in the tower, until....”

  Her voice trailed off and a flush crept over her pale cheeks. He remembered all too well what had occurred on the daybed.

  The footmen entered then, carrying blankets, followed by a maid with a tea tray.

  “The guests have all gone but for Mrs. Haverston, Lady Isabella and Lord Ellersleigh, Your Grace,” the maid said. “The family has remained. Lady Eleanor is here and she expects Lord Alistair to return shortly.”

  “Thank you, Mary, that will be all,” he said, dismissively, as he tucked the blanket around Emme and poured a cup of steaming hot tea for her. He thrust it into her hands and she accepted it gratefully. When she’d been a child, her nurse had often told her that there was little in the world that could not be made better with a cup of tea.

  After the servants left, Emme looked up at him. “If the guests have all gone, who was behind me in the garden?”

  Rhys considered that question carefully. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. In the meantime, I’ll be leaving for London this afternoon. I mean to obtain a special license. I have also sent a letter to your parents. We shall wed on Saturday.”

  Emme gasped. She understood the necessity of moving quickly, but she hadn’t expected it to be so quickly.

  “My family has no idea. It doesn’t matter, of course. At my age I hardly need stepfather’s permission as anything more than a courtesy.”

  “I apologize, but the scandal is such that we cannot afford to wait. The sooner our marriage can be announced, the sooner the scandal can be put to rest.”

  Emme nodded. It wasn’t such a hardship really. A quiet wedding in the country would garner much less attention and gossip than a lavish affair in town.

  “You’re quite right. It is probably for the best this way.”

  Rhys considered her easy capitulation, “I will leave just after luncheon. I will ask Michael to stay here. The villain, whoever he is, has grown desperate. You must use every precaution.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m quite recovered now. I will return to my room, if you’ll excuse me, Your Grace?”

  He walked toward her, and gently cupped her face. “Rhys. My name is Rhys,” he corrected her. “And I think now would be the appropriate time to begin using it.”

  Her breath caught,.“Very well, Rhys.”

  His name on her lips took his breath. He leaned forward, placing a kiss at the corner of her lips.

  It was disconcerting for her that with a single touch he could send her senses reeling. She could feel her blood pulsing beneath her skin. She leaned into him, her palms resting against his chest, feeling the heart beating beneath her hand.

  There was no longer any reason not to indulge. His arms closed about her and he deepened the kiss. Her incendiary response pushed him over the edge. He slid his fingers into her hair, and tilted her head back, deepening the kiss. The feel of her pressed against him, of her warmth, and the sweet taste of her lips called to some primal part of him that he did not recognize. With his heart thundering in his chest, his body reacted to her tentative response swiftly and predictably.

  “What you do to me,” he said, breathing the words against her lips.

  He broke the kiss, but did not move away from her. Instead, he cradled her head to his chest, and held her there. Emme could hear his heart pounding furiously, and knew that it mirrored her own.

  “I have behaved properly my entire life and I seem to lose all sense with you,” she said.

  He smiled against the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. “For which I am eternally grateful. If one is to take a wife, it is nice to know that she welcomes your touch.”
r />   Emme pulled back from him. “Did Elise not welcome your touch?”

  He shrugged. Discussing Elise was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “Elise welcomed everyone’s touch but mine. She was troubled, I suppose. Truth was a fluid thing for her; it changed like the weather, as did her moods and her desires.”

  It was unfathomable to Emme, when her skin craved contact with his and even the merest glance could make her blood race.

  “Have you read the journal yet?”

  “Only a few pages,” he admitted.

  She shouldn’t press, but something, some hidden knowledge prompted her to speak. Emme stepped back.

  “She wanted us to find it for a reason.”

  Rhys felt a flash of irritation, “With all due respect, Elise is dead. And if she has any wants or desires, I find myself reluctant to fall all over myself to grant her wishes.”

  Emme pulled away from him and his dark mood. She strode to the door, her steps weary.

  “Be that as it may, the dead will not be ignored.” She knew that he was not ready to face what was in that book, regardless of what he had said. Unfortunately, time was a luxury they did not possess.

  “The book holds Elise’s secrets, but those secrets hold the key to Melisande’s murderer.”

  Chapter 8

  As weddings went, it was austere. They were married in the same church in the village that they had visited on their previous outing. The vicar was cool and favored them with disapproving stares throughout the brief ceremony. The ceremony was witnessed by Lord Ellersleigh, Lady Phyllis and her aunt, Lady Isabella. Lady Eleanor declined to come, pleading a headache. Emme’s stepfather and mother declined to attend. After the ceremony, taken directly from the Book of Common Prayer, they returned to Briarwood for a small supper.

  It was hardly a momentous celebration, but Lady Phyllis persevered in her attempts to make it a jovial evening. Following the excellent dinner, the chef having outdone himself, the ladies pled exhaustion and retired early. Michael had simply vanished, and Emme and Rhys were alone in the drawing room.

  “Why don’t you retire? I’ll join you shortly,” he suggested.

  Emme could feel his gaze upon her. She nodded and then left the room without speaking. Her mouth had gone dry and she doubted she could have produced a comprehensible response, at any rate.

  She knew, of course, what was to happen. Her aunt had taken it upon herself to explain the entire process the evening before. It had been a decidedly awkward and embarrassing conversation. Lady Isabella, in spite of her many lovers, did not have a high opinion of the marriage bed or what transpired in it. She essentially told Emme to simply think pleasant thoughts and lie still. What Isabella had described had been so very different from the brief encounter she had shared with Rhys in the tower that she couldn’t imagine her aunt’s advice had any validity.

  Gussy, who had been present for the educational monologue, held her tongue until Isabella had departed. The minute the door closed behind her,

  Gussy had let out a snort that effectively represented her opinion on the matter. “Don’t listen to a word she says, my girl,” Gussy had said. “If your future husband didn’t know how to make a woman lose all sense, then he wouldn’t be your future husband, would he?”

  With that pithy statement, Gussy left the room and had left her alone with her thoughts.

  It had been a well articulated point, she mentally conceded. As Gussy helped her undress, and helped her into her night rail, she tried valiantly to think of anything else. She wasn’t afraid of Rhys, or even of the act that remained shrouded in mystery. It was more that she feared not pleasing him, that in her ignorance she would make a horrible cake of herself.

  No sooner had the thought occurred that she felt the overwhelming sensation of no longer being alone. She turned to the door, but it was still vacant. She couldn’t shake the feeling however that someone was watching. Warily, she scanned the room, stepping backwards until her back was against the wall. It was a most disconcerting feeling.

  “Is the prospect of our wedding night truly that frightening?”

  Emme gasped, and turned toward the adjoining door of their chambers. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

  “Just now,” he replied. “Is everything alright?”

  Nerves, she thought. It was nothing more than an attack of nerves. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more. She shivered.

  “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

  Rhys studied her, noting the pallor of her cheeks and tightly clenched fists. She was frightened, but he didn’t think it was of him.

  “Why don’t you come to my chamber instead?” he suggested.

  She could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She turned and noted his deceptively casual stance in the adjoining doorway of their rooms. He had discarded his boots and his coat. His waistcoat was open and his cravat had vanished. The exposed skin at the V of his shirt was sun bronzed. It made her heart race, as did the heated look in his eyes. Anticipation and nerves warred within her. Though his touch inflamed her, the unknown was still daunting. As her blood raced in her veins, she acknowledged that it was equal parts fear and desire.

  “Very well,” she said, and placed her hand in his large, outstretched palm.

  Rhys knew that she was nervous, but he also knew that she was eager as well. Emme was a passionate woman, and her passions had been awakened. Still, he understood the value of patience. He led her into his chamber, the room dark and masculine. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on a table.

  “Should we have a toast?” he asked.

  “And what should we drink to?” she responded, hating that her voice sounded tremulous to her own ears.

  He smiled as he pressed a glass into her hand. “A harmonious union?”

  “Very well,” she agreed, and he touched his glass lightly to hers. Her hands were trembling.

  Rhys sipped his wine. He had hoped that the wine would relax her. He sipped his lightly, and watched while she drank liberally from the glass. He didn’t want her foxed, just relaxed.

  The wine was stronger than she was used to and she could feel a different kind of warmth stealing through her. The tension that had knotted her muscles throughout the long day began to seep away. The warmth and languor created by the wine was preferable by far so she continued, finishing the glass.

  “More?” he asked.

  “You will turn me into a drunkard,” she said lightly.

  “We would hardly want that,” he said and plucked the goblet from her hand, placing it beside his on the table. He took her hand in his, tracing the delicate bones with the tips of his fingers, savoring the silken texture of her skin. He pressed her hand to his chest, and taking her other hand, pulled her closer, so that mere inches separated their bodies. Even then, the distance was too great.

  She could feel the warmth of his body and could smell the mix of pine and sandalwood and man. It was as heady and intoxicating as the wine had been. Beneath her hand, his heart beat a steady tattoo, unlike her own which pounded erratically. Her eyes traveled over the chiseled planes of his face, and dropped to the full curve of his lower lip, against her will. The feel of his lips was permanently imprinted in her memory. She wasn’t aware of moving closer, of stepping nearer, so that her breasts pressed against his chest.

  Rhys bit back the earthy groan that welled inside at the press of her lush body against him. Instead, he dipped his head and settled his mouth firmly over hers. He explored every dip and curve of her soft, yielding lips. He nipped gently at her lower lip, his teeth scraping lightly, before soothing the abraded flesh with his tongue. She trembled against him and pressed closer. He closed his arms about her, burying his hands in the silken mass of her dark hair. A low moan of pleasure escaped her, and at that soft sound, he deepened the kiss. When he felt her hands clench in the fabric of his shirt, he felt triumphant.

  Without breaking the kiss, Rhys scooped her into his arms
and carried her to the bed. She was no longer passively accepting his kiss, but was returning it, her lips and tongue stroking, surging against him. She tasted like heaven and her response spiked his own passion. The kiss grew, transformed, into something hot and wild. Lying on the bed beside her, her body pressed against his, he relished the heat and softness of her. He tried to reign in his passions, to slow the raging lust that was overtaking him. His breath shuddered out of him, as he reluctantly drew back from her, abandoning the sweet haven of her mouth.

  With a single minded determination to see her lost to her own desire, he began the seduction in earnest. The line of her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear, the slender column of her throat—he neglected nothing. With lips, teeth and the gentle stroke of his tongue over her sensitive skin, he tempted her with pure carnality. She was clutching at his shoulders, his arms. Her body arched beneath him, seeking and needy for something she could not name. When she gasped his name, he was lost. Again, he claimed her mouth, but the touch was brief, and he was again moving away from her, using his gifted mouth to torment and tease. He parted her wrapper, tugging the fabric aside. He mapped each area that was revealed with the callused pads of his fingers and the heat of his mouth.

  Rhys moved back, pulling away from her to remove the last layers concealing her from him, but also to regain some semblance of self-control, but the vision she created was one that would tempt a saint. Her breasts were clearly visible through the thin cotton of her gown. The taut, dusky peaks beckoned his touch. He closed his hands over the tender globes, kneading gently while he drew circles over her budded nipples with his thumbs. She strained toward him, wanting more than the light teasing touch that he had afforded. He increased the pressure, his fingers stroking her pebbled nipples to aching attention. . Through the thin fabric, he closed his lips over the aching flesh and suckled deeply, increasing the heat and pressure. He tugged at the ties of her gown, loosening them, until he could drag the garment down, freeing her breasts to his marauding mouth.

  Emme gasped at the feel of his hot mouth on her naked flesh. With each tug of his mouth, she felt an answering pull deep in her belly. She should have been embarrassed. Being nearly naked in front of him should have roused her maidenly sensibilities, but she could think of nothing but the feel of his mouth and his hands on her skin. The languid heat that had pooled there became more insistent, spreading outwards to the juncture of her thighs. She pressed her legs together, trying to ease the ache that was building within her. When his teeth scraped lightly over her nipple, she sobbed his name, overwhelmed by the fire he stoked within her.