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 towards 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 towards 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 silvery 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 communiqué 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 cache, 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 her captor’s and possible savior’s whiskered chin rasped against the delicate 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.”

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.

It had been far too long since he’d been with a woman. That the mere sight of her body could incite such lust in him was proof of that.

“Can you find your way?” he asked solicitously, though that was not what he wanted to say.

Speaking was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted to pull her to him and feel the softness of her flesh against his, to taste the sweetly voluptuous lips he had so recently felt pressed against his hand. There were other things, far more wicked and wondrous, that teased his mind and stoked a fire in his blood.

Emme was hesitant to admit that she didn’t know the way but it would be foolhardy to deny it. She barely knew her way through the public areas of the house, much less the convoluted twists and turns she had undoubtedly taken to get to her present location.

There were other concerns, of course. Though it appeared her host was a gentleman, to a point, there were others who were not. Falling down a flight of stairs or getting lost were not the only perils she faced in an unfamiliar house. He was the devil she knew in this instance, even if their acquaintance was brief.

“I am not sure, Your Grace. If you could but direct me,” she said.

Her voice sounded tremulous and uncertain even to her own ears. There was a faint breathiness to her voice that was unfamiliar. She attributed it to her anxiety of being discovered, but the truth was far more damning.

Rhys would have cursed. It would not do. For the most part, the guests were an honorable sort, but some of the gentlemen were questionable. Lord Pomeroy was thoroughly debauched and thoroughly enamored of her. His own friends who were in attendance were little better. Though he’d left them in the billiard room, there was no way to be certain she wouldn’t cross paths with them. Many of the gentlemen had only recently retired, having consumed copious amounts of brandy and indulging in numerous games of chance.

Letting her wander alone through those halls would be like setting a fox in a circle of hounds. In her present state of undress, she was fair game for any lecherous sot she might stumble across.

Though his own thoughts were painfully carnal, he was determined not to act on them. Considering the distance to the wing where the guests were being housed begged the question of how she had come to be so far from her chambers in such a state.

It was undoubtedly a mistake to allow his thoughts to linger on the subject, still he asked, “If I may ask, Miss Walters, what are you doing about at this time of night in such a state of undress?”

What could she say? That she had been in a trance, communing with a spirit who had led her to the dungeons for reasons as yet unknown? Hardly, she decided. That was asking to be locked up in Bedlam. In fact, it hadn’t been so long ago that one of her female relatives had been placed in an asylum for far less. She had not fared well there. When she replied, her voice was calm, even if her pulse was not.

“I sleepwalk, Your Grace. Normally my maid will prevent me from wandering too far afield, but she had a megrim and had taken a sleeping draught”, she said smoothly.

It was a lie. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew that, only that he did. A pretty explanation, but too rehearsed for his liking. He sensed that he would get nothing further from her, and decided that the best option then would be to appear as her ally.

With that thought in mind, he said crisply, “We will use the secret passageway, Miss Walters. It is much quicker and there is far less risk of discovery.”

As an afterthought, he shrugged out of his coat and placed it around her shoulders.

The weight of the dark blue superfine settled around her shoulders, and Emme was grateful for the warmth, but disturbed by his scent which clung to the fabric. It was pine and sandalwood, with a hint of smoke and something else that was simply him. It wasn’t unpleasant, not at all, but it left her very unsettled.

It made her even more painfully aware of him and how intensely masculine he was. Its absence from his person also revealed the breadth of his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, which owed little to his tailor’s skill. Quickly, she averted her eyes. It didn’t matter, for the image would be permanently etched in her mind.

For Rhys, offering his coat had been as much for his own benefit as for Miss Walters’. This sight of her full breasts, their dusky tips faintly visible through her gown, had been having a disastrous effect on him. Of course, covering her up did not erase the memory. He doubted that anything could. But he could not afford to become entangled with an innocent, and for all her perfidy and mysticism, he could not afford the temptation that would result from thinking her less than chaste. He needed all the impediments he could find between himself and the temptation she presented.

“The passage entrance is through here,” he explained, leading her into the library and directly to a bookcase beside the fireplace.

He depressed a small lever beneath one of the shelves and a small section shifted backward, revealing a narrow staircase. Striking a flint, he lit one of the candles from the side table. The flare of light cast menacing shadows over the hard planes of his face. With the candle gripped firmly in one hand, he took her smaller hand with the other.

“The stairs are quite steep and can be treacherous,” he warned.

With her hand clasped firmly in his, Rhys led her up the stairs and into another long narrow corridor. He was distinctly aware of her in that small space. She smelled faintly of lilies, and her hair, which was loose and wild, brushed the back of his hand where he held hers. It was like silk and his traitorous mind could envision that silken mass tangled about them. He cursed himself, he cursed her, and he cursed his raging libido. This dangerous level of attraction was not something he had expected to encounter.

“Secret passageways”, Emme said, aloud, a touch of wonderment in her voice. “It’s rather macabre, like something from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

Receiving no response aside from a noncommittal grunt, Emme sensed that conversation was an unlikely event, and focused instead on keeping her footing. They moved through what seemed an endless labyrinth of tunnels, with various twists and turns, before he opened a door that led into the corridor only a few doors from her chamber.

At the door, she slipped his coat off and returned it. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Rhys,” he corrected.

It might be a disastrous mistake to encourage the familiarity, but in private, at least, he wanted to acknowledge the strangely intimate if painfully platonic encounter. It would also keep her wary, and he wanted to rattle her, he realized, to shake her composure. That desire wasn’t due entirely to his concern for his mother. His desire to unnerve her was far more self serving than that. He wanted her to be as disturbed by his presence as he was by hers. The idea that she might be utterly unaffected by him was lowering.

“That would hardly be appropriate, Your Grace,” Emme said, demurely.

He let his eyes travel the length of her, from the wild, disheveled waves of her dark hair, over the length of her voluptuous figure, pausing at the generous swell of her breasts and again at her hips.

“Indeed, Emmaline,” he leaned closer as she spoke, until his face was only inches from hers, “But I think following this night, clinging to propriety for its own sake would be hypocritical. I shall see you at breakfast.”

Emme had felt the weight of his gaze as surely as if he’d touched her with his hands. For one brief moment, she had thought he meant to kiss her, and in all honesty had hoped that he would. Her entire body suffused with heat and it shamed her to admit that it was not the flush of embarrassment that warmed her skin. She couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. Backing towards her chamber door until she bumped against it, she stepped over the threshold, her eyes never leaving his. It took all of her willpower to sever the contact of his penetrating gaze and close the heavy door.

Behind the closed door, free from the power of his penetrating gaze, she reminded herself that he was not a man to be trifled with. He could and more than likely would ruin her, and in spite of his apparent helpfulness, there was still a very real possibility that he had murdered his wife. She could not afford to forget that. With effort, she raised her hand and turned the key, before resting her forehead against the heavy door and trying to calm her racing pulse.

* * *

Rhys heard the snick of the lock engaging and smiled with satisfaction. Curiously pleased, he contemplated the enigma she presented as he made his way back through the maze of tunnels. It was a balm to his ego to know that he unnerved her as he returned to the billiard room and the company of the gentlemen he had left behind.

Lord Michael Ellersleigh looked up at him when he entered. “Where did you run off to? Some enchanting widow or better, some bored wife, awaiting you in the corridor?”

Michael could always be counted to bring women into the conversation. He had many vices, but none that he indulged as thoroughly or with such relish.

Rhys grinned. “I could hardly call myself a gentleman if I were to divulge such information.” He had known Michael for so many years that there was an ease to their repartee.

Michael eyed him with amusement as he idly chalked the cue. “Ah, but we are not gentlemen. You are a murdering bastard, and I am a womanizing scoundrel. Therefore, that particular rule does not apply to us.”

As far as society was concerned, Michael was correct on both counts. Rhys considered for a moment how much to reveal. Michael, in spite of his devil-may-care attitude, had been a true friend. He could trust Michael to keep his unintended rendezvous with Miss Walters a secret. With a glance, he noted that the other gentlemen were either far enough away or sufficiently foxed that he could speak freely.

“It was our resident psychic, if you must know,” he said, his voice laced with derision.

Something in his expression, or perhaps in his voice, alerted his friend to the undercurrent of attraction.

Miss Emmaline Walters was a contradiction, and in spite of everything he believed about her, an appealing one. He might have truly enjoyed the enigma of Miss Walters, if only there wasn’t so much at stake. The attraction he felt for her was an unforeseen complication, and one that he could ill afford to indulge. But, he admitted to himself, if he had to keep a close eye on an adversary, it would at least prove to be a pleasant task.

Michael raised an eyebrow at that. “A virgin, Rhys? The gossips will think you have finally sunk to my level.”

Rhys gave him a caustic look, “I didn’t sink to anything.”

Curiosity then prompted him to ask, “And how can you be certain she’s a virgin? Not all young ladies are the innocents they would appear.”

Michael chuckled as he leaned over the billiard table to take a nearly impossible shot that naturally sailed gracefully into the pocket. He always knew. True innocence was impossible to feign if the person searching for it did not desire to find it. Personally, he never desired to find it. It was a hindrance for him, as innocents required promises he was unwilling to make. Charming and willing company could be found that was of a far more temporary nature.

“Your charming wife jaded you, Rhys. Miss Walters, in carnal matters at least, is as pure as the driven snow.”

Rhys didn’t question Michael’s assessment of her virtue. If Michael said she was innocent, then innocent she was. His knowledge of the fairer sex bordered on unnatural. Michael was also privy to more gossip, as women were far more inclined to converse with a rogue than a possible murderer.

“Other matters are more concerning to me. Her supposed carnal ignorance aside, Michael, what else do you know of her?”

Michael took another shot, this one sinking as gracefully and beautifully as the last. He rose to his full height and met Rhys’ stare with a challenging one of his own.

“Do you really want to exchange on dits about a green girl? We have brandy, cigars and billiards and yet you wish to talk about a woman neither of us can touch without getting leg-shackled to?”

Michael was being deliberately obtuse. It was a ploy that Rhys recognized well.

“I’d like to know if I should confiscate mother’s jewelry for safe keeping. Miss Walters is a charlatan, of course, but I have yet to ascertain how it benefits her. Money, attention, a bit of notoriety?”

Michael snorted. Lady Phyllis was unlikely to hand over her jewelry to anyone, and with Lady Eleanor about, acting as her guard dog, he doubted the crown jewels themselves could be any safer.

“You needn’t worry about Phyllis’ jewelry, old friend. It would take a far stealthier villain than your Miss Walters to part her from her sparklers. And as for what the lovely mystic wants, I do not believe it’s money, attention or notoriety.”

He paused for dramatic effect. “I watched her for a bit. She’s very easy to watch, you know? There are other women present, whom it would be quite a chore to stare at, but she is lovely; understated—a diamond in the rough. She has several very alluring qualities. I can think of two immediately.”

Rhys knew he was being baited, but he rose to the occasion regardless.

“Enough! Discounting what I might suspect of her, she is still a guest here. She is an innocent young woman, as you yourself stated. You are many things, Ellersleigh, but crass has never been one of them.”

Michael chuckled. So that was the way of it, he thought. He hadn’t seen Rhys so torn up over a female in, well, ever, he thought.

Smiling, he said, “Very well. I promise not to speak of her with anything but the utmost respect. But even you have to admit that she is quite lovely; try as she might to disguise it.”

At Rhys’ reluctant nod, Michael grinned at him before continuing, “She’s a bit on the shy side, and obviously feels out of place. Since she arrived everyone has been after her to do parlor tricks like she’s some sort of trained monkey. Personally, I think she’d rather be holed up in the library with a copy of the Bard. That is how I found her this afternoon during that blasted game of charades we were all hiding from.”

Michael missed his next shot. Rhys eyed him dubiously. Michael never missed a shot. He’d done so purposely to provide a chance for Rhys to actually play in the game, or perhaps it was a simple diversionary tactic, considering the information he’d just lobbed at him like a bloody cannon ball. Ignoring his friend’s attempt to discreetly forfeit the game, he selected a cue and made a quick study of the table.

“You found her in the library and didn’t think to mention it?”

Michael’s response was a Gallic shrug, a gesture that had served him well during their years in France. “I didn’t know you were so bloody curious.”

Rhys lined up his shot with care, and watched it sink into the pocket.

“She’s an enigma. I want to know what her intentions are. Find out what you can.”

Michael rolled his eyes heavenward and took a healthy swallow of his brandy. “By any means necessary?”

Rhys’ shot went wide, which prompted Michael to raise his eyebrows.

“I think you’re curious about more than her motives, my friend.”

Rhys didn’t deny it as he watched Michael clear the table.