Free The Haunting of a Duke by Chasity Bowlin

which being that she was either a liar or utterly mad.
    He decided that he needed to be dispassionate in his perusal of Miss Walters, to use the discipline that had served him so well in the army to tamp down the attraction that was such an unfortunate complication. It was no mean feat. Whenever he looked at her he recalled the luscious curves that had been displayed so beautifully by the diaphanous night rail and the errant moonlight. The scent of lilies was burned forever in his mind, as was the feel of her silken hair on his skin, even if the touch had been unintended and not designed to inflame his lust. There was little about her that did not incite rampant desire in him. It didn't help that other men were equally enamored of her charms. It wasn't like him to play the dog in the manger, and yet he was very much acting the part.
    His objective review a dismal failure, he conceded defeat. In an attempt to ease the physical discomfort of his unfulfilled lust, he began to survey the crowd and noted that his cousin, Alistair, appeared immune to Miss Walter's considerable charms after her dismissal of him at dinner. Alistair was not precisely giving her the cut direct, but he was being far from gentlemanly.
    Rhys sighed, knowing that a long talk with Alistair was due. It wasn't a task that he relished, as they habitually rubbed one another the wrong way. He didn't want him ogling Miss Walters, of course, but ignoring her so pointedly was bad form. It could be damaging to her reputation and it would certainly be noted by the gossipy Miss Stone and her equally gossipy aunt, Mrs. Haverston. They would carry the tales back to London with glee.
    Rhys didn't intend to turn his gaze back to Miss Walters. Nonetheless, he found himself gazing surreptitiously at her. Recognizing futility, he gave in to the temptation and allowed himself to enjoy looking at her. Her remarkable hair, so glossy and thick, was swept back in a loose knot. The breeze teased small curls about her ears and against her neck. Her alabaster skin glowed in the afternoon sun, and he had to clench his fists at the urge to feel its silken texture. Fringed with thick lashes that fanned against her cheek, her eyes drew him, as did her wide, full lips. They formed a perfect bow, like that of a doll. Her face was heart-shaped, with a slim, piquant nose and high cheekbones, though there was a softness about her that he found beguiling.
    Altogether, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but she hid her charms well. Her dress was a pale, sickly color, the shawl that she draped over her shoulders also muted and dull. The spectacles perched on the end of her nose could not hide the beauty of her face if one bothered to look for it, but Miss Walters was doing her best to deter anyone from looking, he realized.
    Of course, none of that mattered to Pommeroy. He had never actually looked at a woman's face, only her figure. While Rhys couldn't find fault with a man for enjoying the lushness of the female form, Pomeroy's interest in Miss Walter's was having a disastrous effect on his mood.
    "Lord Pommeroy, I meant to ask after the health of your mother,” Rhys said.
    He couldn't have cared less about the old bat's health, but it was the one topic he was certain would divert the other man's attention.
    Pommeroy smiled beatifically and responded effusively, “Oh, I say, Your Grace. Mother is quite hale and hearty these days. She's made a remarkable recovery!"
    Rhys raised his glass and sipped his wine. He wished fervently that it was something stronger. If there was one subject Pommeroy could wax poetic on for hours it was his sainted mother. Better to endure his prattle, Rhys thought, than to suffer another second of the man's leering gaze on Emmaline.
    The thought had no sooner crossed his mind, than she looked up at him and bestowed a smile on him, as if he were the conquering hero. Watching her full, rosy lips curve so delicately, he realized he wasn't all