The Inconvenient Duchess

be. But whatever shall I get you next Christmas?’

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R UN , A LLY ! Don’t be fooled by him. He’s evil. Don’t let him touch you!
    But as the forbidding figure came through the mists toward her, Ally knew she couldn’t run. His features burned with dark malevolence, and his physical domination of everything around him seemed to hold her like a net.
    She’d heard the tales. She knew all about the Wolverton legend and thze ghost that haunted The Willows, an elegant old mansion lost by Micha Wolverton nearly a hundred years ag According to folklore, the estate was stolen from the Wolvertons, and Micha was killed, trying to reclaim it. His dying vow was to be reunited with the spirit of his beloved wife, who’d taken her life for reasons no one would speak of, except in whispers. But Ally had never put much stock in the fantasy. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
    Until now—
    She still didn’t understand what was happening. The figure had materialized out of the mist that lay thick on the damp cemetery soil. A cool breeze and silvery moonlight had played against the ancient stone of the crypts surrounding her, until they joined the mist, causing his body to thicken and solidify right before her eyes. That was when she realized she’d seen this man before. Or thought she had, at least.
    His face was familiar…so familiar, yet she couldn’t put it together. Not with him looming so near. She stepped back as he approached.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he said. His voice wasn’t what she expected. It didn’t sound as if it were coming from beyond the grave. It was deep and sensual. Commanding.
    “Who are you?” she managed.
    “You should know. You summoned me.”
    “No, I didn’t.” She had no idea what he was talking about. Two minutes ago, she’d been crouching behind a moss-covered crypt, spying on the mansion that had once been The Willows, but was now Club Casablanca. And then this—
    If he was Micah, he might be angry that she was trespassing on his property. “I’ll go,” she said. “I won’t come back. I promise.”
    “You’re not going anywhere.”
    Words snagged in her throat. “Wh-why not? What do you want?”
    “If I wanted something, Ally, I’d take it. This is about need.”
    His words resonated as he moved within inches of her. She tried to back away, but her feet were useless. “And you need something from me?”
    “Good guess.” His tone burned with irony. “I need lips, soft and surrendered, a body limp with desire.”
    “My lips, my bod—?”
    “Only yours.”
    “Why? Why me?” This couldn’t be Micha. He didn’t want any woman but Rose. He’d died trying to get back to her.
    “Because you want that, too,” he said.
    Wanted what? A ghost of her own? She’d always found the legend impossibly romantic, but how could he have known that? How could he know anything about her? Besides, she’d sworn off inappropriate men, and what could be more inappropriate than a ghost? She shook her head again, still not willing to admit the truth. But her heart wouldn’t play along. It clattered inside her chest. The mere thought of his kiss, his touch, terrified her. This wildness, it was fear, wasn’t it?
    When his fingertips touched her cheek, she flinched, expecting his flesh to be cold, lifeless. It was anything but that. His skin was smooth and hot, gentle, yet demanding. And while his dark brown eyes were filled with mystery and wonder, there was a sensitivity about them that threatened to disarm her if she looked too deeply.
    “These lips are mine,” he said, as if stating a universal fact that she was helpless to avoid. In truth, it was just that. She couldn’t stop him.
    And she didn’t want to.

Look for Christine Merrill’s next books from Harlequin Historical!
    #1024 TAKEN BY THE WICKED RAKE
    Silk & Scandal
    January 2011
    #1048 DANGEROUS LORD, INNOCENT GOVERNESS
    July 2011

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