How to Tame Your Duke (12 page)

“Emilie, I cannot.” He rose from the chair and paced across the space in front of her. “If I revealed these things, you would not stay. You would never return.”

“Would that be so tragic? You could simply order another lady.”

“Not any longer.” He said the words under his breath; were it not for the blindfold, heightening her senses, she might not have heard them.

She spoke gently. “Why the blindfold, then? What are you hiding?”

He didn’t answer at once. What was he doing? Was he leaning against the mantel, perhaps, his long legs crossed? Was he watching her as she sat there, blind and defenseless on the sofa?

“I was injured, many years ago,” he said at last. “My appearance is unsettling.”

“How were you injured?”

“I was abroad. I was . . . I was a soldier, in India. Well, Afghanistan, really. We had gone over the border to . . .” He let his words hang in the air.

Emilie drank her tea. “To do what? Was there a battle?”

“There was a battle,” he said slowly, “but I was not in it. I was performing . . . reconnaissance, of a sort. I was captured.”

Emilie’s cup was empty. She reached forward to place the saucer on the perceived table before her.

“Here, let me,” said Ashland, and in an instant he was there, taking the porcelain from her fingers, his skin just brushing hers.

Captured.
Emilie had always assumed that he had received his wounds in some sort of fighting: a shell perhaps, a rifle shot, an explosion that had somehow both ruined his face and taken his hand.

“Your captors injured you?” she asked.

“Yes. They wanted information, and I would not give it to them. Here, you must have cake. You’re quite pale.”

“No, I’m not hungry. I . . .”

“And you, Emilie? What brings you here to me, of all the places in the world? What injury has been done to you?” There was more rattling of porcelain; evidently he was not taking her at her word about the cake.

“Why do you think I have been injured?”

“For what other reason would a beautiful woman, a lady, possessing such obvious dignity and virtue, be reduced to meeting one such as I in a remote hotel in darkest Yorkshire?” His tone was light. He pressed a plate into her hands. “Your cake.”

“Thank you.” There was no fork. She broke off an end with her fingers and put it in her mouth. “Oh, it’s lovely. Orange?”

“Yes. The house specialty.”

She took another bite and cleared her mouth before speaking. “To answer your question, I am here because I have been separated from my family, due to a . . . a misfortune. My father was killed, and my sisters and I”—she was revealing too much, she knew, but she had to say
something
, had to reveal some little true corner of herself to him—“my sisters and I were sent to live with friends of the family.”

“I am very sorry. Under reduced circumstances, I take it?”

“Yes.” Emilie thought of her room, on the third floor of Ashland Abbey. “Quite reduced.”

“But you were educated as a gentlewoman.”

“Yes. I was fortunate to receive an excellent education. I had plans . . .” She stopped herself.

“Plans? What sort of plans?”

“Surely that’s of little interest to you.”

“On the contrary. I find myself passionately interested. I suspect your plans weren’t the ordinary sort, for a well-bred young lady.”

“No. I . . .” She stopped again. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t, on my honor. Tell me.”

She shouldn’t speak. And yet the temptation was irresistible: Ashland standing nearby, unseen and immense, with his coaxing and sympathetic voice. She wanted to confess everything. She wanted to open every recess of her soul to him. She heard herself say, in a rush, “You must understand, I was raised in a strict environment. I was expected . . . That is, my life was quite regimented. My future was already determined for me, my person simply an object, to be given away at will. And I hated it. On the outside, I behaved myself perfectly, and on the inside I raged. I had . . . I had brains and talent, and I wanted—I
needed
—to use them.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

Her heart swelled at that single soft word. She leaned forward and went on. “When I was younger, I wanted to disguise myself as a boy and go to university. That was impossible, of course. Then I wanted to be like my governess—an extraordinary woman, my governess; I admired her with all my heart. I wanted to be like her, to run away to seek employment as a governess under an assumed name. I could study all I liked and be independent. I could make my own decisions. I could be free. I could be myself.” Her voice fell away, heavy with longing.

“And what happened?”

“I told my governess. She laughed and told me to think twice about that.”

Ashland didn’t laugh, didn’t ridicule her. “It’s a difficult life, I’m told. And you’d have been at the mercy of your employers.”

“Yes, I realize that now.” She fingered the delicate edge of her plate.

“What then? Surely you didn’t give up.”

“I thought . . . well, I thought I’d do something even braver. I’d keep my name. I’d simply pack my trunk and move to the city and live as an independent woman, studying what I liked and seeing whom I wished. I’m quite beyond the first blush of youth, after all.”

“Not so far past.” His voice was very low.

“I thought I’d perhaps sponsor a salon on Wednesday evenings, or start a literary journal. If polite society shunned me, I’d simply carry on with impolite society.”

“Which, after all, is decidedly more interesting,” said the Duke of Ashland.

“So I saved my allowance, sold a few baubles, wrote a few discreet letters. I told my governess and no one else.”

“And then?”

She stared into the blackness, the depthless space beyond her eyes. “And my father died.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“And now I have my freedom, at least a little of it, and I find I . . . I have no one to talk to, really, and . . . in fact, it was rather an accident, coming here last week . . .”

“For which I am grateful.”

“Are you?” She looked up in the direction of his voice. He had resumed his seat, it seemed.

“I have thought of little else this past week.”

Emilie gripped the edges of her plate. “Come now. After so short a meeting? So . . . so unnatural the circumstances?”

“Emilie . . .”
He checked himself. She heard him shifting in his chair, rising again, his restlessness seething through the blackness around her. He spoke in a voice so low, it was almost a growl. “Emilie, you must know how different you are. How utterly and instantly different from any other woman.”

Yes, she thought bitterly. I have known it all my life.

“Of course I’m different,” she said. “What other lady would undress herself for a stranger, without hesitation, for mere money? Would sit here and let him stare at her unclothed body, in exchange for fifty pounds in crisp and unassailable Bank of England notes?”

The coals sizzled and popped into the silence. Ashland stood somewhere to her left, not moving, not making a single sound. Not even breathing, that she could hear. Emilie placed her plate on the table, cake still half eaten.

“Well, then. The hour grows late. I suppose we should get to it.”

*   *   *

H
e had chosen
Pamela
, out of some perverse desire for self-torture, or perhaps out of irony: Who knew?

To her credit, she hadn’t blinked when she lifted the blindfold and saw the book waiting for her on the table. “Shall I start from the beginning?”

“Certainly.”

She read beautifully, as she had done last week. She had an expressive voice, and she read every line of dialogue in character, with animation, almost as if she were enjoying herself:
“Is it not strange, that love borders so much upon hate? But this wicked love is not like the true virtuous love, to be sure: that and hatred must be as far off, as light and darkness. And how must this hate have been increased, if he had met with such a base compliance, after his wicked will had been gratified.”

A blush was creeping along her face, on the side of her cheek that was visible to him. He imagined himself rising from his armchair and bending over to kiss that blushing cheek. In his mind, his lips were exploring that pinkness, that rush of blood beneath her skin. How warm it was, how soft. Her throat, her shoulder, her bosom half hidden by the volume before her: He was kissing every inch of her now, taking his time, tasting the tender creaminess that glowed under the lamp. He was drawing the pins from her hair and letting it tumble, heavy and shining, into his hand. He was taking the book from her fingers and pulling the lace-edged neck of her chemise slowly downward, until a single pink nipple popped free, and he ran his tongue over the delicate tip.

Emily’s voice rose and fell in his ears.
“You shall not hurt this innocent, said she: for I will lose my life in her defence. Are there not, said she, enough wicked ones in the world, for your base purpose, but you must attempt such a lamb as this?”

“Stop,” he said.

She looked up, startled. “Sir?”

“Pull down your blindfold, please.” His voice rang out brusquely.

She sat with her fingers poised on the page, looking carefully away. “Have I displeased you?”

“Your blindfold, madam.”

Emily sighed quietly and set the book on the table. Her long fingers went to the blindfold and adjusted it downward to cover her eyes.

Ashland let out a long breath and rose from his chair. “You will miss your train, if you don’t leave now.”

“Is it that late?”

“Yes.” He walked to the sofa and found her stays. She was still sitting in the chair, her unsmiling face turned toward him. The opaque blackness of the blindfold made her hair seem like spun gold. Each detail of her body beneath her chemise was made perfectly visible by the direct light of the lamp.

A man who commits adultery in his heart . . .

“Come.” He took her hand and urged her upward. “Your stays.”

She lifted her arms, and he fitted the corset around her waist, using his stump to hold the garment in place while his left hand fumbled with the fastenings. She showed no sign of awareness of his handicap, no knowledge at all that a mutilated limb touched her flawless young body.

God willing, she would never know.

“You don’t wear drawers,” he said, as he tied the tapes of her petticoats.

“I have never liked them, except in winter.”

“It’s winter now.”

She didn’t answer. Ashland brought over her skirt and her bodice, the same she had worn last week. Was she destitute, then? But the clothes were of the best quality, only slightly worn.

“The carriage will take you to the station,” he said, when the last button was fastened, and she stood there primly before him, as neat and polished as a duchess. “Is there anything I can do for you? You spoke of reduced circumstances. Have you need of anything at all?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Will you come again next Tuesday?”

“If I can.”

“You speak coldly.”

She laughed. “You’re not terribly warm yourself,
Mr. Brown
.”

“Forgive me. I find it difficult to . . . I am not . . .” He glanced at the clock. “You’ll miss your train. Let me bring your coat.”

He rang the bell for Mrs. Scruton and wrapped Emily in her muffler and coat. The hat he placed gently on her head, just so, and he eased the hatpin exactly where he had found it two hours ago.

“Tell me something, sir,” said Emily. “Why do you do this? Why do you pay a woman the princely sum of fifty pounds simply to read to you? Have you never . . . Do you never . . .” She paused and wetted her bottom lip. “Do you never want more?”

Ashland gave Emily her gloves and watched her long fingers disappear, fraction by fraction, within the snug kidskin. “I want more, Emily,” he said. “I am a man. Of course I want more.”

“Then why don’t you take it?”

She was having trouble with the last few buttons; her gloved fingers couldn’t quite manage them on her other hand. Ashland nudged her aside and fit them in himself. The warm skin of her wrist beckoned in the gap between the kidskin edges, but he didn’t dare to kiss her this time. Could not kiss her, or he would lose control entirely.

“Mr. Brown?” she pressed.

He finished the last button just as Mrs. Scruton knocked on the door. “Because I have no right to take it, Emily. I am a married man.”

He walked to the door and opened it. “Here you are. If you hurry, I believe you’ll still make the train, madam.”

When Emily’s stunned figure had been bustled through the door, when the carriage had left the rear portico and disappeared into the black night, when the train whistle had sounded in the distance, the Duke of Ashland gave in at last. He went into the bedroom, took out his handkerchief, unbuttoned his trousers, and found release in a few short strokes.

Then he gripped his hand around the tall right-hand post at the bottom of the bed, and his shoulders shook with the strength of his grief.

The Anvil

Three weeks later

E
milie caught sight of the familiar face an instant too late.

“Why, there’s a coincidence! What ho, Mr. Grimsby!” Freddie lifted his hand and waved. “Come to join us for a round or two?”

The rucksack rested like a leaden weight against Emilie’s back. She cast a quick eye around the taproom. The heads were still mostly bent; the mugs of ale rested promisingly next to their owners. A hundred yards distant, the station clock was ticking away, second after relentless second, until the four thirty-eight from York would arrive at the platform in a massive hiss of steam, and a restless duke would start pacing the carpet of his private room at the Ashland Spa Hotel. “Yes,” she said. “That is, no. I was hoping for . . . that is . . .”

Freddie’s eyes widened with speculation. “What’s that, Mr. Grimsby? You’re not here on your own initiative, are you?”

Emilie drew breath. “I have come to fetch you, your lordship. What did you think? Simply because I’ve dismissed you early doesn’t give you license to ruin your mind and your character in such an unseemly manner.”

A nearby head jerked upward, and a crack of laughter broke out.

Freddie rose hastily from his chair. “Good God, Mr. Grimsby. There’s no need for that sort of thing, is there?”

“There is. I am shocked, your lordship. Shocked to the core. You will return to the Abbey this instant . . .”

“I say, Mr. Grimsby . . .” Freddie pushed back his spectacles and threw a longing glance back at the abandoned ale and cards on the table behind him.

“Look here, lads,” said one of the men, in falsetto, “young Freddie’s nursemaid’s come all t’way to t’Anvil to drag him back to his milk and pap . . .”

A roar of laughter drowned out the rest of his words. His lordship’s face went scarlet.

“Now, see what you’ve done, Grimsby . . .”

“
Mr.
Grimsby . . .”

“You’re a tyrant, is what you are. A bloody great tyrant, and after I saved your brains from being dashed over the ballroom floor . . .”

“That was your father.”

“Damn my father!”

Another roar of laughter. Emilie put her hands on her hips and returned Freddie’s stare.

“Your lordship,” she said, with quiet fierceness, “you will return to the Abbey this instant. I shall expect you in the schoolroom at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning with your Latin verse complete.”

He crossed his arms. “And if I don’t?”

She leaned forward. “I shall fetch your father.”

Freddie tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a raw laugh. “Oh, that’s rich! Will you toddle on down to the hotel and give his door a sharp knock?”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“I’m not impertinent. It’s the truth. He’s there again tonight, as we both know.” Freddie’s voice had lowered to a discreet hiss, but the words were sharp.

“It’s none of our business what His Grace does with his evenings,” said Emilie, ignoring the sting. “You will walk to that door, Lord Silverton, and call for your horse.”

Freddie’s eyes narrowed. Emilie’s eyes narrowed back.

“Dash it all, Grimsby,” he said sulkily. He turned around, picked up his tankard, drained it, and marched with petulant feet to the doorway. “Coming, Grimsby?” he tossed over his shoulder.

“No, I am not,” said Emilie. “I have an errand to run.”

“Bloody rich.” Freddie threw open the door and let the cold Yorkshire wind burst through the ale-ridden fug of the Anvil. “Everybody gets to lark but poor bloody Freddie.”

*   *   *

T
he footsteps had been dogging Emilie’s shoulder for most of the length of Station Lane.

Of course it was nothing. Ashland Spa was no metropolis, nor even what Emilie would call a proper town, but it did have several hundred industrious inhabitants. Even though she chose the back lanes to make her way through town on the way to Ashland Spa Hotel on Tuesday evenings—changing her route slightly each week, just to be careful—one of those townsfolk was very likely to have business along Station Lane from time to time.

Your best defense is common sense
, Miss Dingleby had said. Well, her common sense had clearly gone to hell already. What else did she have?

Emilie glanced up and crossed to the other side of the lane.

The footsteps followed. It couldn’t be Freddie, could it? Had Freddie turned back and watched her ascend the steps to the second floor of the Anvil? Had he seen her emerge and creep down the back stair and out into the gathering twilight?

Keep your head
, Miss Dingleby said.
Analyze the situation.

The footsteps crunched lightly on the cobbles behind her. Too light for Freddie; a woman, then, and wearing shoes instead of boots. She strode with brisk rhythm, matching Emilie’s pace; she was certain of her purpose. No aimless stroller. No daydreaming wanderer.

Concentrate your mind on the details. It will keep you from panicking, and no piece of information is so small that it might not hold the clue to saving yourself.

The last purple remains of the sun had nearly disappeared over the long and rugged hills to the west. In the spaces between the buildings, Emilie could just glimpse the darkened landscape, empty of all humanity. She chose these back lanes because she wasn’t likely to encounter anyone, wasn’t likely to be discovered, but now the deserted shadows echoed with the measured footsteps of her follower. The stillness of the twilight, which always filled her with delicious excitement, with anticipation of the hours to come, now pressed upon her with foreboding.

Clack, clack, clack
, came the brisk female footsteps, perhaps fifteen feet behind her.

A gust of wind burst between the buildings and struck Emilie from the side. She clutched her hat with one hand and staggered around the corner of Shoe Lane.

The frozen wind howled in her ears all down the length of the lane. She couldn’t hear the footsteps now; she couldn’t hear anything except the wild voice of Yorkshire, turning the few square inches of her exposed skin to ice. She quickened her steps.

In the hotel, it would be warm. Ashland would have arrived an hour before (she had watched him leave the Abbey from the library window, with his back straight and his powerful legs steady against his horse’s sides) and made certain the coals were sizzling and the tea was ready. He would lead her to the chair nearest the fire and tell her to warm herself, never knowing that her body heated instantly when she sensed him near. That his large frame looming above her, his long, hard bones and his heavy muscle, turned her skin to flame.

A cart rolled past ahead, wheels rattling loudly, making its way along the high street. Emilie forced her legs to remain at a brisk walk, though she ached to run.

What had Miss Dingleby’s weekly note said?
All is well
, or something like that, and then a few noncommittal lines about Emilie’s sisters, and then, at the end:
We hear that an inquiry has been made in your neighborhood, though gossip is so hard to trace. Remember that a true gentleman always speaks and acts with discretion
.

What did that mean?
An inquiry has been made.
Miss Dingleby and her wretched passive constructions, which told one nothing. What sort of inquiry? Who had made it? Was this inquiry part of Olympia’s investigation, or did her unknown pursuer make it?

Emilie glanced back over her shoulder, as if looking for traffic. A dark-clad woman walked behind her, perhaps ten yards away, thickly veiled.

A widow, no doubt, making her way home after a day’s employment.

Emilie walked on determinedly. She was a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, made of stern German stuff, and not to be alarmed by a mousy Yorkshire widow dogging her footsteps.

Dogging.

Dogging.

Emilie dropped her cold-numbed hand to the pocket of her gown, where a thin stiletto lay in its sheath. Miss Dingleby had shown her how to use it (
“skin is much tougher than you might think, my dear, so slice across the neck with vigor”
), and she had practiced the movement diligently. Unsheathe, lunge, slice. Unsheathe, lunge, slice. Surprise was the key, of course. Surprise was always the key, according to Miss Dingleby.

A faint white mass began to interrupt the darkness ahead. Emilie drew a relieved breath. The hotel at last. The lamps were lit along the drive and the portico, in eerie pools of blue white light. From behind came the sudden rattle of hooves and wheels, the warning shout of the driver. An instant later, a carriage bounced past at a smart trot, drowning the sound of the widow’s footsteps. It swung into the drive of the hotel with an eager tilt.

Just before the drive lay the path to the back garden. Emilie turned sharply through the black wrought-iron gate and strode down the neat paving stones, her legs straining against her heavy woolen skirt.

The path was unlit, bordered by young trees. Emilie inhaled the frozen silence, the hint of impending snow. The branches shone faintly in the reflected light from the hotel, like skeletal fingers. A high and trilling laugh came from the front portico, cut off abruptly by a closing door, and then Emilie heard the decisive and unmistakable clack of a woman’s half boots on the paving stones behind her.

She went on, faster now, her hand clutched around the stiletto in her pocket. If she could just reach the back entrance. Through the garden, across the drive and stableyard: A minute or two was all she needed.

She pushed her footsteps a little faster. The paving stones were uneven, left in picturesque disorder by the hotel gardeners, and her heel caught on an unexpected edge. She staggered forward, caught herself, and went on.

A sharp voice called behind her. “Ma’am!”

Emilie strode out, nearly running, and then the world lurched and streaked around her, and she hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!”

Emilie didn’t wait. She scrambled up, found the stiletto in her pocket, and flashed it out in front of her.

“Why, ma’am!”

The voice was high and surprised. The woman stood a few feet away, her veil thrown back, her face shadowed. She held her hands out before her, as if to beg.

“Who are you?” Emilie demanded breathlessly.

“Why, nobody, ma’am!” The woman took a step back, and one of the hotel lights moved across her face, revealing a flash of young features and wide, astonished eyes.

“You’ve been following me!”

“I haven’t! Not a-purpose, anyroad. I . . . I have business here, that’s all.” The woman nodded at the sprawling building to her right.

“Business! What sort of business?” Emilie lowered her hand a trifle. Her pulse beat rapidly in her ears.

The woman drew herself up. “Why, that’s my own affair, it is. I’m a respectable woman.”

“Indeed! And what sort of
respectable
affair brings a woman to a . . .” Emilie let her words trail away. Understanding began to dawn.

“No less respectable than yours, ma’am, begging your pardon.” Her tone was laden with irony.

Emilie tucked Miss Dingleby’s stiletto away in her pocket. “I
do
beg your pardon. You’ve come for Mr. Brown, haven’t you? The fourth Tuesday of the month.”

The woman hesitated, and then said, a little defensively, “Why, yes, I have. Though I don’t see it’s any of your business.”

Emilie peered through the darkness, searching for details. The woman had a sort of dignity to her, carrying herself with elegance, though her speech marked her somewhere in the middle rank, neither gentlewoman nor worker. One of those many nameless women holding precariously to respectability, as the economic ground shifted and split beneath their feet: a widow, or perhaps never married, or perhaps married to a drunkard or scoundrel or worse. Ashland’s fifty pounds a month would lift her from penury and into a comfortable life, with a genteel house and a few servants. It would make all the difference.

The woman’s head was tilted at a proud angle. Did Ashland admire that about her? How well had he known her? Had he simply watched her read books in her chemise, or had he been moved to do more? To touch her, to kiss her?

A surge of jealousy rose up in Emilie’s chest, so sudden and violent it burned the back of her throat.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change,” she said. “Mr. Brown and I have come to an understanding. I have been seeing him weekly since just before Christmas.”

“
What’s
that?”

“I mean your services are no longer required. I’m very sorry,” she added, after a brief pause.

“Why, that’s . . . That’s when I was badly, at Christmas. When I couldn’t come. I
told
them, I’m sure I did, I sent a telegram . . .” The woman shook her head and said plaintively, “And now you’ve crowded me out, have you?”

“It isn’t that. I had no intention of . . . We simply got along so well . . .”

“Every
week
, you say?” The woman’s dark-clad shoulders sagged in the faint rim of gaslight. She locked her hands together at her belly. “He must fancy you proper, then.”

“I don’t know about that.” Emilie spoke quietly. “He’s not a man easily overcome by emotion.”