How to Tame Your Duke (24 page)

“I am.”

“I suppose it will not trouble you that Her Highness is resting in her bedchamber at present?”

“I shall not disturb her long.”

“Certainly not. I have every faith in Your Grace’s sense of honor and decency,” said Miss Dingleby in precisely spaced words. “Good day.”

The door to Emilie’s suite stood ajar. He rapped on the thick panel nonetheless.

“Who is it?”

“Ashland.”

A slight pause. “Come in.”

He pushed open the door. Emilie stood at the window, her fingers pressed against the sill. The fading light cast a bluish tint over her skin.

“You’re not wearing your spectacles,” he said.

“My eyes were hurting.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She looked at him. The muscles of her face were drawn tight; her body radiated restless tension. One finger drummed against the wooden window frame. “Are you off to return Freddie and Mary to Eaton Square?”

“Yes, I am. I shall return later this evening, of course. Where is Miss Dingleby going? You shouldn’t be left alone like this.”

She crossed the floor toward him. “May I go with you? I’ve hardly been outside at all these past weeks.”

“I would rather you didn’t. I have an errand to run before returning.”

“I see.”

“Emilie.” He fixed his arms behind his back to keep himself from touching her. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re having second thoughts about tomorrow, I can stop everything. I’ll tell Olympia . . .”

“No! No. I want this over with.”

“I don’t like it. You know that. There are other ways.”

“It’s my decision,” she said.

She stood so regally, her back straight, her chin tilted. Her golden hair was parted neatly and gleamed with submission before disappearing into a snug chignon at the back of her neck. She reminded him of a citadel, all smooth stone walls and high battlements. He wanted to throw up his grappling hook and scale her, but the very thought of the act seemed profane. As if he might scar her, might mar the perfect fortress of her.

Where was Emily, behind Emilie’s polished walls? Where was Grimsby?

“There are other ways,” he said again. “I have a special license in my pocket this instant. You are above the age of consent; we can be married before dinner. We can go away, wherever you like.”

“Nonsense. I intend to see this through. For my sisters’ sake, if nothing else.”

A flash of white showed between the fingers of her right hand: a balled-up handkerchief.

“Very well. Either way, I have made the necessary preparations. In the meantime, I have something for you.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it out to her.

“What is it?” She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and took the envelope. He looked at her wrist. He wanted to strip away that sleeve, to strip away the dress itself, to gorge himself on her nakedness. He wanted to tumble her backward into that bed, or possibly forward, and make love to her until she was crying with pleasure, until she was laughing out loud, until she was
herself
again.

He swallowed heavily. “It arrived in the post at Eaton Square, addressed to you.”

She looked at the black scrawl on the envelope and gasped.

“Do you recognize it?” he asked.

Her gaze lifted to his, eyes wide with excitement, apprehension vanished. “It’s from my sister.”

T
he thin light of the gas lamps shifted across Ashland’s face as the carriage rounded the corner of Cheyne Walk later that night, making his ruined face even more terrifying than usual. His thunderous expression didn’t help. “I am a fool for letting you talk me into this.”

“It’s perfectly safe. You’re with me, and nobody in London knows me as Grimsby. Well, except Freddie, and he’s hardly an anarchist. A principled one, at any rate.”

“This is not the time for jokes.”

“Yes, it is.” Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She glanced out the window at the passing shadows of the houses, the lurid pools of gaslight on the pavement. “I’m going to see my sister. My sister, Ashland! You don’t know what this means to me.” She reached out and wrapped her hand around his enormous knee.

“You’re certain it was her handwriting? There could be no mistake?” He ignored her hand.

“As certain as I am of my own.”

“This chap she’s bringing. Is she a decent judge of character? You’ve no idea who he might be?”

“He must be the man my uncle placed her with, and you know Olympia’s judgment is impeccable.”

A grunting noise rumbled from his chest. He folded his arms. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. Only try to be happy for me, will you?”

The carriage lurched over a rut, dislodging Emilie’s hand and flinging her off balance. Like a snake, Ashland’s arm flashed out to steady her. His grip encompassed her entire shoulder.

“A quarter of an hour,” he said. “No more.”

The carriage slowed. Albert Bridge loomed ahead, the approach shrouded with trees.

Ashland reached inside his overcoat, drew out a pistol, laid it in his lap. “You have your stiletto?”

“Put that away. Yes, I do.” She craned her head against the window, trying to make out the shapes outside in the thickening river fog. The carriage jolted to a stop, and she reached for the handle just as Ashland’s hand closed over hers.

“I go first,” he said. He gripped the pistol with his left hand and cocked it with a nimble motion of his stump. His chin jerked, motioning her to open the carriage door for him.

The dank Thames air rushed across Emilie’s cheeks. Ashland swung to the ground in a lithe and silent movement, like the enormous African cat she had imagined him, back in the library at Ashland Abbey. He tossed a single soft word back to the driver.

“Wait,” he said to Emilie. “Stay back in the carriage until I’ve called you.”

Emilie’s hand fisted around the edge of the door. Ashland took a step forward, and another. “Holstein,” he called out, in a low and carrying voice.

“Huhnhof,” came the faint reply.

Ashland made a quick motion with his right arm. Emilie slithered down the carriage step and came up behind him, in the shelter of his broad back, looking around his shoulder to the charcoal smudges of the Embankment.

A shape emerged. “Ashland, by God.”

“Hatherfield?” Ashland lowered his pistol.

“She’s right in the bushes behind . . .” the man’s voice began, but the rest was lost in a rush of footsteps, a flying missile of wool and damp skin that flung itself past Ashland and swept up Emilie in a bone-crushing embrace.

“Stefanie!” Emilie gasped out, hugging her back, crying, shaking. She pushed the coat-clad shoulders away and grasped her sister by the cheeks. “It’s you!”

*   *   *

T
he Marquess of Hatherfield coughed discreetly. “Does have a rather . . . a rather
odd
appearance, don’t it?”

Ashland glanced at the two figures embracing on the bench ten yards away, on whose four trousered legs only the faintest trace of gaslight gleamed. Emilie had taken off her bowler hat, and Stefanie was touching her hair, exclaiming at its shortness.

He kicked his toe at the gravel. “Is she really a ginger?”

“Beyond a doubt,” Hatherfield said blandly.

A squeal of delight issued from the bench, followed by an answering squeal of equal pitch.

“What the devil are they talking about?” Ashland said.

“Us, old man. Us.”

“How do you know that?”

“Four sisters. And a stepmother.”

A hansom cab trotted by in a wet rattle of hooves and wheels. Ashland watched it travel along the Embankment and up Cheyne Walk. The fog was already growing denser, cold and greasy against his skin. “Five minutes,” he called out gently.

The two figures on the bench paid no attention. They were holding hands now, chattering like birds. Their words mingled and overlapped, an astonishing tangle of verbiage. How the devil did they make each other out?

“Women,” said Hatherfield. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets.

“Have you had any trouble?” Ashland asked.

Hatherfield sighed a weary sigh. “Nothing
but
trouble, old man. You?”

“I mean this sort of trouble.” Ashland nodded to the thick and expectant shadows around them. “Threats, attacks. Has anyone found you out?”

“No, no. Lying low.”

“Stay low, Hatherfield. Stay low. You’ve heard about the ball tomorrow?”

“Invitation arrived a week ago.”

“Don’t go. Don’t let
her
go. Do you understand me?”

Stefanie’s giggle rang in the air. At least Ashland assumed it was Stefanie. He’d certainly never heard Emilie make such a sound.

“I see,” said Hatherfield.

“Yes.”

Another hansom rattled by, followed by a carriage. A drunken voice rolled faintly from the boats moored nearby in the river.

Ashland called out, “Two minutes.”

On the last syllable, a sense of movement caught his attention: a noise, or perhaps intuition, because the movement came on his blind right side.

He turned. A dull gleam flashed from the fog-shrouded shadow of a clump of trees.

“Secure the women,” he said to Hatherfield, and he launched himself toward the trees.

A loud crack split the air. Cries erupted from the bench behind him.

Another stride, and he was flying into the shadows, colliding with a solid wool-padded figure.

“Oof,” it said.

The gun flew to the pavement. Ashland kicked it away with his boot and shot his left fist into the man’s jaw. His head snapped backward; he toppled to the ground like a felled tree.

Ashland leaned down and gathered the man’s collar in his fist. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

The man’s hand moved; a flash of metal caught the gaslight. With a single motion, Ashland released the collar and thrust his right elbow downward into the man’s wrist. A faint crunch, and the knife dropped to the stones with a clank. The man howled with pain.

“Who sent you?”

The man lurched up. Ashland sent another fist into his jaw, and this time he went still into the pavement.

“Damnation,” Ashland muttered.

A low cry floated behind him. He whipped around.

In the blur of darkened bodies shifting through the fog, he couldn’t make anything out. Four people, maybe five. The hard smack of a fist connecting with flesh. A howling cry. Emilie’s voice, shouting something.

Ashland’s pistol dug into his ribs, but the quarters were too close for bullets. He reached for the knife in the grass, leapt forward, and grabbed the nearest figure. Broad, bulky: not one of the women. Ashland had at least eight inches of height on the man. He brought his right elbow down hard in the juncture of neck and shoulder, and the attacker crumpled to the ground without a sound.

In the murky darkness, Emilie’s pale face flashed by, her neck enclosed by a thick woolen arm.

A white glare lit behind Ashland’s eyes. He let out a low growl, balanced the knife in his hand, and thrust his stump forward with exacting precision, just to the right of Emilie’s ribs, directly into her attacker’s gut.

The man’s grip loosened. Emilie dug her elbow into his ribs. He released her with an
oof
, and even before Emilie had slumped forward, Ashland took the man about the chest and laid the knife against his throat.

“Who are you?” he growled. “Who sent you?”

The man gasped something.

“What’s that?”

A shot cracked out. Something blurred before his eyes.

“Damn it to hell!” Ashland said. He threw the man heavily to the ground and grabbed Emilie’s hand. “To the carriage!”

“I can’t leave Stefanie!” she cried.

“Right here.” Hatherfield’s voice came at his ear, calm and steady. “Shot came from the river.”

“Take the women to the carriage. I’ll cover.” Ashland drew out his pistol.

“Right-ho.” Hatherfield dashed off, herding Emilie and Stefanie, and Ashland turned to the river. It was encased in fog, ghostly and impenetrable. How the devil could anyone have aimed a pistol from there?

Another shot cracked out. A bullet whistled past his ear.

Not the river. The
bridge
.

Ashland swore. At his feet, the man stirred, but there was no time to deal with him. Ashland hurried toward the carriage, half running, keeping his pistol trained toward Albert Bridge. Hatherfield was bustling the women in, shielding the door with his body.

“Go south,” Ashland said to the driver, swinging in behind Hatherfield. “Away from the bloody bridge.”

The carriage lurched forward as he shut the door. Ashland found Emilie, scooped her up, and crushed her into his chest.

*   *   *

T
here will be no ball tomorrow,” said Ashland. He was holding the knife in his hand, turning it about in the trace of light from the carriage window. They had just seen off Stefanie and her marquess into an anonymous black hansom cab on the Brompton Road, and the interior of the carriage had grown heavy with the shock of aftermath.

“We can’t cancel it now.”

He looked at her. “Are you mad? You were nearly killed just now.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me. If he were, I’d be dead.”

“Then what was he doing?”

“Trying to take me away. To kidnap me.” She spoke quickly, her words running together. Her brain kept jumping about, as if struck by a charge of electricity, unable to settle into logic. She tried to remember the exact sequence of events, but she could only muster flashing impressions. The elation of seeing Stefanie, touching and talking to Stefanie, as if they’d only been parted for hours instead of months. The sudden attack, the arm squeezing her neck, the flight to the carriage.

Had it all really happened? To her, the quiet and unremarkable Emilie?

“Oh, a thousand times better, then.” Ashland tucked the knife into the pocket of his overcoat, and a trace of a wince passed across his face.

“You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing. A nick.”

She grabbed his left sleeve. A rent showed through the cloth at the forearm; the edges were wet. “It’s not a nick! You’ve been cut!”

“For God’s sake, Emilie. I’ve seen worse.”

She looked up at his scarred face. Guilt washed over her heart. “Yes, but you’re not in the Afghan wilderness anymore. You’re in London. You’re with me.”

He touched her cheek. “Yes.”

A streetlamp ghosted along his face. His expression was soft with longing, the way it had looked when she had first removed her blindfold in the hotel room at Ashland Spa.

Weeks ago, a lifetime ago. How she’d missed him, the open and unguarded Ashland.

She unbuttoned her coat and jacket and waistcoat, revealing her white shirt. She pulled one tail free from her trousers. Before Ashland could protest, she took the knife from his pocket and started a tear in the fabric.

“Damn it, Emilie. We’re a quarter hour from home. I’m not going to bleed to death.”

But he let her ease his arm from his coat and jacket. He let her roll back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a cut, not particularly long or deep—thank goodness for well-made winter woolens—but still leaking blood. She wiped away the excess and bound it up.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” His thick forearm lay passively in her hands, without so much as a flex of muscle.

“Much better.”

His voice was husky. She looked up, and her silly eyes filled. “I’m sorry, Ashland. I’m so sorry for all this. You haven’t deserved any of it.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t deserve you at all.”

She whispered, “Oh, you fool.”

She released his arm and put her hands to his cheeks. They were warm and damp beneath her palms, from exertion and from the relentless London fog. The leather half-mask had molded to his skin.

“You fool. You’re too good for me. You fool.” She lifted herself from the seat and straddled his thighs. “You fool.” She kissed his mouth.

“Emilie.” The single word was hardly more than a rumble in his chest.

Ashland’s lips savored hers, too slowly. She thrust her tongue between them and stroked the silken lining of his mouth.

All at once, his arms were bound across her back. He urged her into his body; his mouth returned her kiss as if to consume her. She cradled his hard and muscled lap between her legs, his unstoppable strength, and she ground herself into him. “I want you,” she said. “Now.”

“Emilie . . .”

“
Now
, Ashland. Please.”

Ashland’s fingers thrust against the waistband of her trousers and fumbled with the fastening. It fell open, and his hand slipped down to caress her, his thumb rubbing against her nub, his index finger sliding down her lips and surging inside her. She cried out.