How to Tame Your Duke (25 page)

“God, you’re wet, you’re so wet,” he said in wonder.

She went up on her knees. He brought down her trousers in brutal tugs, forcing them past the seat cushions and down to her ankles. The air was cold on her skin, but she hardly noticed, with Ashland’s hot fingers sliding up to wrap around her bottom. She tore at the fastening of his trousers, unbuttoning his flies. Her bones shook at the shape of his hardness through the fabric.

His fingers dipped into the cleft of her bottom. His cock filled her hands, too much to hold.

“Put your arms around my neck, Emilie,” he said.

Ashland’s breath rushed in hot gusts against her jaw. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his brow, as if he were fighting some unseen battle. She brought her arms up around his neck, anchoring herself, and he guided her downward, bringing her to rest on the tip of his vertical member.

“Ashland.”
Emilie’s mind went white with need.

“Easy, now.” With two gentle fingers he parted her lips and nestled himself inside the outermost walls of her passage. “Make it last.”

“I can’t,” she panted, wriggling downward on him, desperate.

He held her buttocks firmly in check. His voice was stern. “Make it last.”

She eased herself down, begging softly at the infinite delight, the steady encroaching size of him.

“That’s it. That’s it.” He groaned the words.

Deeper and deeper he went. The carriage jounced, but he steadied her, keeping them joined, until with a last rough little tilt of his hips, he buried himself fully inside.

“Oh my God,” she said. He was bone deep, lodged in place against the entrance to her womb. She shifted her hips to relieve the ache, but there was nowhere to go.

“Emilie.” He kissed her neck, her jaw, her ear, frantic and tender.

She lifted herself carefully back up. Their bodies made a slick sound, wet flesh against flesh, richly carnal.

The jolting of the carriage brought her down again. A lurching turn, and Ashland swore savagely, fighting to keep her atop him. His hips tilted upward, seeking hers, and she came down hard, lifted herself, and slammed down again with an inhuman growl of satisfaction at the pleasure-pain of it, the sweet bruising heat of cramming herself full of Ashland. Over and over she drove home his eager cock, while he muttered lewd and thrilling words into her ear to the frantic beat of her movements: telling her how to use him, telling her what she did to him.

The carriage did most of the work. It jolted them together with erotic friction; it threw them apart and made them clutch and shove like a pair of lust-crazed animals. Ashland went on muttering in her ear, urging her on, his fingers prying gently at the seam of her flesh, and the dark box around them filled with the sucks and gasps of union, with the earthy scent of human desire.

It was not perfect. It was messy and disjointed, it was arrhythmic and raw. The air grew thick and humid with perspiration. Ashland’s lips pressed on her skin, his arms caged her body, his cock rammed in and out, in and out, violent with need, rubbing over and over against a place of brilliant sensation. Emilie gripped his black shoulders and ground into every stroke, panting hard, straining with all her might, almost there, almost,
almost, oh God . . .

The carriage swung right, at just the wrong instant. A keen of frustration burst from her lips.

Ashland’s firm grip drew her back. “
Do
it, Emilie. Come
now
,” he demanded, holding his thumb over her nub, pushing himself deep, and all at once she burst over the edge, incandescent, her body pulsing whole with the shock of release.

At the instant of climax, Ashland’s arms lifted her and placed her to one side, and in a quick movement he brought out his handkerchief and spent in spasms of hot seed, as his right arm pinned her shuddering body fast against his chest.

*   *   *

A
shland’s mind crept upward from the brink of consciousness. Emilie lay pressed against him, breathing hard, her hand splayed across the thick wool of his overcoat.

Sweet Christ. She had just swived him senseless in his carriage.

He could scarcely move. Every muscle had relaxed into a simmering torpor. With effort he shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and settled Emilie more comfortably against his side. She stirred awkwardly, raising her head, and he remembered that her trousers were still tangled around her ankles.

“Sorry,” he managed. He reached down and tugged her trousers back into place; he forced his half-erect prick inside the placket of his own and fastened the buttons.

“Don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.” Her hand curled around his neck. The simple gesture made his chest glow with warmth.
This
was the woman he knew; this was
his
woman, his Emilie.

And he would kill anyone who tried to harm her.

The carriage rounded another turn. He looked out the window just in time to catch a flashing glimpse of the Duke of Wellington on horseback.

“Hyde Park Corner,” he said in her ear. “Almost there.”

She lifted herself up. “You didn’t need to do that. Your handkerchief.”

Ashland’s brain was as foggy as London itself. “What’s that?”

“Ashland, I . . . I’ve got to tell you something . . .”

The carriage slowed and jounced over a hole in the pavement, breaking them apart. “Later,” he said.

He brought her in through the area door, to which he had a key, nodding to Hans’s shadowed figure as he descended the steps. Neither of them spoke as they stole through the kitchens and up the back staircase. A clock chimed one o’clock as they reached the landing on the second floor, Emilie’s floor.

She turned at the door to her room. “You can’t come in. Miss Dingleby sleeps with me. She’s expecting me back; she’ll still be awake.”

“I know. I sleep in the next room.”

“What?”

He kissed her lips. “Just sleep. We’ll speak in the morning. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t too rough?”

She ducked her head. “No.
No!
You were perfect.
I
was rough. I wanted that. I needed to . . . to break free from all this . . .”

“I am at your service, madam.” He kissed her again. “Take a warm bath in the morning. You’ll be sore, I’m afraid. If it weren’t for your damned Miss Dingleby I’d . . .”

“We’ve got to talk, Ashland.”

“Later. Tomorrow. You need your rest.”

“
You
need your rest.”

“I’ll be up when I’ve spoken to your uncle. Sleep well. I’ll make sure you’re safe tonight. Every night.”

She tried to speak, but he pointed to the door, mouthed
Miss Dingleby
, and opened it for her.

When she was safely inside, the door closed behind her, Miss Dingleby’s urgent voice asking her questions, Emilie answering in crisp, firm tones, Ashland tripped down the stairs at double time and strode to the entrance of Olympia’s private study, from which a crack of light still showed.

His mind had cleared. Energy had returned to his limbs; he was vibrating with resolve. He threw open the door without knocking.

The room was empty, except for Ormsby the butler, turning down the lamps.

“Where is His Grace?” Ashland demanded.

Ormsby looked up. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace. The duke has gone out.”

F
reddie flung the newspaper onto the desk. “Look, Grimsby! I’m on the front page!”

“Your lordship,” said Miss Dingleby, “you will please remove yourself from Her Highness’s chamber at once. We have a ball for which to prepare her.”

Emilie plucked up the newspaper. The headline shouted LOST PRINCESS FINDS LOVE IN ENGLAND; SET TO WED DUKE OF ASHLAND IN STORY-BOOK ROMANCE; ROYAL BALL TONIGHT IN PARK LANE TO CELEBRATE ENGAGEMENT; PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES EXPECTED TO ATTEND in breathless capital letters. She peered at the blurred photograph on the page before her: taken, it seemed, on the steps of church last Sunday. How they had managed the picture, she couldn’t imagine. Olympia had loomed at her right side; Ashland had glowered at her left. She had been practically surrounded by a Roman phalanx of oversized dukes. “Where
are
you?”

He came up next to her and pointed at the photograph. “Right there! Can’t you see it?”

“That’s an ear.”

“
My
ear.” He snatched the paper away. “And well captured. Note the noble curve, if you will.”

“Your lordship,
please
.” Miss Dingleby’s voice rang with gubernatorial authority. “I wonder Her Highness allows you here at all. It is
most
improper.”

“Improper?” Freddie looked genuinely appalled. He swung helplessly to Emilie. “What the devil’s improper about it? In a matter of days, she’ll be my
mother
!”

“
Hmm
,” Miss Dingleby snapped. She marched to the door and held it open. “Out.”

Freddie’s shoulders slumped. He trudged to the door, paper dangling from his hand.

Emilie’s heart gave out. She had tried all day to find a private word with Ashland, but he’d been gone from the house since daybreak, had only returned an hour ago, and had gone straight to Olympia’s private study under locked door. Of the household staff, bustling with preparations for the ball, only Miss Dingleby remained to serve her. Or to guard her prison cell, more accurately. She’d spent the past hour pacing about like a caged animal, watching the inexorable progress of the clock on her mantel.

And now here was Freddie, in and out like a gust of welcome air, throwing about words like
mother
.

Stalwart Freddie.

“Freddie, wait.” Emilie followed him to the door. She spoke in a low voice. “Look after your sister tonight, please. And if anything should happen, if your father or I . . . If anything should happen, you’ll take care of her.”

“Of course.”

Emilie leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Go. Your father’s waiting to take you back to Eaton Square.”

“No, he’s not. He’s shut up with Olympia, laying schemes. Hans is going with us.”

“Hans, then. And stay put, for heaven’s sake. Don’t risk yourself.”

Freddie rolled his eyes and turned, straight into the slight figure waiting outside the door.

“Good God,” he said. “
Lucy!
What the devil are you doing here?”

*   *   *

T
he Duke of Olympia lifted the stopper from the crystal neck of the sherry decanter and motioned in Ashland’s direction. “Calms the nerves,” he said.

Ashland held up his hand. “My nerves are perfectly calm, thank you.”

Olympia poured himself a glass. “All this hustle-bustle. I shall be very glad when it’s all over and we can return to business as usual.”

“I shudder to ask what constitutes business as usual for you.”

“Oh, this and that.” Olympia waved his hand and drank his sherry. He was already dressed for the ball in crisp whites and gleaming blacks. His graying hair shone under the electric lamp.

“If we may return to the matter at hand, however.” Ashland made a minute adjustment to the starched white cuff emerging from his formal black sleeve. “I have spent the morning making inquiries regarding the matter of last night.”

Olympia held up his sherry glass to the lamp and examined the play of light in its multitude of facets. “We will speak later, of course, on the wisdom of taking my niece for a midnight assignation at all, let alone without informing me first. I might have saved you a great deal of trouble, had I known.”

“I was prepared to protect her, and I did. And she wanted to see her sister.”

“With an imminent threat hanging over her head, Emilie’s desire to see her sister is neither here nor there.”

“I disagree.”

“Because you are in love with her.”

“Because I have seen what a few weeks of being a prisoner in this house has done to her. She is honorable, she is dutiful, she hasn’t complained. But she is not happy. She is not herself.”

Olympia’s glass landed on his desk with a trifle more force than necessary, spilling a precious few drops of sherry onto the depthless mahogany. “How many times, Ashland, have I cautioned you not to let your
emotions
become involved in your work?” The word
emotions
dripped from his mouth, as if he’d accidentally ingested some foul concoction of earthworm and bat’s blood.

Ashland returned his gaze levelly. “The happiness of others should be the ultimate goal of any endeavor. Should it not?”

“Hmm.” Olympia took out his handkerchief and dabbed at the spilled sherry.

“Do you mean simply to harangue me for my excessively emotional nature, or have you any interest in the outcome of my inquiries this morning?”

“The latter, of course.”

“Very well. I met with Hatherfield . . .”

“Ah yes.” Olympia sank into his chair. “Tell me about my dear friend Hatherfield.”

“I daresay you know more than I do. Very clever of you, tapping us all for your project. In any case, he has not encountered any outside danger in his—ahem—association with Princess Stefanie, but he has received an odd series of notes.” He drew a paper from his pocket and laid it on the desk before him. “He gave me this one for examination. Do you recognize the writing?”

Olympia took the note and smoothed it with care. “I do not.”

“You will note the peculiar character of the letters themselves. It puts me in mind of the Gothic German script.”

“I see your point.”

“It does not awaken any particular suspicion?”

Olympia looked up and pushed the note back across the desk. “My dear Ashland, remember that this organization has members across Europe. We might attribute such writing to any number of men.”

“You’re not concerned that someone seems to have discovered Princess Stefanie’s true identity as well? That these clever disguises of yours haven’t seemed to fool our opponents at all?”

A thump sounded through the floorboards, and a faint shout. Ashland raised one eyebrow.

Olympia waved his hand. “The musicians, I believe, are setting up.”

“You’re quite certain of them?” Ashland folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket.

“They are all trained agents,” said Olympia. “Hence the, er, difficulties in arranging themselves, er, musically.”

“Any other outside staff? Has the food been examined?”

“My dear fellow, I am not an amateur. We have gone over these details countless times.”

Ashland leaned forward. “One more question. This Hans. Emilie’s father’s valet. What do we know of him?”

“Enough.”

“Can he write English?”

“He was devoted to the late Prince. Vetted by Miss Dingleby herself.”

“Ah yes. The redoubtable Miss Dingleby. A finger in every pie, it seems. Vetting valets. Protecting princesses from mortal harm.”

Olympia knitted his fingers together on the desk and twirled his thumbs in a kind of water mill. A faint scent of cigars and sherry drifted from the air around him, a familiar and reassuring smell. The smell of competent men, of clubs and private studies. “You do not approve of my Dingleby?”

“She has your trust. She must be beyond reproach.” Ashland laid his palm flat atop his crossed leg. He was wearing knee breeches, as befitted a royal occasion, and his quadricep felt as if it might burst through the gleaming white silk. Without adjusting his own expression a millimeter, he studied the duke’s face: the deepening lines about his blue eyes, the uncompromising angle of his chin. How many secrets were crammed into the skull behind that face?

Olympia sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What an observant fellow you are. Perhaps I should start from the beginning.”

Ashland allowed a small smile. “Better late than never, I always say.”

*   *   *

M
iss Dingleby stepped back to admire the result of the hour’s labor. “Excellent work, Lucy. Mrs. Needle was quite right; you are a wonder with hair. Perhaps that curl near her right ear might be a trifle higher?” She motioned with her finger.

“Aye, ma’am.” Lucy came in again with the tongs, nearly singeing the skin of Emilie’s ear.

“Excellent, excellent,” Miss Dingleby said. “I hardly recognize you, my dear. Rather like your sister’s engagement ball last year. What a glorious occasion! Except for the fiancé, of course. A sad sack, Peter, but that’s all in the past.”

“He wasn’t a sad sack. He was quite pleasant.”

The roll of Miss Dingleby’s eyes demonstrated exactly her opinion of pleasantness in young men. “Now stand up, my dear.”

Emilie rose to her feet. Lucy stepped back to a respectful distance.

Miss Dingleby busied herself about Emilie’s skirts, getting each fall of fabric just so. “Excellent, excellent,” she muttered, emerging at last. She stood back and cocked her head to one side. Her finger tapped her lower lip.

“What do you think, Lucy? How does Her Highness look?”

“Quite nice,” said Lucy.

“Hmm. Yes. I see what you mean.” Miss Dingleby reached forward and removed Emilie’s spectacles. “Oh, there we are. Much better, don’t you think? Our dear Duke of Ashland won’t be able to take his eyes from you.”

Lucy made a tiny and tortured cough, as if a small animal were strangling itself at the back of her throat.

“Yes, Lucy?” Miss Dingleby said, without looking.

“Nobbut a . . . a speck of t’dust, ma’am.” Lucy laid her tongs on the dressing table.

“A glass of water, then.” Miss Dingleby snapped her fingers. “In fact, that’s an excellent idea. I shall return at once with drinks for us all. I have a special recipe for calming the nerves.”

“My nerves are perfectly calm,” said Emilie, and it was true. She felt utterly cool and collected, as if she were a doll of some kind, an automaton encased in ice, a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof. Not at all the sort of hoyden who would engage in rampant carnal intercourse with dukes in midnight carriages.

The wheels of fate were turning now, and there was not a bloody thing she could do about it.

“Nonsense. I shall be back directly.” Miss Dingleby strode to the door and marched out.

Emilie studied the closed door with a trace of bemusement, then went to the dressing table, picked up her spectacles, and replaced them on her nose. She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

A magnificent dress, she had to concede. Her long figure had been compacted into an hourglass of blue satin, so pale and icy it was nearly white. The sleeves were gathered up at the very balls of her shoulders in sprays of tiny blue satin rosettes, and her gleaming skirts came together in the back into a veritable river of a long ice blue train. Her bodice swooped just to the edge of propriety, and a fringe of frothing petticoats peeped out a fraction of an inch between her ice blue hem and the floor. A matching blue ribbon wound through the artfully upswept curls on her head.

To her right, Lucy was busying herself with the tongs and the hairpins, her face a study in ruddy color.

“Thank you for your help, Lucy,” Emilie said.

“Aye, ma’am. I’m right fair sorry, ma’am. I mean Your Highness. What happened afoor in Yorkshire. I never did know. . . I never thought . . .”

“Lucy, my dear. Whatever are you talking about?”

Lucy looked up and met her face in the mirror. “That last night, ma’am . . .”

“I have no idea what you mean. Yorkshire, you say? The Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof was never in Yorkshire.” Emilie gave a delicate shudder to underscore her point.

Lucy blinked. “Ma’am?”

“As it happens, however, your arrival is most fortuitous. I am in need of a lady’s maid at the moment.”

Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “But ma’am . . . Your Highness . . . I’m never trained at all . . .”

“That is of no consequence whatever. My interest in fashion is minimal. What I require, most of all, is discretion and loyalty.” She turned from the mirror and met Lucy’s astonished gaze. “Discretion, my dear, and loyalty. Offer me these, and I shall return them in spades.”

“Oh, ma’am.” Lucy breathed out slowly.

“Discretion and loyalty, Lucy. Do you possess these qualities?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Good, then.” Emilie turned back to the mirror. “Now if you’ll help me with these shoes. I can’t seem to find my feet amongst all these petticoats.”

The door opened again while Lucy’s head was still buried under Emilie’s skirts.

“Dear me.” Miss Dingleby set down a tray on the desk. “Have we lost the poor girl already?”

Lucy emerged, somewhat disheveled. “Ma’am?”