Ashland reached his arm around her and plucked an object from the inside pocket of his tailcoat, making sure to brush her bosom as he went.
He held the object up before her.
“Oh! However did you find a key?”
“I have a knack for such things.” He fitted the key into the lock.
“This is thrilling. I wonder if that old wicker chaise longue is still there. We used to take naps on it.”
“It is.”
“How . . . Oh!” She stopped in the doorway.
He came up against her back and put his arms about her. “Do you like it?”
“How did you . . . ? Oh, it’s beautiful!”
She stepped forward into the bower of blooms, fragrant lilies and roses, gardenias cut and overflowing their vases, sensuous orchids rising up from planters.
“Some of them are your uncle’s. I had a few men scour the florists for the others.”
She turned in his arms. “Oh, but we can’t! The ball!”
“The champagne is flowing. I daresay they won’t even notice we’ve left.” He lowered his lips to hers and tasted her gently.
Emilie’s arms stole around his neck. “Ashland, you’re a romantic.”
“Bite your tongue. I am a gruff and taciturn Yorkshire duke.” He lifted her up and carried her to the chaise longue. The Ashland sapphires glittered darkly at him.
“This is shocking. We really ought to behave more properly until the wedding.” She sighed dreamily and tilted her head back, as his tongue explored the delicate skin at the hollow of her throat.
“Trust me. The wedding will take place as quickly as we can arrange it,” he said.
“The sooner the better.”
“I’m glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking.” Ashland pulled down the neckline of her dress. It was a tight fit, constructed exactly to measure, but Emilie’s breasts seemed extraordinarily full tonight, nearly bursting from her corset, and with diligent effort he coaxed a single dusky tip into the open air.
She made a gurgling laugh. “I had no choice, really.”
He was busy suckling her tender nipple and couldn’t answer. God, she was luscious. Her back arched, feeding his greed for her, and his prick swelled inside his trousers.
“Ashland, really. This is no time for that. My uncle’s plans . . .”
“Bother your uncle’s plans.” He meant it.
“But there’s something . . . I have to tell you both, about Miss Dingleby . . .”
Ashland raised his head and cupped her cheek with his hand. “We know all about Miss Dingleby. Trust me. Your uncle is managing things as we speak.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went round in the hint of moonlight.
He kissed the corners of her eyes, her lips. “Would I allow my guard down for an instant if you were in danger? Of course not. Olympia explained everything. You, Miss Dingleby, everything. He’s taking care of it all right now. You’ve nothing more to worry about.”
“You know
everything
?” Her voice was anxious.
“Everything.”
Her body relaxed in his arms. “And you’re happy about it?”
“Entirely satisfied.”
Her hands went to his shoulders. “Ashland, I’m so glad. You’ve no idea how this relieves my mind. I’ve felt so trapped, these past weeks, knowing I was leading you into danger, when none of this was your choice. Not wanting to trap you, too. I didn’t want to say anything until I was certain . . .”
Her soft acquiescence was sending him over the edge. “It’s all over now, sweetheart, or almost. Nothing but roses ahead.”
She opened her mouth again, but he laid his finger over it. “No more worries. Let me make love to you now. Let me give you pleasure.”
Emilie took his finger away and smiled. “I only wanted to say, at least you won’t need your handkerchief this time.”
For an instant, he couldn’t reply. It was as if the sun came out inside his chest.
He lowered himself back to her. “Yes.”
Despite the urgent fire in his blood, he seduced her slowly, waiting until she was slick and plump before unbuttoning his flies and sinking himself into her. He thrust in a gentle rhythm. He worked her to climax with ruthless self-control, mindful of her tenderness after last night’s frenzy. The passage of time relaxed around them; he was surrounded by satin and stiff petticoats, by sapphires and soft skin, by the scent of rare flowers and by Emilie’s sheath clasping him snugly. The effect was so delicious, so languorous, that when she spent around him, gasping and shuddering, the instant ferocity of his own release stunned him.
He thrust his hips in a last urgent shove, everything else forgotten, Olympia and Miss Dingleby and the musicians in the ballroom. There was only Emilie and her sweet breath on his neck, her delicate body still pulsing below him as he drained himself deep inside her.
* * *
I
am so glad,” she whispered, moments later. He was lying alongside her, both of them breathless and rumpled on the inadequate width of the chaise; he was half atop her, half braced on his elbow, damp and flushed and heavy lidded. Whether the ancient wicker could bear them both much longer, she dared not consider.
“Very glad.”
“It was so silly of me. Suspecting Miss Dingleby!” She laughed. “But when she came up with that odd drink of hers, urging me on, I had the strangest sense of dread.
Bottoms up!
she said, with that sharp look in her eyes. I suppose I’ve been so anxious lately that . . .”
Ashland raised his head. “Drink?” His voice held an odd note, through the huskiness of arousal and release. “What drink?”
“Oh, one of her grapefruit concoctions, I suppose. And all I could think of was that she had been there in the castle with my stepmothers, she had discovered those drinks that made them miscarry, and since I’d just admitted my suspicions about the baby . . .”
Ashland bolted upward. The crisp white bow under his starched wing tips had come shamefully undone. “The
baby
?”
“Well, she had suspected before, of course, but . . .”
“You’re with
child
?”
A glacier seemed to have invaded Emilie’s heart, sending off chunks of ice into her bloodstream. She opened her mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. “Why, yes. I mean, I . . . I might be. I think so. I thought you knew. When you said . . .”
Ashland’s shocked gaze went to her bosom, to her belly, and back up to her face. “You’re with
child
? By
me
?”
Emilie gasped and sat up, dislodging Ashland. He scrambled to his feet. “Of course, by you! What the devil do you mean by that?”
“I’m sorry . . . Of course I . . . only shocked . . . Good God! A child. Good God!” He raked his hand through his close-shorn hair. A square of moonlight caught his face through the glass, rendering it nearly white, the black mask like an abyss.
“Well, what did you
think
I meant?” Emilie realized her naked breasts were spilling over her bodice in a most undignified fashion. She stuffed them back inside. “What did
you
mean?”
“I certainly didn’t mean
that
. I . . .” He shook his head. “What was that about a drink?”
Emilie stood up. “Miss Dingleby. She brought me a drink, a pink-colored drink, just before I went to see you.”
“Did you taste it?”
“No! I told you, I had a strange feeling. I put it down and I went to the library to find you and Olympia, to warn you of my suspicion. And you told me it was all under control. Where are you going?”
“Back to the bloody ballroom, if it’s not too late!” He staggered around the flowerpots, working frantically at the fastening of his trousers.
She followed him. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
He spun around and took her shoulders. “What’s happened is that we thought Miss Dingleby was on our side. We thought she was a double agent, pretending to be in with Hans’s lot . . .”
“Hans!”
“Yes, Hans! He’s your inside man. He’s the one behind all this; he’s their operative. But Dingleby convinced him she was working with Free Blood, when in reality she’d been setting up this grand event tonight, to capture them in the act . . .”
“Good heavens!”
“Except that it appears she’s been playing us instead!” He released her with an almost violent thrust and spun around.
“Wait, Ashland!”
“Stay here!” he ordered, over his shoulder. He threw open the conservatory door.
“I won’t! I’m going with you! It’s my country, it’s my father and sisters . . .” She strained against him, trying to fit around him and through the door. The cold air of the garden hit her flushed skin in a welcome gust.
He turned and cupped her face with his massive left hand. “You’re carrying our
child
, Emilie. For God’s sake, stay here.”
“But I . . .”
Even as she said the words, he was in motion. With lightning speed, he ducked through the conservatory door, closed it, and locked it with his key.
“Ashland!”
He had already disappeared into the shadows. She rattled the knob, she pounded the glass, she rattled the knob again. Her blood was racing through her body in a live stream, shooting with energy. She paced to one side, coming up short in front of a massive urn filled with pink orange roses. She kicked it with her toe.
Locked. He’d locked her inside.
She turned back to the door and rattled the knob again. The key was still in the lock, tantalizingly close. She pressed her ear against the glass. Was that shouting? A pistol shot? Or simply merrymaking?
Miss Dingleby. Her mind struggled to grasp it all. Had Miss Dingleby been working for them all along? Or had she turned at some point, cloistered in Holstein Castle with its stultifying life, its archaic customs, its wealth and absolute power over the peasantry around them?
Miss Dingleby. My God, how could she do it? Raise three girls to womanhood, and then murder their father. And all for a cause, a foolish and impossible cause, a violent pie in the sky.
Traitor.
Emilie pounded the glass with her fist. Her eyes wandered across the conservatory, to the chaise longue on which she and Ashland had just made love. Ashland’s formal black tailcoat still lay there on the cushions, crushed by their heaving bodies.
A distant sound brushed her ears, a crash.
Emilie marched across the conservatory to the chaise. She picked up Ashland’s tailcoat and wrapped it around her left hand as she strode back across the flower-strewn floor. Without an instant’s hesitation, she punched through the pane of glass next to the knob, reached through with her right hand, and unlocked the door.
* * *
I
t took Ashland scarcely half a minute to run back along the garden path and up the stone steps to the French doors guarding the ballroom, and in that time his brain formed and discarded half a dozen plans.
Something was going on, that much he could tell. The sounds of music and tinkling laughter, of the buzz of conversation, had transformed into cacophony.
Shouts, screams, crashes. The wholesale smash of crystal. Ashland reached the top step and took in the scene through the glass: a melee of scrambling silk dresses and surging fists. The door flew open before him, and a man ran past, heading for the garden. Ashland grabbed him by the collar. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
The fellow jabbered. “Riot, man! Run while you can!”
“From whom?”
“Footmen! Musicians! A bloody riot!”
Ashland released the man and ran into the ballroom.
The ringing voice of the Duke of Olympia greeted him. “Quiet, everyone! The police have been called! Quiet! You’re in no danger!”
But for once, no one paid attention to that glorious ducal boom. A woman flung herself at Ashland’s chest. “Save me, sir! I shall be murdered!”
Ashland plucked her from his shirt and set her aside. “Calm yourself, madam. It’s all quite under control.”
A shrill whistle cut through the air, and then a pounding rush of feet. From the advantage of his six feet five inches of height, Ashland saw a river of blue pour into the ballroom from the hall. He cast about for the Duke of Olympia’s silver head.
“What the devil’s happened? It’s Dingleby, isn’t it?”
“She wasn’t there. No decoy princess, either. Where’s Emilie?”
“Locked in the conservatory. She told me . . . Oh, the devil take it. Dingleby’s working for them, after all! She’s planned it all out!” Ashland cast about, but all he could see were policemen.
“Complete balls-up,” muttered Olympia. “The footmen, the extra ones Hans organized, got restless when the princess disappeared. Someone fired a pistol. My fellows leapt out from the orchestra and . . . Dash it all!” He wiped his brow. “Start all over again.”
“But where’s Dingleby?”
“God knows. I’m a blasted fool. I should have known.”
Ashland dodged a flying policeman. “Look, I think she’s bolted. Emilie found her out, just before she came down to the library.”
“Emilie!”
“Offered her a drink of some kind, and Emilie thought it was to rid her of the baby, who I suppose would be the next blasted heir . . .”
“Baby!”
“Oh, bloody hell. We’ve got to find Dingleby!”
Olympia turned and let out a whistle. A man ran up in formal dress, one of the musicians. “Doing the best we can, sir. The damned chaps had the jump on us. We were waiting for your signal.”
“Yes, dash it. Look, Dingleby’s turned. The policemen are sorting out this mess; I want you to take your men and comb the city, do you hear me? Find Dingleby.”
“Yes, sir.”
Olympia turned back to him, stepped aside to allow a baton-swinging policeman to rush past, and said, “Right-ho. Go fetch Emilie and take her upstairs. You’re not to leave her for an instant, do you hear me? The security of all bloody Europe may hang in the balance. If we allow her to be captured . . .”
But Ashland was already off at a run, his blood turned to cold vapor in his veins. What if Dingleby had been hiding all along, had seen him take Emilie to the garden?
What if she had arranged the riot herself, had waited for it to begin, so Ashland would leave Emilie unprotected?
The key. He’d left the bloody key in the lock, so Emilie wouldn’t be trapped in case something happened to him.