How to Tame Your Duke (5 page)

“That will be all, Lucy.” Mrs. Needle’s voice was sharp.

“. . . and t’Lord knows how late His Grace will be out
this
time . . .”

“Lucy.”

A footman coughed next to Emilie’s left shoulder. Someone’s chair scraped lightly against the wooden floor. Emilie glanced up through her eyelashes and watched Lucy finger the handle of her knife, her lips pursed in a dainty pout. She mumbled something deep in her throat.

“What was that, Lucy?” snapped Mrs. Needle.

Lucy looked up. “I said, nobbut what I blame t’poor man.”

“His Grace is not a
man
, Lucy. He is a duke.” Mrs. Needle reached for the teapot and refreshed her cup. “Ye may be excused.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Lucy rose, gathered her empty plate and teacup, and left the room.

Mrs. Needle picked up the sugar tongs and selected a lump. Her fingers were clean and round tipped, the nails trimmed nearly to the quick. “Ye will pardon us, Mr. Grimsby. We’ve all served together since His Grace first came to live here, and many afore. It makes us all a little overfamiliar.”

“Not at all, madam. I quite understand.”

Footsteps thumped down the nearby stairs, and a moment later the black-and-white figure of Simpson the butler filled the doorway with correctness. “His Grace has finished breakfast,” he announced, and the maids picked up their teacups in unison and drained them.

Mrs. Needle wiped her mouth and stood. “Girls, clear t’breakfast room. Jane, ye may set another place for Lionel. Mr. Simpson, how is His Grace this morning?” There was something oddly warm and solicitous in her voice.

Emilie had finished her tea. Her breakfast sat in lumps in her belly. From the corner of her eye, she watched Simpson approach, saw his gaze rest for an instant on the spot of marmalade on the tablecloth next to her plate.

“His Grace is well enough,” said Simpson, sitting down at the head of the table with a flip of his tails. He reached for his teacup and said, without preamble, in his crackling voice, “Mr. Grimsby, when it’s convenient, you may attend His Grace in the study. One of the footmen will show you the way.”

*   *   *

T
he Duke of Ashland stood by a tall window, cup and saucer in hand. He turned when Emilie entered, and the unexpected sunshine gilded the left side of his face, the perfect side, casting the rest in shadow.

“Good morning, Mr. Grimsby,” he said. “Yorkshire appears to be welcoming your arrival in a most unseasonable fashion.”

That voice of his! Emilie had thought she’d only imagined it, or that its richness derived from the close quarters of the taproom and the carriage. But this room was large, its ceilings high, and still Ashland’s voice made the air dance.

“I’m grateful for the warm welcome I’ve received throughout your house, Your Grace.”

Ashland stepped away from the blinding sunlight at the window. Emilie held back her breath. He was wearing a black half-mask over his useless eye and scarred cheek, giving him a distinctly piratical air, and the close-cropped hair that she had assumed last night to be a very pale blond was actually silver white.

She had never seen anyone so extraordinary.

“I hope my staff has been courteous. You had breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.”

He set down the cup on the corner of his desk and reached with his left hand into his watch pocket, and only then did Emilie notice that the cuff of his right sleeve was empty.

Her eyes widened and flew to his face. Emilie had been trained since girlhood to remain polite and impassive, no matter how jarring or extraordinary the sight in front of her, but this man, all of him—his size, his physical beauty, his voice, his white hair, his scars, his empty cuff—was too much. Her wits had scattered about the room.

Ashland consulted his watch. “My son is at that time of life when a young man sleeps late and rises late. I have had a breakfast tray sent to his room, however, and at nine o’clock I shall expect you to begin his studies in the schoolroom.” He looked up and smiled, and the hint of warmth made the backs of Emilie’s knees turn to India rubber. “With or without the boy himself.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered. She pushed her spectacles up her nose. Why couldn’t she find her voice?

Ashland had been to war, Olympia had told her. He’d seen action in some remote part of India, before returning to England to assume his title. Undoubtedly he had been injured there; thus the scars and the empty cuff and possibly even the white hair. Physical shock could do such things. It was all perfectly natural.

“Yes, sir,” she repeated, putting more muscle into it.

“Very good. Would it disturb you at all if I were to come in and observe, at some point in the afternoon? Solely to judge my son’s progress, I assure you, and not your own ability.” His voice resonated with command, the way it had with Freddie last night, and Emilie knew once more that he was not asking a question.

“Of course not. You have every right.”

Ashland replaced his watch in his pocket and picked up his cup. “Do you drink coffee, Mr. Grimsby?”

“I do not,” she said. “I am accustomed to tea.”

“I picked up the habit abroad, and I’m afraid I can’t seem to shift it. I hope you don’t mind. In any case, if you have a moment, I should like to sit down and review your planned course of study.” Ashland gestured to the chair before the desk and walked around to find his own. Despite his great frame, he moved like an African cat. Like one of the leopards in the Berlin zoo, noiseless and swift, pacing with restless grace along the perimeter of his cage. “The Duke of Olympia, by the way, recommends you highly. Do you come from him recently?”

Emilie settled herself in the chair and resisted the urge to touch her whiskers, which were itching fiercely. Ashland watched her with his beautiful ruined face, his impassive face, and her nerves vibrated to a keen pitch. Keep as close as possible to the truth, Olympia had instructed her. “Yes, sir. I have the honor of informing Your Grace that he was in excellent health, not two days ago.”

“I am delighted to hear it. You’re a fortunate young man, to have such a patron.”

“Yes, sir. We are related, on my mother’s side.”

“His Grace does take care of his own,” said Ashland. His hands—his
hand
—was in his lap. At the edge of her senses, Emilie sensed a faint frisson of tension under his calm.

“He is all that is kind.” Emilie knit her hands together.

“Kind. Yes.” Below the duke’s black leather half-mask, a muscle twitched, as if he were holding back a smile. “I bear no blood relation to him at all, and yet he watches over my interests in London with an almost paternal care. I believe he likes the role. In ancient times, I daresay he would have acquired a kingdom.”

Emilie smiled at the image of Olympia on his throne, dispensing favors and plotting campaigns. “You know him well, I see. How did you two become acquainted?”

Ashland studied her without answering, and Emilie realized belatedly that the question was impossibly personal, not at all the sort of question a tutor would ask his employer. She had forgotten herself already. The blood prickled in her cheeks.

“Oh, the usual channels,” Ashland said at last. He lifted his left hand and waved it negligently. “He took an interest in me, early in my career, when I was a mere lieutenant in the Guards. But we stray from the matter at hand. The examinations, if you’ll recall, take place in only five months, and while I admit his lordship is far too clever for his own good, I doubt that cleverness alone will convince the dons to accept him at such an early age.”

Emilie gathered herself. Voice low, voice calm. Inhabit Grimsby.
Become
Grimsby. “If I may ask, Your Grace, why exactly is he trying for a place so soon? Might he not benefit from another year or two of private study before university?”

Ashland squared the single sheet of paper against his leather blotter. “It was my son’s own idea, Mr. Grimsby. I expect he wishes to escape.”

“Escape, sir?”

Ashland looked up, and his single perfect eye was ice blue as he regarded her. “Yes, Mr. Grimsby. Escape Yorkshire, escape this rather large and chilling house, escape the uninteresting company of his father.”

“I doubt that, sir. You don’t strike me as uninteresting at all.”

A small movement disturbed the corner of Ashland’s mouth. “How kind, Mr. Grimsby. Nevertheless, my son wishes to try for a place at Oxford, and I have agreed to assist him with his preparation.”

Emilie parted her lips to say something appropriate, something obliging. He was, after all, her employer, and she was required to please him. But just then a draft brushed her cheek, frigid and untouched by the determined fire at the other end of the room, and Emilie heard herself say, “Do you
want
him to pass his examinations, sir?”

Ashland’s white head startled back an inch or two. “I beg your pardon?”

Another blunder.
Emilie flushed. She had performed her role so well yesterday, so grave and reserved, keeping every word and action under the strictest control. Why did she keep forgetting herself with
this
man, the one whom she must above all others keep without suspicion? But the words could not be called back. She went on bravely: “That is, do you wish him to leave your house and attend university next year?”

“What an extraordinary question, Mr. Grimsby.”

“I didn’t mean to pry, of course . . .” Emilie began.

“Yes, you did.”

“. . . but of course it is a tutor’s business to understand his pupil’s motivations, in order to better design the course of study.”

Ashland’s eyebrow arched. Emilie resisted the urge to fidget, to push her spectacles up the bridge of her nose; to tug at her whiskers, which grew steadily itchier under the duke’s gaze.

At last Ashland reached for the fountain pen in its holder at the top of the blotter. He shook it with a single brisk stroke, set the nib to the paper before him, and began to write, with his left hand curled awkwardly around the pen and his empty right cuff braced at the side. He spoke without looking up. “Your
business
, Mr. Grimsby, is to prepare my son for his entrance examinations in five months’ time. You shall conduct this
business
as you see fit. The staff and conveniences of this house are entirely at your disposal. Do you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A horse shall be provided for your use. I encourage you to enlist a groom in your explorations, however, as the surrounding terrain is notably treacherous. Is there anything else you require?”

“No, sir.”

He looked up. His gaze was hard. “Then you may go, Mr. Grimsby. I shall be upstairs later today to observe your progress.”

Emilie’s back straightened. She was perfectly prepared to make allowances for the duke’s misfortunes, which might make anyone hard and abrupt, and for the subservient relationship she bore to him.
Remember
, Miss Dingleby had said, schooling the three sisters in Olympia’s attic last week,
that you are not princesses anymore. You are commoners. You are employed to perform tasks to your superior’s satisfaction. You will be subject to his demands and his unvarnished opinions, and you must submit to them.
Emilie had repeated those words to herself last night and again this morning, as she attached her whiskers to the sides of her face with the special glue Miss Dingleby had given her.

You must submit to him.

Still, she didn’t have to enjoy it.

“There is one thing, sir,” Emilie said stiffly.

“Yes?”

“Apart from my duties, may I consider my time my own?”

Ashland fingered his pen. “I suppose so.”

“I may, for example, venture into the village from time to time?”

“As you wish. I regret there is not more to entertain you.” Ashland’s voice grew a touch silkier, a touch more pointed.

The blood began to simmer in Emilie’s ears. “As for entertainment, I require very little, sir, other than a book. But I do have affairs of my own, which require my attention from time to time.” She stood and stared down at Ashland’s white head. “If you will excuse me, I believe I shall begin work at once.”

“Admirable, Mr. Grimsby. Good morning.” Ashland returned his attention to the desk before him.

The scratch of pen against paper dismissed her.

F
rederick Russell, Lord Silverton, sauntered into the schoolroom at half past ten o’clock, dressed for riding. “What ho,” he said, flinging his scarlet jacket on a nearby chair. “You’re up early, Grimsby.”

Emilie removed her spectacles, wiped them, replaced them on her nose. She took out her pocket watch and tilted it toward the window. “It is half past ten o’clock, your lordship. Your lessons began at nine. I regret you have missed them all.”

Freddie’s eyes popped wide behind his own spectacles. His hair was askew, clearly unbrushed, and the bones of his thin shoulders propped up his white shirt like tent poles. “I beg your pardon?”

Emilie slid her watch back into place. “Have you broken fast, sir? Before we begin each morning, I require you to have eaten. One cannot properly concentrate on an empty stomach.”

“I say, Grimsby . . .”

“
Have
you, sir? Eaten?”

“Why, yes, but . . .”

“Then sit down and we will discuss your plan of study. I understand you drink coffee. I have instructed Mrs. Needle to have a tray sent up at eleven. And Lord Silverton?”

Freddie slumped into the chair. “Yes, Grimsby?”

“It is
Mr.
Grimsby. Please put on your coat and fasten your necktie properly.”

“Dash it, Grimsby . . .”

“Dash it,
Mr.
Grimsby.”

“Dash it
all
, Mr. Grimsby,” Freddie said, but he reached for his coat.

By the time the coffee arrived at exactly eleven o’clock, borne on a silver tray by a simpering Lucy, Emilie had confirmed what she already suspected. Lord Silverton was clever, brilliant really, quick to grasp ideas and connect them with one another. He was also undisciplined, studying what he enjoyed with obsessive fervor and avoiding what he did not. He did his reading at night—into the morning, if absorbed—and took no notes. If a concept proved particularly difficult or unruly, he moved on to the next.

In short, his examiners would shred him to pieces.

“Your examiners will shred you to pieces, your lordship,” Emilie said. “Thank you, Lucy. You may go.”

Freddie leaned back in his chair and pushed a hand through his hair. His eyes wandered to Lucy’s departing derriere. “Rubbish. I daresay they’ll all be sleeping in their chairs.”

He was probably quite right, but Emilie knew better than to agree. “Your Greek is not unworthy, but your Latin is execrable.”

“My mathematics, however, are excellent.” He reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup to the brim. “Coffee?”

Emilie eyed the black liquid with suspicion. “Perhaps a little.”

He filled the other cup and picked up the cream pot. “That’s how I win at cards, you know. Mathematics.” He tapped his temple with a teaspoon. “I keep track of what’s played, calculate probabilities. Easy enough, once you have the knack.”

“But not without risk. You must have known they’d think you were cheating.” Emilie added a careful splash of cream and a lump of sugar. She sniffed the results hesitantly. It did smell rather nice. Earthy, rich.

“Go on. It doesn’t bite. Unless you take it black, of course, as Pater does. Ah, that’s the stuff. Particularly handsome when one’s been up late.”

Emilie sipped and shuddered. “He drinks this
black
? With nothing at all?”

“He’s the do-or-die sort, you know. He probably thinks it’s dishonorable to add cream. Muddying the purity of the coffee or some such. Is that lemon cake?” Freddie stretched one gangly arm over the tray and snatched the cake.

“Plate and napkin to your left, Lord Silverton.”

“Oh, right. He’s not a bad sort, Pater,” Freddie said, somewhat muffled by cake, “but he’s rather implacable. Take his face, for example.”

Emilie dabbed her mouth, remembered herself, and wiped with gusto. “What about his face?”

“Ha-ha. What splendid manners you’ve got, Grimsby.
Mr.
Grimsby, that is.” He winked. “I mean, of course, that hideous mug of Pater’s, the one that makes children scream in terror and angels faint away. For twelve years now, since he returned home from whatever godforsaken adventure blew his face apart and took his hand for good measure, he hasn’t left Yorkshire, hasn’t received visitors, hasn’t attended a single event of a social nature. And do you know why?”

“It’s no business of mine, your lordship,” said Emilie, ears straining for more.

“Of course it’s not, but I’ll bet you’re desperate to know, aren’t you? You might think it’s pride—that’s what I used to think, and I daresay that’s something to do with it. But as time dragged on, and I began to acquire a bit of wisdom”—here Freddie gave a worldly sixteen-year-old shrug—“I began to realize it was nothing more than sheer bullheaded stubbornness. He’d begun by not going out, and by God he wasn’t going to change his mind midstream. And then my mother bolted . . .”

“Lord Silverton,
really
. These are hardly confidences for a stranger.” Emilie ventured another sip of coffee. How strange; she was feeling rather dizzy.

“Rot. Someone’s got to tell you, so you don’t go about making awkward remarks. Nobody likes an awkward remark, Mr. Grimsby.” Freddie grinned. “I was only four years old at the time, so I hardly remember anything, only that she was quite remarkably beautiful. Or perhaps I don’t even remember that; it’s just what people have said.
Oh, the duchess, she was beautiful, she was legendary.
Well, they put it about that she’d gone abroad for her health, but the fact is she bolted, pure and simple. And if there
were
any possibility of changing Pater’s mind about entering society again, it died right there. Cake?”

“No, thank you.” Emilie set her cup aside. The clouds had blown in, deadening the sunlight that had spilled so cheerfully through the window at nine o’clock, and the room was turning chilly. She rose and went to the coal scuttle. Clearly the schoolroom was not in much use. The lemony scent of a recent scrubbing could not quite disguise the mustiness, the old-wood smell of a space unaccustomed to human habitation. “She
is
still alive, however?” Emilie heard herself ask, as she tossed a few pieces of black coal atop the sizzling pile in the grate.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You’d have to ask Pater.” Freddie’s voice was thick with additional cake.

“Of course I shan’t ask your father. It’s not my concern.”

“I don’t personally care one way or the other, really. I daresay she’s not losing sleep over me and Pater, wherever she is.”

Emilie sat back down and straightened her lapels. “Then she is a fool.”

“I do wonder what she was like, though.” Freddie leaned back and drained the last of his coffee. “They were most spectacularly in love at first, I’m told. Honeymoon in Italy, though as I was born nine months after the wedding I don’t suppose they saw much of the sights, if you see what I mean. Then Pater’s regiment was called up, and that was that.”

Beneath her whiskers, Emilie’s cheeks burned. “That will be quite enough, your lordship.”

“Indeed.”

The single word boomed through the air like a cannon shot. Emilie jumped, spilled her coffee, and whipped around.

The Duke of Ashland filled the open doorway, his hand on the latch, his white hair glowing above his masked face.

*   *   *

T
he taut room snapped into panic at Ashland’s appearance, like a platoon caught malingering by a sergeant. A useful skill, this ability to move and observe without being perceived. He owed Olympia that, at least.

Freddie leapt to his feet; his chair toppled to the floor behind him. “Sir!”

On the other side of the table, Mr. Grimsby set down his coffee cup and rose. His fingers curled around the edge of the table: shaking, probably. Poor fellow. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, in his gruff little voice.

Ashland stalked into the room, closing the door behind him with a decisive click of the latch. The sound helped to quell the sick feeling in his chest.

They were most spectacularly in love at first.

“I see your studies are proceeding apace, Frederick,” he said.

Freddie picked up his chair, righted it, and sat down. “Oh, don’t be cross and sack poor Mr. Grimsby, Pater. Was only making conversation over coffee. I assure you, he was putting me through my paces at a smart clip a few minutes ago.”

“No doubt.” Ashland angled his body over the table and ran over the papers and books clustered about the coffee tray. He picked up a sheet. “Are these your Latin conjugations, Frederick?”

She bolted, pure and simple.

Ashland locked his fingers to keep them from crushing the paper.

“Hideous, I know. I’ve already been broken to bits by Mr. Grimsby. On the other hand, he’s quite impressed by my maths.”

“He should be.” Ashland laid the paper back on the table. “Well, Mr. Grimsby? What’s your assessment?”

Grimsby’s face still glowed pink beneath that startling bush of wheat-colored whiskers. He cleared his throat. “Lord Silverton is immensely clever, Your Grace, as I suspected, but he will need to study with a great deal more discipline over the coming months. He’s not yet sixteen, and his education has been haphazard at best; meanwhile, he will be competing for places against older public schoolboys who have been drilled in Latin every day for the past eight or ten years. I suppose his name will help him slide through . . .”

“I say,” Freddie muttered.

“. . . but I doubt his lordship wishes the lucky accident of his birth to nudge out some better-qualified young man from the chance for advancement.” Grimsby’s eyes gleamed as he said this, as if he actually cared about the fate of that deserving schoolboy shunted aside for the son of a duke.

Ashland raised his eyebrows. “Well phrased, Mr. Grimsby. Frederick? Do you agree?”

“When you put it that way,” Freddie said sulkily. “I’m not a complete rotter, after all.”

“I believe Mr. Grimsby is quite right. Britain’s great strength is her ability to discover and encourage boys of exceptional ability and allow them to better their condition in life through hard work and application to duty. Nowhere else in Europe can a talented boy of little or no social connection advance himself to prominence, and the result on the Continent is stagnation, decadence, and tyranny.” Ashland tapped his finger against the topmost book in Grimsby’s stack, a neatly bound edition of Newton’s
Principia
.

“I say, Pater,” Freddie grumbled. “That’s coming it rather thick.”

Grimsby’s face had flushed to an even more furious shade of red. “That is not altogether the case, your lordship. I would not go so far as to say tyranny.”

“Tyranny and disorder,” Ashland said. “Take the recent case of this principality in Germany, this Holstein-Schweinwald. A trifling, backward state, to be sure; quite second-rate and of very little interest to the world at large . . .”

“Backward!”

“Yet even there, an absolute ruler, a despot, attempts to rearrange the succession to suit his own interests, to prevent the natural growth of a democratic form of law . . .”

“Was it fair, Your Grace, that the succession must die out because the prince’s children happened to be girls instead of boys? Britain herself, and by extension half the world, is ruled by a woman.” Grimsby’s voice shook with passion.

“Your views are admirable, Mr. Grimsby, but I beg leave to remind you that Great Britain is ruled by her people, as you well know. Queen Victoria, God bless and keep her, has only a ceremonial role in governing our country. But we are not here to discuss political theory, after all. We are here to discuss Lord Silverton’s application to his studies, and his duty to earn his place at university by merit alone.” Ashland picked up the book and gave it a little slap.

Grimsby dropped his eyes to the papers in front of him. He squared them neatly. “We are quite in agreement on that point, Your Grace. I shall do my best to ensure that his lordship is prepared.”

“Very good.” Ashland took a chair, the sturdiest available, and drew it out from the table so that his right side would be shadowed from the window. The adjustment was so instinctive, he hardly noticed he made it. “Carry on, then,” he said, with a wave. “Simply pretend I’m not here.”

Grimsby’s large blue eyes blinked slowly behind his spectacles. “Your Grace?”

“I have arranged my schedule to allow an hour or two of quiet observation.” Ashland smiled benignly at them both.

“Pater, it’s not possible. You’re about as easy to ignore as a bull elephant.”

Ashland fingered the edge of his empty cuff. His stump was aching more than usual this morning; perhaps the weather was changing, winter was coming on. “Nevertheless,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pater . . .”

“Your lordship’s father is perfectly welcome to stay and observe,” said Mr. Grimsby. “He is, after all, paying for your instruction.”

Ashland folded his arms and studied Grimsby. He had always considered himself a decent judge of character, with a few glaring exceptions, but he could not quite make out the young man. He had a certain freshness about him, a dewy innocence. His fair hair gleamed beneath a layer of sleek pomade; his skin still radiated surprise at Ashland’s unexpected entrance. Were it not for those whiskers, curling luxuriously about the young man’s jaw, he might have seemed like a youth, hardly older than Freddie himself.