How to Tame Your Duke (7 page)

“Pater? Oh, he don’t mind it a bit. He likes to make out that he’s a dreadful brute, but really he’s nothing but a pussycat on the inside.”

“That’s because he loves you. You’re all he has.”

“Oh, rubbish.” Freddie shifted the reins to one hand and flicked the rain off his cap. “I didn’t mean that he’s the tender sort, only that his bark is worse than his bite.”

“You’re mixing metaphors. We were discussing cats.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I’m a bother to him, really. A reminder of my mother, I suppose. He lets me get away with that sort of impertinence because I’m not worth the trouble of scolding.” Another flick of the cap. “Hence the plot to head off early to university.”

“
Your
plot.”

“He didn’t object, did he?”

The horses walked on,
thump-thump
against the low patter of the drizzle, the creak of leather. Emilie burned to ask Freddie where Ashland was going, what on earth could bring him out on horseback on such a night. A lark, Freddie had said. Fourth Tuesday of the month.

Perhaps she didn’t want to know.

But Freddie broke the silence with sudden force. “Anyway, he hasn’t a leg to stand on, does he? Off on his own immoral philanderings, isn’t he?”

“Really, your lordship.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s off to meet some woman, his mistress I suppose, right there at his own hotel. Goes every month, rain or shine. Not that I blame him, of course, but he needn’t come off so high and holy.”

Emilie saw, for an instant, a naked Ashland heaving in some strumpet’s bed. His back was arched and gleaming; her breasts were bare. “Perhaps you’re mistaken.”

“No, I’m not. I asked one of the maids. The woman’s escorted up the back stairs, to the suite at the rear. Keeps things respectable, you see. He joins her there. Stays a couple of hours and goes home.” Freddie laughed. “Good old Pater. Doesn’t waste time, even in sport.”

“There might . . .” Her horse was tossing its head. Emilie swallowed and looked down, to where her hands were clenched on the reins. She loosened her grip, finger by finger. “Your father seems to me a man of principle. There might be another explanation.”

Freddie laughed again. “You’re a funny old fellow, Mr. Grimsby. Another explanation! Ha-ha. Look here, I’m dashed hungry. Let’s see if these animals can stretch their legs, shall we? Or else it will be dark before we get back, and Mrs. Needle, for one, is more than happy to scold the living daylights out of me.” He urged his horse into a trot.

Emilie’s brain said
yes, of course
and sent the necessary communication down her spine. But her body did not want to obey. Her legs, the muscles of her calves, remained heavy and immobile. Almost as if her body did not wish to tighten about the horse’s girth; as if it had no desire to quicken the pace at which they pulled away from the town of Ashland Spa, from Ashland Spa Hotel, from the Duke of Ashland himself.

As if her body wanted, instead, to weigh itself into a pivot and turn the horse around. To intercept Ashland before he reached his destination.

She forced her heels into the horse’s side. He sprang forward into a trot, and the motion caused a little tear to open up inside Emilie’s rib cage, right underneath her inside jacket pocket and the letter from the post office. It stung her all the way back to Ashland Abbey.

L
ucy was appalled.

“Oh, Mr. Grimsby! Ye’re fair soaked!” She clutched her hands together. “Ye must go straight up and doff yer things, and I’ll draw ye a hot bath afore ye catch yer death.”

“What about me, Lucy?” said Freddie. “I’m just as wet.”

She bobbed an obedient curtsy, but her look was murderous. “I’m being to tell Jane to draw your bath and all, your lordship, though I
knows
whose fault it all is.”

“I protest! Grimsby was the one who wanted to ride through town! I was all for a virtuous pint of ale at the dry old Anvil.”

“T’Anvil!” Lucy drew in a shocked breath. “Taking dear Mr. Grimsby to t’Anvil! Oh, yer lordship! T’very idea.” She turned to Emilie with limpid eyes. “Do ye let me have yer wet things directly, Mr. Grimsby. I’m being to dry and brush them mysen.”

Emilie blinked. Lucy’s eyelashes trembled.

“Yes, of course. Thank you, Lucy,” she said.

“She fancies you,” Freddie said, sotto voce, as they climbed the stairs.

“Nonsense.”

“You’d be a splendid catch for her. Get her out of Yorkshire, for one thing.” Freddie’s elbow poked Emilie’s ribs.

“I
assure
you I have no such intention.”

They had reached the landing. Down the hall would lie the family bedrooms; upstairs, two more flights, Emilie’s room awaited her. Lucy had already scampered up to run the hot water. Freddie glanced at the staircase and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, Mr. Grimsby.
Lucy
has the intention. And once the girls have designs, why, it’s all over for the poor old chaps, mate. Might as well have your neck measured for the iron collar.”

“And where did you obtain this worldly wisdom, your lordship?” Emilie asked, hand on the rail.

He winked. “Why, from Pater, of course! How do you think my mother shackled him at twenty-two years, and still a Guardsman?” He took off his dripping cap and shook it, sending a heedless spray across the marble floor. “Best of luck to you up there, Mr. Grimsby.”

It was easy to find the bathroom upstairs. Steam billowed past the door in wanton clouds, and Lucy’s voice carried cheerfully above it all. “Ye can come straight in, Mr. Grimsby! His Grace had t’hot water pipes put in straight after he came to t’abbey. It’s just like one of them fancy hotels.”

The water shut off, and Lucy emerged from the bathroom, hair frizzing from under her cap. “There we are! I’ve putten out yer towel and a bit of soap. Ye can hand me yer wet things through t’door.” She beamed at Emilie hopefully.

“Yes, of course.” Emilie’s mouth was dry. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. The sky outside the little square window was black, and rain gleamed in tiny drops against the glass. Lucy had lit two candles—wax, not tallow—and laid out a white Turkish towel. Ashland evidently took good care of his staff.

The water lapped against the enamel sides of the tub, curling with steam. Emilie removed the letter from her jacket pocket and read the short lines swiftly.

Both birds have landed safely. Visit next month as scheduled. D.

Emilie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her sisters were safe, at least for now.

She took off her cap and gloves and coat, unwound her scarf, and unbuttoned her trousers. She set her shoes neatly next to the chair and opened the door a crack. “Here you are,” she said, handing Lucy her wet clothes.

“Thank ye, sir. Oh! Don’t forget yer linens, sir! I’m being to put them in t’laundry directly.”

Emilie closed the door again and unbuttoned her long, damp shirt. The fibers stuck to her skin stubbornly; she had to peel it off. Drawers next, and then she slung the entire lot over her hand and opened the door a bare two inches.

“Sir, I can’t quite . . .”

Emilie opened the door a trifle more and shoved the linens out by force.

“There we are, sir. What lovely hands ye’ve got, sir, if ye don’t mind my saying.”

“Thank you, Lucy.”

“So many young men never do bother with their hands, but yers are clean and nice nor a lady’s, Mr. Grimsby. I daresay they’re fair sensitive, aren’t they, Mr. Grimsby?”

“They are as any other hands, Lucy. Thank you.”

Lucy shifted her feet. Emilie sank farther behind the door. “If t’water cools overmuch, ye can open t’tap for more hot water,” Lucy said. “Ye knows how to open t’tap, in course, Mr. Grimsby?”

Emilie thought of her bathroom at home, in which the latest plumbing had been installed a few years ago as a wedding gift to the Prince’s newest bride. She had been dainty and violet-eyed and rather silly, and about the same age as Emilie. Hopes for an heir had run very high. “Yes, of course,” Emilie said.

“Because I can show ye, if ye’re not certain.”

“I’m quite certain. Thank you, Lucy.”

“Do ye see where I did laiden t’towel, Mr. Grimsby? Because I . . .”

“Yes, Lucy. I see the towel, and the soap, and the candles. You’re very clever. Thank you. That will be all.”

“Ye can ring t’bell when ye’re done, Mr. Grimsby. It’s right there on t’wall. I’ll bring yer supper straight up to yer room, nice and hot.”

“Thank you, Lucy.”

Lucy’s footsteps sounded at last down the hall. Emilie closed the door and sagged against it.

But only for an instant. The steam beckoned her, warm and alluring. She turned the lock on the door and unwrapped her breasts from their binding. They sprang free with a relief Emilie felt to her bones.

A clock ticked calmly on the wall, just above the gentle rattle of the rain. Emilie stepped naked into the bath and slid her body under the water.

The warmth made her chilled skin tingle. She lay unmoving for a moment, eyes closed, knees bent, arms floating. The bath was not large, but it was deep enough to cover her to the neck, like a cocoon. Her whiskers tickled her cheek. She longed to take them off, but then she must put them on again before she left the bathroom, and that would be impossible without the glue.

Lord, the bath felt good. As if she were being caressed with warmth in every aching corner of her body. She opened her eyes and looked down at herself, her hidden female form. Her breasts bobbed at the surface, the tips hard against the cool air. They were not especially large, but they were round and firm and well shaped, and she was happy to see them freed of the long linen bandage that flattened them under her shirt. With one hand she touched her right breast, cupped it, lifted it like a plump little island from the water.

What would Ashland think of them, if he could see her now?

She gasped and put her hand down. Where had
that
thought come from?

From seeing him on the road, of course. Off to his mistress, to his monthly night of copulation. He was probably touching the woman’s naked breasts now, holding them, caressing them.

That was why Emilie had thought of it.

Emilie shut her eyes again. She knew a great deal about the act of carnal union, far more than her family could have imagined. Well, possibly Miss Dingleby could have imagined. Miss Dingleby had seen the books stacked on Emilie’s bedside table, and knew what they contained behind their scholarly Latin titles. Miss Dingleby had even discreetly added to the stack. Emilie was curious, and she was studious, and of course she had wandered through her father’s ancient library and founds things of tremendous interest to a curious and studious girl who had never once even been kissed.

Whose virgin body belonged not to herself, but to the state of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, to be preserved and used and given away according to its interests.

Who, beneath her quiet and dutiful exterior, craved adventure.

Well, she had adventure now, hadn’t she? She had her daring life, her disguise, even her books and her studying. No stiff ceremony now. No father with his disapproving glances, the tightening of his lips when she had not quite measured up to the rigid standards of a princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof. Her father was dead now, lying entombed in Holstein Cathedral, and she was free.

Emilie opened her eyes and looked down at her body, innocent and untouched, curving and feminine, wavering beneath the candlelit water. She wondered what Ashland’s mistress looked like. Did the duke prefer tall goddesses or dainty china dolls? Slender women or buxom? Clever or silly? Did he take the trouble to talk to the lady in his rumbling voice, to touch her with his massive fingers, to kiss her with his dented lip? Or was it simply a transaction to him, a frictional meeting of the necessary parts?

The water was cooling. Emilie thought about opening the hot water tap, but she was afraid her whiskers might suffer. Instead, she rose to a sitting position and reached for the soap.

Not that it mattered what sort of woman Ashland preferred, or how he made love to her. The subject had nothing to do with Emilie. She had only thought of it because they had encountered him on the road, on his way to his mistress, and hers was a curious nature.

That was all.

*   *   *

T
he Duke of Ashland, having returned home and finished his nightly sherry in a single long draft, was walking down the hall to the main staircase when he noticed a faint light creeping from the open door of the library.

Surely it couldn’t be Freddie. Freddie might stay up to all hours on one scholarly mania or another, but he liked to do so in the comfort and privacy of his own room.

Grimsby, then.

Ashland prepared to continue down the hall. Awkward things, midnight conversations with staff, and he was in no mood to talk at the moment, with his clothes still damp from the penetrating drizzle on the way home from Ashland Spa Hotel. Why did he persist in these monthly adventures? As always, he had left the room restless and dissatisfied with himself, full of disgust and yearning, vowing it would be the last time and knowing it would not.

The last thing he wanted now was contact with another human being.

But his right foot did not strike down on the marble floor as expected, propelling his body forward down the hall. Instead, his left arm moved of its own accord and pushed open the library door.

Mr. Grimsby shot from his chair with a start. “Your Grace!”

“I beg your pardon.” Ashland gestured with his arm. “Pray be seated. I had no wish to disturb you.”

Grimsby’s hand dropped to the open volume on the table before him. “I hope I haven’t presumed, sir. I was unable to sleep, and thought a little reading might settle my mind.”

“My library is at your disposal. Books are meant to be read, after all.” Ashland found himself walking into the half-lit gloom, and the two candles on the table wavered in surprise. “
Do
sit, Mr. Grimsby. I don’t stand on ceremony after midnight.”

Grimsby dropped into his chair and watched Ashland warily as he strolled to the other side of the room. “Did you have a satisfactory evening, sir?”

Ashland ran his index finger along a row of leather bindings. The titles slid unseen past his eyes. Was that a trace of irony in the tutor’s voice? “Not particularly. And you, Mr. Grimsby? You said you were unable to sleep. I hope you’re not uncomfortable. You are quite free to change rooms, to order anything you like. We are earnest for you to stay.”

“I have hardly yet proved my worth.”

Ashland turned and leaned against the shelf behind him. Grimsby sat up straight, shoulders square, chin brave against the candlelight. “At this point, we have little choice. You have us at your mercy, Mr. Grimsby.”

“You might wait another year before his lordship sits for his examinations.” The brave chin jutted a trifle.

Ashland stifled an admiring smile. He remembered a young trooper once, scarcely eighteen and newly joined, with just such a jutting chin. What had happened to that young man? Ashland didn’t want to know. He drew in a long breath, and the scent of the library laid upon his soul, familiar and comforting: leather and lemon oil, dust and wood. “We might. What are you reading, if I may be so vulgar as to ask?” He nodded at the book and crossed his arms.

“A novel, in fact. Miss Brontë.”

“Well, well! Making yourself familiar with your surroundings, are you? Though I assure you, life at Ashland isn’t nearly so romantic.”

“The mood is captured well, however. The bleakness, the grand scale of it.”

“My wife read them all constantly, over and over. That’s her copy, I expect.”

Grimsby made a startled movement, flipping the cover over. His eyes widened at the inscription on the frontispiece. “Oh! I beg your pardon.”

“There’s no need. It’s only a book, after all. Leather and paper.” Ashland pushed himself away from the shelf and walked toward the table where Grimsby sat, whiskers twitching with dismay. “I hope my son hasn’t impressed you with gothic tales of the family. The duchess’s name is not forbidden here.” He laid himself into the opposite chair and stretched his legs across the darkened rug.

“It is an awkward subject, however.”

“It is simply a fact. The duchess left this house over a decade ago, and we have since reconciled ourselves to the loss.” He watched for Grimsby’s reaction, but the young man only stared down at the cover of the book, at the small gilt lettering imprinted on the leather. “Are your parents still alive, Mr. Grimsby?” he heard himself ask.