How to Tame Your Duke, page 12
He has to say no. It’s impossible. It’s unseemly. It’s . . .
Dangerous.
Ashland seemed unaware that he was about to deliver a verdict of world-shattering importance. His face betrayed no emotion at all. He folded his snowy white napkin next to his plate with dextrous movements of his left hand.
Emilie’s insides burned, but her hands were as cold as ice. Say no, she pleaded silently.
Ashland gazed at his son, and a smile—a smile!—lifted his firm lips. The same lips that had pressed against her wrist, Emilie thought. The same lips that had hovered above her hair in the quiet electricity of the sitting room at Ashland Spa Hotel.
The duke put his hand on the arm of his chair, as if preparing to rise.
“I think that’s a fine idea, Frederick,” he said. “At the very least, Mr. Grimsby will elevate the tone of the conversation, with his Greek iambics.” He turned to Emilie with his pirate’s face, managing to look both masterful and uncivilized with that black leather half-mask gleaming next to his silver hair.
“What do you say, Mr. Grimsby? We’re a dismal pair, Freddie and I, but it’s better than waiting until Boxing Day, eh?”
“I . . .” Emilie swung helplessly for an instant. She had presents for them, of course, plucked from the shops of Ashland Spa a week ago. A book for Freddie, a fountain pen for Ashland. Miss Dingleby had always offered gifts at Christmas to her charges and their parents, so Emilie had bought the tokens just in case it was expected.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Grimsby,” said Freddie. “The tree’s been put to rights. Besides, I daresay poor Lucy’s standing outside with the mistletoe this very moment, just waiting to waylay you. You’re much better off with us. Safety in numbers and so on.”
Emilie glanced in horror at the imposing door of the dining room.
She picked up her wineglass and slugged down the remainder with reckless abandon.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I should be delighted.”
TEN
It was only four o’clock on a crisp Tuesday afternoon when the Duke of Ashland mounted his horse and signaled the groom away, but it had seemed like the longest day of his life.
The entire week, in fact, had dragged along as if towing a load of Yorkshire boulders in its wake.
Only a week, since he had stood at the window of his room at the Ashland Spa Hotel and watched the carriage carry Emily away from the rear portico. Only a week, since he had peeled back Emily’s glove and pressed his impulsive lips against her pulse. Only a week, since he had sat down in his shame and misery and scribbled that hasty note, begging her to see him again. To let him bask in her sunshine again, to feel the innocent warmth of her, her knowing serenity, glowing like a beacon of promise.
His horse moved into a willing trot, and the frigid air sliced his cheeks. He hardly noticed. Physical discomfort was simply a fact, a part of his life; he had long since learned to accommodate it. To welcome it, almost, as a hardship to be overcome.
He reached the end of the long Ashland Abbey drive and turned into the lane. The wind had stilled, as if frozen in place by the sudden influx of winter; the sky above, so unnaturally pure and blue today, was already losing its color in anticipation of sunset. The sight of the white sun lowering in the east made his blood race.
The early winter evening was arriving.
Would Emily arrive, too?
He was mad. He had only known her for a pair of hours. He knew nothing of the thoughts in her head, her family, her childhood, her passions and her disappointments. He only knew that he wanted them all. He wanted them, he wanted her, so fiercely that he could hardly think of anything else. He had passed through Christmas week in a dream.
What would he do if Emily did not arrive with the sunset this evening?
His heels nudged the horse into a canter. He wouldn’t think about that. He would not even entertain that awful possibility.
It would be far better, of course, if she didn’t come to him tonight. He acknowledged that. Whatever pleasure he took from Emily would extract the most dreadful penalty from his sense of honor and duty, from the bedrock on which he had built his life in the past twelve years since Isabelle’s departure.
Ahead lay Ashland Spa, huddled into the hills. The train from York would ease into the station in forty-two minutes.
He was mad.
* * *
In another moment, Emilie was going to pick up the clock above her mantel and smash it on the floor.
That would be undignified, of course. Miss Dingleby would flatten her brow in disapproval. On the other hand, Miss Dingleby had surely never been confronted with a clock so loud and tyrannical, its ticking scratches so intrusive, its quarterly chimes so relentlessly cheerful, the whole works so worthy of the most violent annihilation.
Tick . . . tock . . . Tues . . . day . . . Tues . . . day . . . Tues . . . day . . .
“Stop it!” she said to the clock. She looked down at her right hand, which was clenching the fountain pen with enough strength to crack the enamel. A graceful pen, exactly the same color and make as the fountain pen she had given to the Duke of Ashland for Christmas. Well, well, he’d said, lifting the pen from its box, smiling, what a lovely instrument, I couldn’t have picked a finer one myself, and when Emilie had opened her box from the duke, an exact replica had lain inside.
Everyone had laughed at the coincidence—even the duke, whose laugh turned out to be genuine and pleasant and golden around the edges.
Of course. Even his laugh lured her in.
The pen wrote beautifully, too. She was presently composing a note to Miss Dingleby, and struggling to make it sound as innocuous as possible: Thank you for the lovely tea this Tuesday last; however, I feel upon reflection that the location is unsuitable for such occasions in the future . . .
She had trailed off at that, unsure what to write. Obviously she could not say because the hotel staff believes me to be its owner’s whore, or because I have carried out an assignation with my employer in one of the hotel’s private rooms.
The clock scratched on. It . . . is . . . Tues . . . day . . . what . . . will . . . you . . . do . . . it . . . is . . .Tues . . . day . . . Tues . . . day . . . Tues . . . day . . .
Emilie threw down the pen and went to the window. The incessant howling Yorkshire dankness had been swept away today by a rush of clear and frigid air from the northeast. Every detail of the landscape lay before her in almost painful detail. In the distance, a few rooftops of Ashland Spa, tucked into the moor like a handful of pebbles. The gray slate jumble of the Anvil, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Of course she wouldn’t go.
She could not voluntarily return to the back entrance of the Ashland Spa Hotel and be shown up to that quiet room. She could not choose to continue this . . . what was it? Liaison? She could not feed this shameful infatuation of hers. Starve it, and it would die.
Emilie turned from the window, but not before a speck of movement caught her eye.
She tried to resist. She fisted her hand against her side with the effort of resisting.
You are Lot’s wife, Emilie. Do not look back.
She looked back.
A man rode a horse down the Ashland Abbey drive. A large, straight-backed man in a dark coat and hat; a large, well-bred horse with an eager stride. The man looked straight ahead, but his body was pitched slightly forward, as if humming with latent energy, as if in eager anticipation of the road ahead. He guided the horse with the reins in his left hand; the end of his right arm lay upon his muscled thigh.
Dizziness swirled about Emilie’s brain. She had forgotten to breathe.
She drew in a deep and conscious gust of air and watched the duke as he turned from the drive, disappearing momentarily behind the gateposts and then reappearing at a sharp trot, his lean body moving in perfect association with the animal beneath him.
Emilie turned from the window and gripped the sill behind her with both hands. She was melting inside, her body held together only by the thunderous beat of her heart.
She could not. She must not.
She was mad, even to think it.
* * *
That there’s yer blindfold, ma’am,” said Mrs. Scruton, with a pat to the back of her head. “I hasn’t done it up too tight, has I?”
“No, not at all,” Emilie whispered. The sudden descent of total blackness made her head turn light, made her blood sing.
“He’ll be right inside, madam. Been waiting for you this hour, he has.” The housekeeper’s voice held a trace of reproach.
“I’m sorry. I had . . . I had an errand to run.”
“An errand?” A pause, heavy with disbelief. “Well, no matter. He’ll be that glad to see you at last.”
Mrs. Scruton’s hands wrapped around Emilie’s shoulders, almost motherly, and nudged her around the remembered corner. “He’s been fidgety as a schoolboy. Ringing down every few minute. Bless the Lord you’ve come at last.”
Emilie heard a knock, a rattle of the doorknob, a scrape. A breath of wind passed her face.
“Mr. Brown! She’s here.”
Emilie stepped forward, urged by Mrs. Scruton, and at once a hand surrounded hers and drew her into the room.
“Thank you, Mrs. Scruton. That will be all.”
“Ring if you need owt,” said Mrs. Scruton, and the door clicked shut.
Emilie stood without moving. Ashland stood before her, his hand holding hers; she could feel his warm immensity holding back the air, only inches away. What was he thinking? What expression did he wear, on that half-civilized face of his?
“Emilie.” He lifted her hand and touched her gloved knuckles to his lips. His voice was still low, as if under the strictest control. “Welcome. Thank you for coming this evening. I hope it was not inconvenient.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s a cold night. I hope you weren’t chilled.” He drew her forward, holding her hand as if leading her into a dance. “May I take your coat? I’ve built up the fire.”
“Yes, thank you.”
His hand left hers and went to her shoulder. He slid off one sleeve, then the other. Emilie lifted her own hands to her woolen muffler, but Ashland’s fingers set them aside. “Let me,” he said.
Emilie stood rigidly while the duke unwound her muffle, while he removed her hatpin and then her hat, with as much delicate care as if he were a lady’s maid. He adjusted the blindfold. “Comfortable?” he asked, and this time his voice seemed a little more rough, a little less strictly controlled.
“Yes.”
“May I remove your gloves?”
The question sounded unbearably intimate. She held out her hands. “Yes.”
He undid the little buttons slowly. She imagined how much trouble they must be for his single left hand; she pictured his deft fingers working each tiny mother-of-pearl nub through its tiny hole. A vibration passed between their entwined hands. Were her muscles trembling, or his?
The last button came undone; the kidskin slid endlessly down her fingers. He began on the other one, with the same excruciating care, while Emilie’s pulse ticked madly away, rather like the clock in her room, only more rapid, more insistent. Ashland’s breath filled the air between them, smelling sweet and faintly spicy, as if he’d been drinking tea. Without the dominance of her eyes, her every other sense had gained a preternatural sharpness. The wooliness of his coat, the clean brightness of his shaving soap, the pressure of his fingers on her glove, the heat of his nearby body, the slight roughness of his breathing: Each one of these perceptions struck her with clear edges, with almost visual exactness.
The glove gave way. Ashland turned her hand over and kissed her wrist, the way he had done last week; he took her other wrist and pressed his lips against the tender skin. “You don’t wear scent.”
“No. I have never liked it.”
“Come to the fire and warm yourself. I’ve had tea brought in.”
He led her forward, guided her into the sofa. “How do you take yours?” he asked politely, like a hostess in her drawing room.
Emilie felt as if she were in a dream. Had the Duke of Ashland actually just asked her how she took her tea? “With cream,” she said, “and just a little sugar.”
A slight hesitation. “Ah.”
The splash of liquid, the clink of porcelain. How awkward it must be for him. He had never seemed self-conscious about his missing hand; he performed all tasks with matter-of-factness, without any allowance for his handicap. And yet how did one pour tea and mix cream? How did one negotiate buttons and horses and shaving and writing? Every simple action, every last little chore, must require the utmost concentration.
“Here we are,” he said.
Emilie held out her hands, and the cup and saucer were placed gently into her palm. “Thank you.”
“Careful, my dear. It’s still hot.”
The tea was hot, a strong blend, just the way she liked it. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed a lovely cup of tea. She felt instantly braced, instantly equal to any challenge, even sitting in darkness on a well-cushioned sofa.
Been waiting for you this hour, he has. He’s been fidgety as a schoolboy.
Was it possible? Did she have some power over the all-powerful Duke of Ashland?
He was moving away, settling himself nearby, in the armchair, probably. Not the one in which he sat last week: the one next to the sofa, arranged companionably before the hissing fire. Emilie stretched out her feet a few inches. From the duke’s direction came another clink of porcelain. His own cup of tea, she supposed.
“You’re drinking tea?” she asked. “Not coffee?”
“Yes.” The porcelain clinked again. “How did you know I drink coffee?”
Emilie’s fingers froze around her cup. “I don’t know. I suppose you seem like the coffee-drinking sort.”
“How perceptive. You’re quite right; I do drink coffee.” Another silence. “May I offer you cake? Sandwiches?”
“No, thank you. Perhaps later.”
The word later rang softly about the room.
“May I ask you an impertinent question, madam?” he asked.
“That depends, I suppose, on the question.”
“Is Emilie your real name?”
Emilie sipped her tea and set it back in the saucer. “It is.”
“Will you allow me to know your family name?”
“I’m afraid not. And you, sir? Is Anthony Brown your true name?”
He shifted against his chair. “Anthony is my given name. Brown is not.”
“So we are equal, then, in subterfuge.”
“No, Emilie. We are not equal.” The deeper clack of saucer meeting wood. “I am at your mercy.”
“That’s not true.”
“I assure you, it is. There is nothing I would not do for you.”
Emilie set her cup into her saucer. It made a telltale rattle, and she swiftly braced the china against her lap. “You would not tell me your true name. You would not let me take off this blindfold.”
He hesitated. “Anything else.”
“Anything else is nothing at all. That is what’s essential: you yourself. You won’t give me yourself.” She could not stop the reckless words. What was she thinking? She couldn’t remove the blindfold. He would see through her disguise in an instant. This mask was infinitely more essential to her than to Ashland.
“Emilie, I cannot.” He rose from the chair and paced across the space in front of her. “If I revealed these things, you would not stay. You would never return.”
“Would that be so tragic? You could simply order another lady.”
“Not any longer.” He said the words under his breath; were it not for the blindfold, heightening her senses, she might not have heard them.
She spoke gently. “Why the blindfold, then? What are you hiding?”
He didn’t answer at once. What was he doing? Was he leaning against the mantel, perhaps, his long legs crossed? Was he watching her as she sat there, blind and defenseless on the sofa?
“I was injured, many years ago,” he said at last. “My appearance is unsettling.”
“How were you injured?”
“I was abroad. I was . . . I was a soldier, in India. Well, Afghanistan, really. We had gone over the border to . . .” He let his words hang in the air.
Emilie drank her tea. “To do what? Was there a battle?”
“There was a battle,” he said slowly, “but I was not in it. I was performing . . . reconnaissance, of a sort. I was captured.”
Emilie’s cup was empty. She reached forward to place the saucer on the perceived table before her.
“Here, let me,” said Ashland, and in an instant he was there, taking the porcelain from her fingers, his skin just brushing hers.
Captured. Emilie had always assumed that he had received his wounds in some sort of fighting: a shell perhaps, a rifle shot, an explosion that had somehow both ruined his face and taken his hand.
“Your captors injured you?” she asked.
“Yes. They wanted information, and I would not give it to them. Here, you must have cake. You’re quite pale.”
“No, I’m not hungry. I . . .”
“And you, Emilie? What brings you here to me, of all the places in the world? What injury has been done to you?” There was more rattling of porcelain; evidently he was not taking her at her word about the cake.
“Why do you think I have been injured?”
“For what other reason would a beautiful woman, a lady, possessing such obvious dignity and virtue, be reduced to meeting one such as I in a remote hotel in darkest Yorkshire?” His tone was light. He pressed a plate into her hands. “Your cake.”
“Thank you.” There was no fork. She broke off an end with her fingers and put it in her mouth. “Oh, it’s lovely. Orange?”
“Yes. The house specialty.”
She took another bite and cleared her mouth before speaking. “To answer your question, I am here because I have been separated from my family, due to a . . . a misfortune. My father was killed, and my sisters and I”—she was revealing too much, she knew, but she had to say something, had to reveal some little true corner of herself to him—“my sisters and I were sent to live with friends of the family.”
