How to Tame Your Duke, page 17
She recoiled. “A martyr!”
“You don’t have to refuse everything.”
“Obviously, I haven’t refused everything,” she said bitterly.
Ashland made some movement next to her, and his warmth abruptly withdrew from the nearby air. “I see,” he said. “As I said, the fault is mine. I take full responsibility for what occurred tonight. I ought to have restrained myself. I did not, however, and having . . . having committed the wrong, I assure you I . . .”
“Wrong!” She gestured to the bed. “This was wrong to you? I thought it was beautiful. I thought it was precious!”
“Emilie . . .”
“Go,” she said. “Just go.”
“I will not leave like this . . .”
“You will go. You can’t have everything your own way. I meet you when you ask, I follow your rules, I discard all modesty, I give myself to you in shameless abandon without even seeing you. Allow me a little pride. Allow me this one dignity, at least.” She was panting, her hands fisting at her sides. She couldn’t even direct her rage. She was shouting into open space, unable to locate him in the darkness.
Ashland said nothing. Outside the window, the wind made a strange whistling sound, piercing the still bedroom like Miss Dingleby’s finely honed stiletto.
The floorboards creaked beneath the carpet.
“Very well, then, madam.” Ashland’s low voice counterpointed the high pitch of the Yorkshire wind, unexpectedly close. “Remove the blindfold, if it offends your dignity. If you want to see what creature has taken your innocence tonight.”
Emilie froze.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Or do you wish me to take it off for you?”
The windows rattled sharply. A tiny draft reached Emilie’s cheek, too warm to have slipped in from outside. Ashland’s breath? In the darkness around her, she felt his shimmering heat, his power just out of reach, perhaps inches away.
“I . . . I cannot.” She lowered her head. “I cannot.”
“Ah. Well, there it is.”
A wave of hopelessness washed over her. Their perfect, sacred moment had been only that, after all—a moment. Someone’s voice echoed in her head, some half-drunk stepmother or another: Don’t you know, all the little beasts want is a good poke, and they’re off. Give that up, and you’ve given everything.
She turned away. “Go.”
Ashland’s hand seized her chin. “Don’t turn away from me, Emilie. I’ve told you I’m sorry; what the devil do you want from me?”
“Nothing! Nothing at all! Only to be left in peace.”
“By God, you won’t have that! A moment ago you were spending beneath me. You’re mine now, Emilie. You’re under my protection, and I’ll be damned if . . .”
“I am not yours!”
“You are, and by God, I take care of my own!” His mouth came down on hers, hard, possessive, and Emilie wanted to pull back. She wanted to put her hands on his chest and push him away, to sweep off with a haughty and well-delivered line.
But her principled objections stopped at the stem of her brain. Her lips, unaware of any insult, opened up and absorbed the force of his kiss. Her arm flung up around his neck and drew him closer. His clean scent, his rich taste were too good to refuse. Her body recognized his, remembered the pleasure of him, and wanted more.
At the instant of her acquiescence, Ashland’s kiss softened. His tongue ran along her lips, scorching her blood; he searched her out, teased and stroked her without mercy. She pressed her hips against his massive thighs, pressed her tingling breasts against the hard buttons of his waistcoat. His hand slid downward to cover the curve of her bottom with his hot palm.
“God forgive me, I want you again.” His lips crept along her jaw to her ear. “I shall take care of you, Emilie. You will let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need that. I only need this.”
“This is not enough.” He kissed her again and pulled away. “I cannot stay the night this time, Emilie, but I will make this right.”
“I don’t require . . .”
“I won’t insult you by offering money,” he said, “because you have done me an honor without price.”
“Oh, very well put.”
He said nothing. Emilie wrapped her arms under her breasts, creating a protective barrier against the chill of his absence. “I beg your pardon. That was bitterly said. I only mean that . . . that you have no obligation to me. I have come to you as an independent woman of free will. You owe me nothing for this. We are lovers, nothing more.”
Still, he said nothing, did nothing. She felt him gazing at her, boiling with emotion, laying down his hard iron bands of self-control.
“I am not practiced at this, Emilie,” he said at last, so quietly the words seemed to dissolve in the air as he said them. “I have no adroit phrases ready. But let me make something quite clear: I am not a man who takes lovers.”
Emilie’s chest constricted. “Then what do you call this? A wrong? An accident?”
“I don’t believe in accidents.” He was moving again, rustling the air. Putting on his coat, perhaps, and straightening his necktie. “Rest, Emilie. Until next week.”
“Wait, sir . . .”
But his lips were brushing her forehead, just above the seam of the blindfold, and before she could say a word, she knew from the emptiness in the air that he was gone.
* * *
If the Duke of Ashland had encountered his son’s tutor lurking about the servants’ entrance of Ashland Abbey at one o’clock in the morning, disheveled, pale, and unsteady, he would have sacked him on the spot.
Luckily, Emilie thought, skulking across the courtyard shadows with tender care for her newly breached female parts, the Duke of Ashland was wallowing in his ducal bed of guilt at the moment. She had watched his window carefully from the stables, waiting until the last light winked out at last, before hazarding the journey into the house. Her parts had protested wildly. Her parts wanted to be wallowing in bed with the duke, getting breached anew.
You are as mad as a hatter, she told herself. As thick as a tree.
She crept along next to the brick wall, remaining just outside the dim yellow block of light from the lamp in an upstairs window.
You’ve risked everything, and for what?
What was she doing here? She’d never skulked home in the dead of night in her life. That was Stefanie’s sort of lark. Mischievous, naughty, delightful Stefanie. Everybody loved Stefanie. If Stefanie were caught—which she never was—everybody would have laughed. Oh, that Stefanie. Off on a lark again. Emilie had always been the one to answer the clink of stone on their bedroom window, to go downstairs through the catacomb of service rooms and let Stefanie in through the kitchen delivery entrance, to tuck her into bed and lie next to her and listen to her stories. The village festivals, the midnight dances, the illicit sips of foam-topped hefeweizen, the sheep herded into the mayor’s public audience chamber to be discovered in the morning.
Now it was Emilie’s turn to sneak in the back entrance in the dead of night. She was dressed in trousers, she smelled like a stable, and she had just had her female parts thoroughly and passionately breached in a luxurious hotel bedroom. Blindfolded. With her employer. Her married employer. Whose child she might conceivably have . . . well, conceived.
At least there were no sheep involved.
Well, she’d wanted adventure, hadn’t she? She’d wanted freedom, and choice, and independence. Perhaps it had all proved a bit more . . . complicated, that was the word . . . a bit more complicated than she had imagined, but she’d done it.
Now all she wanted was a warm bath and a warm bed. If it were warm enough, she might even forgive it for not containing one very warm, very virile duke.
Warm bath. Warm bed. She reached for the door latch and pushed.
The door held firm.
She rattled the latch and pushed again.
No effect.
The wind whistled around the corner of the kitchen courtyard. Above her head, the winter moon broke apart a pair of clouds to illuminate the old abbey stones.
Emilie drew in a deep breath and leaned her entire body against the door. Nothing. She slammed herself against the wood with force. She kicked. She swore. She leaned again, driving with her legs, and prayed.
Locked out. To top everything off.
She swore again, a particularly explicit vulgarism.
A low whistle came from behind her, slurred and tuneless. “What the devil did you just say, Grimsby?”
Emilie’s hand froze on the latch. She straightened slowly and turned around. “Mr. Grimsby,” she said.
Frederick, Marquess of Silverton, sordid and disheveled, hat backward, scarf missing, lifted up his gloved hand to tug at his earlobe. “Mister Grimsby. I don’t b’lieve I heard you proper. That sort of thing ain’t possible. Can’t be done, without you . . . without . . . well, it can’t be done by a vert . . . verteb . . .”
“Vertebrate animal,” said Emilie. “I quite agree. My mistake. We shall consult the anatomy book in the morning for a more reasonable epithet.”
“Really, Mister Grimsby,” said Freddie, smiling lopsidedly, “a man of your inte . . . intel . . . brains. Surely you ain’t gone out of an evening without this little beauty.” His pupils worked desperately to focus. He reached one hand into his pocket and drew out a small metal object.
“The key,” said Emilie. “Of course.”
“Had a copy made m’self.” Freddie brandished it with pride. “Most prized poss . . . possess . . . thing I own. Guard it with my life. I . . . Oh damn.” He looked down at the mottled brickwork before him. “Where’s it gone?”
Emilie sighed and reached down to retrieve the key. “You are inebriated, your lordship.”
“I am not ineb . . . in . . . drunk.”
“You are, and we will discuss this in the morning. You are far too young to be indulging in drink to such a degree. I ought to have escorted you home myself. Instead, I trusted you to follow my instructions.” She fit the key into the old and half-frozen lock, praying it would turn. “I shall have to take this up with your father, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, I think not,” said Freddie.
“I think so.” The lock gave way. Emilie’s shoulders slumped in relief. She eased the door open and held her finger to her lips.
“I think not,” said Freddie, in a loud stage whisper. “B’cause I think His Al . . . Almight . . . His Grace won’t like your being out so late y’self. If you take my meaning.” He stumbled over the doorjamb, caught himself on the wall, and stood staring at the plaster for an elongated second. “I think I might be sick.”
“You should be sick. Violently sick. It would teach you a most edifying lesson, I believe.” She looked down at the key in her palm and slipped it into her coat pocket. Freddie was right, of course. She couldn’t risk the duke wondering why his son’s tutor was arriving home so late on this particular night, of all nights.
“You’re a cruel, cruel man,” Freddie said to the wall. He swiveled his head to face Emilie, his crown still propped against its fixed and stable point, forcing back his hat. His eyes squinted shut. His voice turned quiet and serious, a little pleading. “You won’t tell Pater, Mr. Grimsby, will you?”
The hallway was dim, lit only by the moonlight, which was fading quickly as the clouds resumed their rightful place in the Yorkshire sky. Emilie shut the door behind them and turned the lock. “No, I won’t tell him. But you must promise me faithfully, your lordship, that this sort of affair shall not be repeated. For one thing, it’s bad for your health. And for another thing, you might not be so lucky next time, arriving home in one piece.”
Freddie lifted an arm in dismissal. “No one would dare. They all know Pater’d . . . He’d . . .” He swallowed, looking a trifle green. “I think I’d better go upstairs.”
Emilie slung his arm over her shoulder. “Right we go, then.”
Upstairs they staggered, using the back staircase, and down the long, darkened hallway to Freddie’s room. Emilie kept her eyes fixed ahead as they passed the imposing door to the ducal chamber. “That’s it. Just a few more steps. Remember”—she panted, because Freddie’s long shanks weighed a great deal more than they appeared—“remember to drink a pitcher of water before you retire.”
“How . . . how the devil do you know about that?” Freddie muttered.
“It’s what my father always did. Here we are.”
Emilie helped him through the door. Was it her imagination, or did the place smell different at night? The same scents of old smoke and polish and leather, but laced with something else, some tang of night air. She removed Freddie’s arm from her aching shoulders. “There you are. The rest is up to you, I’m afraid.”
“You’re a trump, Grim . . . Gr . . . Oh damn.” Freddie removed his hat and gloves and tossed them in the general direction of a blue wing chair. He looked blearily at her. “I shan’t forget it.”
“See that you don’t.” She turned to leave.
“Wait! Grimsby!”
She cocked her head back. “Yes, your lordship?”
Freddie was motioning with his fingers about his face. “There’s something . . . something . . . wrong . . .”
“Are you all right, sir? Do you need a basin?” She started for the cabinet against the wall.
“No, no. I mean, yes, I b’lieve I do, godawful sick, but . . . but that . . .” He motioned about his face again, narrowed his eyes. “That ain’t it.”
“Are you in pain? Have you been hurt?”
“No, no. Jus’ a moment. It’s . . . it’s coming . . . I . . . thinking . . . thinking . . .”
Emilie removed her spectacles, wiped the lenses, and replaced them on her nose. “Don’t strain your faculties too hard, your lordship. You’ll need them in the morning. I have in mind a most rigorous . . .”
He snapped clumsily. “I’ve got it!”
“Got what, your lordship? I really must be in bed.”
Freddie pointed at Emilie’s chin. “It’s your whiskers, Grimsby. Your . . . damned old . . . whiskers. Where the devil have they gone?”
FIFTEEN
At half past four in the morning, Emilie gave up trying to sleep. She rose from her bed, dressed with clumsy fingers, stuck on her whiskers, and went downstairs to the library.
God knew she was tired enough. She’d slept a fitful hour immediately upon lying down, and then started back awake just as the duke’s body lowered itself upon hers and began to transform from skin into fur, his growl of pleasure to sharpen into a snarl. She lay awake, breathing hard, unable to move at the vivid reality of it all.
It’s your whiskers. Where the devil have they gone?
She’d told Freddie she’d shaved them. What else could she say? She could only hope that he was drunk enough to have forgotten the whole thing in the morning, or at least believe her when she denied knowledge of the episode. He was certainly drunk enough to accept the bit about the shaving without a blink of surprise. Oh, right, he’d said blearily, and turned around to vomit into the washbasin.
The day outside was still winter dark, as black as midnight, and the air was chilled. Emilie crept down the back stairs with every muscle aching. The sins of the night had come back with a vengeance: She felt as if she’d been wrung out, piece by piece, and laid out to stiffen in the sun. Between her legs, her flesh tingled and stung, scraping with acute sensitivity against the seam of her trousers.
Perhaps dresses weren’t such a nuisance after all.
The library lay on the other side of the house. The dear and comfortable library, her favorite room: Surely there she could nestle with a book in one of the wide chairs. She could lay the fire—she knew how to do that, now—and perhaps even fall asleep for a precious hour or so, before the rest of the household awakened.
She scampered down the cavernous hallway, the spine of the house, from which all the principal rooms connected. Past glowering portraits and a pair of knights sprung from some impossibly giant race—Ashland’s height was evidently not an accident of nature—and the white marble statue of Apollo, her favorite, though his essential bits had been made sacrifice at some point to delicate English sensibilities.
She was just crossing past an open doorway when a faint sound reached her ears. A rhythmic beat, sharp thumps muffled by the walls.
She turned to the door. A hint of yellow light glowed from the bottom of a long and narrow staircase.
For an instant, her dream reared up before her, more vivid than before: Ashland’s snarl, his damp fur beneath her fingers.
Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. It’s only the servants, beating carpets or . . . or churning butter. Some household chore or another.
Was that grunting? Just before each beat, almost merged together.
Emilie hesitated, poised at the top of the stairs. She looked down the hall toward the library, quiet and peaceful. Empty.
Of course this was nothing. Dreams were nothing.
She would walk down those stairs right now and prove it.
Emilie gathered her breath and took one step. And another.
The sounds continued, grunt-thump, grunt-thump, grunt-thump. Louder now, more resolved. A scent rose up from the stones, not unpleasant, slightly damp. Like a cave at the seaside.
At the bottom of the stairs, the passage went left. A rectangle of light lay upon the plain gray stones. Emilie’s last thought, as she turned the corner, was that it should have been colder down here. That the dampness held a trace of warmth.
Before her, the hall opened up into a room, lit by several oil lamps. In the center of the room danced the Duke of Ashland, barefoot, stripped to the waist, his white hair wet and blazing, both hands covered in dark leather gloves. He was thrusting his arms, punching a large oblong leather bag that hung from the ceiling and swayed mightily at every strike.
Both hands: Of course she meant his hand and his stump, but they were equal now, with those padded gloves fixed snugly at each wrist. He was facing away from her, at an angle, the massiveness of his body balanced with weightless grace on the balls of his feet. His back gleamed with sweat, each muscle etched in perfect symmetry by the light, tapering to a pair of hips covered in snug pale trousers.
