How to Tame Your Duke, page 27
In the murky darkness, Emilie’s pale face flashed by, her neck enclosed by a thick woolen arm.
A white glare lit behind Ashland’s eyes. He let out a low growl, balanced the knife in his hand, and thrust his stump forward with exacting precision, just to the right of Emilie’s ribs, directly into her attacker’s gut.
The man’s grip loosened. Emilie dug her elbow into his ribs. He released her with an oof, and even before Emilie had slumped forward, Ashland took the man about the chest and laid the knife against his throat.
“Who are you?” he growled. “Who sent you?”
The man gasped something.
“What’s that?”
A shot cracked out. Something blurred before his eyes.
“Damn it to hell!” Ashland said. He threw the man heavily to the ground and grabbed Emilie’s hand. “To the carriage!”
“I can’t leave Stefanie!” she cried.
“Right here.” Hatherfield’s voice came at his ear, calm and steady. “Shot came from the river.”
“Take the women to the carriage. I’ll cover.” Ashland drew out his pistol.
“Right-ho.” Hatherfield dashed off, herding Emilie and Stefanie, and Ashland turned to the river. It was encased in fog, ghostly and impenetrable. How the devil could anyone have aimed a pistol from there?
Another shot cracked out. A bullet whistled past his ear.
Not the river. The bridge.
Ashland swore. At his feet, the man stirred, but there was no time to deal with him. Ashland hurried toward the carriage, half running, keeping his pistol trained toward Albert Bridge. Hatherfield was bustling the women in, shielding the door with his body.
“Go south,” Ashland said to the driver, swinging in behind Hatherfield. “Away from the bloody bridge.”
The carriage lurched forward as he shut the door. Ashland found Emilie, scooped her up, and crushed her into his chest.
* * *
There will be no ball tomorrow,” said Ashland. He was holding the knife in his hand, turning it about in the trace of light from the carriage window. They had just seen off Stefanie and her marquess into an anonymous black hansom cab on the Brompton Road, and the interior of the carriage had grown heavy with the shock of aftermath.
“We can’t cancel it now.”
He looked at her. “Are you mad? You were nearly killed just now.”
“He wasn’t trying to kill me. If he were, I’d be dead.”
“Then what was he doing?”
“Trying to take me away. To kidnap me.” She spoke quickly, her words running together. Her brain kept jumping about, as if struck by a charge of electricity, unable to settle into logic. She tried to remember the exact sequence of events, but she could only muster flashing impressions. The elation of seeing Stefanie, touching and talking to Stefanie, as if they’d only been parted for hours instead of months. The sudden attack, the arm squeezing her neck, the flight to the carriage.
Had it all really happened? To her, the quiet and unremarkable Emilie?
“Oh, a thousand times better, then.” Ashland tucked the knife into the pocket of his overcoat, and a trace of a wince passed across his face.
“You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing. A nick.”
She grabbed his left sleeve. A rent showed through the cloth at the forearm; the edges were wet. “It’s not a nick! You’ve been cut!”
“For God’s sake, Emilie. I’ve seen worse.”
She looked up at his scarred face. Guilt washed over her heart. “Yes, but you’re not in the Afghan wilderness anymore. You’re in London. You’re with me.”
He touched her cheek. “Yes.”
A streetlamp ghosted along his face. His expression was soft with longing, the way it had looked when she had first removed her blindfold in the hotel room at Ashland Spa.
Weeks ago, a lifetime ago. How she’d missed him, the open and unguarded Ashland.
She unbuttoned her coat and jacket and waistcoat, revealing her white shirt. She pulled one tail free from her trousers. Before Ashland could protest, she took the knife from his pocket and started a tear in the fabric.
“Damn it, Emilie. We’re a quarter hour from home. I’m not going to bleed to death.”
But he let her ease his arm from his coat and jacket. He let her roll back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a cut, not particularly long or deep—thank goodness for well-made winter woolens—but still leaking blood. She wiped away the excess and bound it up.
“There. That’s better, isn’t it?” His thick forearm lay passively in her hands, without so much as a flex of muscle.
“Much better.”
His voice was husky. She looked up, and her silly eyes filled. “I’m sorry, Ashland. I’m so sorry for all this. You haven’t deserved any of it.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t deserve you at all.”
She whispered, “Oh, you fool.”
She released his arm and put her hands to his cheeks. They were warm and damp beneath her palms, from exertion and from the relentless London fog. The leather half-mask had molded to his skin.
“You fool. You’re too good for me. You fool.” She lifted herself from the seat and straddled his thighs. “You fool.” She kissed his mouth.
“Emilie.” The single word was hardly more than a rumble in his chest.
Ashland’s lips savored hers, too slowly. She thrust her tongue between them and stroked the silken lining of his mouth.
All at once, his arms were bound across her back. He urged her into his body; his mouth returned her kiss as if to consume her. She cradled his hard and muscled lap between her legs, his unstoppable strength, and she ground herself into him. “I want you,” she said. “Now.”
“Emilie . . .”
“Now, Ashland. Please.”
Ashland’s fingers thrust against the waistband of her trousers and fumbled with the fastening. It fell open, and his hand slipped down to caress her, his thumb rubbing against her nub, his index finger sliding down her lips and surging inside her. She cried out.
“God, you’re wet, you’re so wet,” he said in wonder.
She went up on her knees. He brought down her trousers in brutal tugs, forcing them past the seat cushions and down to her ankles. The air was cold on her skin, but she hardly noticed, with Ashland’s hot fingers sliding up to wrap around her bottom. She tore at the fastening of his trousers, unbuttoning his flies. Her bones shook at the shape of his hardness through the fabric.
His fingers dipped into the cleft of her bottom. His cock filled her hands, too much to hold.
“Put your arms around my neck, Emilie,” he said.
Ashland’s breath rushed in hot gusts against her jaw. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his brow, as if he were fighting some unseen battle. She brought her arms up around his neck, anchoring herself, and he guided her downward, bringing her to rest on the tip of his vertical member.
“Ashland.” Emilie’s mind went white with need.
“Easy, now.” With two gentle fingers he parted her lips and nestled himself inside the outermost walls of her passage. “Make it last.”
“I can’t,” she panted, wriggling downward on him, desperate.
He held her buttocks firmly in check. His voice was stern. “Make it last.”
She eased herself down, begging softly at the infinite delight, the steady encroaching size of him.
“That’s it. That’s it.” He groaned the words.
Deeper and deeper he went. The carriage jounced, but he steadied her, keeping them joined, until with a last rough little tilt of his hips, he buried himself fully inside.
“Oh my God,” she said. He was bone deep, lodged in place against the entrance to her womb. She shifted her hips to relieve the ache, but there was nowhere to go.
“Emilie.” He kissed her neck, her jaw, her ear, frantic and tender.
She lifted herself carefully back up. Their bodies made a slick sound, wet flesh against flesh, richly carnal.
The jolting of the carriage brought her down again. A lurching turn, and Ashland swore savagely, fighting to keep her atop him. His hips tilted upward, seeking hers, and she came down hard, lifted herself, and slammed down again with an inhuman growl of satisfaction at the pleasure-pain of it, the sweet bruising heat of cramming herself full of Ashland. Over and over she drove home his eager cock, while he muttered lewd and thrilling words into her ear to the frantic beat of her movements: telling her how to use him, telling her what she did to him.
The carriage did most of the work. It jolted them together with erotic friction; it threw them apart and made them clutch and shove like a pair of lust-crazed animals. Ashland went on muttering in her ear, urging her on, his fingers prying gently at the seam of her flesh, and the dark box around them filled with the sucks and gasps of union, with the earthy scent of human desire.
It was not perfect. It was messy and disjointed, it was arrhythmic and raw. The air grew thick and humid with perspiration. Ashland’s lips pressed on her skin, his arms caged her body, his cock rammed in and out, in and out, violent with need, rubbing over and over against a place of brilliant sensation. Emilie gripped his black shoulders and ground into every stroke, panting hard, straining with all her might, almost there, almost, almost, oh God . . .
The carriage swung right, at just the wrong instant. A keen of frustration burst from her lips.
Ashland’s firm grip drew her back. “Do it, Emilie. Come now,” he demanded, holding his thumb over her nub, pushing himself deep, and all at once she burst over the edge, incandescent, her body pulsing whole with the shock of release.
At the instant of climax, Ashland’s arms lifted her and placed her to one side, and in a quick movement he brought out his handkerchief and spent in spasms of hot seed, as his right arm pinned her shuddering body fast against his chest.
* * *
Ashland’s mind crept upward from the brink of consciousness. Emilie lay pressed against him, breathing hard, her hand splayed across the thick wool of his overcoat.
Sweet Christ. She had just swived him senseless in his carriage.
He could scarcely move. Every muscle had relaxed into a simmering torpor. With effort he shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and settled Emilie more comfortably against his side. She stirred awkwardly, raising her head, and he remembered that her trousers were still tangled around her ankles.
“Sorry,” he managed. He reached down and tugged her trousers back into place; he forced his half-erect prick inside the placket of his own and fastened the buttons.
“Don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.” Her hand curled around his neck. The simple gesture made his chest glow with warmth. This was the woman he knew; this was his woman, his Emilie.
And he would kill anyone who tried to harm her.
The carriage rounded another turn. He looked out the window just in time to catch a flashing glimpse of the Duke of Wellington on horseback.
“Hyde Park Corner,” he said in her ear. “Almost there.”
She lifted herself up. “You didn’t need to do that. Your handkerchief.”
Ashland’s brain was as foggy as London itself. “What’s that?”
“Ashland, I . . . I’ve got to tell you something . . .”
The carriage slowed and jounced over a hole in the pavement, breaking them apart. “Later,” he said.
He brought her in through the area door, to which he had a key, nodding to Hans’s shadowed figure as he descended the steps. Neither of them spoke as they stole through the kitchens and up the back staircase. A clock chimed one o’clock as they reached the landing on the second floor, Emilie’s floor.
She turned at the door to her room. “You can’t come in. Miss Dingleby sleeps with me. She’s expecting me back; she’ll still be awake.”
“I know. I sleep in the next room.”
“What?”
He kissed her lips. “Just sleep. We’ll speak in the morning. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t too rough?”
She ducked her head. “No. No! You were perfect. I was rough. I wanted that. I needed to . . . to break free from all this . . .”
“I am at your service, madam.” He kissed her again. “Take a warm bath in the morning. You’ll be sore, I’m afraid. If it weren’t for your damned Miss Dingleby I’d . . .”
“We’ve got to talk, Ashland.”
“Later. Tomorrow. You need your rest.”
“You need your rest.”
“I’ll be up when I’ve spoken to your uncle. Sleep well. I’ll make sure you’re safe tonight. Every night.”
She tried to speak, but he pointed to the door, mouthed Miss Dingleby, and opened it for her.
When she was safely inside, the door closed behind her, Miss Dingleby’s urgent voice asking her questions, Emilie answering in crisp, firm tones, Ashland tripped down the stairs at double time and strode to the entrance of Olympia’s private study, from which a crack of light still showed.
His mind had cleared. Energy had returned to his limbs; he was vibrating with resolve. He threw open the door without knocking.
The room was empty, except for Ormsby the butler, turning down the lamps.
“Where is His Grace?” Ashland demanded.
Ormsby looked up. “I’m very sorry, Your Grace. The duke has gone out.”
TWENTY-THREE
Freddie flung the newspaper onto the desk. “Look, Grimsby! I’m on the front page!”
“Your lordship,” said Miss Dingleby, “you will please remove yourself from Her Highness’s chamber at once. We have a ball for which to prepare her.”
Emilie plucked up the newspaper. The headline shouted LOST PRINCESS FINDS LOVE IN ENGLAND; SET TO WED DUKE OF ASHLAND IN STORY-BOOK ROMANCE; ROYAL BALL TONIGHT IN PARK LANE TO CELEBRATE ENGAGEMENT; PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES EXPECTED TO ATTEND in breathless capital letters. She peered at the blurred photograph on the page before her: taken, it seemed, on the steps of church last Sunday. How they had managed the picture, she couldn’t imagine. Olympia had loomed at her right side; Ashland had glowered at her left. She had been practically surrounded by a Roman phalanx of oversized dukes. “Where are you?”
He came up next to her and pointed at the photograph. “Right there! Can’t you see it?”
“That’s an ear.”
“My ear.” He snatched the paper away. “And well captured. Note the noble curve, if you will.”
“Your lordship, please.” Miss Dingleby’s voice rang with gubernatorial authority. “I wonder Her Highness allows you here at all. It is most improper.”
“Improper?” Freddie looked genuinely appalled. He swung helplessly to Emilie. “What the devil’s improper about it? In a matter of days, she’ll be my mother!”
“Hmm,” Miss Dingleby snapped. She marched to the door and held it open. “Out.”
Freddie’s shoulders slumped. He trudged to the door, paper dangling from his hand.
Emilie’s heart gave out. She had tried all day to find a private word with Ashland, but he’d been gone from the house since daybreak, had only returned an hour ago, and had gone straight to Olympia’s private study under locked door. Of the household staff, bustling with preparations for the ball, only Miss Dingleby remained to serve her. Or to guard her prison cell, more accurately. She’d spent the past hour pacing about like a caged animal, watching the inexorable progress of the clock on her mantel.
And now here was Freddie, in and out like a gust of welcome air, throwing about words like mother.
Stalwart Freddie.
“Freddie, wait.” Emilie followed him to the door. She spoke in a low voice. “Look after your sister tonight, please. And if anything should happen, if your father or I . . . If anything should happen, you’ll take care of her.”
“Of course.”
Emilie leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Go. Your father’s waiting to take you back to Eaton Square.”
“No, he’s not. He’s shut up with Olympia, laying schemes. Hans is going with us.”
“Hans, then. And stay put, for heaven’s sake. Don’t risk yourself.”
Freddie rolled his eyes and turned, straight into the slight figure waiting outside the door.
“Good God,” he said. “Lucy! What the devil are you doing here?”
* * *
The Duke of Olympia lifted the stopper from the crystal neck of the sherry decanter and motioned in Ashland’s direction. “Calms the nerves,” he said.
Ashland held up his hand. “My nerves are perfectly calm, thank you.”
Olympia poured himself a glass. “All this hustle-bustle. I shall be very glad when it’s all over and we can return to business as usual.”
“I shudder to ask what constitutes business as usual for you.”
“Oh, this and that.” Olympia waved his hand and drank his sherry. He was already dressed for the ball in crisp whites and gleaming blacks. His graying hair shone under the electric lamp.
“If we may return to the matter at hand, however.” Ashland made a minute adjustment to the starched white cuff emerging from his formal black sleeve. “I have spent the morning making inquiries regarding the matter of last night.”
Olympia held up his sherry glass to the lamp and examined the play of light in its multitude of facets. “We will speak later, of course, on the wisdom of taking my niece for a midnight assignation at all, let alone without informing me first. I might have saved you a great deal of trouble, had I known.”
“I was prepared to protect her, and I did. And she wanted to see her sister.”
“With an imminent threat hanging over her head, Emilie’s desire to see her sister is neither here nor there.”
“I disagree.”
“Because you are in love with her.”
“Because I have seen what a few weeks of being a prisoner in this house has done to her. She is honorable, she is dutiful, she hasn’t complained. But she is not happy. She is not herself.”
Olympia’s glass landed on his desk with a trifle more force than necessary, spilling a precious few drops of sherry onto the depthless mahogany. “How many times, Ashland, have I cautioned you not to let your emotions become involved in your work?” The word emotions dripped from his mouth, as if he’d accidentally ingested some foul concoction of earthworm and bat’s blood.
