How to Tame Your Duke, page 29
“Ashland! It took fully an hour to assemble this dress, and I will not have you ruining . . .” Her words were swallowed in another kiss. She gave up and put her arms around his neck. What could possibly be more important than kissing Ashland, after all?
A sharp knock rattled the door.
“Ignore it,” said Ashland, from the corner of his industrious mouth.
“You’re certain”—he stroked her tongue; she shivered—“you’re certain there’s no danger? Because I think . . . Miss Dingleby . . .”
“All under control, I assure you. And I shan’t leave your side for an instant. Not a thing to worry about, except this scandalously low bodice of yours.” He gave her bosom a proprietary kiss.
Another knock, repeated with energy.
“Ashland, what on earth has come over you? This isn’t like you at all.” Her head fell back against his arm.
“Because I’ve just realized I’m free. Free of my wretched past, free of the imminent threat of a pack of murderers taking you away from me. Free to marry you and take you to bed . . .”
“Not necessarily in that order, I surmise.”
“God forbid. I’m too old to wait for the proprieties.” His hand, having abandoned her bodice, began to wind its way through the thicket of frothing petticoats at her ankles. He shifted her downward into the deep cushions of the sofa and stretched himself alongside.
“Yes, quite. Which brings to mind the final point I wished to discuss with you . . . rather important, really . . .”
The door crashed open.
“Damn it all, Ashland,” said the Duke of Olympia. “I gave you strict instructions about the furniture.”
* * *
The singing elation in the Duke of Ashland’s blood lasted well past his third waltz with his fiancée. Everything was going along swimmingly, after all. With Emilie standing steadfast and graceful by his side, the endless receiving line hadn’t proven quite the torture he’d imagined; their well-bred guests had generally taken his left hand without undue awkwardness. And Emilie looked resplendent in her pale blue satin, having been put back to rights by a hastily summoned Lucy.
Just before their sweeping entrance down the staircase—Olympia always did have a taste for grand theater—he had pulled the Ashland sapphires from his pocket and laid them about her neck, where they now glittered shamelessly in the light from the electric chandeliers.
They suited her, he thought, as he whirled her past the rapt gathering of dowagers in the northeast corner of the Duke of Olympia’s ballroom. Sapphires worthy of a princess.
He told her so.
“Worthy of a princess, indeed,” she said. “A banker’s wife, you mean. They’re quite deliciously vulgar.”
He bent to her ear. “On our wedding night, I’ll put them to even better use.”
That earned him a swift rap of her fan, but her charming blush was well worth the punishment. He glanced downward to observe its pink progress along her bosom.
The waltz lumbered ponderously to an end. “Really, you’d think my uncle could have arranged for better musicians,” Emilie said. “That was absolute rubbish.”
“Tin ear, I expect.” He cast a sharp eye across the room at Olympia. The duke was engaged in conversation with an attractive woman of a certain age, ablaze with diamonds, but he sensed the weight of Ashland’s gaze. He turned his head slightly, made a single tug of his earlobe, and returned to his conversation.
Ashland drew Emilie along the side of the ballroom and snatched a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter, slipping the stems between the adroit fingers of his left hand. “You look a trifle overheated, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s visit the garden.”
“I’m not a bit overheated, and I do believe I see my dear cousin Penhallow over there, by the musicians . . .”
Ashland leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“Oh. Well.” She patted her hair. “The garden it is, then.”
Ashland’s task (and it was, by far, the most agreeable mission he’d ever been assigned) was simply to keep Emilie otherwise occupied as Olympia went into action in the ballroom. He’d already begun in the library, seducing her with all the shameless exuberance of his relief, and now he had her pliant and undivided attention. As a result, she hadn’t noticed any of the undercurrent of activity in the ballroom. She’d enjoyed herself, she’d sipped champagne, and she’d danced only with him. She’d looked up at him as they waltzed about the room and his heart had stopped at the miraculous glowing warmth in her eyes.
Warmth for him.
He was the luckiest man alive.
He sent only a single glance backward as he passed through the French doors into the cool dampness of the Duke of Olympia’s garden, his hand at Emilie’s back. Olympia’s silver head was crossing the room, making its way to the secret panel on the wall behind the orchestra where Miss Dingleby waited with her decoy.
Everything in place. He had only to keep Emilie away from the ballroom.
And really, the deeper they went into the garden, the more occupied her mind and body, the safer she’d be.
It was his duty, in fact.
“Oh, it’s so chilly!” she said. “Let’s turn back. We must. Our guests will wonder where we’ve gone.”
Ashland set down the champagne on an empty urn, whipped off his black tailcoat, and settled it about her shoulders. “Problem solved. Drink your champagne, like a good girl.” He picked up the flute and handed it to her.
“I really shouldn’t . . .”
He put his hand to her back and nudged her forward. “There’s an old saying, my dear. When a lady says she shouldn’t, she almost certainly will.”
“I beg your pardon. Where did you learn that?”
“I was in the army.”
“I’m beginning to find that excuse wears rather thin.”
But she was smiling, she was happy. She was allowing him to urge her deeper into the garden, where the light from the ballroom faded into the shadows. The beds were all barren, of course, the roses pruned ruthlessly back and the shrubs hunkered down against the February chill. A row of boxwoods lay ahead, subdued into round balls by Olympia’s fleet of gardeners, and Ashland guided her deftly around them to the small glass-walled conservatory that lay beyond, filled at the moment with spring plantings.
“Oh, I remember this!” she exclaimed. “My sisters and I used to hold tea parties here, when we were visiting in the early summer. What fun it all was. I wish we could look inside, but I suppose it’s all locked up for the winter.”
Ashland reached his arm around her and plucked an object from the inside pocket of his tailcoat, making sure to brush her bosom as he went.
He held the object up before her.
“Oh! However did you find a key?”
“I have a knack for such things.” He fitted the key into the lock.
“This is thrilling. I wonder if that old wicker chaise longue is still there. We used to take naps on it.”
“It is.”
“How . . . Oh!” She stopped in the doorway.
He came up against her back and put his arms about her. “Do you like it?”
“How did you . . . ? Oh, it’s beautiful!”
She stepped forward into the bower of blooms, fragrant lilies and roses, gardenias cut and overflowing their vases, sensuous orchids rising up from planters.
“Some of them are your uncle’s. I had a few men scour the florists for the others.”
She turned in his arms. “Oh, but we can’t! The ball!”
“The champagne is flowing. I daresay they won’t even notice we’ve left.” He lowered his lips to hers and tasted her gently.
Emilie’s arms stole around his neck. “Ashland, you’re a romantic.”
“Bite your tongue. I am a gruff and taciturn Yorkshire duke.” He lifted her up and carried her to the chaise longue. The Ashland sapphires glittered darkly at him.
“This is shocking. We really ought to behave more properly until the wedding.” She sighed dreamily and tilted her head back, as his tongue explored the delicate skin at the hollow of her throat.
“Trust me. The wedding will take place as quickly as we can arrange it,” he said.
“The sooner the better.”
“I’m glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking.” Ashland pulled down the neckline of her dress. It was a tight fit, constructed exactly to measure, but Emilie’s breasts seemed extraordinarily full tonight, nearly bursting from her corset, and with diligent effort he coaxed a single dusky tip into the open air.
She made a gurgling laugh. “I had no choice, really.”
He was busy suckling her tender nipple and couldn’t answer. God, she was luscious. Her back arched, feeding his greed for her, and his prick swelled inside his trousers.
“Ashland, really. This is no time for that. My uncle’s plans . . .”
“Bother your uncle’s plans.” He meant it.
“But there’s something . . . I have to tell you both, about Miss Dingleby . . .”
Ashland raised his head and cupped her cheek with his hand. “We know all about Miss Dingleby. Trust me. Your uncle is managing things as we speak.”
“Oh.” Her eyes went round in the hint of moonlight.
He kissed the corners of her eyes, her lips. “Would I allow my guard down for an instant if you were in danger? Of course not. Olympia explained everything. You, Miss Dingleby, everything. He’s taking care of it all right now. You’ve nothing more to worry about.”
“You know everything?” Her voice was anxious.
“Everything.”
Her body relaxed in his arms. “And you’re happy about it?”
“Entirely satisfied.”
Her hands went to his shoulders. “Ashland, I’m so glad. You’ve no idea how this relieves my mind. I’ve felt so trapped, these past weeks, knowing I was leading you into danger, when none of this was your choice. Not wanting to trap you, too. I didn’t want to say anything until I was certain . . .”
Her soft acquiescence was sending him over the edge. “It’s all over now, sweetheart, or almost. Nothing but roses ahead.”
She opened her mouth again, but he laid his finger over it. “No more worries. Let me make love to you now. Let me give you pleasure.”
Emilie took his finger away and smiled. “I only wanted to say, at least you won’t need your handkerchief this time.”
For an instant, he couldn’t reply. It was as if the sun came out inside his chest.
He lowered himself back to her. “Yes.”
Despite the urgent fire in his blood, he seduced her slowly, waiting until she was slick and plump before unbuttoning his flies and sinking himself into her. He thrust in a gentle rhythm. He worked her to climax with ruthless self-control, mindful of her tenderness after last night’s frenzy. The passage of time relaxed around them; he was surrounded by satin and stiff petticoats, by sapphires and soft skin, by the scent of rare flowers and by Emilie’s sheath clasping him snugly. The effect was so delicious, so languorous, that when she spent around him, gasping and shuddering, the instant ferocity of his own release stunned him.
He thrust his hips in a last urgent shove, everything else forgotten, Olympia and Miss Dingleby and the musicians in the ballroom. There was only Emilie and her sweet breath on his neck, her delicate body still pulsing below him as he drained himself deep inside her.
* * *
Iam so glad,” she whispered, moments later. He was lying alongside her, both of them breathless and rumpled on the inadequate width of the chaise; he was half atop her, half braced on his elbow, damp and flushed and heavy lidded. Whether the ancient wicker could bear them both much longer, she dared not consider.
“Very glad.”
“It was so silly of me. Suspecting Miss Dingleby!” She laughed. “But when she came up with that odd drink of hers, urging me on, I had the strangest sense of dread. Bottoms up! she said, with that sharp look in her eyes. I suppose I’ve been so anxious lately that . . .”
Ashland raised his head. “Drink?” His voice held an odd note, through the huskiness of arousal and release. “What drink?”
“Oh, one of her grapefruit concoctions, I suppose. And all I could think of was that she had been there in the castle with my stepmothers, she had discovered those drinks that made them miscarry, and since I’d just admitted my suspicions about the baby . . .”
Ashland bolted upward. The crisp white bow under his starched wing tips had come shamefully undone. “The baby?”
“Well, she had suspected before, of course, but . . .”
“You’re with child?”
A glacier seemed to have invaded Emilie’s heart, sending off chunks of ice into her bloodstream. She opened her mouth, which had gone suddenly dry. “Why, yes. I mean, I . . . I might be. I think so. I thought you knew. When you said . . .”
Ashland’s shocked gaze went to her bosom, to her belly, and back up to her face. “You’re with child? By me?”
Emilie gasped and sat up, dislodging Ashland. He scrambled to his feet. “Of course, by you! What the devil do you mean by that?”
“I’m sorry . . . Of course I . . . only shocked . . . Good God! A child. Good God!” He raked his hand through his close-shorn hair. A square of moonlight caught his face through the glass, rendering it nearly white, the black mask like an abyss.
“Well, what did you think I meant?” Emilie realized her naked breasts were spilling over her bodice in a most undignified fashion. She stuffed them back inside. “What did you mean?”
“I certainly didn’t mean that. I . . .” He shook his head. “What was that about a drink?”
Emilie stood up. “Miss Dingleby. She brought me a drink, a pink-colored drink, just before I went to see you.”
“Did you taste it?”
“No! I told you, I had a strange feeling. I put it down and I went to the library to find you and Olympia, to warn you of my suspicion. And you told me it was all under control. Where are you going?”
“Back to the bloody ballroom, if it’s not too late!” He staggered around the flowerpots, working frantically at the fastening of his trousers.
She followed him. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
He spun around and took her shoulders. “What’s happened is that we thought Miss Dingleby was on our side. We thought she was a double agent, pretending to be in with Hans’s lot . . .”
“Hans!”
“Yes, Hans! He’s your inside man. He’s the one behind all this; he’s their operative. But Dingleby convinced him she was working with Free Blood, when in reality she’d been setting up this grand event tonight, to capture them in the act . . .”
“Good heavens!”
“Except that it appears she’s been playing us instead!” He released her with an almost violent thrust and spun around.
“Wait, Ashland!”
“Stay here!” he ordered, over his shoulder. He threw open the conservatory door.
“I won’t! I’m going with you! It’s my country, it’s my father and sisters . . .” She strained against him, trying to fit around him and through the door. The cold air of the garden hit her flushed skin in a welcome gust.
He turned and cupped her face with his massive left hand. “You’re carrying our child, Emilie. For God’s sake, stay here.”
“But I . . .”
Even as she said the words, he was in motion. With lightning speed, he ducked through the conservatory door, closed it, and locked it with his key.
“Ashland!”
He had already disappeared into the shadows. She rattled the knob, she pounded the glass, she rattled the knob again. Her blood was racing through her body in a live stream, shooting with energy. She paced to one side, coming up short in front of a massive urn filled with pink orange roses. She kicked it with her toe.
Locked. He’d locked her inside.
She turned back to the door and rattled the knob again. The key was still in the lock, tantalizingly close. She pressed her ear against the glass. Was that shouting? A pistol shot? Or simply merrymaking?
Miss Dingleby. Her mind struggled to grasp it all. Had Miss Dingleby been working for them all along? Or had she turned at some point, cloistered in Holstein Castle with its stultifying life, its archaic customs, its wealth and absolute power over the peasantry around them?
Miss Dingleby. My God, how could she do it? Raise three girls to womanhood, and then murder their father. And all for a cause, a foolish and impossible cause, a violent pie in the sky.
Traitor.
Emilie pounded the glass with her fist. Her eyes wandered across the conservatory, to the chaise longue on which she and Ashland had just made love. Ashland’s formal black tailcoat still lay there on the cushions, crushed by their heaving bodies.
A distant sound brushed her ears, a crash.
Emilie marched across the conservatory to the chaise. She picked up Ashland’s tailcoat and wrapped it around her left hand as she strode back across the flower-strewn floor. Without an instant’s hesitation, she punched through the pane of glass next to the knob, reached through with her right hand, and unlocked the door.
* * *
It took Ashland scarcely half a minute to run back along the garden path and up the stone steps to the French doors guarding the ballroom, and in that time his brain formed and discarded half a dozen plans.
Something was going on, that much he could tell. The sounds of music and tinkling laughter, of the buzz of conversation, had transformed into cacophony.
Shouts, screams, crashes. The wholesale smash of crystal. Ashland reached the top step and took in the scene through the glass: a melee of scrambling silk dresses and surging fists. The door flew open before him, and a man ran past, heading for the garden. Ashland grabbed him by the collar. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
The fellow jabbered. “Riot, man! Run while you can!”
“From whom?”
“Footmen! Musicians! A bloody riot!”
