How to Tame Your Duke, page 7
Emilie looked back in surprise. If Freddie was choosing schoolwork over shirking, he must be in sorry straits indeed.
Poor Freddie. He was rather bedraggled. His cap dripped with rain, and his shoulders were soaked. Moreover, he had inexplicably gone out without his gloves, and his hands had taken on a rather alarming blue cast. With his bony frame and his brown tweeds, he looked like an exceptionally wet insect.
Emilie let out a long breath, cast her eyes longingly up the road toward the beckoning promise of Ashland Spa Hotel, and turned her horse around. “Very well,” she said. “But I must call in at the post office.”
* * *
The dainty clock above the mantel—Isabelle’s favorite, a wedding gift—was chiming four o’clock by the time Ashland laid down his pen, squared his papers, and rose from the chair in his study to join his waiting valet upstairs.
“It’s come on to rain, sir,” his valet said quietly, helping him into a coat of silken superfine wool.
“Then I shall require a mackintosh, of course,” Ashland said. He turned to the mirror above the washstand and surveyed himself. The mask had come a little askew during his shaving; he straightened it, adjusted his necktie. His short white hair was smoothed neatly with a touch of pomade.
Not that it mattered, really, but he felt he owed the woman that much.
Wilkins came up behind him with the mackintosh. He shrugged himself into it and allowed Wilkins to handle the buttons. His own fingers were shaking slightly. Hat, settled snugly into his brow; glove, fitted to his left hand like a . . . well, like a glove. That was better. Secure, well covered. The breath eased from his lungs.
“Thank you, Wilkins,” Ashland said. “No need to wait up.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ashland descended the stairs and ducked through the door, opened at the last well-timed instant by an impassive footman. Outside in the drizzle, a groom stood holding his horse. The gray November horizon was already darkening. “There’s a lad,” Ashland said tenderly, rubbing Wellington’s muzzle, taking the reins. “Sorry about the rain, old man. We’ll have to bear on like troupers.”
He nodded to the groom, swung into the saddle, and made off along the four soggy miles to town.
* * *
The letter burned through the inner pocket of Emilie’s jacket, right against her heart. She couldn’t read it here, of course, with the rain filling the air in front of a curious Freddie. She would have to wait for the security of her room.
“Couldn’t you have posted your note from the house?” said Freddie. “I’m sure Pater would have franked it for you.”
“Of course. I shall remember that next time.”
The rain couldn’t decide how it wanted to settle: one moment mist, the next drizzle, and back to mist again. Emilie kept her shoulders straight, her back straight. She peered under the brim of her hat at the track ahead and recognized the Anvil, hunched by the side of the road, looking even more ramshackle than it had by night. A few lanterns had already been lit on the eaves, and a pair of men were sliding drunkenly off their horses in the courtyard.
“Only a pint, Mr. Grimsby. You can’t say no,” said Freddie, casting a longing glance.
“I can and I do. There will be nice hot tea waiting for us in the schoolroom when we return.”
“The schoolroom,” Freddie said, as he might say the army latrine, and then, “What ho! It’s Pater, by God.”
“Language, your lordship,” said Emilie, but her blood was already singing, her eyes already peering through the gloaming ahead. The swift physical reaction shocked her.
Freddie was not mistaken. There was no mistaking the figure ahead, tall and resolute atop a magnificent dark horse, his left hand on the reins and his other arm resting on his thigh.
How does he manage? Emilie wanted to ask, but she bit the words back and concentrated instead on calming the skip of her heart, the flush in her cheeks. This was ridiculous. She was the daughter of a prince. She had met the Kaiser more than once. She was accustomed to powerful men. She could not possibly be nervous at meeting a mere English duke on a rain-dashed Yorkshire road. She of all people knew that princes and dukes were simply men, made of clay, requiring food and drink and rest, subject to wind after ingesting an excess of cabbage.
Perhaps because he was her employer. That would account for this shortening of breath. He held an absolute power over her fate at the moment, more than any human being had before. No wonder her senses were so wary, so filled with every detail of him.
“Pater!” Freddie hailed cheerfully, as the horses drew near.
The Duke of Ashland pulled up. “What the devil are you two doing here, on such a night?”
“Language, Pater! Mr. Grimsby’s frightfully strict about it. It’s hardly night, though, is it? Not even teatime.”
“It grows dark early in November, as you very well know, and Mr. Grimsby is unfamiliar with the area.” Ashland took in Emilie with a single enveloping glance, and then returned to his son.
“But I’m familiar with the area. I know every blade of grass between here and Ashland Spa. Daresay I could find the house blindfolded on a windy night. In fact, I believe I have, once or twice.” Freddie laughed. “I take it you’re bound for your own amusement this evening? Fourth Tuesday of the month, isn’t it?” He laughed again. “You’re like clockwork, Pater.”
Ashland was frowning. His cheeks were damp with rain and slightly pink from cold and exercise. The color rather became him. “See that you bring Mr. Grimsby straight home. None of your tricks, do you hear me? I shall expect a report from Simpson.”
The dark horse danced underneath him, either from eagerness to move on or from some agitation communicating itself through his master. His ears had swiveled backward, trained on Ashland.
“That would be a great deal more convincing, Pater, if you weren’t off on your own lark. But never fear! I shall escort Mr. Grimsby home without incident, I promise. Virtue quite intact. Shall we leave the lights on for you, or do you plan to stop the night this time?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” said Ashland. He urged his horse forward. “I shall expect you to attend Mr. Grimsby in the schoolroom at nine tomorrow.”
“Have a smashing evening, Pater!” Freddie called back, laughing.
The horses’ hooves rattled against the wet stones on the track. Emilie waited until the sound of the duke’s horse faded into the fog behind them, and said quietly, “You should not speak to your father with such disrespect.”
“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.
SIX
Lucy 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?
