How to Tame Your Duke, page 8
The water was cooling. Emilie thought about opening the hot water tap, but she was afraid her whiskers might suffer. Instead, she rose to a sitting position and reached for the soap.
Not that it mattered what sort of woman Ashland preferred, or how he made love to her. The subject had nothing to do with Emilie. She had only thought of it because they had encountered him on the road, on his way to his mistress, and hers was a curious nature.
That was all.
* * *
The Duke of Ashland, having returned home and finished his nightly sherry in a single long draft, was walking down the hall to the main staircase when he noticed a faint light creeping from the open door of the library.
Surely it couldn’t be Freddie. Freddie might stay up to all hours on one scholarly mania or another, but he liked to do so in the comfort and privacy of his own room.
Grimsby, then.
Ashland prepared to continue down the hall. Awkward things, midnight conversations with staff, and he was in no mood to talk at the moment, with his clothes still damp from the penetrating drizzle on the way home from Ashland Spa Hotel. Why did he persist in these monthly adventures? As always, he had left the room restless and dissatisfied with himself, full of disgust and yearning, vowing it would be the last time and knowing it would not.
The last thing he wanted now was contact with another human being.
But his right foot did not strike down on the marble floor as expected, propelling his body forward down the hall. Instead, his left arm moved of its own accord and pushed open the library door.
Mr. Grimsby shot from his chair with a start. “Your Grace!”
“I beg your pardon.” Ashland gestured with his arm. “Pray be seated. I had no wish to disturb you.”
Grimsby’s hand dropped to the open volume on the table before him. “I hope I haven’t presumed, sir. I was unable to sleep, and thought a little reading might settle my mind.”
“My library is at your disposal. Books are meant to be read, after all.” Ashland found himself walking into the half-lit gloom, and the two candles on the table wavered in surprise. “Do sit, Mr. Grimsby. I don’t stand on ceremony after midnight.”
Grimsby dropped into his chair and watched Ashland warily as he strolled to the other side of the room. “Did you have a satisfactory evening, sir?”
Ashland ran his index finger along a row of leather bindings. The titles slid unseen past his eyes. Was that a trace of irony in the tutor’s voice? “Not particularly. And you, Mr. Grimsby? You said you were unable to sleep. I hope you’re not uncomfortable. You are quite free to change rooms, to order anything you like. We are earnest for you to stay.”
“I have hardly yet proved my worth.”
Ashland turned and leaned against the shelf behind him. Grimsby sat up straight, shoulders square, chin brave against the candlelight. “At this point, we have little choice. You have us at your mercy, Mr. Grimsby.”
“You might wait another year before his lordship sits for his examinations.” The brave chin jutted a trifle.
Ashland stifled an admiring smile. He remembered a young trooper once, scarcely eighteen and newly joined, with just such a jutting chin. What had happened to that young man? Ashland didn’t want to know. He drew in a long breath, and the scent of the library laid upon his soul, familiar and comforting: leather and lemon oil, dust and wood. “We might. What are you reading, if I may be so vulgar as to ask?” He nodded at the book and crossed his arms.
“A novel, in fact. Miss Brontë.”
“Well, well! Making yourself familiar with your surroundings, are you? Though I assure you, life at Ashland isn’t nearly so romantic.”
“The mood is captured well, however. The bleakness, the grand scale of it.”
“My wife read them all constantly, over and over. That’s her copy, I expect.”
Grimsby made a startled movement, flipping the cover over. His eyes widened at the inscription on the frontispiece. “Oh! I beg your pardon.”
“There’s no need. It’s only a book, after all. Leather and paper.” Ashland pushed himself away from the shelf and walked toward the table where Grimsby sat, whiskers twitching with dismay. “I hope my son hasn’t impressed you with gothic tales of the family. The duchess’s name is not forbidden here.” He laid himself into the opposite chair and stretched his legs across the darkened rug.
“It is an awkward subject, however.”
“It is simply a fact. The duchess left this house over a decade ago, and we have since reconciled ourselves to the loss.” He watched for Grimsby’s reaction, but the young man only stared down at the cover of the book, at the small gilt lettering imprinted on the leather. “Are your parents still alive, Mr. Grimsby?” he heard himself ask.
Grimsby looked up at last, his blue eyes solemn behind the sheen of his spectacles. “They are not, Your Grace.”
“But you speak of them still, do you not? Time, you see, heals all wounds. Well, not all,” he said, lifting his right arm briefly and letting it fall into his lap. “But there’s no point in ignoring our misfortunes.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Ashland leaned forward. The sherry, perhaps, was making him bold. “You’re a circumspect fellow, Mr. Grimsby. I own myself curious. Have you nothing to relate about yourself?”
“Nothing to interest Your Grace, I’m certain.”
Grimsby’s face did not change; his gaze did not waver by so much as a lowered eyelash. But Ashland’s finely honed senses came awake. Olympia’s words echoed back from a dusty Kashmir road: Beware the man who has nothing at all to say for himself.
The Duke of Olympia, who had dispatched this young man to Ashland Abbey.
Ashland reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced his watch. Only a few minutes past midnight, after all. He replaced the watch, stretched his arms, and rose to his feet. “I believe I shall have a glass of sherry, Mr. Grimsby. Will you join me?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
Ashland felt Grimsby’s wary eyes follow him once more across the room to the tray of decanters on a little round table near the window. “Come, Mr. Grimsby. I insist. I find a glass sets me up perfectly before bed.” He uncorked the crystal decanter with a clink and poured out two glasses.
Grimsby’s eyes widened behind his spectacles as Ashland returned, the two glasses held between the fingers of his left hand. “Sir, I . . .”
Ashland set the glasses on the table. The candlelight flashed across the neat snowflake facets on the bowls. “I insist.”
Grimsby reached out one delicate hand and picked up a glass.
“A toast, Mr. Grimsby,” said Ashland, lifting his own glass and tilting it forward. He ignored the singing of anticipation in his veins. “To a prosperous relationship.”
“Indeed, sir.” Grimsby clinked Ashland’s glass and took a cautious sip.
“Drink up, my good man. It’s excellent sherry. I have it brought in directly from Portugal every year.”
Grimsby drank again, more deeply. “Yes, very fine.”
“You are wrong, you know, Mr. Grimsby. I am, in fact, genuinely interested in you. A young man of obvious intelligence and breeding, to say nothing of self-possession. Why, I find myself asking, would such a promising fellow accept a position of very small importance and remuneration, in such a lonely outpost of the world?” He drank his sherry and stretched out his legs, still encased in their polished leather riding boots, dark with use.
“You are too modest, Your Grace. The salary is more than generous.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Possibly you do not comprehend the limited opportunities available to a man my age, of no practical experience.”
“You have the patronage of the Duke of Olympia.” Ashland snapped out the words with a trifle more force than he intended. He was woefully out of practice at this. Keep your emotions in check, my boy, came the voice in his head. You are a man of great animal passion; it is both your strength and your weakness.
“Many others enjoy the patronage of the powerful. And after all, I am not particularly ambitious.” Grimsby took another sip of sherry, as if to cover a hesitation. “I don’t wish to be a man of business, in charge of important affairs. I only want my books, and enough money to keep myself.”
“And a wife? Family? You have no desire for these comforts?”
“I . . . I suppose so.” A flush rose from beneath Grimsby’s whiskers. “One day.”
“No inclination at all for female companionship?”
“Not so much as you, it seems.”
Ashland had been drinking steadily, and his glass was now empty as he twiddled it between his fingers. “You disapprove of my errand tonight?”
“It is not my place.” Grimsby looked down to the book before him and ran his finger along the edge of the binding. “I suppose it’s no more than natural for you to . . . for the physical urge . . .”
“I understand you perfectly, Mr. Grimsby. I can only hope word of my appalling licentiousness does not find its way to my friend Olympia’s ear. I am afraid he might disapprove.”
Grimsby’s head shot up. “Of course not, Your Grace! I shouldn’t dream of such a thing!”
His tone was so shocked, so full of genuine dismay, so entirely innocent of the irony in Ashland’s words, that Ashland found himself poised in the air, vacillating between suspicion and admiration. He said softly, “Then my friend Olympia has merely done me a favor, out of the generosity of his heart, in sending you to me?”
“I . . . I don’t believe I understand you, sir.”
Ashland stood. His head swam briefly, and righted itself. He placed his empty sherry glass on the table and observed how the candlelight radiated about Grimsby’s golden hair like a halo. “Nothing at all, Mr. Grimsby. My intellect is a little disordered tonight, I fear.”
Grimsby was rising from his chair. “Are you all right? May I help you at all?”
“I am entirely well. Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Grimsby. I hope we may repeat the pleasure often, of an evening, as the winter howls outside.” He waved his hand at the window.
“You are retiring, Your Grace?”
“Yes.” Ashland studied Grimsby’s face, his narrowed eyes behind his spectacles, the tiny crease of concern between his eyebrows. He was so earnest, so wise and naive all at once. “You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know,” he said absently.
Grimsby’s hand fell upon his book. “I am nothing of the sort.”
“I can’t help wondering if there’s a great deal more to you than you let on.”
“I beg your pardon. What do you mean?”
Ashland straightened himself. He should not have drunk that extra glass of sherry; his body wasn’t used to it. But it was rather nice, after all, to have his brain pleasantly encased in numbness, to feel that hum in his blood again, to sense nothing in his missing hand but a comfortable bluntness. “I don’t quite know what I mean, Mr. Grimsby,” he said. He smiled, reached out his hand, and chucked the poor fellow’s astonished jaw.
“But I look forward to finding out.”
* * *
The door closed behind the Duke of Ashland’s imposing body, and Emilie crumpled into her chair. She closed her eyes, but she could still see his face in front of her, the black leather mask against the smooth skin, the single bright blue eye examining her with minute care.
You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know.
Emilie took a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or could she smell him in the air? The sting of sherry, the wild moorland wind, the warm wool, the scent of spicy soap—sandalwood, perhaps. Or maybe it was only her. She lifted her arm and sniffed her sleeve.
No, she smelled nothing like that.
Her heart still beat quickly in her breast; her fingertips still tingled. What the devil was happening to her? That tall, broad man with his piercing eye and maimed face and empty cuff—good God, surely she was not infatuated with him? With the Duke of Ashland, not two hours out of some strumpet’s bed, his powerful legs stretched out before her and his hair gleaming white against the shadows of the library?
Emilie lifted her hand again and touched her jaw with her fingertips. She could feel him now, feel the instant thrill in her veins as his hand came toward her, as her skin anticipated his touch. She, Emilie, cool-blooded and studious, a princess of Germany!
A distant thump reached her ears: Ashland, climbing the stairs to his room.
But I look forward to finding out.
Emilie reached for her glass of sherry and drained it.
This was going to be a very long winter.
SEVEN
Two days before Christmas
The common room at the Anvil was as crowded as usual, a fact on which Emilie had been counting. She clutched her knapsack and breathed the stale and humid air as shallowly as possible. Around her, the men laughed and swore and ate and drank. The fire burned smokily along the wall. Rose the barmaid bustled about, her hands never free of tankards, her mouth giving as good as she got, which was plenty.
Emilie observed her closely. When she ducked into the taproom to fill her next round, Emilie followed her.
“I need a room,” she said quietly, and held out her palm, on which a gold sovereign caught the light from the swinging old-fashioned lantern overhead. “A private room, close to the back stairs.”
Rose stared at the sovereign, then stared at Emilie. “With a girl, or without?”
Emilie blushed. “Without.”
There was no furniture in the tiny chamber to which Rose led her, except for the bed that overwhelmed the space, but Emilie did not need furniture. She set down her knapsack, opened the flap, and stripped to her drawers in the cold air.
Chemise first, then stays. The fastenings gave her trouble, but she had selected a new corset with efficiency in mind, knowing she would have no lady’s maid to help her. Petticoats and sturdy little half boots: Her chilled fingers fumbled with the buckles until she had them all.
Her dress had rumpled in the knapsack, despite her best efforts at folding. It buttoned up the front, because she would never have been able to manage otherwise. For a moment she savored the fall of fine wool down her body, the swell of material at her hips, the lovely, heavy feminine swish of skirts around her legs.
At last she reached inside the knapsack for the final two items: a small hat, and a large false chignon, made from the thick golden pile of hair that had fallen from Miss Dingleby’s scissors a month ago. She did not pause for melancholy. She pinned her short hair back, pinned the chignon at the nape of her neck, and placed the hat over all.
She stuck her head out the door. There was no one in the hall. She stole quietly to the back stairs and slipped noiselessly down.
The wind had calmed today, and the late December air lay heavy and frozen against Emilie’s exposed cheeks. A steady trickle of townspeople were out, finishing Christmas errands, and instead of taking the high street down the center of town, Emilie stole around the back lanes, taking note of details and street names, as Miss Dingleby had instructed. A train pulled away from the station, the hourly service southward to York, as she passed by.
The buildings thinned; the noise of commerce died away. Ahead, the clean white shape of Ashland Spa Hotel came into view, its marble facade fronting the road like an ancient Roman bath transported to modern Yorkshire.
Emilie took off her spectacles, slid them into her pocket, and went around back to the garden entrance.
“My dear.” A slight figure rose from his chair in the restaurant, straightened his lapels, and grasped Emilie’s outstretched hand.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Emilie, smiling, as the man bent over and kissed the air above her gloved knuckles.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bismarck.” The gentleman looked up, and Miss Dingleby’s eyes danced in place before her beneath the curved brim of a neat black hat.
“How very good it is to see you, Mr. Dingleby,” said Emilie.
“Sit, my dear. You must be exhausted.” Miss Dingleby gestured to the other chair.
Emilie settled herself into her chair, remembering at the last instant to complete the action with a graceful swoop of her skirts. “It’s only four miles. Hardly half an hour’s brisk riding.”
“But your delicate constitution.” Miss Dingleby winked and picked up the menu. “Rather elevated fare, isn’t it, for such a godforsaken outpost of civilization?”
Emilie cast her gaze about the room. She had taken tea here with Freddie a week or so ago, and had looked with the same surprise as Miss Dingleby on the spacious, high-ceilinged grandeur of the lobby, the fluted pillars and the shining marble floor, the intricate plasterwork and the oval domed skylight aglow with tinted glass. The soaring space had swarmed with people. Where had they all come from? Ladies, mostly, dressed in trailing veils and enormous bustles, attended by maids with white caps and neatly buttoned collars. They had gone back and forth between the lobby and the bathing pools in the enclosed courtyard at the center of the hotel, and as teatime advanced they had trooped into the blue and white interior of the restaurant and sat at the elegant marble tables and drunk their tea with fingers extended into the lily-scented air.
“It isn’t so remote,” Emilie said. “I believe they see a great many fashionable guests. The duke has transformed the spa into an establishment of repute.”
“Has he, now? The clever fellow.” Miss Dingleby’s voice lowered a trifle. She was wearing dark whiskers along her jaw but no mustache, and her cheeks twitched. Emilie’s own skin itched in sympathy.
“He’s spent the last ten or twelve years diligently improving the town and the estate,” Emilie said, leaning forward. “And he’s got even more plans in contemplation. You ought to see the schemes, really. It’s remarkable.”
