How to Tame Your Duke (16 page)

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?”

A
t 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.

He was magnificent.

She stood there openmouthed, eyes agape, not making a sound.

Without warning, Ashland whipped around. “What the . . .” He steadied the leather bag with one hand. “Oh! It’s you, Grimsby. What the devil are you doing up so early?”

Emilie’s limbs turned to jelly.

From behind, he had been magnificent. From the front, he was godlike. His hard face bore its black mask like a badge of honor; his shoulders were broad enough to pull a plow. His chest heaved up and down with male exertion. Not a single wrinkle of extra flesh marred the musculature of chest and abdomen, like an anatomist’s model. A pair of converging grooves pointed suggestively downward under the fastening of his trousers.

“Grimsby? Is something wrong?”

She returned her eyes to his face and gulped. “Nothing, sir! I beg your pardon. I couldn’t sleep. A bit befuddled, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting you.”

His eyebrow arched. “Were you wanting a swim?”

Emilie’s brain was a muddled collage of blade-sharp quadriceps and flexing pectorals. Her mouth filled. “Swim?”

Ashland made a motion with his arm. “The pool.”

She glanced in the direction he indicated. A flash of light came from around the corner, as if reflected from water.

“The pool,” she said numbly, “of course.”

Ashland angled his head to the leather bag. “Go on, if you like. I won’t be finished for a while yet.”

Emilie realized she was staring at his lips. A few hours ago, those lips had been
kissing
her. The tongue inside that mouth had been
eating her alive
, making her scream with pleasure. That ridged chest, those shoulders, those impossibly trim hips had been
driving into her
.

This
was what lay behind those layers of clothing he wouldn’t remove.

Dear. Heavenly. Father. She was going to faint.

Ashland was frowning. “Grimsby, are you certain you’re all right? You look a little queer.”

A mist was rising before her eyes. She really
was
going to faint.

“Grimsby, your spectacles,” said Ashland.

“My spectacles?”

“They’ve fogged over. It’s the pool, I’m afraid. We keep it heated during the colder months. Freddie’s damned idea; I prefer it bracing.”

“Oh!” Emilie removed her spectacles, ducking her head as she did so. She wiped away the steam and put them back on her nose. “Of course you do,” she muttered.

Between her legs, she was feeling rather . . . warm. She shifted her weight.

“You’re welcome to pick up a pair of gloves and spar with me, if you like,” Ashland was saying. His eyes swept briefly over her. “You look as though you could use a bit of heft. Strengthen you up.”

“No, no. I don’t, er,
spar
, as a rule. I am a . . . a man of peace.” She straightened herself. “And stronger than I look.”

Ashland shrugged. “Do as you like, then. As I said, you’ve free use of the place, and swimming’s excellent exercise. Shall stroke off myself shortly.” He turned back to his punching bag, all sinuous power. His trousers fit economically around the hard curve of his buttocks.

His trousers, which he would undoubtedly remove to (dear God!)
stroke off
in the bathing pool.

Emilie swallowed. “I think . . . perhaps . . . I shall find a book in the library instead.”

*   *   *

W
hy does His Grace keep a bathing pool in the lower level of the house?”

Freddie looked up from his plate of steaming morning offal. His face bore a gray green cast, like a lump of clay left to gather algae in a stagnant pond. “
Must
you do that?”

“Do what, your lordship?”

“Talk.”

“The breakfast table, your lordship, is, or ought to be, the scene of civilized conversation, where members of the household come together with convivial . . .”

Freddie brought his cup to his lips, tilted back his head, and drained it.

“. . . fellowship.” Emilie eyed her charge. “That
is
tea, isn’t it?”

“Coffee, Mr. Grimsby. Black.”

“Ah yes. Just like your father. Which returns me to the point: Why does the duke maintain a bathing pool?”

The footman moved up noiselessly to refill Freddie’s cup. He stared queasily at the stream of black liquid. “Oh, that. He had it installed soon after he returned from abroad. The doctors recommended sea bathing, but of course he wasn’t going to a public seaside like the rest of humanity, oh no.”

“It isn’t
sea
water, is it?”

“It is.” Freddie picked up his cup, drank, scalded himself, and set down the cup again with an oath and a clatter. “Shipped in fresh by rail every month. Haven’t you noticed the delivery? Converted fire engine brings it in from the railway station. Confounded fuss.”

“I had no idea. None at all.”

Freddie blew carefully over the top of his cup and tried again. “Of course, I admit it’s rather nice to be able to swim in the convenience of one’s own home. I made them heat it, of course. It’s as good as swimming in the Arctic in wintertime, otherwise.”

“So your father told me.”

Freddie glanced up, amused. “Caught him at it, did you?”

“No. He was at boxing practice.” Emilie selected a third piece of toast from the rack at her right. She was feeling quite remarkably hungry this morning, for some reason.

“Oh yes. He does that, too. A regular John Sullivan, my Pater. Jolly reassuring, should we be waylaid by a gang of prizefighters while trotting across the moors some afternoon. Is that the newspaper?”

“It is.” She pushed it toward him. Freddie’s face was beginning to lose its greenish tinge, under the effects of the coffee. Her own thoughts were reeling. Did Ashland really rise before each dawn and exercise like this? Boxing and swimming and God knew what else? She had been breakfasting in the family dining room for weeks now—a single invitation that had somehow stretched into a habit—and never noticed a sign of recent rigorous exercise in Ashland’s demeanor. For what reason did he do it? Why should a duke, a man who scarcely ever dined in company, let alone left his estate to face the physical dangers of the wide world, keep his body honed in such battle-ready shape? As if he were preparing for some great test. She lifted her own coffee—also black, God help her—and tried to banish the thought of Ashland striking that punching bag, his muscles bunching effortlessly under his glowing skin.

Of Ashland’s body atop hers, connected with hers, heated and powerful, stroking into her with exquisite strength.

Beneath her neat jacket, her plain wool waistcoat and cotton shirt, the linen bandage binding her chest, Emilie’s breasts tingled painfully. She cleared her tightened throat and finished her toast. “Speaking of which, where is His Grace at the moment? He’s never been so late for breakfast.”

Freddie looked up. “Oh, that. Hadn’t you heard? Pater’s gone off.”

Emilie’s knife clattered on her plate. “Gone off?”

Freddie waved his hand. “Off. Gone. Exit, pursued by a stag.”

“A bear.”

“Whatever it is. Absconded to London, at the crack of . . . dawn . . .” He stared at her and frowned.

“London!” Emilie’s forehead stretched upward with astonishment, causing her spectacles to slide down her nose. She pushed them up hastily. “The duke in
London
! Whatever for?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. I’m quite as perplexed as you.” Freddie cocked his head, still frowning, his eyes fixed on Emilie’s face. “Daresay things have gone along so swimmingly with this new bird of his, he’s decided to try his luck in the capital.”

Emilie’s fingers went cold. “I . . . I daresay.”

“You know . . . the oddest thing . . .” Freddie said slowly.

Emilie stared down at her plate. The yolks of her half-eaten eggs had met a pool of grease from the kippers, and were beginning to congeal. Her enormous appetite had evaporated. “What’s that?” she asked absently.

“No, no,” he said hastily. “A dream. I’m sure of it. Ha-ha. A dream, of course.”

She glanced up. “A dream?”

Freddie was plunging his fork into his breakfast, looking miraculously human, a living testament to the restorative powers of strong black coffee. “Ha-ha. You’ll never credit it. Last night, you see, I dreamt that you’d shaved those whiskers of yours.”

“Ha-ha.” She picked up her cup and hid behind it.

Freddie stuffed his mouth and smiled reminiscently. “Astonishingly vivid dream. I can see your face quite plainly, shorn as a newborn lamb.”

“Newborn lambs aren’t shorn, as a rule.”

“Well, but you
looked
like a precious little newborn baa-lamb, without your whiskers. All wide-eyed and innocent. Gone, the avenging tutor! Ha-ha.” Freddie threw back another cup of coffee. “I should sketch it out before I forget. Then the next time you’re scolding me, I’ll bring it out to remind myself of your humiliation.”

“I wasn’t humiliated.” Emilie glanced at the footman’s impassive face. “It was only a dream, after all.
Your
dream.”