How to Tame Your Duke (22 page)

“Well, it’s rather difficult to explain.” Freddie released his father’s hand and stretched his arms high above his head in a gigantic yawn, like a spindly adolescent lion satisfied with his day’s play. “Perhaps it’s best if you see for yourself.”

*   *   *

E
milie had learned to swim at the age of fifteen, on the orders of Miss Dingleby. “It is a skill typically overlooked by young ladies,” her governess had said, “and yet it may possibly save your life, and that of others.” She had been stripped of her gown, put in an awkward bathing costume, and plunged into the chilly waters of the Holsteinsee one May morning, and once she’d recovered from the shock, she discovered she liked swimming very much. She liked the freedom, the way her limbs stroked through the water, the feeling of rhythmic power. She liked the way the rest of the world disappeared, all the trappings and ceremony and restrictions of her life, to leave only herself, Emilie, immersed in the elemental forces of nature.

The Duke of Ashland’s private bathing pool was nothing like the mountain-fed chill of the Holsteinsee, of course. It caressed her body with tingling warmth; it felt curiously alive against her bare skin, easing all the little aches of her passionate night in Ashland’s bed, cleansing and invigorating her. She stroked back and forth for nearly half an hour, and as she turned to make her last lap, she felt as if she might conquer the world.

She would dress and go upstairs and pack. She would write a note to Ashland, to be delivered after her own departure. She would go to the station, she would send a wire to Miss Dingleby, she would take the train to London and walk into her uncle’s study and demand that her father’s murderers be found and brought to justice. She would end this extraordinary chapter in her life and . . . well, return to her old self. Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, only a little older and wiser.

As for Ashland himself . . .

Her fingertips touched the stone edge of the pool. She stared at them for a moment: the delicate long bones, the blunt nails, the drops of water trickling from the knuckles. Such feminine hands; how had she fooled them all with hands like this?

People see what they expect to see
, Miss Dingleby had said.

She placed her palms on the smooth paving stones and hoisted herself upward. Her nipples puckered instantly at the cool air. She reached for the thick Turkish towel on the low stool nearby and froze at the sight of the booted feet before her.

The boots were well polished, enormous, planted squarely on the stone, dark leather against pale marble. She knew those boots well.

Emilie whipped about and flung the towel around her dripping body.

“Emilie,” said the Duke of Ashland. His voice was the lowest she’d ever heard it, scarcely above a growl, and yet perfectly calm, perfectly controlled. “Emilie
Grimsby
, is it? Or is that a fabrication as well?”

“Not Grimsby,” she said.

“What, then?”

She didn’t answer.

“What a fool I am,” said the Duke of Ashland. “So many clues, and I missed them all. I, of all people. My hat is off to you, my dear. Olympia has trained you well.”

Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Tell me, Emilie. Why are you here? What information did Olympia hope to gain through you?”

“None at all, sir. I . . . He . . . That’s not why I came.”

“Why, then?”

“I came to hide.”

“From what, Emilie?”

She filled her chest with warm, damp air. “From my father’s murderers.”

“Good God.”

Did he believe her? She looked down at the white towel covering her body, the pool of water forming about her feet. She could almost hear the finely tuned machinery of Ashland’s brain whirring about, taking in all the threads of information and weaving them into the correct pattern.

“The Holstein-Schweinwald affair,” he said at last. “Of course. You’re Olympia’s niece.”

“Yes.”

“The Princess . . . Emilie, I presume?”

“I am.”

The water from the bathing pool lapped quietly into the silence between them.

“You have played your part exceptionally well, madam. To have made such an extraordinary sacrifice in the name of duty.”

“It was not a sacrifice.”

“Ah yes. You couldn’t resist me, wasn’t that it?
God help me
, you said.” There was a little slap, as of gloves against sleeve. “At least I had the honor of making your performance a pleasurable one. Or were you feigning that, too?”

“I feigned nothing. You must believe that.”

He laughed coldly. “Believe what, madam? I confess, I don’t know what to believe.”

“I told you you’d hate me, when you knew the truth. I told you . . .”

“Hate you? You mistake me, madam. If I hated you, I would simply have turned and left, and given orders for you to be removed from the premises. Instead I am still here, waiting for you to turn around and continue this conversation face-to-face. Or do I remain so repulsive to your eyes?”

She turned.

He stood ablaze, his blue eye scorching with emotion, his massive body crackling with suppressed energy. His feet were planted wide apart, and his hand fisted at his side, leather glove enclosed by white knuckles. His white hair glowed silver in the shifting light from the bathing pool.

“You are not repulsive,” she said. “You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“I’m what, Emilie?”

“Everything.”

He stood staring at her, as if he were trying to burn away the outer layers of her skin and read the truth beneath. She willed it through the air between them:
I love you. I adore you. Deceiving you nearly destroyed me.

“You are still in danger, I presume,” he said. “That’s why Olympia sent you to me.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I believe, my dear girl, we would all have been saved a great deal of trouble if Olympia had seen fit to send me his little package with instructions included.”

“He couldn’t. He couldn’t have sent me as I am, as an unmarried lady to a house without a mistress . . .”

Ashland slapped his glove against his leg. “The result was the same, however. Instead of protecting you, I seduced you.”

“Perhaps it was the other way around. I came to
you
, if you remember.”

“Regardless.” He pinned his glove to his chest with his right wrist and wriggled it onto his left hand with astonishing dexterity. “I shall leave at once for London and determine what must be done. You will stay here. You will resume your disguise. You will not leave this house, not even to the garden. I shall leave instructions with my men to lock the doors, to admit no one, to protect you at all costs.”

Emilie gasped. “You can’t do that!”

“I will.”

“But these men, these agents, they know I’m here. Yesterday, just before you arrived, I was out with Freddie and rode straight into an ambush. A man sprang from behind the Old Lady; if Freddie hadn’t known the moors so well, and lost him . . .” She let the words dangle.

Ashland’s expression didn’t change, but the coiled tension in his body wound, if possible, even tighter. “I see. And how long has my loyal son known of your disguise?”

“Since the morning you left for London.”

Ashland swore under his breath.

“So you see, I can’t stay here. It’s impossible.” Emilie’s hands tightened on the towel, her flimsy and undignified shield from Ashland’s icy rage. “Now that they know where I am, and how I’m disguised.”

“And who, exactly, are
they
?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we—what my uncle and my sisters and I—are trying to find out.”

“I see.” He tapped one finger against its opposite sleeve. His face had turned hard, calculating, the way it must once have looked before battle, on his clandestine missions in the mountains of Afghanistan. “Very well. As I have no trained men here at the Abbey, you and Frederick will accompany me to London. You will change into your disguise at once and meet me in the front hall in half an hour. You will obey my every instruction to the letter, without question, or I cannot guarantee your safety. Is this understood?”

“I am not one of your army subordinates, by God!”

Ashland reached out and captured her chin in his gloved palm. “No, you are not,” he said, in a dusky voice. “But Olympia, God forever damn his plotting brain, has entrusted your safety to me. You are nothing but a pawn, my dear, and you must play your role or lose the game.”

The leather of Ashland’s glove was cool against her skin. Though his hand was gentle, it engulfed her chin completely, humming with latent power. “And when the game is won?” she asked.

Ashland’s gaze slid over her face. “When the game is won, Emilie, the victor claims the spoils.” He passed his gloved thumb across her lips, turned, and walked out of the room, his boots echoing against the marble in sharp clacks.

T
he Duke of Olympia regarded the two figures seated before him with a beneficent satisfaction. “An unspeakable delight,” he repeated, smiling. He steepled his fingers. “I had scarcely hoped for it.”

“Nonsense,” snapped the Duke of Ashland. “You had it planned all along. I daresay you were wondering what the devil took me so long.”

“Not at all, not at all. My Emilie is a formidable opponent.” Olympia turned his smile to the bewhiskered young person in the other chair, which still gave Ashland a start. Even knowing what lay beneath those whiskers and those spectacles, that sleek layer of pomaded golden hair, he couldn’t quite believe this was Emily.
His
Emily, whose supple body had risen up so eagerly to meet his own, whose breasts he had weighed in his hand scarcely hours before. Who had whispered such tender words in his ear, who had kissed him as if she’d really meant it.

Not Emily anymore.
Emilie.

He swallowed back the bitterness that rose in his throat. Emotion had no place here, at the present moment.

“She is indeed. But we are not here to applaud the workings of your nimble brain, Olympia, nor the skill with which your niece has played her part. We are here to determine what is to be done to resolve the crisis. You will, perhaps, be so good as to deliver me a candid assessment of the state of affairs.” He allowed a slight emphasis to fall on the word
candid
.

Olympia leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Forgive me. I have grown sentimental with age, and your case has perplexed me for so long. Yes. Holstein-Schweinwald. A damnably mysterious problem. My inquiries have turned up almost nothing.”

Emilie’s rigid back straightened another regal inch. “Where is Miss Dingleby?”

“Who is Miss Dingleby?” asked Ashland.

“Miss Dingleby,” said Olympia, without changing expression, “has acted as my agent in Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof for several years, since I first detected stirrings of an unusual nature in that state.”

Emilie gasped. “All along!”

“Surely you suspected. In the past few months, if nothing else.”

“I knew she . . . I thought perhaps . . .” Emilie bit her lip. “Ashland’s right, isn’t he? You’ve planned all this, from the beginning.”

Olympia spread his hands before them. “It depends on what you call the beginning. I have always followed with particular intensity the political affairs of your native land, my dear, having such a close and avuncular interest there. The regular demise of your stepmothers awakened a certain suspicion in my mind.”

“You believe they were
murdered
?”

Olympia shrugged. “I have no proof. And yet a rather shadowy organization exists across the states of Europe, passionate anarchists all, committed to the elimination first of the Continent’s established monarchies, and then of government altogether.”

Ashland’s pulse skipped. “You think this is the work of Free Blood?”

“As you know, there’s no more effective catalyst for political instability than a state without a legitimate heir.”

Emilie had turned white. “My mother, too?”

“As I said, I have no conclusive proof.”

Ashland was watching Olympia’s face with keen eyes. “But you do have something.”

Olympia rose from his desk and walked to a cabinet in the wall, from which he withdrew a plain silver cup. He handed it to Emilie.

She turned it over in her hands. “The Holstein crest,” she whispered.

“Miss Dingleby sent it back to me. She recovered it from your third stepmother’s bedside table, the night before your half brother was born dead. Upon chemical analysis, the dregs were found to contain a potent and particularly toxic abortifacient.”

“Good God.”

“You will note that all of your dear father’s wives died in childbed, delivering stillborns.” Olympia resumed his seat with a gentle flip of his superfine tails.

Emilie was still staring at the cup. Her long fingers trembled against the tarnished silver; her lips were bloodred against her white face. The sight of her distress made Ashland’s chest contract, made his breath stop in his lungs.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” she asked her uncle.

Ashland laid his arms across his chest in an effort to hold himself together. “Because this sort of information is best kept to oneself until the moment arrives to strike. Isn’t that right, Olympia?”

“Correct. And you were in excellent hands with Miss Dingleby, who this very moment is pursuing a channel of her own. We had your message, you see, about the ambush yesterday morning. It confirmed our fears.”

“What fears?” asked Emilie.

“That someone is privy to our investigation. Someone had discovered where we had hidden you.”

“Succeeded where I failed,” Ashland said crisply. He looked again at Emilie. He had stolen glances at her throughout the jolting train ride into London, in the cab from the station to Park Lane, and still the mystery of her seemed hidden from him. His mind, trained to accept and act on startling new information without hesitation, could not quite encompass this. It wasn’t simply that Emily was Grimsby; he’d always felt a streak of odd tenderness for the tutor, which demonstrated at least
some
sort of subconscious recognition of her true nature, thank God. It was that Grimsby was
Emilie
, the lost German princess, radiant and untouchable. He’d said scarcely a word to her all day. He didn’t know whether to throttle her for her betrayal, or to make passionate love to her because she lay unmasked before him at last, or simply to gaze at her in awe and longing.

He took refuge, as he usually did, in silence.

“Don’t blame yourself, young man,” said Olympia. “Had I put out the least hint, you would have smoked her out at once. In any case, we are now offered an auspicious opportunity.”

As always, Olympia’s benign face revealed nothing of his inner thoughts. But Ashland had learned his trade at the duke’s broad feet; Ashland heard the words
auspicious opportunity
and knew what they meant.

“No,” he said. “You will not risk Emilie.”

Olympia’s well-tailored shoulders straightened an infinitesimal degree. He returned Ashland’s gaze without blinking. “Emilie, my dear, would you be so good as to allow me a few minutes’ private conversation with our friend the Duke of Ashland?”

“I would not.”

“I thought not.” His gaze continued to lock with Ashland’s, dark and cool. “You will therefore forgive my candor when I inquire of the duke what, exactly, gives him the honor of acting so decisively on your behalf?”

“I will answer with equal candor, sir. Your niece is my affianced wife.”

Emilie shot from her chair. “That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?” Olympia looked at her at last, and this time his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “It hardly seems a matter to admit doubt. Either you’re engaged, or you’re not.”

“I am bound in honor to her. I will marry her.”

“Nonsense,” Emilie said. “No such obligation exists between us. Especially not now, with everything changed.”

“I disagree. Nothing essential has changed.” He spoke to Olympia. “In the first place, I have compromised her innocence.”

“Tut-tut,” Olympia said.

“In the second place, there is a possibility she carries my child.”

“Quite shocking. Is this true, my dear?
Is
it possible?”

“I . . .” Emilie’s mouth opened and closed. Her white face was becoming rapidly overrun with a fetching pink blush. She cast a helpless look at Ashland, and back at her uncle. “It makes no difference. I will not marry him. I will not marry a man . . .”

“You will
not
walk this earth, carrying my child . . .”

“. . . out of some archaic sense of duty, not to say outdated notion of . . .”

“. . . without bearing the protection of my name as well . . .”

“. . . will undoubtedly regret such an irrevocable step . . .”

“. . . to say nothing of the protection of my body . . .”

“. . . when I have resources of my own should . . .”

“QUIET!”
Olympia rose from his chair and placed his hands on his desk. “Whether or not the two of you reach the altar before tearing each other apart is beside the point.”

“It is?” said Emilie, finger still raised.

“It
is
?” said Ashland. He rose to meet Olympia’s towering regard.

“Quite immaterial, really. You need only be engaged,” said Olympia. “Publicly engaged. The Duke of Ashland and the lost Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, a terribly romantic affair. A ball would be just the thing to celebrate the announcement, don’t you think?”

As the last words left his mouth, an odd buzzing sound issued from the corner of Olympia’s desk. The duke’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ll excuse me.” He leaned over to lift an object shaped rather like an elongated bell to his ear.

The buzz still seemed to echo in Ashland’s ear. He folded his arms back over his chest, girding himself, while Olympia exchanged a few low words into the odd contraption in his hand. Emilie said nothing, but he could feel her vibrating nearby, her ardent young body straining with emotion.
Let me handle this
, he wanted to say.
This is my world. Be easy. Let me take care of you.

The receiver clicked back into its box. “I beg your pardon. Miss Dingleby has been informed of developments and will be with us directly. Now. The engagement ball. Three weeks, I believe, will be sufficient preparation. The season hasn’t begun, but I daresay we can coax a few celebratory souls into the capital for the occasion. Emilie will stay here with me, of course. We will divest her of her disguise at once. Have you a house in town, Ashland?”

“Not at present.”

“I believe there are a few suitable properties available for lease at the moment. You will of course call as many staff as possible down from Yorkshire; we don’t want any new hires running about the house.”

Ashland stepped forward and placed his left index finger in the center of Olympia’s immaculate leather blotter. “As I have said before, you will not risk Emilie.”

“My dear fellow, she will be in no danger at all in my house. I shall personally ensure her safety.”

“In the first place, I stay where Emilie stays.”

“Quite improper.”

“I don’t bloody care. In the second place . . .”

A knock cracked through the air.

“Come in,” said Olympia.

Ashland heard the door open behind him, heard a sharp clack of heels on wood, followed by the silence of the rug. Olympia’s gaze flickered to the newcomer. “Ah! Miss Dingleby.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“Indeed you are,” said Olympia. “Anything to report?”

Her voice was warm and businesslike, as Ashland might have expected. Olympia’s female operatives always ran to type. “My errand this morning was fruitless, I fear. But Emilie’s room upstairs has been secured. I shall put my own cot in there tonight. I’ve posted Hans on the lookout outside, meanwhile, should anyone have followed them down from Yorkshire.”

“No one did,” said Ashland, without turning.

“Are you quite sure?” asked the woman behind him.

He turned. “I hope you aren’t questioning my competence, Miss . . .” He raked her angular form up and down. “Dinglebat, was it?”

Miss Dingleby smiled benignly. “You did require several weeks to discover our Emilie’s disguise.”

“If you had done your job properly, madam, she should not have been forced into hiding in the first place.”

“I beg your pardon. Have you any idea what sort of enemy we’re up against, Your Grace?”

“I’ve infiltrated the most murderous cults in . . .”

“Stop it, the lot of you!” cried Emilie.

Ashland turned. Emilie stood akimbo, her face flushed pink, her blue eyes searing them both behind the sheen of her spectacles. Her false whiskers seemed to stand out from her jaw. “Stop talking and making plans for me, as if I’m nothing but a pawn on a chessboard, to be moved about at will!
You!
” She pointed at Olympia. “You’ve planned every step of this, haven’t you, knowing full well I’d fall under Ashland’s spell, drawing him into a . . . a possibly
mortal
danger that has nothing at all to do with him! Risking his life, just as you did in India, when you nearly killed him! I won’t let you do it again!”

Ashland opened his mouth to say something, but there were no words. No words at all to riposte this extraordinary woman, this fire-fueled princess who stood there and fought for him, for
him
, with all the fury in her regal golden-haired body.

“And
you
!” Emilie turned and stabbed her avenging finger in Ashland’s direction. “You will not risk yourself in a public
engagement
to me! You will not sleep in this
house
with me!”

Speech returned in an instant. He took her shoulder. “By God, I will!”

“You won’t!” She stared up at his ruined face without flinching. “For one thing, you have a wife already! Or had you forgotten?”

Ashland’s hand fell away.

“Because
I
haven’t forgotten,” she said. “And I doubt that London society has. You’ve no business engaging yourself to anyone, publicly or not. Lavish Park Lane ball to lure mad anarchists, or not.”