"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?
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.