How to Tame Your Duke(14)

       
           



       

"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.