How to Tame Your Duke(16)

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."

"No doubt."

"Of course, it all depended on the railway link. He petitioned for it  himself; did you know that? And helped to fund its construction. Olympia  assisted him in getting the necessary approvals and so on. You know how  well connected my uncle is."

"Indeed, I do. Good afternoon," said Miss Dingleby, addressing a waiter  who hovered nearby. "Tea, if you please. Do you have a decent Lapsang  souchong?"

"Indeed we do, sir. An excellent blend."

"The Lapsang, then. And the usual complement of sandwiches and  biscuits." Miss Dingleby smiled at the waiter and tented her fingers  together on the tablecloth. "I find myself famished after such an  arduous journey."