How to Tame Your Duke(19)

The hallway was clean and well-lit, with electric wall sconces and a  soft blue carpet, smelling of paint and lilies. Emilie's eyes fastened  on the doors passing by, white and rather blurred in the absence of her  spectacles. Good God. This could not be happening. She could not  possibly be doing this.

Damn Miss Dingleby and her public meetings.

She would explain. That was it. She would go into the room and wait for  Ashland, and she would turn away so he couldn't see her face, and she  would tell him it was all a dreadful mistake. That was it. Ashland was a  just man; he would let her go. She could steal away, and that would be  that. If she were quiet and firm and did not make a scene, the incident  would be forgotten in an hour, and no one would think to connect her  face with those starched official photographs in the newspaper.

"Here we are." Mrs. Scruton whirled Emilie around a corner, where a  single door sat in the center of a recess. She took a key from her  pocket and fitted it into the lock. "He'll be up in two minute. Do ye  want to refresh yersen first?"

"I . . . No, I . . ."

Mrs. Scruton ushered her through the door, into a dim and spacious  parlor. The blue and yellow curtains were drawn snugly against the  fading daylight, and the room was lit by a single oil lamp atop a round  table in the center. A sofa and two armchairs sat companionably by a  fireplace. There was no sign of a bed, but a door stood ajar along the  opposite wall, suggesting another chamber.

"There, ye see? I'll nobbut take yer coat and hat, madam," said Mrs.  Scruton, and in the next instant Emilie's worn black coat was slipping  down her arms. Mrs. Scruton folded it neatly, laid it across the back of  the sofa, placed the hat on top, and turned back to Emilie with an  expression of deep relief. "There, then. All ready. Oh! Heavens, I'd  near but forgotten."

"Forgotten?" Emilie asked faintly.

Mrs. Scruton marched to a polished demilune table against the wall,  between the two windows. She opened a drawer and pulled out a length of  black cloth.

"Yer blindfold, madam."





EIGHT




The Duke of Ashland paused briefly in the threshold. A new girl tonight, Mrs. Scruton had said.

Not that it mattered, really. So long as she was discreet and clean and  well mannered, so long as she couldn't see his face, the woman herself  made no difference. His craving was animal in nature, and a warm and  sentient female body was all he required.

She would be obliging. She was paid to be obliging.

She wouldn't be able to see him.

He pulled the key from his pocket and let himself in.

Mrs. Scruton had, as always, put out all the lights but one. His good  eye stretched and adjusted into the dimness, searching for the woman who  awaited him.

A shadow moved by the window. "Sir?"

The word had an odd ring of familiarity. Had she come to him before, in  the early months, when the women changed each time? Before he had  settled on Sarah?                       
       
           



       

She stepped forward from the darkness near the windows, a woman of above  average height, her fair hair gleaming above the black blindfold. "Are  you there?" she whispered.

"I am here." He took off his hat and gloves and laid them on the lamp table. "Please sit down."

"I'm afraid I can't." She spoke very softly, almost a whisper, but her clear accent was that of a gentlewoman.

"Of course not. Forgive me." He stepped toward her and grasped her hand.  It was slender and chilled, the thin bones fragile in his palm. She  made a gasp. "The chair is just here, madam," he said, and led her  forward from the shadows.

"No, it's not that," she said. "I fear . . . there's been a mistake, you see, and . . ."

"A mistake?"

"I was . . . lost, you see, and . . . I didn't know how to explain to your . . . to Mrs. Scruton . . ."

"Yes, I know. It's quite all right. You were only a few minutes late,  after all." He smiled kindly, before remembering she couldn't see him.  Her hand was still in his, trembling, unless that telltale vibration  came from his own body. He summoned himself and drew her fingers to his  lips. "It's quite all right."

"But I . . ."

"Please sit." He urged her into the chair. "Would you like a glass of something? Sherry, or wine? Have you eaten?"

"Yes, I've had tea. I . . ."

He had to be doing something, something to cover his anxiety. The woman  was unexpectedly lovely beneath the blindfold. She had high cheekbones  and a firm chin, and her mouth curved with beautiful fullness, a  cherry-ripeness that fastened his hungry gaze. She seemed young, quite  young, and altogether inexperienced despite her poised shoulders and  upright posture.

No, this woman had certainly not come to him before. He would have  remembered her. And yet he could not quite set aside an elusive sense of  familiarity, a hint of that relief one felt when returning to one's own  home after a time spent abroad.

Did he know her from elsewhere?

Ashland stepped away and made for the liquor cabinet. "You must have  something. It's not a journey for the timid, at this time of year."

"I'm not timid."

"Of course not. I only meant . . ." He reached for the sherry and poured  two glasses. The splash of liquid in the glass soothed his jangling  nerves. "I only meant that your way has been long, and the weather  uncomfortable. I hope Mrs. Scruton was hospitable, Miss . . . I beg your  pardon. I haven't even asked your name." He returned to her and pressed  the glass into her hand.

"Thank you." She took a drink. "My name is Emily."

"Emily . . . ?"

"Just Emily." Her voice was firm.

"Emily, then." He touched her glass with his own. "I'm Anthony Brown."

"Mr. Brown." She took another drink. "Do you always take the trouble to introduce yourself?"

He paused at her sharpness. "It seems the courteous thing to do. We are both human beings, after all, deserving of respect."

"Indeed." She set her glass on the table and rose from the chair, nearly  bumping into his nose. "I am afraid, however, that a great mistake has  been made. I cannot . . . I cannot stay with you." A little emphasis  fell on the word stay.

He fiddled with his glass. The light gleamed on her hair: a beautiful  color, a rich gold, the color of wheat in late summer. Her chin was  tilted at a regal angle. Who the devil was she? Nothing like the women  who had come to this room before; even Sarah only clung by her  fingernails to the brink of gentility. This Emily was a lady of quality,  without a doubt. Perhaps fallen on hard times? Perhaps accepting this  employment as a last resort? He felt a sudden bone-crushing desire to  stroke that alluring hair, and was glad-for once-he had no right hand to  reach out and pillage her while his left was already occupied. "Cannot  stay long?" he asked softly. "Or cannot stay at all?"

"Cannot stay at all." She whispered the words. She stood very close; the  heat of her body tingled his neck and his hand, which held the sherry  glass. She seemed to be breathing in shallow little gusts, as if  agitated. If not for the blindfold, she would be staring directly into  his collar. Ashland gazed down at her, transfixed by the perfect curve  where her earlobe met her graceful neck.

He wanted her.

The desire struck him suddenly, with the force of a firing gun.

"Very well. If you wish to leave, you will find your fee in your coat pocket."

A blush crept over her cheekbones. "I don't . . . I don't want your money."                       
       
           



       

"You are entitled to it, after coming so far today."

"I don't . . . I can't . . ." She sat back down again. "Please remove the money from my pocket, sir."

He set down his untouched glass next to hers. "Have you never done this before?"

"No."

The word sent an animal thrill through his veins. He forced it back,  forced himself to civility. "You are free to go, of course, if this . . .  if you cannot overcome your disgust."

"Disgust! No, sir. Not disgust." Her hands knotted together in her lap.  As he watched from above, the little red tip of her tongue slipped from  her mouth to wet her lips.

Ashland swept up his glass of sherry and finished it.

"I will double the fee, if that might persuade you," he said.

"No! Dear God. I must go. This is impossible." She rose again, so  abruptly that Ashland had no time to step back, and she collided into  his chest with an Oh!

He grasped her arm reflexively to steady her.

As always, his senses crashed at the physical contact. He braced himself  for the instant rush of panic, for the excruciating memory of a million  nerve endings recoiling in his body.