"What the devil's going on in here?" thundered the Duke of Ashland, from the doorway.
Lucy's shrieks stopped dead in her throat.
If the marble floor had, at that instant, opened up to expose the flaming pits of hell, Emilie would have loosened her grip and fallen into the Devil's own hands with pleasure.
"I'm afraid Mr. Grimsby's got himself into a bit of a fix," said Freddie. "You perceive the situation is rather dire, at present. I thought I might drag over one of the sofas to break his fall."
The tree staggered. A few candles fell off, blazing into the marble.
"For God's sake," said Ashland. His boots clacked briskly across the floor. "Lucy, put out those damned candles. Mr. Grimsby, detach yourself from that tree at once."
Emilie's face was flaming, her hands slipping with sweat. A piece of tinsel tickled her nose. Every muscle strained with the effort of clinging to the thin upper trunk of the festive Ashland Christmas tree. "Sir, I . . ."
"I'm right below you, never fear."
Freddie coughed. "Do you think that's wise, Pater? I should hate to lose you both."
Another candle toppled.
"Freddie, for the love of God, hold your bloody tongue." Ashland's voice was calm and steady. "Mr. Grimsby, when you're ready."
Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. The lights of the chandelier burned through her lids.
"I shall catch you, Mr. Grimsby. Never fear."
Emilie released her feet from the trunk. She was dangling now, her damp hands sliding down the needles.
"That's it. I'm right here."
Right here.
The fall seemed to last forever. The air rushed along her burning cheeks; her body coasted endlessly downward. Well, that was easy, Emilie thought. I wonder when I shall hit bottom.
Then something hit her back and folded itself around her. For a long instant she was staggering, toppling slowly, rather like the tree.
"That's it," said Ashland, enclosing her snugly in his arms, just before falling on his arse.
* * *
Well! This is a Christmas Eve we'll likely never forget," said Freddie cheerfully, setting down his wineglass with a satisfied clink. "Nothing like a spot of mortal terror to get the blood moving in the old veins."
"Mortal terror? I thought your approach to the situation rather casual. Lighthearted, even." Emilie drained the rest of her own wine, and in the next instant Lionel the footman was hovering behind her, refilling the glass. She had been invited to dine with the family tonight; a kind gesture, though she suspected it had something to do with imbuing the cavernous dining room with a little more Christmas spirit by the addition of a third body. She and Freddie sat across from each other, separated by a wide iceberg of ancient white linen and an uninhibited display of the ducal silver. The Duke of Ashland anchored the end of the table with massive and silent dignity.
"Oh, that! I was only trying to stop you from panicking. I was absolutely crucified with fear, actually." He made a signal for Lionel to refill his wineglass; Lionel, with a glance at Ashland's face, ignored him. "For one thing, we should have had to find another tutor, and I'll be dashed if we could locate another one half so amusing as you, Grimsby."
"Mr. Grimsby," rumbled Ashland, his first words in the past quarter hour.
"Mr. Grimsby. Of course. Ha-ha! Dashed, I said. When of course, you were the one about to be dashed on the floor . . ."
"Frederick, for God's sake. Have you no other topic of conversation tonight?"
"Pater, you must admit, we haven't had anything half so interesting happen at the Abbey in years. The same old placid, humdrum existence." Freddie picked up his wineglass, discovered an overlooked drop or two, and tilted the vessel nearly vertical into his mouth. "Of course, they say these sorts of disasters happen in threes. Only imagine the excitement that awaits us!"
Lionel and one of the other footmen were clearing the course from the table. Emilie sat rigidly while her plate was removed in an expert swipe. "Since there was no disaster, Lord Silverton, due to the swift action of your father, I believe we can sleep easily."
She didn't look at Ashland as she said this. She hadn't been able to look at him at all in the past twenty-four hours. Each time her glance had fallen on him-today in the hallways and in the schoolroom, last night when he had stopped by the library for a few minutes of polite conversation-she had remembered the brush of his knuckles against her breast, his warm breath on the nape of her neck, his lips on the tender skin of her wrist.
She had remembered how she sat in her chemise, all but naked before him, and read Miss Brontë's passionate words in her softest voice, hoping he wouldn't recognize the timbre as belonging to that of his son's bewhiskered tutor. How he had sat, silent and unseen, in the armchair behind her; how she could feel his presence nonetheless, could somehow sense every slow breath in his lungs, every caress of his gaze on her body. How her skin had tingled, how her breasts had tightened, how the juncture of her legs had grown damp and aching.
How was it possible to meet his arctic eye after that?
Last night, when she heard the pause in his footsteps outside the library door, she had cursed herself. She should never have lingered there, where Ashland might tread. When he had entered and tossed her an oddly cheerful greeting, she had mumbled a reply and risen to her feet.
"There's no need to leave on my account, Mr. Grimsby," he had said, and at once she had blushed, her blood rising up in reflex at the remembered intimacy of his words at the hotel, the alluring rumble in his voice when he pronounced her given name.
Emilie.
She had told him she was on the point of going upstairs anyway, that she was quite done in. She had left in a rush, avoiding his massive body as if he had some virulently infectious disease: typhoid or diphtheria, an influenza of the senses. God, what if he had recognized her somehow? Her hair, or her figure, or her hands?
What had she been doing in that hotel room to begin with?
She was mad. Madly infatuated, madly obsessed with his person.
Mad.
She should not have come to dinner tonight. She should have pleaded indisposition after her fall and taken a tray in her room. But she hadn't been able to resist, had she? As much as she dreaded the proximity of the Duke of Ashland, she longed for it.
"Mr. Grimsby," the duke said, and at once she felt his arms around her again, felt Emilie and Ashland crash together to the marble floor. A metaphor, if there ever were one. "Mr. Grimsby, do you attend me?"
Emilie's head shot up. "Yes, Your Grace! I beg your pardon. Woolgathering."
"Appropriate enough, for Yorkshire," put in Freddie.
"I only wished to inquire whether you were having a happy Christmas. Mortal danger notwithstanding, of course."
Good Lord, was that a twinkle in the duke's blue eye?
She pushed up her spectacles. "Yes, sir. Though perhaps I might suggest the duchy invest in a sturdier ladder, next year."
"I shall, of course, take your suggestion under the most serious consideration." The duke looked as if he might actually smile, but he drank his wine instead. "I daresay it must be rather grim for you, spending Christmas without your loved ones, in such a remote and rather forbidding corner of England."
"Not at all, sir. I feel quite at home here."
Ashland was studying her, she knew. She fought to keep the blood from rising again in her cheeks. The footmen had returned with the next course: the dessert, she saw with relief. A traditional plum pudding, fairly drowning in its brandy sauce. It reminded her, with an unexpected pang, of her childhood Christmases, before her mother died. Mother had always insisted on her English rituals.
"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Grimsby," Ashland said at last.
"Rather," said Freddie. "I feel as if you're becoming quite one of the family. Awfully splendid having you here tonight, piercing the gloom of our lonely dining room." He took an enormous mouthful of plum pudding, rolled his eyes upward to heaven, and worked his jaws thoughtfully. "I say," he said, swallowing, "I've just had the most brilliant notion."
"I do hope it has something to do with your Greek iambics," Emilie said. She resisted the urge to glance at the clock on the mantel, to count out the minutes before she might flee from the unsparing regard of the Duke of Ashland. The sooner this dinner ended, the better. Then she could return to her usual routine of trays in her room, or else the occasional appearance at the servants' table, so as not to seem haughty. She would be safe. Away from the duke's presence, she could find a way to divest this mad and dangerous infatuation. This longing so intense, it had become a physical ache in her chest.