Emilie turned from the window and gripped the sill behind her with both hands. She was melting inside, her body held together only by the thunderous beat of her heart.
She could not. She must not.
She was mad, even to think it.
* * *
That there's yer blindfold, ma'am," said Mrs. Scruton, with a pat to the back of her head. "I hasn't done it up too tight, has I?"
"No, not at all," Emilie whispered. The sudden descent of total blackness made her head turn light, made her blood sing.
"He'll be right inside, madam. Been waiting for you this hour, he has." The housekeeper's voice held a trace of reproach.
"I'm sorry. I had . . . I had an errand to run."
"An errand?" A pause, heavy with disbelief. "Well, no matter. He'll be that glad to see you at last."
Mrs. Scruton's hands wrapped around Emilie's shoulders, almost motherly, and nudged her around the remembered corner. "He's been fidgety as a schoolboy. Ringing down every few minute. Bless the Lord you've come at last."
Emilie heard a knock, a rattle of the doorknob, a scrape. A breath of wind passed her face.
"Mr. Brown! She's here."
Emilie stepped forward, urged by Mrs. Scruton, and at once a hand surrounded hers and drew her into the room.
"Thank you, Mrs. Scruton. That will be all."
"Ring if you need owt," said Mrs. Scruton, and the door clicked shut.
Emilie stood without moving. Ashland stood before her, his hand holding hers; she could feel his warm immensity holding back the air, only inches away. What was he thinking? What expression did he wear, on that half-civilized face of his?
"Emilie." He lifted her hand and touched her gloved knuckles to his lips. His voice was still low, as if under the strictest control. "Welcome. Thank you for coming this evening. I hope it was not inconvenient."
"Not at all."
"It's a cold night. I hope you weren't chilled." He drew her forward, holding her hand as if leading her into a dance. "May I take your coat? I've built up the fire."
"Yes, thank you."
His hand left hers and went to her shoulder. He slid off one sleeve, then the other. Emilie lifted her own hands to her woolen muffler, but Ashland's fingers set them aside. "Let me," he said.
Emilie stood rigidly while the duke unwound her muffle, while he removed her hatpin and then her hat, with as much delicate care as if he were a lady's maid. He adjusted the blindfold. "Comfortable?" he asked, and this time his voice seemed a little more rough, a little less strictly controlled.
"Yes."
"May I remove your gloves?"
The question sounded unbearably intimate. She held out her hands. "Yes."
He undid the little buttons slowly. She imagined how much trouble they must be for his single left hand; she pictured his deft fingers working each tiny mother-of-pearl nub through its tiny hole. A vibration passed between their entwined hands. Were her muscles trembling, or his?
The last button came undone; the kidskin slid endlessly down her fingers. He began on the other one, with the same excruciating care, while Emilie's pulse ticked madly away, rather like the clock in her room, only more rapid, more insistent. Ashland's breath filled the air between them, smelling sweet and faintly spicy, as if he'd been drinking tea. Without the dominance of her eyes, her every other sense had gained a preternatural sharpness. The wooliness of his coat, the clean brightness of his shaving soap, the pressure of his fingers on her glove, the heat of his nearby body, the slight roughness of his breathing: Each one of these perceptions struck her with clear edges, with almost visual exactness.
The glove gave way. Ashland turned her hand over and kissed her wrist, the way he had done last week; he took her other wrist and pressed his lips against the tender skin. "You don't wear scent."
"No. I have never liked it."
"Come to the fire and warm yourself. I've had tea brought in."
He led her forward, guided her into the sofa. "How do you take yours?" he asked politely, like a hostess in her drawing room.
Emilie felt as if she were in a dream. Had the Duke of Ashland actually just asked her how she took her tea? "With cream," she said, "and just a little sugar."
A slight hesitation. "Ah."
The splash of liquid, the clink of porcelain. How awkward it must be for him. He had never seemed self-conscious about his missing hand; he performed all tasks with matter-of-factness, without any allowance for his handicap. And yet how did one pour tea and mix cream? How did one negotiate buttons and horses and shaving and writing? Every simple action, every last little chore, must require the utmost concentration.
"Here we are," he said.
Emilie held out her hands, and the cup and saucer were placed gently into her palm. "Thank you."
"Careful, my dear. It's still hot."
The tea was hot, a strong blend, just the way she liked it. She hadn't realized just how much she needed a lovely cup of tea. She felt instantly braced, instantly equal to any challenge, even sitting in darkness on a well-cushioned sofa.
Been waiting for you this hour, he has. He's been fidgety as a schoolboy.
Was it possible? Did she have some power over the all-powerful Duke of Ashland?
He was moving away, settling himself nearby, in the armchair, probably. Not the one in which he sat last week: the one next to the sofa, arranged companionably before the hissing fire. Emilie stretched out her feet a few inches. From the duke's direction came another clink of porcelain. His own cup of tea, she supposed.
"You're drinking tea?" she asked. "Not coffee?"
"Yes." The porcelain clinked again. "How did you know I drink coffee?"
Emilie's fingers froze around her cup. "I don't know. I suppose you seem like the coffee-drinking sort."
"How perceptive. You're quite right; I do drink coffee." Another silence. "May I offer you cake? Sandwiches?"
"No, thank you. Perhaps later."
The word later rang softly about the room.
"May I ask you an impertinent question, madam?" he asked.
"That depends, I suppose, on the question."
"Is Emilie your real name?"
Emilie sipped her tea and set it back in the saucer. "It is."
"Will you allow me to know your family name?"
"I'm afraid not. And you, sir? Is Anthony Brown your true name?"
He shifted against his chair. "Anthony is my given name. Brown is not."
"So we are equal, then, in subterfuge."
"No, Emilie. We are not equal." The deeper clack of saucer meeting wood. "I am at your mercy."
"That's not true."
"I assure you, it is. There is nothing I would not do for you."
Emilie set her cup into her saucer. It made a telltale rattle, and she swiftly braced the china against her lap. "You would not tell me your true name. You would not let me take off this blindfold."
He hesitated. "Anything else."
"Anything else is nothing at all. That is what's essential: you yourself. You won't give me yourself." She could not stop the reckless words. What was she thinking? She couldn't remove the blindfold. He would see through her disguise in an instant. This mask was infinitely more essential to her than to Ashland.
"Emilie, I cannot." He rose from the chair and paced across the space in front of her. "If I revealed these things, you would not stay. You would never return."
"Would that be so tragic? You could simply order another lady."
"Not any longer." He said the words under his breath; were it not for the blindfold, heightening her senses, she might not have heard them.
She spoke gently. "Why the blindfold, then? What are you hiding?"
He didn't answer at once. What was he doing? Was he leaning against the mantel, perhaps, his long legs crossed? Was he watching her as she sat there, blind and defenseless on the sofa?
"I was injured, many years ago," he said at last. "My appearance is unsettling."
"How were you injured?"
"I was abroad. I was . . . I was a soldier, in India. Well, Afghanistan, really. We had gone over the border to . . ." He let his words hang in the air.
Emilie drank her tea. "To do what? Was there a battle?"
"There was a battle," he said slowly, "but I was not in it. I was performing . . . reconnaissance, of a sort. I was captured."
Emilie's cup was empty. She reached forward to place the saucer on the perceived table before her.
"Here, let me," said Ashland, and in an instant he was there, taking the porcelain from her fingers, his skin just brushing hers.