How to Tame Your Duke(26)

A man who commits adultery in his heart . . .

"Come." He took her hand and urged her upward. "Your stays."

She lifted her arms, and he fitted the corset around her waist, using  his stump to hold the garment in place while his left hand fumbled with  the fastenings. She showed no sign of awareness of his handicap, no  knowledge at all that a mutilated limb touched her flawless young body.

God willing, she would never know.

"You don't wear drawers," he said, as he tied the tapes of her petticoats.

"I have never liked them, except in winter."

"It's winter now."

She didn't answer. Ashland brought over her skirt and her bodice, the  same she had worn last week. Was she destitute, then? But the clothes  were of the best quality, only slightly worn.

"The carriage will take you to the station," he said, when the last  button was fastened, and she stood there primly before him, as neat and  polished as a duchess. "Is there anything I can do for you? You spoke of  reduced circumstances. Have you need of anything at all?"

"No, sir," she said.

"Will you come again next Tuesday?"

"If I can."

"You speak coldly."

She laughed. "You're not terribly warm yourself, Mr. Brown."

"Forgive me. I find it difficult to . . . I am not . . ." He glanced at  the clock. "You'll miss your train. Let me bring your coat."

He rang the bell for Mrs. Scruton and wrapped Emily in her muffler and  coat. The hat he placed gently on her head, just so, and he eased the  hatpin exactly where he had found it two hours ago.

"Tell me something, sir," said Emily. "Why do you do this? Why do you  pay a woman the princely sum of fifty pounds simply to read to you? Have  you never . . . Do you never . . ." She paused and wetted her bottom  lip. "Do you never want more?"

Ashland gave Emily her gloves and watched her long fingers disappear,  fraction by fraction, within the snug kidskin. "I want more, Emily," he  said. "I am a man. Of course I want more."

"Then why don't you take it?"

She was having trouble with the last few buttons; her gloved fingers  couldn't quite manage them on her other hand. Ashland nudged her aside  and fit them in himself. The warm skin of her wrist beckoned in the gap  between the kidskin edges, but he didn't dare to kiss her this time.  Could not kiss her, or he would lose control entirely.                       
       
           



       

"Mr. Brown?" she pressed.

He finished the last button just as Mrs. Scruton knocked on the door.  "Because I have no right to take it, Emily. I am a married man."

He walked to the door and opened it. "Here you are. If you hurry, I believe you'll still make the train, madam."

When Emily's stunned figure had been bustled through the door, when the  carriage had left the rear portico and disappeared into the black night,  when the train whistle had sounded in the distance, the Duke of Ashland  gave in at last. He went into the bedroom, took out his handkerchief,  unbuttoned his trousers, and found release in a few short strokes.

Then he gripped his hand around the tall right-hand post at the bottom  of the bed, and his shoulders shook with the strength of his grief.





ELEVEN





The Anvil

Three weeks later

Emilie caught sight of the familiar face an instant too late.

"Why, there's a coincidence! What ho, Mr. Grimsby!" Freddie lifted his hand and waved. "Come to join us for a round or two?"

The rucksack rested like a leaden weight against Emilie's back. She cast  a quick eye around the taproom. The heads were still mostly bent; the  mugs of ale rested promisingly next to their owners. A hundred yards  distant, the station clock was ticking away, second after relentless  second, until the four thirty-eight from York would arrive at the  platform in a massive hiss of steam, and a restless duke would start  pacing the carpet of his private room at the Ashland Spa Hotel. "Yes,"  she said. "That is, no. I was hoping for . . . that is . . ."

Freddie's eyes widened with speculation. "What's that, Mr. Grimsby? You're not here on your own initiative, are you?"

Emilie drew breath. "I have come to fetch you, your lordship. What did  you think? Simply because I've dismissed you early doesn't give you  license to ruin your mind and your character in such an unseemly  manner."

A nearby head jerked upward, and a crack of laughter broke out.

Freddie rose hastily from his chair. "Good God, Mr. Grimsby. There's no need for that sort of thing, is there?"

"There is. I am shocked, your lordship. Shocked to the core. You will return to the Abbey this instant . . ."

"I say, Mr. Grimsby . . ." Freddie pushed back his spectacles and threw a  longing glance back at the abandoned ale and cards on the table behind  him.

"Look here, lads," said one of the men, in falsetto, "young Freddie's  nursemaid's come all t'way to t'Anvil to drag him back to his milk and  pap . . ."

A roar of laughter drowned out the rest of his words. His lordship's face went scarlet.

"Now, see what you've done, Grimsby . . ."

"Mr. Grimsby . . ."

"You're a tyrant, is what you are. A bloody great tyrant, and after I  saved your brains from being dashed over the ballroom floor . . ."

"That was your father."

"Damn my father!"

Another roar of laughter. Emilie put her hands on her hips and returned Freddie's stare.

"Your lordship," she said, with quiet fierceness, "you will return to  the Abbey this instant. I shall expect you in the schoolroom at nine  o'clock sharp tomorrow morning with your Latin verse complete."

He crossed his arms. "And if I don't?"

She leaned forward. "I shall fetch your father."

Freddie tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a raw laugh. "Oh,  that's rich! Will you toddle on down to the hotel and give his door a  sharp knock?"

"Don't be impertinent."

"I'm not impertinent. It's the truth. He's there again tonight, as we  both know." Freddie's voice had lowered to a discreet hiss, but the  words were sharp.

"It's none of our business what His Grace does with his evenings," said  Emilie, ignoring the sting. "You will walk to that door, Lord Silverton,  and call for your horse."

Freddie's eyes narrowed. Emilie's eyes narrowed back.

"Dash it all, Grimsby," he said sulkily. He turned around, picked up his  tankard, drained it, and marched with petulant feet to the doorway.  "Coming, Grimsby?" he tossed over his shoulder.

"No, I am not," said Emilie. "I have an errand to run."

"Bloody rich." Freddie threw open the door and let the cold Yorkshire  wind burst through the ale-ridden fug of the Anvil. "Everybody gets to  lark but poor bloody Freddie."

* * *

The footsteps had been dogging Emilie's shoulder for most of the length of Station Lane.

Of course it was nothing. Ashland Spa was no metropolis, nor even what  Emilie would call a proper town, but it did have several hundred  industrious inhabitants. Even though she chose the back lanes to make  her way through town on the way to Ashland Spa Hotel on Tuesday  evenings-changing her route slightly each week, just to be careful-one  of those townsfolk was very likely to have business along Station Lane  from time to time.                       
       
           



       

Your best defense is common sense, Miss Dingleby had said. Well, her  common sense had clearly gone to hell already. What else did she have?

Emilie glanced up and crossed to the other side of the lane.

The footsteps followed. It couldn't be Freddie, could it? Had Freddie  turned back and watched her ascend the steps to the second floor of the  Anvil? Had he seen her emerge and creep down the back stair and out into  the gathering twilight?

Keep your head, Miss Dingleby said. Analyze the situation.

The footsteps crunched lightly on the cobbles behind her. Too light for  Freddie; a woman, then, and wearing shoes instead of boots. She strode  with brisk rhythm, matching Emilie's pace; she was certain of her  purpose. No aimless stroller. No daydreaming wanderer.

Concentrate your mind on the details. It will keep you from panicking,  and no piece of information is so small that it might not hold the clue  to saving yourself.

The last purple remains of the sun had nearly disappeared over the long  and rugged hills to the west. In the spaces between the buildings,  Emilie could just glimpse the darkened landscape, empty of all humanity.  She chose these back lanes because she wasn't likely to encounter  anyone, wasn't likely to be discovered, but now the deserted shadows  echoed with the measured footsteps of her follower. The stillness of the  twilight, which always filled her with delicious excitement, with  anticipation of the hours to come, now pressed upon her with foreboding.