How to Tame Your Duke(29)

       
           



       

Ashland levered himself away from the window, picked up the book from  the table, and walked toward Emily's bowed figure. The nape of her neck  beckoned, pale and tender. He knelt before her and placed the book in  her lap.

"My dear Emily. My very dear Emily," he said. "Read to me."

* * *

The lamplight cast over the page in a yellow pool. Emilie's eyes were  beginning to ache; she thought longingly of her spectacles, tucked into  the pocket of her jacket back at the Anvil.

"Is something wrong?" asked Ashland from his armchair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "My eyes are tired."

"Then you must stop, of course."

She placed her finger in the book and closed it. The leather cover was  new, stamped in bright gold letters. Ashland's gaze caressed her from  behind. She wanted to turn to him, to nestle in his arms in the chair  and listen to his heartbeat beneath her ear.

"What is it, Emilie?" he asked softly.

"Nothing, sir."

"Don't say that to me again. If something troubles you, tell me."

Emilie ran her fingers over the title. The wind was picking up, flinging  itself against the windows. She dreaded the ride home, cold and lonely,  her body and heart aching.

"I have a confession for you," she said.

"Indeed?"

"That first night, the first time I visited you . . ." Emilie placed the  book on the table and laid her hand flat atop it. "It was a mistake."

Beneath the low shriek of the wind at the window, she could hear the heavy cadence of Ashland's breath.

"A mistake. I see."

"No, not like that. I mean that I wasn't the woman who was supposed to  come. They mistook me in the hallway; I was only taking tea at the  hotel."

"What the devil?" He moved in the chair, as if he wanted to get up, and then stopped himself.

"I don't know why I came up. I don't know why I stayed." Her voice began  to break. She paused and filled her lungs with air. "I don't suppose it  matters. Anyway, outside today, on my way from the station, I met a  woman. The woman who was supposed to come a month ago. She was here for  the regular Tuesday visit."

"Good God."

"I told her . . . I told her that she was no longer needed. I'm sorry; I ought not to have taken the liberty . . ."

"Good God."

"But I couldn't let her come up to you. I couldn't let anyone take my  place. I gave her money, all the money you'd given me, and told her not  to come back."

"You gave her . . . What was it?"

"Two hundred pounds."

A rustling, and his footsteps sounded on the carpet. "You shouldn't have  done that. That money was for you, Emilie. For your use, to help you."

"She needed it. It was only fair."

"It was for you."

"I've already told you, I don't want your money. I was glad to give it  to her." Emilie's hand fisted with the effort of keeping still, of  holding herself from turning toward the imposing figure of the duke  behind her, shimmering with edgy energy.

"Emilie."

Where was he now? Back in the chair? She studied her fisted hand, the  shadow it cast on the expensive tooled leather of the book. "There it  is, anyway. At least you know the truth."

The truth. The word echoed ominously in her head.

"The truth." The floorboards creaked behind her, moving across the room.  A clink of crystal: He was pouring himself a drink. "What is the truth?  Who are you, then, if you're not . . . if you weren't sent here . . ."

"I will tell you that, Mr. Brown, when you tell me who you are."

"You know I can't."

"Yes, I know. But you see, it doesn't matter. All that-who I am, who you  are, where we come from, all that nonsense-it doesn't matter. It's only  a distraction, isn't it? What exists between us is clear. It's simple  and pure. It's stripped of all the useless facts and assumptions that  keep men and women from really understanding each other."

Ashland's voice was dark with despair. "Emilie, it's not possible. How  can I accept that you simply knocked on my door and walked into my life,  like a divine miracle, without explanation?"

"I am not a miracle. I am a woman."

"My God, what have I done?" A glass thunked down on a table.

Emilie fought the urge to turn around. It was like having a conversation  with a ghost. "You've done nothing wrong, sir. I have told you the  truth: I'm a woman of gentle birth, living in reduced circumstances,  obliged to make my own way for the moment. I act for myself. I answer to  no one's conscience but my own. I have entered this room in full  knowledge of the consequences."                       
       
           



       

"You should have told me. I should have suspected. I knew in my heart  you weren't like the others, and I went on regardless . . ." His voice  was muffled, as if he were speaking into the wall or the curtains.

"I wanted you to. I wanted you."

"Why, Emilie?" His footsteps shuffled once, twice. His voice came clear  again. "If you're a woman of gentle birth. Why do you come here every  week, if not for my fifty pounds?"

Emilie stared at the wall before her, where dozens of intricate green  vines trailed upward in perfect symmetry against a base of pure cream,  ending abruptly in the carved molding. To her right, a thin line of  golden light shone from the crack in the door to the bedroom.

"God help me," she whispered, "because I want you. Because I cannot stay away."

He whispered back, "Ah, God, Emilie."

Emilie couldn't move. The wind wailed upward a note, shaking the  windows, and descended again. She unfolded her hand, finger by finger,  and settled it into her lap with the other.

She felt his approach as she felt her own heartbeat slamming into her ribs.

"Emilie." He was right behind her now, looking down at the top of her  head. The heat of his body enveloped her. Her breath stopped in her  chest.

His finger touched the top of her ear, as light as air, and lingered  along the curve to the little nook behind her earlobe. "Beautiful," he  said.

"Sir."

"Hush." His finger sloped around her neck, drawing a slow circle at her  nape, dipping down to trace the lace-trimmed edge of her chemise. "Don't  say anything, Emilie."

His hand went under her arm, urging her upward. She rose to her feet. The leg of the chair rushed softly against the carpet.

Ashland's body touched her back. Her every sense was alight; she could  feel each individual button of his jacket nestle against her spine. He  walked his finger down her left arm, making the tiny hairs stand up.  When he reached her fingertips, his hand ran over her palm and back up  the tender underside, from wrist to elbow, settling in the hollow of her  arm.

"Sir," she breathed out.

He drew down the sleeve of her chemise and kissed her bare shoulder.

She gasped and took a step, unable to support herself. His arm caught  her just in time, wrapping around her ribs. His head was bent; his hair,  thick and soft, brushed her temple.

"Shall I touch you, Emilie? Would you like that?"

His voice was low and gentle, that rich timbre she loved so much. Inch  by inch, she let herself relax against him. He shuddered as she leaned  back, and then he held firm. His lips touched her ear, her neck,  impossibly soft.

His hand, spread across her belly, drew upward. His thumb found the  underside of her breast through the fine linen of her shift, and warmth  radiated across her skin. In silence he explored her, with bare  movements of his thumb and fingertips, measuring the seam between breast  and ribs as if he had no further ambition in the world.

She wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him that her breasts were full  and aching for more of him, that her every nerve was concentrated under  his fingertips, that she was going to burst with heat and sensation. But  how could she say these things aloud? Her dry mouth opened and closed.

Gradually the little circular movements of Ashland's thumb grew bolder,  singeing her skin through the tissue-thin layer of fabric between them.  He slid upward around the curve, just grazing the tip, until he found  the lace at her neckline and tugged it downward and her breast burst  free into the open air.

Emilie could not breathe. She cast her eyes down to the impossible  sight: Ashland's large hand at her breast, dark and weathered against  her pale skin, his fingers curled in a perfect echo of the curve of her  flesh. How was it possible that a hand so powerful could touch her so  delicately? Something hard pressed into the base of her spine, and a  thrill shivered her body. It must be him. Must be that male organ she  had seen in books and pictures and statues, but never in person; that  part of him designed by nature to be joined with her.