How to Tame Your Duke(47)

Freddie knit his hands together between his knees. "Well, you see, Pater, that's the thing. Grimsby . . . he . . ."

Ashland gripped the edge of the desk. "He's all right, isn't he? Has something happened?"

"Easy, Pater. Grimsby's quite all right. He's very well indeed, except . . ." Freddie raked his hand through his hair.

"Except what?"

"Well, he's not quite what I expected. What either of us expected." Freddie coughed. "Full of surprises, our Grimsby."

"What the devil do you mean by that?" The cold tension began to uncoil,  replaced by impatience. Ashland felt the clock ticking away by the  mantel, putting Emily farther away from him at every stroke.

Freddie jumped from the sofa. "Let's talk about this new bird of yours, Pater."

"You will not refer to her by that word," Ashland snapped reflexively.

"All right, all right. Beg your pardon and all that. This . . . this lady you've been seeing in town. Don't bother denying it."

"I haven't the least intention of denying it. In fact, I wish to speak to you about her."

"Well! Jolly coincidence, that. I was wanting to speak on the subject  myself." Freddie raised his head and met Ashland's gaze squarely. "What  are your intentions toward her?"

"My intentions?" Ashland folded his arms. "What the devil do you mean by  that? My intentions are honorable. I have, in fact . . ." And, just  like that, under the intensity of Freddie's expression, the words began  to thicken and muddle in Ashland's throat. "Look here, Frederick. I  didn't wish to spring all this on you suddenly . . ."

"Spring away, Pater, I assure you."

Ashland adjusted his throat. "I want to make things clear: I have no  wish to dishonor your mother. But after the passage of so much time, and  . . . and having formed an attachment . . ."

"You're going to divorce Mother at last and marry her?"

"I have that hope," Ashland said quietly.

Freddie's face broke into a grin. "Well, I say! That's splendid! Thank  God! I knew you had it in you, Pater." He crossed the rug, shoved his  fist into Ashland's crossed arms, and grasped his hand for a vigorous  shaking. "Splendid news!"                       
       
           



       

"I . . . I . . ." Ashland watched his astonished hand being pumped. "I'm . . . glad you approve."

"Approve, by God! I'm delighted. Just the thing for you. There's just  one . . . one very slight complication. Nothing of great consequence,  you understand. I'm sure you'll brush it off straightaway, sensible old  chap that you are, and sort everything out in an instant. Or perhaps a  week or so, realistically speaking."

Ashland shook his bemused head. True, he hadn't had much sleep last  night, but surely this interview ought to be making more sense. Coffee.  He should have ordered coffee. "Complication?" he said numbly. "What the  devil do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's rather difficult to explain." Freddie released his father's  hand and stretched his arms high above his head in a gigantic yawn, like  a spindly adolescent lion satisfied with his day's play. "Perhaps it's  best if you see for yourself."

* * *

Emilie had learned to swim at the age of fifteen, on the orders of Miss  Dingleby. "It is a skill typically overlooked by young ladies," her  governess had said, "and yet it may possibly save your life, and that of  others." She had been stripped of her gown, put in an awkward bathing  costume, and plunged into the chilly waters of the Holsteinsee one May  morning, and once she'd recovered from the shock, she discovered she  liked swimming very much. She liked the freedom, the way her limbs  stroked through the water, the feeling of rhythmic power. She liked the  way the rest of the world disappeared, all the trappings and ceremony  and restrictions of her life, to leave only herself, Emilie, immersed in  the elemental forces of nature.

The Duke of Ashland's private bathing pool was nothing like the  mountain-fed chill of the Holsteinsee, of course. It caressed her body  with tingling warmth; it felt curiously alive against her bare skin,  easing all the little aches of her passionate night in Ashland's bed,  cleansing and invigorating her. She stroked back and forth for nearly  half an hour, and as she turned to make her last lap, she felt as if she  might conquer the world.

She would dress and go upstairs and pack. She would write a note to  Ashland, to be delivered after her own departure. She would go to the  station, she would send a wire to Miss Dingleby, she would take the  train to London and walk into her uncle's study and demand that her  father's murderers be found and brought to justice. She would end this  extraordinary chapter in her life and . . . well, return to her old  self. Princess Emilie of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, only a little  older and wiser.

As for Ashland himself . . .

Her fingertips touched the stone edge of the pool. She stared at them  for a moment: the delicate long bones, the blunt nails, the drops of  water trickling from the knuckles. Such feminine hands; how had she  fooled them all with hands like this?

People see what they expect to see, Miss Dingleby had said.

She placed her palms on the smooth paving stones and hoisted herself  upward. Her nipples puckered instantly at the cool air. She reached for  the thick Turkish towel on the low stool nearby and froze at the sight  of the booted feet before her.

The boots were well polished, enormous, planted squarely on the stone,  dark leather against pale marble. She knew those boots well.

Emilie whipped about and flung the towel around her dripping body.

"Emilie," said the Duke of Ashland. His voice was the lowest she'd ever  heard it, scarcely above a growl, and yet perfectly calm, perfectly  controlled. "Emilie Grimsby, is it? Or is that a fabrication as well?"

"Not Grimsby," she said.

"What, then?"

She didn't answer.

"What a fool I am," said the Duke of Ashland. "So many clues, and I  missed them all. I, of all people. My hat is off to you, my dear.  Olympia has trained you well."

Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Tell me, Emilie. Why are you here? What information did Olympia hope to gain through you?"

"None at all, sir. I . . . He . . . That's not why I came."

"Why, then?"

"I came to hide."

"From what, Emilie?"

She filled her chest with warm, damp air. "From my father's murderers."

"Good God."

Did he believe her? She looked down at the white towel covering her  body, the pool of water forming about her feet. She could almost hear  the finely tuned machinery of Ashland's brain whirring about, taking in  all the threads of information and weaving them into the correct  pattern.

"The Holstein-Schweinwald affair," he said at last. "Of course. You're Olympia's niece."                       
       
           



       

"Yes."

"The Princess . . . Emilie, I presume?"

"I am."

The water from the bathing pool lapped quietly into the silence between them.

"You have played your part exceptionally well, madam. To have made such an extraordinary sacrifice in the name of duty."

"It was not a sacrifice."

"Ah yes. You couldn't resist me, wasn't that it? God help me, you said."  There was a little slap, as of gloves against sleeve. "At least I had  the honor of making your performance a pleasurable one. Or were you  feigning that, too?"

"I feigned nothing. You must believe that."

He laughed coldly. "Believe what, madam? I confess, I don't know what to believe."

"I told you you'd hate me, when you knew the truth. I told you . . ."

"Hate you? You mistake me, madam. If I hated you, I would simply have  turned and left, and given orders for you to be removed from the  premises. Instead I am still here, waiting for you to turn around and  continue this conversation face-to-face. Or do I remain so repulsive to  your eyes?"

She turned.

He stood ablaze, his blue eye scorching with emotion, his massive body  crackling with suppressed energy. His feet were planted wide apart, and  his hand fisted at his side, leather glove enclosed by white knuckles.  His white hair glowed silver in the shifting light from the bathing  pool.

"You are not repulsive," she said. "You're . . . you're . . ."

"I'm what, Emilie?"

"Everything."

He stood staring at her, as if he were trying to burn away the outer  layers of her skin and read the truth beneath. She willed it through the  air between them: I love you. I adore you. Deceiving you nearly  destroyed me.