How to Tame Your Duke(50)

A slip of paper appeared before Ashland's chest, just within the  periphery of his vision. An odd skip moved his heart, whether dread or  hope or anticipation. He grasped the note without looking and let his  gaze drop slowly to the typescript message.

REGRET DUCHESS OF ASHLAND DIED RESULT OF TYPHOID AT HOME ON VIA NATALE  ROMA ITALIA ON 19 SEPTEMBER 1887 STOP BODY INTERRED ANGLICAN CEMETERY ON  21 SEPTEMBER 1887

"I'm very sorry for your loss," said the Duke of Olympia.

* * *

When Emilie found the Duke of Ashland again, he was wearing a thick wool  greatcoat that made his large frame even more imposing, and a footman  was handing him his hat and glove.

"Going out?" she called, from the bottom of the main staircase.

He turned, and Emilie's breath died somewhere at the base of her throat.  His face was hard and pale, the mask like a black slash across his  skin. At the sight of her, dressed once more in her feminine clothing,  his massive body went still.

She crossed the hall. "May I have a word with you?"

He motioned with his hand to the small morning room overlooking the  park. His silence unnerved her. He'd hardly said a word since Olympia  presented him with that fatal telegram an hour ago; his face had taken  on that same bleak expression it wore now, and he'd handed the paper  back to her uncle with a low, "Thank you."

He had bowed to them both and left the room.

He said nothing now, simply allowed her to precede him into the room. A  fire did its best to chase away the late January chill beneath a simple  white marble mantel; Emilie crossed the room and held her hands above  the glowing coals. "Did you speak to Freddie?" she asked.

"Yes. He took the news quite in stride."

"He never knew her, of course. He once told me she never really seemed alive to him at all. She was like a phantom to him."

"Yes."

Emilie turned. The duke stood near the window, staring at the skeletal  row of Hyde Park trees across the street, his hat and glove dangling  from his hand, the stern and beautiful lines of his perfect leftward  profile turned toward her. A thin ray of winter sunshine turned his hair  an almost ethereal shade of gossamer white. "Who is this man your Miss  Dingleby has set to guarding the house? Hans, I believe?" he asked.

Emilie started. "My father's valet. He helped us escape."

"You're certain of his loyalty?"

"As I am of my own heart," she said.

He watched the scene outside the house with his eye narrowed in thought.

"Where are you going?" Emilie asked.

"I have a brief errand to run," he said, "and then there's much to  arrange. A visit to my solicitor, wires to the Abbey. I should like the  wedding to take place by March, if that does not inconvenience you."

"March!"

He turned at last. His broad shoulders nearly blocked the feeble light  from the window. "If you must have something lavish, that should allow  us enough time to make arrangements. In the meantime, I shall not rest  until I discover and destroy this threat against you and your family. I  find wholly unsatisfactory the efforts your uncle has made on your  behalf thus far."

"We are not . . ."

"I shall also look about for a house in town. I daresay you won't want  to stay in Yorkshire year-round. You are welcome to accompany me in the  search, as the home will be yours. The staff from Ashland will be called  down to service it for the time being; do you have any objection? I  shall give orders for the strictest discretion regarding your previous  disguise."

Emilie drew in a long breath, which was truncated abruptly by the  unexpected dig of her stays into her ribs. She could not meet him in  anger, not now, when he'd just received such a shock. "I have not agreed  to marry you, Ashland. I have not agreed to any of this. The  engagement, the ball, all of which will occasion danger to you and your  son. A marriage; a house in town, so far away from my own homeland."                       
       
           



       

He fingered the brim of his hat and tucked it under his right arm. "I am  not particularly keen on your uncle's ideas myself. I see no reason to  risk your life at a damned party, but Olympia always did prefer his  grand schemes to a more subtle approach. Still, at least we may have the  opportunity to rid ourselves of this menace at a single go, and you  will be well protected. I shall not leave your side for an instant."

Emilie thought of Ashland's half-clothed and gleaming body, beating his  fists with machinelike strength into the leather punching bag in the  basement of Ashland Abbey.

"You're avoiding the question, Ashland. You know I wasn't speaking of the ball by itself."

He regarded her calmly with his bleak blue eye. The fire glowed warm on  Emilie's back, but her front was warmer: The skin of her face and bosom  and belly burned under Ashland's steady gaze, as if she were naked  before him. He took two long and deliberate steps forward, reached out  his hand, and traced the line of her jaw with extraordinary gentleness.

Emilie couldn't speak. Ashland's touch snaked through her body like a live electric charge.

His hand dropped. "I shall not force you to marry me, of course," he  said, working his fingers into his glove. "A mere English duke, nearly  forty years of age, maimed by war, widowed and with a child already, is  perhaps a poor catch for a young and singularly beautiful princess of  Germany. But as I have already taken the basest advantage of you, and as  you find yourself in precarious and uncertain circumstances entirely  without justice to your merit, I beg you to do me the immeasurable honor  of allowing me to devote my life to ensuring your safety and happiness.  Good afternoon, madam."

The Duke of Ashland bowed, put on his hat, and left the room.

* * *

Alice's high voice carried across the room like an anxious lapdog. "Why, Your Grace! What an extraordinary surprise!"

Ashland turned. His sister-in-law stood in the doorway, wringing her  hands against her blue silk waist. The lamp cast a warping shadow along  one side of her face.

"Indeed," he said. "The day has been chock-full of surprises, from its  earliest hour. I am not certain my constitution can handle another, in  fact, so I beg you to be as candid as possible with me, Alice." He  walked forward until he was almost breathing on the sharp part of her  dark hair. "As candid as possible."

Alice stumbled back with a nervous trill of laughter. "Why, Your Grace! I  can't conceive what you mean. I have been perfectly candid with you."

"Ah! I suppose, then, it merely slipped your notice that my wife has, in  fact, been dead for over two years. Died in Rome of typhoid, and buried  there. Your remittances to her, perhaps, were claimed by another?"

Alice's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. "Sir! I'm sure I don't . . ."

Ashland took his watch from his pocket and examined the face. "The hour  grows late, Alice. I'm afraid I have no time to waste on your denials,  followed by my own threats and imprecations, and then by your own  inevitable collapse and confession. Dreary, dull, and quite unnecessary.  Pray sit down, and I will explain matters to you in the concise and  matter-of-fact fashion to which I am accustomed. You needn't speak at  all, in fact."

Alice tottered forward and lowered her trembling backside into a chair.

"First and most urgently: Does Miss Russell know of her mother's death? Nod your head yes, or shake it no."

Alice's head swung slowly from side to side.

"As I thought. You are, as of this moment, relieved of your duty as her  guardian. You will order her things packed at once, and you will quit  this house yourself within the week. I shall allow you to keep your  belongings and whatever savings you have managed to accrue during the  course of your fraudulent guardianship, but you will be allowed no  further allowance, nor any contact with Mary. Is that clear?"

Alice sat frozen.

"You will please nod your head, Alice, if you are quite clear on the matter."

Alice nodded her head.

"Very good. Now rise, if you will, and make the necessary orders. Mary and her governess will leave with me in half an hour."

Alice rose from her chair, white-faced and round-eyed. "But Your Grace! What do you propose to do with her?"

"To raise her as my daughter, of course."

"Her? But she's not yours. She's Isabelle's spawn, her and that earl, deceiving you in your own bed . . ."

Ashland spoke with slow precision. "I don't know what you mean. Lady  Mary Russell was born to my wife during the course of our marriage. She  is my legitimate daughter, and she has lived her life unclaimed and  unwanted by those from whom she has a right to expect love and  protection. This injustice will continue no longer. You will send her  ladyship down to me at once, so I can deliver the news myself."