How to Tame Your Duke(52)

"Of course not."

"You won't plead indisposition at the top of the stairs?"

"Miss Dingleby, really." Emilie tilted her chin.

"Very good. Because I did not whisk you and your sisters across Europe  in the dead of night, agents at our heels, in order to have you  disappoint me at the crisis." Miss Dingleby fastened the last button  with her cool and efficient fingers and turned Emilie to face her. Her  hazel eyes were all Dingleby: bright and searching, exposing Emilie's  hidden corners like the uncompromising beam of a Channel lighthouse.  "And now, my dear, I have an impertinent question for you."                       
       
           



       

"You, Miss Dingleby? I'm shocked."

"You must be quite honest with me, Emilie, my dear. I can't help you if you're not honest with me."

"I can't imagine what you mean."

Miss Dingleby took Emilie's hand between both of her own and pressed it.  "My dear, I am trained to notice details, and having lived in such  close proximity to you these last weeks-sleeping in your very bedroom-it  has not escaped me that a certain visitor, ordinarily quite reliable,  has not made its regular appearance. Hmm?"

Emilie tried to pull her hand away. "You're right. It's an extraordinarily impertinent question."

"Is the duke aware of this anomaly?"

"Which duke do you mean?"

Miss Dingleby arched one eyebrow. "Either one."

The room seemed to have gone quite cold, despite the warmth of Miss  Dingleby's hands squeezing her own, the fiery light in the governess's  eyes.

"There's no need to speak of it to anyone," Emilie said. "The visitor is not long overdue."

"How long?"

Emilie hesitated. "A week. Perhaps two."

"Two weeks. Long enough, then." Miss Dingleby pressed even more tightly. "And what are your intentions in the matter?"

"I . . . I don't know. I've hardly had time to think about it. After the ball . . ."

"After the ball may be too late. Come, sit down." Miss Dingleby drew her  to the elegant leaf green settee at the end of the bed. "Now. You are  to speak of this to no one, do you understand me?"

"I must tell Ashland, if . . . if the situation does not resolve itself."

"Nonsense. If you tell him, what will happen? You'll be obliged to marry  him. This campaign of his, with his constant presence and his alluring  ready-made family, will end in your becoming the Duchess of Ashland, if  you're not careful."

Emilie forced a smile. "Not so terrible a fate, really. I'm becoming more reconciled to it by the day."

Miss Dingleby jerked back. "Good God, Emilie! I rescue you from that  stifling German court of yours, from royal marriages and etiquette and  the lot, and you tumble headfirst into the same chains from which I've  delivered you? An English duke, Emilie? I thought better of you. I  taught better of you."

"Ashland isn't like that."

"Don't be obtuse. I suppose you fancy yourself in love with him."

"If I do?"

"Then enjoy him, by all means, but don't make the mistake of marrying him."

Emilie jerked her hand free and stood. "I can't believe you're saying  these things, Dingleby. You, who taught me about virtue and duty and  honor."

"Think carefully, Emilie. Think about what I allowed you. The books I  gave you. Our discussions, late at night. When did I discourage your  ambitions?"

Emilie stood silently, her pulse snapping in a quick rhythm.

"You don't really want to marry him, do you? Out of the frying pan, into  the fire. I'm only saying the very things you're thinking."

"I do love him. I want a life with him. I want . . ."

"But on your own terms, isn't that right? Without encumbrance, without  obligation. As your husband, he can control your every move."

"He wouldn't do that."

"You're arguing against yourself. Come, sit down again." Miss Dingleby patted the cushion next to her.

Emilie remained standing.

"Very well. Listen to me: You have made an unfortunate error, but there are ways to correct it, without anyone the wiser."

For some reason, Miss Dingleby's words didn't sound as shocking as they  should. Emilie heard them distantly, matter-of-factly, as if the two of  them were back in the palace schoolroom, going over lessons. Luisa would  be listening attentively, pencil poised, and Stefanie would be staring  out the window, admiring a butterfly. Emilie's chest ached with longing.

"To rid myself of the baby, you mean," she said at last. "If indeed there is a baby."

Miss Dingleby sat on the settee with her arms folded in her black gabardine lap, forehead stretched with expectancy.

If indeed there is a baby. Emilie hadn't allowed herself to think about  the possibility yet. She had pushed the suspicion away, had concentrated  on other things. She had expected every day to see the signs that  everything was normal, everything was quite all right, and every day the  signs had not appeared, and still somehow she'd convinced herself that  it was a mistake, that the very idea of being with child by the Duke of  Ashland was absurd.                       
       
           



       

Absurd.

Her belly was quite flat. She felt quite as she usually did. Perhaps her  breasts were a little sore, a little swollen, but that was surely the  result of being back in corsets again, her body being shoved and  squeezed into position; or perhaps because the tardy visitor was on the  point of returning.

Should we be so fortunate as to conceive a child. Ashland's child, the  child he wanted. She forced herself to imagine it: Ashland, standing by a  window, cradling a sleeping infant in his enormous arms. Her heart  began to slow down, to thud in a hard and steady rhythm, returning  warmth to her belly and limbs.

Ashland's child. Their child.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said.

"I am being perfectly reasonable. Women do it every day."

"Perhaps they do. But I couldn't do such a thing without telling him," said Emilie.

Miss Dingleby threw her hands up. "Listen to you! You're laying your  neck conveniently on the scaffold, after all I did to free you."

"I see no reason to act at all just yet. Once the ball is over . . ."

Miss Dingleby rose. "Once the ball is over, and the danger is past,  you'll have no escape. You'll be relieved, you'll be grateful to  Ashland, you'll do whatever he asks. I am quite ashamed of you, Emilie.  I'd thought you made of sterner stuff. I'd thought, if I gave you a  taste of independence . . ."

Emilie's hands fisted at her sides. "Yes! Yes, I quite perceive that  everybody thinks they know what's best for me. Everyone makes plans for  me. Everybody moves me about at will to suit their own purposes. But I  do have a will of my own, and I intend to exercise it this instant. Miss  Dingleby, you will leave this room at once, and allow me for once to  make my own decisions."

Miss Dingleby did not move. Her tender rosebud mouth tightened almost  imperceptibly around the corners; her eyes regarded Emilie without  blinking.

"Brava," she said at last, and left the room.

* * *

The Duke of Ashland, ascending the grand staircase of the Duke of  Olympia's Park Lane town house two steps at a time, was not particularly  pleased to encounter the neatly dressed figure of Miss Dingleby just as  he achieved the top.

He stepped aside. "Good afternoon, Miss Dingleby."

"Good afternoon, Your Grace. You are here to see Her Highness?" she  asked, as she might ask, You are here to snatch the Grail of Our Lord  from its sacred altar, you unscrupulous dog?

"I am."

"I suppose it will not trouble you that Her Highness is resting in her bedchamber at present?"

"I shall not disturb her long."

"Certainly not. I have every faith in Your Grace's sense of honor and  decency," said Miss Dingleby in precisely spaced words. "Good day."

The door to Emilie's suite stood ajar. He rapped on the thick panel nonetheless.

"Who is it?"

"Ashland."

A slight pause. "Come in."

He pushed open the door. Emilie stood at the window, her fingers pressed  against the sill. The fading light cast a bluish tint over her skin.

"You're not wearing your spectacles," he said.

"My eyes were hurting."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." She looked at him. The muscles of her face were drawn tight; her  body radiated restless tension. One finger drummed against the wooden  window frame. "Are you off to return Freddie and Mary to Eaton Square?"

"Yes, I am. I shall return later this evening, of course. Where is Miss Dingleby going? You shouldn't be left alone like this."

She crossed the floor toward him. "May I go with you? I've hardly been outside at all these past weeks."