How to Tame Your Duke(55)

The carriage did most of the work. It jolted them together with erotic  friction; it threw them apart and made them clutch and shove like a pair  of lust-crazed animals. Ashland went on muttering in her ear, urging  her on, his fingers prying gently at the seam of her flesh, and the dark  box around them filled with the sucks and gasps of union     , with the  earthy scent of human desire.

It was not perfect. It was messy and disjointed, it was arrhythmic and  raw. The air grew thick and humid with perspiration. Ashland's lips  pressed on her skin, his arms caged her body, his cock rammed in and  out, in and out, violent with need, rubbing over and over against a  place of brilliant sensation. Emilie gripped his black shoulders and  ground into every stroke, panting hard, straining with all her might,  almost there, almost, almost, oh God . . .

The carriage swung right, at just the wrong instant. A keen of frustration burst from her lips.

Ashland's firm grip drew her back. "Do it, Emilie. Come now," he  demanded, holding his thumb over her nub, pushing himself deep, and all  at once she burst over the edge, incandescent, her body pulsing whole  with the shock of release.

At the instant of climax, Ashland's arms lifted her and placed her to  one side, and in a quick movement he brought out his handkerchief and  spent in spasms of hot seed, as his right arm pinned her shuddering body  fast against his chest.

* * *

Ashland's mind crept upward from the brink of consciousness. Emilie lay  pressed against him, breathing hard, her hand splayed across the thick  wool of his overcoat.                       
       
           



       

Sweet Christ. She had just swived him senseless in his carriage.

He could scarcely move. Every muscle had relaxed into a simmering  torpor. With effort he shoved his handkerchief into his pocket and  settled Emilie more comfortably against his side. She stirred awkwardly,  raising her head, and he remembered that her trousers were still  tangled around her ankles.

"Sorry," he managed. He reached down and tugged her trousers back into  place; he forced his half-erect prick inside the placket of his own and  fastened the buttons.

"Don't say that. Don't be sorry." Her hand curled around his neck. The  simple gesture made his chest glow with warmth. This was the woman he  knew; this was his woman, his Emilie.

And he would kill anyone who tried to harm her.

The carriage rounded another turn. He looked out the window just in time  to catch a flashing glimpse of the Duke of Wellington on horseback.

"Hyde Park Corner," he said in her ear. "Almost there."

She lifted herself up. "You didn't need to do that. Your handkerchief."

Ashland's brain was as foggy as London itself. "What's that?"

"Ashland, I . . . I've got to tell you something . . ."

The carriage slowed and jounced over a hole in the pavement, breaking them apart. "Later," he said.

He brought her in through the area door, to which he had a key, nodding  to Hans's shadowed figure as he descended the steps. Neither of them  spoke as they stole through the kitchens and up the back staircase. A  clock chimed one o'clock as they reached the landing on the second  floor, Emilie's floor.

She turned at the door to her room. "You can't come in. Miss Dingleby  sleeps with me. She's expecting me back; she'll still be awake."

"I know. I sleep in the next room."

"What?"

He kissed her lips. "Just sleep. We'll speak in the morning. Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't too rough?"

She ducked her head. "No. No! You were perfect. I was rough. I wanted that. I needed to . . . to break free from all this . . ."

"I am at your service, madam." He kissed her again. "Take a warm bath in  the morning. You'll be sore, I'm afraid. If it weren't for your damned  Miss Dingleby I'd . . ."

"We've got to talk, Ashland."

"Later. Tomorrow. You need your rest."

"You need your rest."

"I'll be up when I've spoken to your uncle. Sleep well. I'll make sure you're safe tonight. Every night."

She tried to speak, but he pointed to the door, mouthed Miss Dingleby, and opened it for her.

When she was safely inside, the door closed behind her, Miss Dingleby's  urgent voice asking her questions, Emilie answering in crisp, firm  tones, Ashland tripped down the stairs at double time and strode to the  entrance of Olympia's private study, from which a crack of light still  showed.

His mind had cleared. Energy had returned to his limbs; he was vibrating with resolve. He threw open the door without knocking.

The room was empty, except for Ormsby the butler, turning down the lamps.

"Where is His Grace?" Ashland demanded.

Ormsby looked up. "I'm very sorry, Your Grace. The duke has gone out."





TWENTY-THREE




Freddie flung the newspaper onto the desk. "Look, Grimsby! I'm on the front page!"

"Your lordship," said Miss Dingleby, "you will please remove yourself  from Her Highness's chamber at once. We have a ball for which to prepare  her."

Emilie plucked up the newspaper. The headline shouted LOST PRINCESS  FINDS LOVE IN ENGLAND; SET TO WED DUKE OF ASHLAND IN STORY-BOOK ROMANCE;  ROYAL BALL TONIGHT IN PARK LANE TO CELEBRATE ENGAGEMENT; PRINCE AND  PRINCESS OF WALES EXPECTED TO ATTEND in breathless capital letters. She  peered at the blurred photograph on the page before her: taken, it  seemed, on the steps of church last Sunday. How they had managed the  picture, she couldn't imagine. Olympia had loomed at her right side;  Ashland had glowered at her left. She had been practically surrounded by  a Roman phalanx of oversized dukes. "Where are you?"

He came up next to her and pointed at the photograph. "Right there! Can't you see it?"

"That's an ear."

"My ear." He snatched the paper away. "And well captured. Note the noble curve, if you will."

"Your lordship, please." Miss Dingleby's voice rang with gubernatorial  authority. "I wonder Her Highness allows you here at all. It is most  improper."

"Improper?" Freddie looked genuinely appalled. He swung helplessly to  Emilie. "What the devil's improper about it? In a matter of days, she'll  be my mother!"                       
       
           



       

"Hmm," Miss Dingleby snapped. She marched to the door and held it open. "Out."

Freddie's shoulders slumped. He trudged to the door, paper dangling from his hand.

Emilie's heart gave out. She had tried all day to find a private word  with Ashland, but he'd been gone from the house since daybreak, had only  returned an hour ago, and had gone straight to Olympia's private study  under locked door. Of the household staff, bustling with preparations  for the ball, only Miss Dingleby remained to serve her. Or to guard her  prison cell, more accurately. She'd spent the past hour pacing about  like a caged animal, watching the inexorable progress of the clock on  her mantel.

And now here was Freddie, in and out like a gust of welcome air, throwing about words like mother.

Stalwart Freddie.

"Freddie, wait." Emilie followed him to the door. She spoke in a low  voice. "Look after your sister tonight, please. And if anything should  happen, if your father or I . . . If anything should happen, you'll take  care of her."

"Of course."

Emilie leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Go. Your father's waiting to take you back to Eaton Square."

"No, he's not. He's shut up with Olympia, laying schemes. Hans is going with us."

"Hans, then. And stay put, for heaven's sake. Don't risk yourself."

Freddie rolled his eyes and turned, straight into the slight figure waiting outside the door.

"Good God," he said. "Lucy! What the devil are you doing here?"

* * *

The Duke of Olympia lifted the stopper from the crystal neck of the  sherry decanter and motioned in Ashland's direction. "Calms the nerves,"  he said.

Ashland held up his hand. "My nerves are perfectly calm, thank you."

Olympia poured himself a glass. "All this hustle-bustle. I shall be very  glad when it's all over and we can return to business as usual."

"I shudder to ask what constitutes business as usual for you."

"Oh, this and that." Olympia waved his hand and drank his sherry. He was  already dressed for the ball in crisp whites and gleaming blacks. His  graying hair shone under the electric lamp.

"If we may return to the matter at hand, however." Ashland made a minute  adjustment to the starched white cuff emerging from his formal black  sleeve. "I have spent the morning making inquiries regarding the matter  of last night."

Olympia held up his sherry glass to the lamp and examined the play of  light in its multitude of facets. "We will speak later, of course, on  the wisdom of taking my niece for a midnight assignation at all, let  alone without informing me first. I might have saved you a great deal of  trouble, had I known."