"I can't imagine."
"I think, once we're married, we should order a midnight carriage ride at least once a week."
"We would scandalize the neighbors."
"We could vary the neighborhood."
She tried to push herself away, but he held firm. "Such levity, at such a moment. I came to speak to you seriously, to discuss tonight's ordeal in detail, to discuss my suspicions and to try to dissuade you from putting yourself in certain danger like this . . ."
He swept her up, blue satin skirts and artful curls be damned, and carried her to the Duke of Olympia's brown leather Chesterfield sofa. "Oh, that. Well under control. Your uncle and I had a most productive discussion. Nothing to fear."
"What's that?" She struggled against his arms, but he simply sank down on the cushions and held her in his lap. "Ashland, there were men with pistols last night. Pistols! And Miss . . ."
"All under control. By midnight tonight, the whole damned ring of them will be smashed." He leaned down and kissed her. "And I shall be demanding the earliest possible date for our marriage, or I cannot be responsible for my actions."
"Your actions?" she said breathlessly, because his warm lips were smothering the long point-by-point discussion she had put together in her head before coming downstairs. There was something about Miss Dingleby, something important . . .
"Primarily, making love to you as often and as thoroughly as possible. Carriages, sofas. Even the occasional bed, if necessary." He slipped his index finger inside her bodice-her most conveniently low-cut bodice, trimmed with only the flimsiest excuse for a lace ruffle-and stroked her nipple.
"Ashland! It took fully an hour to assemble this dress, and I will not have you ruining . . ." Her words were swallowed in another kiss. She gave up and put her arms around his neck. What could possibly be more important than kissing Ashland, after all?
A sharp knock rattled the door.
"Ignore it," said Ashland, from the corner of his industrious mouth.
"You're certain"-he stroked her tongue; she shivered-"you're certain there's no danger? Because I think . . . Miss Dingleby . . ."
"All under control, I assure you. And I shan't leave your side for an instant. Not a thing to worry about, except this scandalously low bodice of yours." He gave her bosom a proprietary kiss.
Another knock, repeated with energy.
"Ashland, what on earth has come over you? This isn't like you at all." Her head fell back against his arm.
"Because I've just realized I'm free. Free of my wretched past, free of the imminent threat of a pack of murderers taking you away from me. Free to marry you and take you to bed . . ."
"Not necessarily in that order, I surmise."
"God forbid. I'm too old to wait for the proprieties." His hand, having abandoned her bodice, began to wind its way through the thicket of frothing petticoats at her ankles. He shifted her downward into the deep cushions of the sofa and stretched himself alongside.
"Yes, quite. Which brings to mind the final point I wished to discuss with you . . . rather important, really . . ."
The door crashed open.
"Damn it all, Ashland," said the Duke of Olympia. "I gave you strict instructions about the furniture."
* * *
The singing elation in the Duke of Ashland's blood lasted well past his third waltz with his fiancée. Everything was going along swimmingly, after all. With Emilie standing steadfast and graceful by his side, the endless receiving line hadn't proven quite the torture he'd imagined; their well-bred guests had generally taken his left hand without undue awkwardness. And Emilie looked resplendent in her pale blue satin, having been put back to rights by a hastily summoned Lucy.
Just before their sweeping entrance down the staircase-Olympia always did have a taste for grand theater-he had pulled the Ashland sapphires from his pocket and laid them about her neck, where they now glittered shamelessly in the light from the electric chandeliers.
They suited her, he thought, as he whirled her past the rapt gathering of dowagers in the northeast corner of the Duke of Olympia's ballroom. Sapphires worthy of a princess.
He told her so.
"Worthy of a princess, indeed," she said. "A banker's wife, you mean. They're quite deliciously vulgar."
He bent to her ear. "On our wedding night, I'll put them to even better use."
That earned him a swift rap of her fan, but her charming blush was well worth the punishment. He glanced downward to observe its pink progress along her bosom.
The waltz lumbered ponderously to an end. "Really, you'd think my uncle could have arranged for better musicians," Emilie said. "That was absolute rubbish."
"Tin ear, I expect." He cast a sharp eye across the room at Olympia. The duke was engaged in conversation with an attractive woman of a certain age, ablaze with diamonds, but he sensed the weight of Ashland's gaze. He turned his head slightly, made a single tug of his earlobe, and returned to his conversation.
Ashland drew Emilie along the side of the ballroom and snatched a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter, slipping the stems between the adroit fingers of his left hand. "You look a trifle overheated, sweetheart," he said. "Let's visit the garden."
"I'm not a bit overheated, and I do believe I see my dear cousin Penhallow over there, by the musicians . . ."
Ashland leaned down and whispered in her ear.
"Oh. Well." She patted her hair. "The garden it is, then."
Ashland's task (and it was, by far, the most agreeable mission he'd ever been assigned) was simply to keep Emilie otherwise occupied as Olympia went into action in the ballroom. He'd already begun in the library, seducing her with all the shameless exuberance of his relief, and now he had her pliant and undivided attention. As a result, she hadn't noticed any of the undercurrent of activity in the ballroom. She'd enjoyed herself, she'd sipped champagne, and she'd danced only with him. She'd looked up at him as they waltzed about the room and his heart had stopped at the miraculous glowing warmth in her eyes.
Warmth for him.
He was the luckiest man alive.
He sent only a single glance backward as he passed through the French doors into the cool dampness of the Duke of Olympia's garden, his hand at Emilie's back. Olympia's silver head was crossing the room, making its way to the secret panel on the wall behind the orchestra where Miss Dingleby waited with her decoy.
Everything in place. He had only to keep Emilie away from the ballroom.
And really, the deeper they went into the garden, the more occupied her mind and body, the safer she'd be.
It was his duty, in fact.
"Oh, it's so chilly!" she said. "Let's turn back. We must. Our guests will wonder where we've gone."
Ashland set down the champagne on an empty urn, whipped off his black tailcoat, and settled it about her shoulders. "Problem solved. Drink your champagne, like a good girl." He picked up the flute and handed it to her.
"I really shouldn't . . ."
He put his hand to her back and nudged her forward. "There's an old saying, my dear. When a lady says she shouldn't, she almost certainly will."
"I beg your pardon. Where did you learn that?"
"I was in the army."
"I'm beginning to find that excuse wears rather thin."
But she was smiling, she was happy. She was allowing him to urge her deeper into the garden, where the light from the ballroom faded into the shadows. The beds were all barren, of course, the roses pruned ruthlessly back and the shrubs hunkered down against the February chill. A row of boxwoods lay ahead, subdued into round balls by Olympia's fleet of gardeners, and Ashland guided her deftly around them to the small glass-walled conservatory that lay beyond, filled at the moment with spring plantings.
"Oh, I remember this!" she exclaimed. "My sisters and I used to hold tea parties here, when we were visiting in the early summer. What fun it all was. I wish we could look inside, but I suppose it's all locked up for the winter."
Ashland reached his arm around her and plucked an object from the inside pocket of his tailcoat, making sure to brush her bosom as he went.
He held the object up before her.
"Oh! However did you find a key?"
"I have a knack for such things." He fitted the key into the lock.
"This is thrilling. I wonder if that old wicker chaise longue is still there. We used to take naps on it."