How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray

with a trifle more force than he intended. He was woefully out of practice at this.
Keep your emotions in check, my boy
, came the voice in his head.
You are a man of great animal passion; it is both your strength and your weakness.
    “Many others enjoy the patronage of the powerful. And after all, I am not particularly ambitious.” Grimsby took another sip of sherry, as if to cover a hesitation. “I don’t wish to be a man of business, in charge of important affairs. I only want my books, and enough money to keep myself.”
    “And a wife? Family? You have no desire for these comforts?”
    “I . . . I suppose so.” A flush rose from beneath Grimsby’s whiskers. “One day.”
    “No inclination at all for female companionship?”
    “Not so much as you, it seems.”
    Ashland had been drinking steadily, and his glass was now empty as he twiddled it between his fingers. “You disapprove of my errand tonight?”
    “It is not my place.” Grimsby looked down to the book before him and ran his finger along the edge of the binding. “I suppose it’s no more than natural for you to . . . for the physical urge . . .”
    “I understand you perfectly, Mr. Grimsby. I can only hope word of my appalling licentiousness does not find its way to my friend Olympia’s ear. I am afraid he might disapprove.”
    Grimsby’s head shot up. “Of course not, Your Grace! I shouldn’t dream of such a thing!”
    His tone was so shocked, so full of genuine dismay, so entirely innocent of the irony in Ashland’s words, that Ashland found himself poised in the air, vacillating between suspicion and admiration. He said softly, “Then my friend Olympia has merely done me a favor, out of the generosity of his heart, in sending you to me?”
    “I . . . I don’t believe I understand you, sir.”
    Ashland stood. His head swam briefly, and righted itself. He placed his empty sherry glass on the table and observed how the candlelight radiated about Grimsby’s golden hair like a halo. “Nothing at all, Mr. Grimsby. My intellect is a little disordered tonight, I fear.”
    Grimsby was rising from his chair. “Are you all right? May I help you at all?”
    “I am entirely well. Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Grimsby. I hope we may repeat the pleasure often, of an evening, as the winter howls outside.” He waved his hand at the window.
    “You are retiring, Your Grace?”
    “Yes.” Ashland studied Grimsby’s face, his narrowed eyes behind his spectacles, the tiny crease of concern between his eyebrows. He was so earnest, so wise and naive all at once. “You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know,” he said absently.
    Grimsby’s hand fell upon his book. “I am nothing of the sort.”
    “I can’t help wondering if there’s a great deal more to you than you let on.”
    “I beg your pardon. What do you mean?”
    Ashland straightened himself. He should not have drunk that extra glass of sherry; his body wasn’t used to it. But it was rather nice, after all, to have his brain pleasantly encased in numbness, to feel that hum in his blood again, to sense nothing in his missing hand but a comfortable bluntness. “I don’t quite know what I mean, Mr. Grimsby,” he said. He smiled, reached out his hand, and chucked the poor fellow’s astonished jaw.
    “But I look forward to finding out.”
    *   *   *
    T he door closed behind the Duke of Ashland’s imposing body, and Emilie crumpled into her chair. She closed her eyes, but she could still see his face in front of her, the black leather mask against the smooth skin, the single bright blue eye examining her with minute care.
    You are rather an intriguing young fellow, you know.
    Emilie took a deep breath. Was it her imagination, or could she smell him in the air? The sting of sherry, the wild moorland wind, the warm wool, the scent of spicy soap—sandalwood, perhaps. Or maybe it was only her. She lifted her arm and sniffed her sleeve.
    No, she smelled nothing