How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray Page A

like that.
    Her heart still beat quickly in her breast; her fingertips still tingled. What the devil was happening to her? That tall, broad man with his piercing eye and maimed face and empty cuff—good God, surely she was not infatuated with him? With the Duke of Ashland, not two hours out of some strumpet’s bed, his powerful legs stretched out before her and his hair gleaming white against the shadows of the library?
    Emilie lifted her hand again and touched her jaw with her fingertips. She could feel him now, feel the instant thrill in her veins as his hand came toward her, as her skin anticipated his touch. She, Emilie, cool-blooded and studious, a princess of Germany!
    A distant thump reached her ears: Ashland, climbing the stairs to his room.
    But I look forward to finding out.
    Emilie reached for her glass of sherry and drained it.
    This was going to be a very long winter.

SEVEN

    Two days before Christmas
    T he common room at the Anvil was as crowded as usual, a fact on which Emilie had been counting. She clutched her knapsack and breathed the stale and humid air as shallowly as possible. Around her, the men laughed and swore and ate and drank. The fire burned smokily along the wall. Rose the barmaid bustled about, her hands never free of tankards, her mouth giving as good as she got, which was plenty.
    Emilie observed her closely. When she ducked into the taproom to fill her next round, Emilie followed her.
    “I need a room,” she said quietly, and held out her palm, on which a gold sovereign caught the light from the swinging old-fashioned lantern overhead. “A private room, close to the back stairs.”
    Rose stared at the sovereign, then stared at Emilie. “With a girl, or without?”
    Emilie blushed. “Without.”
    There was no furniture in the tiny chamber to which Rose led her, except for the bed that overwhelmed the space, but Emilie did not need furniture. She set down her knapsack, opened the flap, and stripped to her drawers in the cold air.
    Chemise first, then stays. The fastenings gave her trouble, but she had selected a new corset with efficiency in mind, knowing she would have no lady’s maid to help her. Petticoats and sturdy little half boots: Her chilled fingers fumbled with the buckles until she had them all.
    Her dress had rumpled in the knapsack, despite her best efforts at folding. It buttoned up the front, because she would never have been able to manage otherwise. For a moment she savored the fall of fine wool down her body, the swell of material at her hips, the lovely, heavy feminine swish of skirts around her legs.
    At last she reached inside the knapsack for the final two items: a small hat, and a large false chignon, made from the thick golden pile of hair that had fallen from Miss Dingleby’s scissors a month ago. She did not pause for melancholy. She pinned her short hair back, pinned the chignon at the nape of her neck, and placed the hat over all.
    She stuck her head out the door. There was no one in the hall. She stole quietly to the back stairs and slipped noiselessly down.
    The wind had calmed today, and the late December air lay heavy and frozen against Emilie’s exposed cheeks. A steady trickle of townspeople were out, finishing Christmas errands, and instead of taking the high street down the center of town, Emilie stole around the back lanes, taking note of details and street names, as Miss Dingleby had instructed. A train pulled away from the station, the hourly service southward to York, as she passed by.
    The buildings thinned; the noise of commerce died away. Ahead, the clean white shape of Ashland Spa Hotel came into view, its marble facade fronting the road like an ancient Roman bath transported to modern Yorkshire.
    Emilie took off her spectacles, slid them into her pocket, and went around back to the garden entrance.
    “My dear.” A slight figure rose from his chair in the restaurant, straightened his lapels, and grasped Emilie’s outstretched