How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray Page B

hand.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” said Emilie, smiling, as the man bent over and kissed the air above her gloved knuckles.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Bismarck.” The gentleman looked up, and Miss Dingleby’s eyes danced in place before her beneath the curved brim of a neat black hat.
    “How very good it is to see you, Mr. Dingleby,” said Emilie.
    “Sit, my dear. You must be exhausted.” Miss Dingleby gestured to the other chair.
    Emilie settled herself into her chair, remembering at the last instant to complete the action with a graceful swoop of her skirts. “It’s only four miles. Hardly half an hour’s brisk riding.”
    “But your delicate constitution.” Miss Dingleby winked and picked up the menu. “Rather elevated fare, isn’t it, for such a godforsaken outpost of civilization?”
    Emilie cast her gaze about the room. She had taken tea here with Freddie a week or so ago, and had looked with the same surprise as Miss Dingleby on the spacious, high-ceilinged grandeur of the lobby, the fluted pillars and the shining marble floor, the intricate plasterwork and the oval domed skylight aglow with tinted glass. The soaring space had swarmed with people. Where had they all come from? Ladies, mostly, dressed in trailing veils and enormous bustles, attended by maids with white caps and neatly buttoned collars. They had gone back and forth between the lobby and the bathing pools in the enclosed courtyard at the center of the hotel, and as teatime advanced they had trooped into the blue and white interior of the restaurant and sat at the elegant marble tables and drunk their tea with fingers extended into the lily-scented air.
    “It isn’t so remote,” Emilie said. “I believe they see a great many fashionable guests. The duke has transformed the spa into an establishment of repute.”
    “Has he, now? The clever fellow.” Miss Dingleby’s voice lowered a trifle. She was wearing dark whiskers along her jaw but no mustache, and her cheeks twitched. Emilie’s own skin itched in sympathy.
    “He’s spent the last ten or twelve years diligently improving the town and the estate,” Emilie said, leaning forward. “And he’s got even more plans in contemplation. You ought to see the schemes, really. It’s remarkable.”
    “No doubt.”
    “Of course, it all depended on the railway link. He petitioned for it himself; did you know that? And helped to fund its construction. Olympia assisted him in getting the necessary approvals and so on. You know how well connected my uncle is.”
    “Indeed, I do. Good afternoon,” said Miss Dingleby, addressing a waiter who hovered nearby. “Tea, if you please. Do you have a decent Lapsang souchong?”
    “Indeed we do, sir. An excellent blend.”
    “The Lapsang, then. And the usual complement of sandwiches and biscuits.” Miss Dingleby smiled at the waiter and tented her fingers together on the tablecloth. “I find myself famished after such an arduous journey.”
    “Yes, sir.” The waiter bowed and left.
    Emilie folded her hands in her lap. The unbroken stretch of her skirt felt foreign beneath her fingers. Her chignon rested heavily on her neck, and she resisted the urge to touch beneath the brim and assure herself that some stray lock hadn’t fallen away from its pins to betray her. “Are you certain this is wise? Meeting like this.”
    “Well, you can’t simply meet me as Mr. Grimsby, when someone about town might recognize you and ask questions,” said Miss Dingleby. “And nobody here would recognize you as Emilie, particularly without your spectacles, and particularly in tête-à-tête with a young man.”
    “But it’s so public. So exposed. Anyone might see us.”
    “My dear, if we were to meet furtively behind the inn, or steal upstairs to a bedroom, we would most certainly be suspected. The best place to hide a clandestine meeting”—Miss Dingleby waved her hand, and her signet ring flashed in the bright electric light—“is in plain sight.”
    Emilie