Free How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray Page B

Grimsby,” called Freddie, forgetting the
Mr.
in his damp distress, “what are you about? Can’t we turn back and have a pint at the Anvil instead?”
    “I’ve a great curiosity to see this spa of yours,” Emilie said, over her shoulder.
    “Bother the bloody spa!”
    Emilie kept riding, down the high street, taking careful note of the post office at the corner of Baker’s Lane. A hostelry stood nearby; that might be of use.
    But the spa, the hotel, with a variety of visitors coming and going! A place where strangers were expected and welcome, where private rooms might be had; a place easily found and yet outside of the main part of town.
    It seemed ideal.
    The rain began to pound her hat in earnest.
    “Look here, Grimsby!” Freddie was growing petulant. “You can’t mean to go on in this! It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, we’ll be missing our tea, and in a moment my coat will have bloody well soaked through!”
    “You must learn fortitude, Lord Silverton.”
    “I have plenty of damned fortitude, Grimsby!”
    “
Mr.
Grimsby,” said Emilie, “and your language is reprehensible in a boy of your years. I must ask you to exercise a little more ingenuity.”
    “How’s this for ingenuity,
Mr.
Grimsby: We’re missing our lessons.”
    Emilie looked back in surprise. If Freddie was choosing schoolwork over shirking, he must be in sorry straits indeed.
    Poor Freddie. He
was
rather bedraggled. His cap dripped with rain, and his shoulders were soaked. Moreover, he had inexplicably gone out without his gloves, and his hands had taken on a rather alarming blue cast. With his bony frame and his brown tweeds, he looked like an exceptionally wet insect.
    Emilie let out a long breath, cast her eyes longingly up the road toward the beckoning promise of Ashland Spa Hotel, and turned her horse around. “Very well,” she said. “But I must call in at the post office.”
    *   *   *
    T he dainty clock above the mantel—Isabelle’s favorite, a wedding gift—was chiming four o’clock by the time Ashland laid down his pen, squared his papers, and rose from the chair in his study to join his waiting valet upstairs.
    “It’s come on to rain, sir,” his valet said quietly, helping him into a coat of silken superfine wool.
    “Then I shall require a mackintosh, of course,” Ashland said. He turned to the mirror above the washstand and surveyed himself. The mask had come a little askew during his shaving; he straightened it, adjusted his necktie. His short white hair was smoothed neatly with a touch of pomade.
    Not that it mattered, really, but he felt he owed the woman that much.
    Wilkins came up behind him with the mackintosh. He shrugged himself into it and allowed Wilkins to handle the buttons. His own fingers were shaking slightly. Hat, settled snugly into his brow; glove, fitted to his left hand like a . . . well, like a glove. That was better. Secure, well covered. The breath eased from his lungs.
    “Thank you, Wilkins,” Ashland said. “No need to wait up.”
    “Of course, sir.”
    Ashland descended the stairs and ducked through the door, opened at the last well-timed instant by an impassive footman. Outside in the drizzle, a groom stood holding his horse. The gray November horizon was already darkening. “There’s a lad,” Ashland said tenderly, rubbing Wellington’s muzzle, taking the reins. “Sorry about the rain, old man. We’ll have to bear on like troupers.”
    He nodded to the groom, swung into the saddle, and made off along the four soggy miles to town.
    *   *   *
    T he letter burned through the inner pocket of Emilie’s jacket, right against her heart. She couldn’t read it here, of course, with the rain filling the air in front of a curious Freddie. She would have to wait for the security of her room.
    “Couldn’t you have posted your note from the house?” said Freddie. “I’m sure Pater would have franked it for you.”
    “Of course. I shall remember that next