How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray

she watched Simpson approach, saw his gaze rest for an instant on the spot of marmalade on the tablecloth next to her plate.
    “His Grace is well enough,” said Simpson, sitting down at the head of the table with a flip of his tails. He reached for his teacup and said, without preamble, in his crackling voice, “Mr. Grimsby, when it’s convenient, you may attend His Grace in the study. One of the footmen will show you the way.”
    *   *   *
    T he Duke of Ashland stood by a tall window, cup and saucer in hand. He turned when Emilie entered, and the unexpected sunshine gilded the left side of his face, the perfect side, casting the rest in shadow.
    “Good morning, Mr. Grimsby,” he said. “Yorkshire appears to be welcoming your arrival in a most unseasonable fashion.”
    That voice of his! Emilie had thought she’d only imagined it, or that its richness derived from the close quarters of the taproom and the carriage. But this room was large, its ceilings high, and still Ashland’s voice made the air dance.
    “I’m grateful for the warm welcome I’ve received throughout your house, Your Grace.”
    Ashland stepped away from the blinding sunlight at the window. Emilie held back her breath. He was wearing a black half-mask over his useless eye and scarred cheek, giving him a distinctly piratical air, and the close-cropped hair that she had assumed last night to be a very pale blond was actually silver white.
    She had never seen anyone so extraordinary.
    “I hope my staff has been courteous. You had breakfast?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He set down the cup on the corner of his desk and reached with his left hand into his watch pocket, and only then did Emilie notice that the cuff of his right sleeve was empty.
    Her eyes widened and flew to his face. Emilie had been trained since girlhood to remain polite and impassive, no matter how jarring or extraordinary the sight in front of her, but this man, all of him—his size, his physical beauty, his voice, his white hair, his scars, his empty cuff—was too much. Her wits had scattered about the room.
    Ashland consulted his watch. “My son is at that time of life when a young man sleeps late and rises late. I have had a breakfast tray sent to his room, however, and at nine o’clock I shall expect you to begin his studies in the schoolroom.” He looked up and smiled, and the hint of warmth made the backs of Emilie’s knees turn to India rubber. “With or without the boy himself.”
    “Yes, sir,” she whispered. She pushed her spectacles up her nose. Why couldn’t she find her voice?
    Ashland had been to war, Olympia had told her. He’d seen action in some remote part of India, before returning to England to assume his title. Undoubtedly he had been injured there; thus the scars and the empty cuff and possibly even the white hair. Physical shock could do such things. It was all perfectly natural.
    “Yes, sir,” she repeated, putting more muscle into it.
    “Very good. Would it disturb you at all if I were to come in and observe, at some point in the afternoon? Solely to judge my son’s progress, I assure you, and not your own ability.” His voice resonated with command, the way it had with Freddie last night, and Emilie knew once more that he was not asking a question.
    “Of course not. You have every right.”
    Ashland replaced his watch in his pocket and picked up his cup. “Do you drink coffee, Mr. Grimsby?”
    “I do not,” she said. “I am accustomed to tea.”
    “I picked up the habit abroad, and I’m afraid I can’t seem to shift it. I hope you don’t mind. In any case, if you have a moment, I should like to sit down and review your planned course of study.” Ashland gestured to the chair before the desk and walked around to find his own. Despite his great frame, he moved like an African cat. Like one of the leopards in the Berlin zoo, noiseless and swift, pacing with restless grace along the perimeter of his cage. “The Duke of Olympia, by the