How to Tame Your Duke by Juliana Gray Read Free Book Online Page A

breakfast, nobbut like I warned ye.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Emilie said. “I am unfamiliar with the plan of the house.”
    Somebody tittered. An older woman, to the right of the empty seat at the head of the table, set down her spoon and dabbed at the corner of her mouth. “Good morning, Mr. Grimsby. I am Mrs. Needle, the housekeeper. Ye’re welcome here, of course, though I’m sure Lucy will be happy to bring you a tray in t’morning, if that’s yer preference. Ye may take Lionel’s place at t’left. He’s serving upstairs at t’moment.”
    Lionel, who sat to the left of the butler’s seat: No doubt he was the head footman, and now busy anticipating Ashland’s wishes in the breakfast room. Emilie ran her gaze once more around the table, more carefully this time, taking note. After all, servants were just as conscious of rank and precedence as their masters, and the appearance of a tutor had likely disturbed everything. Tutors and governesses occupied that liminal space between stairs, neither servant nor lord, of the educated class and yet a household employee. Hence the offer of a breakfast tray, which would make things easier for all concerned. Lionel, whose place she’d usurped, would be delighted.
    But here she was. She couldn’t turn tail and run.
    Emilie walked around the table, head high, and pulled out Lionel’s chair. His place was already set with bowl, plate, fork, knife, and spoon. She sat down and nodded at Lucy, who sat on the opposite side, several places down. “May I trouble you for the toast, Miss Lucy?” she asked.
    Lucy smiled. Her eyelashes swept down. “Why, of course, Mr. Grimsby.”
    Emilie ate quietly, head bowed slightly to her plate, doing her best to be invisible in the heavy silence. The clatter of cutlery began to resume. Someone asked a low question; someone answered a bit more loudly. Emilie drank her tea.
    “Ooh, Lucy,” said one of the maids, “they’ve another story in t’paper today about them lost princesses in Germany. Pictures and owt.”
    The tea made an immediate detour down Emilie’s windpipe.
    “Ooh, have they?” exclaimed Lucy. “What do they look like? Are they beautiful? Have they got them tiaras on?”
    “Yes, great big ones, and t’great blue sashes across their chests. I thought t’oldest one were t’ prettiest. She’s got lovely curling hair, just like yers. They do say . . .”
    “I say, are ye all right, Mr. Grimsby?” asked Lucy.
    “Quite all right,” Emilie gasped, between spasms.
    “Have ye heard about t’princesses, Mr. Grimsby? It’s t’most terrifying story.”
    “No, I haven’t. Mrs. Needle, may I trouble you”—cough, cough—“for the teapot?”
    Mrs. Needle poured Emilie a solicitous cup. “Small sips, Mr. Grimsby. That’s it.”
    “It’s nobbut some little kingdom in Germany, Mr. Grimsby, and t’king . . .”
    “T’prince, Lucy,” said the other maid knowingly. “It ain’t never a kingdom, it’s a prin-ci-pality. Ruled by a prince. That’s what t’paper said.”
    Lucy sighed. “Them Germans. Anyroad, t’prince died a pair of month ago, out hunting, shot dead with his poor son-in-law, t’one what was just married to his oldest daughter. And a week after, when they was supposed to crown t’oldest daughter as ruler—the prince never having no sons what might take over—they had all gone missing. Every one. Even t’Royal Governess.” She leaned forward and said it with capital letters.
    Emilie cleared her throat at last. “How shocking.”
    “And do you know what t’morning post do say today?” The other maid bounced in her chair. “They think t’princesses came to England!”
    “England! Oh, Jane!” said Lucy.
    “Whatever for?” whispered Emilie.
    “Why, because their mother were English, seems like. She were t’sister of t’Duke of Olympia,” said Jane.
    A single sigh drew forth around the table. Emilie spotted a pot of marmalade near her teacup and snaked her hand around the