How to Tame Your Duke Read Online Free PDF Page A

smiling. He was a handsome lad, really, beneath his spots. He had a loose-limbed lankiness to him, like a puppy still growing into his bones. And his eyes were pure blue, wide and friendly behind the clear glass of his spectacles.
    “Thank you,” Emilie whispered. She took the valise in her greasy fingers.
    “Have you a room?” Freddie asked, dodging a flying fist.
    “Yes, upstairs. I . . . Oh, look out!”
    Freddie spun, but not in time to avoid a heavy shoulder slamming into his.
    “Jack, ye drunken taistril!” screeched Rose.
    Freddie staggered backward, right into Emilie’s chest. She flailed wildly and crashed to the ground. Freddie landed atop her an instant later, forcing the breath from her lungs. The knife flew from her fingers and skidded across the floor.
    “Right, ye wankley whoreson,” said the attacker. He was the first one, Emilie thought blearily; the one who had knocked the coins from the table to begin with. He was large and drunk, his eyes red. He leaned down, grabbed Freddie by the collar, and hauled back his fist.
    “No!” Emilie said. Freddie’s weight disappeared from her chest. She tried to wriggle free of the rest of him, but Freddie was flailing to loosen himself from the man’s grasp. Emilie landed her fist in the crook of one enormous elbow and levered herself up, just a little, just enough that she could bend her neck forward and sink her teeth into the broad pad of the man’s thumb.
    “OY!” he yelled. He snatched his hand back, letting Freddie crash to the ground and roll away, and grabbed Emilie’s collar instead.
    Emilie clutched at his wrist, writhing, but he was as solid as a horse and far less sensible. His fist lifted up to his ear, and his eyes narrowed at her. Emilie tried to bring up her knee, her foot, anything. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the shattering blow, the flash of pain, the blackness and stars and whatever it was.
    How the devil had this happened to her? Brawls only happened in newspapers. Only men found themselves locked in meaty fists, expecting a killing punch to the jaw. Only men . . .
    But then . . . she
was
a man, wasn’t she?
    With one last mighty effort, she flung out her hand and scrabbled for the knife. Something brushed her fingertips, something hard and round and slippery. She grasped it, raised it high, and . . .
    “OOGMPH!” the man grunted.
    The weight lifted away. Her collar fell free.
    Emilie slumped back, blinking. She stared up at the air before her. At her hand, grasping the tip of a chicken leg.
    She sat up dizzily. Two men swam before her, her attacker and someone else, someone even broader and taller, who held the fellow with one impossibly large hand. Emilie expected to see his other fist fly past, crashing into the man’s jaw, but it did not. Instead, the newcomer raised his right arm and slammed his elbow on the juncture of his opponent’s neck and shoulder.
    “Oy?” the man squeaked uncertainly, and he sagged to the ground.
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Freddie. He stood up next to Emilie and offered her his hand. “Was that necessary?”
    Emilie took Freddie’s hand and staggered to her feet. She looked up at the newcomer, her rescuer, to say some word of abject thanks.
    But her breath simply stopped in her chest.
    The man filled her vision. If Emilie leaned forward, her brow might perhaps reach the massive ball of his shoulder. He stood quite still, staring down at the man slumped on the ground with no particular expression. His profile danced before her, lit by the still-roaring fire, a profile so inhumanly perfect that actual tears stung the corners of Emilie’s eyes. He was clean-shaven, like a Roman god, his jaw cut from stone and his cheekbone forming a deep, shadowed angle on the side of his face. His lips were full, his forehead high and smooth. His close-cropped pale hair curled about his ear. “Yes,” he said, the single word rumbling from his broad chest. “Yes, my dear boy. I