The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)

by Tessa Dare

  He braced himself for that pleasant jolt of first contact.

  No jolt occurred. Instead of her shift and tempting body, his hand connected with . . . a wool blanket? Well, then. It would seem he had another layer to remove.

  He drew the blanket downward and made another attempt. This time, his hand connected with a thickly padded quilt. Good God, she was layered like an onion. No wonder her leg had felt thick enough to support a small tree.

  “How many of these are there?” he asked, trying to locate the edge of the quilt.

  “Only five or so,” she answered.

  “Five?” He flung back the quilt, not bothering with patience any longer. “Are you attempting to deter me? Exhaust me before I even get to the act?”

  “I was cold. And then you banked the fire.”

  “I think you’re playing me a trick. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling these away and find there’s nothing beneath them but a pair of pincushions and a broomstick.”

  “You’re down to the last one, I swear it. Let me.”

  Fabric shifted beside him, and beneath it, her body wiggled in a way that was pure torture. He was desperate to be between her legs, inside her. He had a vision of her beneath him, naked. Her legs locked around his waist, and her back arched in pleasure.

  Abandon that fantasy, he told himself. It wasn’t going to be that way. Not tonight, not ever.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered.

  His cock throbbed at the husky sound of her voice.

  Thank God.

  When he reached for her this time, he found what he’d been seeking. Her. Emma. His bride. His hand did not land on a breast, he realized with some disappointment, but her waist instead.

  That would do.

  He made a fist in the fabric of her shift. As he hiked the linen—only daring to raise it as far as her waist—his breath was shaky.

  He stroked his hand downward, over her bared hip. He gave a helpless groan. God. He wanted to touch every part of her. The tender skin at her wrist, her lips, her hair. Her hair. He wondered if her hair was undone, and whether he dared to reach for the dark, heavy silk of it, twining his fingers round and round.

  An imprudent idea, he decided. The way this night was going, he would probably poke her in the eye instead.

  He moved his hand in a lateral caress, aiming for the center of her. As his fingertips brushed the tantalizing curls covering her mound, he cursed himself. He’d meant to bring some oil to ease the way.

  He couldn’t go back to retrieve it. If he stopped now, Lord only knew how many layers she’d be buried under when he returned. Instead, he raised two fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, wetting them.

  Then he reached between her thighs.

  She gasped.

  Clenching his jaw in an attempt at restraint, he focused on the task at hand. He slid his fingers up and down the seam of her cleft. Her breathing quickened—with apprehension, no doubt.

  “You do understand what will happen?” he asked belatedly, his voice thick with lust. “What goes where, and all that?”

  He felt her nod. “Yes.”

  “I’ll try to be gentle with you. Failing that, I’ll be quick.”

  He parted her folds, and then pressed his second finger inside her heat. Just a fingertip at first, and then a few inches more.

  Goddamn. Bloody hell. Jesus Christ.

  Fuck.

  And every other bit of blasphemy he would have been thrashed as a youth for daring to say.

  She was so hot, so tight, and made of the same flawless silk inside as her body was without.

  Her breath came faster still, thin at the edges. Damn, he was a monster. She was anxious, even fearful. He was mindless with lust. Lost in the instinctive desire to lick and taste and suck, then take her hips in both hands and thrust deep.

  If this didn’t happen soon, he was going to spill his seed on all five of her blankets, and the entire exercise would have been in vain.

  He pushed another finger inside her, sliding in and out, stretching her body to prepare his way.

  Was she ready?

  He withdrew his fingers to the tips, then thrust them both inside to the hilt, driving deep.

  She cried out in surprise, and her hips bucked. “Please.”

  Her breaking voice pierced through his haze of lust.

  Please.

  Ash removed his hand at once. Struggling to catch his breath, he pushed himself up on one elbow, then rose to a sitting position. “Sorry.”

  He fumbled for his dressing gown, and then thrust his arms through the sleeves. By the fact that the thing barely covered his arse when he stood, he deduced that he’d put it on upside-down.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Truly. We can continue.”

  “No. I’ve pressed you too far, too quickly.” He thought about attempting to retrieve his candle, then abandoned the idea. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could find his way to the door.

  “But—”

  “It will wait for tomorrow.”

  He opened the door, went through it, and closed it behind him. He paused, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. But when he started to leave, he felt something tugging him back.

  Damn it. He’d shut a fold of his dressing gown in the door.

  He thunked his head against the doorjamb. Did marriage make utter fools of all men? Or was it just him?

  He turned the doorknob again.

  “Did you change your mind?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied, defensive. “I came back to tell you that I hadn’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you needn’t worry I’ll be returning tonight. Aside from this time, of course.”

  He shut the door on her reply, but it followed him into the corridor.

  “If you say so.”

  Ash took all his unsatisfied lust and carried it out-of-doors, into the night. He’d considered giving himself some manual relief. However, the idea of spending his wedding night with his own hand was too pathetic to contemplate.

  Walking it off was the only respectable option.

  He stuck to the narrower lanes and the alleyways behind the mews, keeping the collar of his cloak upturned and his hat pulled down over his brow.

  Eventually, he out-walked the aching tension in his groin. Yet there was something else he couldn’t seem to shake.

  Please, she’d whispered.

  Please.

  The word had shocked him. He’d pulled away at once, uncertain whether she’d uttered it in pleasure or pain. Her breathless voice almost suggested the former—but that was too absurd to contemplate.

  First, she was a virgin. Second, she was a vicar’s daughter. Third, she was a virgin vicar’s daughter. And fourth, he was the scarred, ill-tempered—if fantastically wealthy—wretch who’d strong-armed her into in a marriage of convenience with no courtship whatsoever.

  He must have hurt her, or scared her, or—most lowering to contemplate—repulsed her.

  At best, he’d merely pressed her beyond her comfort for the first night.

  Ash kicked at stones as he walked. Until he kicked something rotted and soft. Ugh. He didn’t know what it was, but he was not stopping to investigate. He switched to poking at obstacles with his walking stick.

  He would have to revise his plan, he decided. Take the bedding slowly, even if the waiting was torture. If he pushed her too far, too fast, and she shied from him . . . It all would have been for nothing. He would have no legitimate heir, and his father’s legacy would die with him.

  Unthinkable. He would not allow that to happen.

  Please.

  It echoed through his mind again. A fresh shiver of arousal traveled the length of his spine.

  He gave himself a mental shake.

  She was not sighing in ecstasy, you clotpole.

  That was only his desperate, lonely, sex-starved imagination, grasping at any phantom resembling affection.

  He walked through the shuttered stalls of Shep
herd Market, using his walking stick to push refuse out of his way and into the middens.

  He prodded at a heap of rags.

  The heap of rags stirred.

  It unfolded, transforming into the figure of a young girl. No doubt she’d been left there to keep watch on the family stall by night.

  “Whassat?” She drew herself up to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes, and turned to blink up at his face.

  She blinked again.

  And then she shrieked, loud and long enough to wake the dead.

  “It’s all right,” Ash muttered. “I don’t wish to—”

  She paused for a breath, then unleashed another high-pitched scream. Dogs nearby began to snarl and bark.

  “Be still, child. I’m not going to—”

  “Get away!” She kicked at his shin, shouting. “Get away! Leave me be!”

  “I’m going.” He fished for what coins he had in his pocket, placed them beside the boarded-up stall, and made a hasty retreat. His heart was pounding.

  See? he chided himself, once he was some distance down the lane.

  Children screamed at the sight of him. Dogs howled as they would at a fiend.

  No woman would be begging for him now. Not in bed, in the dark.

  For that matter, not by day in the park.

  Not on land, not at sea. She does not want you, Ashbury.

  God, he was a blithering idiot.

  Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. He halted in his paces, turning an ear toward the sound. From the same direction, he heard a wallop, followed by a coarse shout.

  Ash frowned. Then he started into motion, following the sounds in brisk strides. Walking stick at the ready.

  Whatever the trouble, it wasn’t his concern.

  But it might prove a welcome distraction.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Emma took herself to the morning room. It seemed the expected thing. When she entered the sun-washed space, her gaze skipped over the tasseled upholstery and vases of flowers and went straight to the humblest furnishing in the room: an escritoire.

  Perfect.

  She had letters to write.

  She sat at the writing desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, unstoppered the ink, and dipped the quill.

  Her first priority was sending a note to reassure Miss Palmer, but Emma wasn’t certain how to do so. A message delivered from Ashbury House would raise eyebrows. No one even knew a Duchess of Ashbury existed yet. It wouldn’t be wise to call at the Palmer residence, either. Emma was merely a seamstress in their eyes. Once word got about that the duke had married, perhaps, but for now . . .

  Fanny. Yes. She would write a note and send it in care of Fanny, asking her pass it along when Miss Palmer returned to the shop.

  That accomplished, Emma turned her attention to another letter.

  One that was six years overdue.

  Dear Father,

  It has been much too long since we’ve spoken.

  But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested it might be too soon.

  Dear Father,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health.

  She stared at the sentence. As many times as she’d wished him to suffer boils, she wasn’t certain that was accurate, either.

  Emma crumpled the sheet of paper and tried once more. Apparently polite salutations weren’t going to serve.

  Father,

  Do you recall the last time we saw one another? If not, permit me to remind you. You cast me out into a storm, barred me from my home, and told me no respectable man would ever want me. Well, it is my cold pleasure to inform you now, sir—you were gravely mistaken. Someone wanted me after all, and that someone is a duke.

  But then . . . once again, she doubted. Did the duke truly want her? They’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, no more. For him, bedding her was a means to an end.

  Her thoughts returned to their disastrous attempt at consummation the previous night. Perfunctory as the act was intended to be, and all his “rules” notwithstanding, his caresses were tender, patient. His hands told an entirely different story than his gruff, cynical words, and she couldn’t help but respond.

  She’d been alone so long, isolated and untouched.

  Waiting.

  He’d awakened her desires. And yet, the moment she’d surrendered to them . . . he’d stopped. As if he’d been shocked by her response, or even displeased with it.

  Perhaps he didn’t want her, after all. Or more to the point, perhaps he didn’t want a freely passionate wife, and that would only affirm her father’s judgment.

  No decent man will have you.

  Devastating.

  Yes, their relationship was a convenient agreement. Yes, she’d resolved to keep her reckless, foolish heart uninvolved. Still, she craved a bit of closeness. Though she’d scraped by on her own for years, she was starved for human connection. And now she’d tethered herself, for the remainder of her life, to a man unwilling to connect with anyone. She felt more alone than ever.

  Don’t be maudlin, Emma. It was only one night. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected. Surely it would improve with time.

  A flurry of odd noises saved her from wallowing in self-pity. Emma rose from the writing desk. The cat had probably found a divan or chaise to claw to shreds. That might be a blessing in disguise if he had. Replacing the upholstery would give her a project to undertake.

  As she followed the sounds, however, they sounded less and less likely to be feline. Soft thwacking and muffled grunting emanated from behind a set of imposing double doors.

  She approached in soft footsteps and placed her ear to the door.

  “Really, Khan.” The duke’s voice. “Try to muster a bit of effort.”

  “I am attempting to do so, Your Grace.”

  “Then muster harder. It’s your turn to receive.”

  Emma pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside. She discovered a grand, open space, floored with inlaid parquet and bordered by walls hung with life-sized portraits. Capping off the opulence, elaborate scrollwork and chandeliers decorated the ceiling.

  And across the middle of this majestic ballroom was strung a sort of crude netting. Two men—the duke and his butler—faced off on either side of it.

  The duke swung a racquet, sending a plumed cork sailing over the net.

  Khan, having caught sight of Emma, paid it no notice—with the result that the shuttlecock bounced directly off his forehead.

  “Oh, come on.” The duke shook his racquet in accusation. “I all but sealed and posted you that one.”

  Khan ignored his employer, opting to bow in Emma’s direction instead. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  The duke whipped around, still holding his racquet at a threatening angle. He swept a glance over her. “You.”

  Be still her heart. What a salutation.

  She moved into the room. “I thought you were joking about the badminton.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “So I see.”

  After a pause, he waved her toward the doors. “Well? You must have things to do. Take breakfast. Confer with the housekeeper, now that you’re mistress of the place. Do something ridiculous with your hair.”

  “I’ve accomplished the first and second, and I will politely decline the third. I’m out of occupations at the moment.”

  “Wonderful,” Khan interjected, striding toward her. “You can take over this one.” He pressed his racquet into Emma’s hand. Before making for the door, he mouthed two words. Save. Me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the duke demanded.

  The butler turned in the doorway. “I’m not certain, Your Grace. Perhaps I’ll do something ridiculous with my hair.”

  He bowed, closed the double doors, and was gone.

  The duke bellowed after him. “I’ll dock your wages for this, you milk-livered cullion.”

  In the ensuing quiet, Emma regarded the racquet in her hand. “Kha
n doesn’t seem to enjoy badminton.”

  “He enjoys steady employment. We have sport three times a week. A man needs to keep up his stamina somehow.”

  Stamina. Yes. Just looking at the duke, it was plain to see that he’d been an active man, long before his injury. Those shoulders and thighs could not have developed overnight. As he bent to retrieve the shuttlecock, she admired the tight contour of his backside. That didn’t come from idleness, either.

  He stood, and she quickly averted her gaze.

  Drat.

  Again, she’d been caught staring. Again, he would misinterpret it entirely.

  It wasn’t her fault, Emma told herself, but simply an occupational habit. Knowing fabric and thread was only part of a seamstress’s work. Key to success was understanding the body beneath the garments. How joints fit together; how muscles flexed and stretched. After years of practice, Emma only had to glance at a person to imagine them stripped of all clothing—and when regarding a person so finely formed by God and honed by exertion, the temptation proved difficult to resist.

  But how did one say such a thing?

  My apologies. I wasn’t staring out of horror. I was merely undressing you in my mind.

  Oh, that would go brilliantly. Very duchesslike, that.

  When the duke finished setting aside the equipment, he reached for his topcoat.

  “We . . .” Emma forced herself to say it. “We could play. The two of us. You and I.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  He respects those who challenge him, she reminded herself. Although, at the moment, the piercing quality of his gaze didn’t strike her as admiration.

  But Emma was in for the penny now. She may as well try for the pound.

  “I adore badminton.” She attempted to twirl the racquet in a casual, sporty fashion. Instead she dropped it, and it bounced off her toe. She bit her lip, holding back a yelp of pain. “Whoops. How careless of me.”

  She picked up the racquet with as much dignity as she could manage and limped to the other side of the ballroom, ducking under the net.

  She gave him a game smile. “Shall we?”

  “Very well. Let’s wager on it.”

  “If you like. What is the forfeit?”

  Now Emma’s interest was piqued. Weren’t the forfeits in these wagers typically naughty? A kiss, perhaps, or two minutes locked in the closet.