by Tessa Dare
He stiffened. “Don’t.”
She let her hands fall to her sides. “I—I’m sorry, I—”
Emma didn’t know what to say. That brief, stolen caress was burned into her palms. In one of her hands, she balanced a memory of strong, sleek muscle beneath ironed-flat linen. On her other palm, however, a different sensation lingered. The firm ridges of scar tissue, stretching and tugging across his chest like a fiendish spider’s web.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
He turned aside, and Emma despaired. Had she discouraged him from continuing? Again?
Instead, he reached for a small vial of some kind. She heard the sound of it being uncorked. An exotic scent wafted in her direction, and she glimpsed him pouring a few drops into his hand. Some sort of oil, perhaps?
Her guess about the substance was proven correct. His fingers slicked over her sex without friction, stroking up and down her intimate folds. The sensations were as impossible to catch as running water, and they made her just as wet.
By the time he settled between her thighs, she was desperate for him, awash with a deep, sweet ache that she somehow knew only he could satisfy. She knew what it was to bring about her own pleasure, but she’d never been able to fill that hollowness. Not on her own.
The rigid column of his manhood connected with her belly, sliding downward on the thin sheen of oil. The feeling of his steely hardness against her aroused sex . . . it nearly undid her, there and then. She whimpered with frustrated desire, rolling her hips to seek more contact.
He froze again.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, breathless. “Please. I’m fine. I promise. I’m very, very, very fine.”
He hushed her. “Don’t make a move.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not alone.”
Chapter Ten
Ash found himself staring into a pair of firelit eyes, glittering at him from the corner of the room. The base of his spine tingled. His heartbeat went from a gallop to a standstill.
An intruder.
How the devil had someone slipped in?
Never mind, he told himself. That question could wait. The more pressing inquiry at hand was this: How was he going to kill the bastard? He mentally ran through the available weapons in the room. The fireplace poker would be most effective, but it was out of reach. The sash of his dressing gown could make a decent garrote, in a pinch.
If needed, he’d fight hand-to-hand. His only concern was keeping Emma safe.
He rolled to the side and came to his knees, putting his body between her and the threat. “You have three seconds to leave the way you came,” he ordered. “Or I vow to you, I will snap your knavish neck.”
The intruder struck first, leaping forward with a fiendish yowl.
Something that felt like a dozen razor-sharp barbs pierced straight through his nightshirt, digging into his shoulder and arm. He gave a stunned shout of pain.
Emma flung back the bedclothes. “Breeches! Breeches, no!”
The cat?
Claws. Teeth. Hissing.
The cat.
Ash stumbled from the bed and whirled in a backward circle, whipping his arm to shake off the beast, all while guarding his breeding organs with the other hand. He could afford to lose a lot of bits, but not those.
From the bed, Emma shouted and pleaded with the hellish creature, to no avail. She heaved a pillow, which hit Ash in the face and did nothing to dislodge the demon she’d brought into his house. His next lashing attempt cleared the dressing table of anything that could break into tiny shards, as his bare feet quickly learned. He flung himself against the bedpost repeatedly, trying to startle the thing into letting go. Didn’t work. The cat only clung to his shirt—and flesh—like a burr. A yowling burr with teeth.
Ash was ready to plunge his arm, cat and all, into the fire—what were a few more burns, after all—but burning fur was a disgusting scent, and he was just decent enough to balk at the idea of murdering Emma’s pet before her very eyes.
No, he would take it out into the garden tomorrow and murder it there.
At the moment, however, he just needed the cursed thing off.
Leaving his groin unprotected, he reached around, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and shook both of his arms until he had it free. The little devil hit the ground running and disappeared into the shadows. Never to come back, if it knew what was good for it.
Ash checked the family heirlooms. All still present and apparently unscathed, but both bob and bits had pulled so far up into his body, there would be no coaxing them back out tonight. Not for all the tits in Covent Garden.
That was that. He would be taking another long, frustrated walk tonight.
“Are you bleeding?” Emma asked.
“Only in about twenty places.” He touched his shoulder, wincing. His fingers came away wet. “The fly-bitten measle.”
She fell back onto the bed with a pitiable sigh. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was even in the room.”
“Mark my words,” Ash said grimly. “Tomorrow night, he will not be.”
“Did you truly marry the Duke of Ashbury?” Davina Palmer laced her arm through Emma’s, drawing close enough to whisper as they strolled through the park. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . How did that happen?”
Emma laughed a bit. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Hourly.”
She drew Miss Palmer away from the crowded path. Too great a risk of being overheard. As they circled a pond flecked with ducks, Emma related a brief version of the tale. Miss Worthing’s gown. The duke’s pressing need for a wife. His strange proposal, now merely a week past, and their hasty wedding.
“As shocking as it was, I couldn’t refuse him.”
“Refuse a duke? Of course not. No woman in England would, I wager.”
One woman in England had done so. Social-climbing Miss Worthing, of all ladies, had declined Ashbury’s hand. The more Emma ruminated on it, the less sense it made.
But that wasn’t the question of the day.
“If only I had your good sense, Emma.” Davina’s voice quivered. “What an idiot I was to land in such a situation.”
“You were not an idiot.”
“I still don’t understand how it could have happened. I took every precaution against conceiving.”
Emma lowered her voice. “Do you mean the gentlemen withdrew, before he . . . finished the act?”
“No.”
“A sponge, then.”
“A sponge? What would I do with a sponge?”
“So he wore a French letter?”
Davina gave her a blank look. “What’s that?”
Emma was nonplussed. “Precisely what precautions did you take?”
“All the usual ones. After it was done, I jumped up and down for ten minutes. Sniffed pepper to make myself sneeze three times, and drank a full teacup of vinegar. I did everything right.”
Emma pressed her lips together. If this was Davina’s idea of contraception, perhaps the girl was just a little bit of an idiot. Nevertheless, she shouldn’t pay for one mistake for the rest of her life.
“The important thing is that you have a friend in me. To start, I’ve drawn up some patterns for your wardrobe, to conceal the fact that you’re increasing. I’ll have Fanny send word when they’re ready. Beyond that . . .” Emma took the girl’s arm, drawing her close as they walked. “The duke says I’m to have a house of my own in Oxfordshire. I’ll invite you for a nice long visit.” Assuming, of course, that Emma could travel there herself. “You can stay with me in the country until you’ve given birth.”
“Are you certain the duke won’t object?”
“He won’t even know. It’s a marriage of convenience. All he needs is an heir. Once I’m with child, he will want nothing to do with me.” Emma smiled. “We will be a pair, the two of us. Sitting with our swollen ankles propped on the tea table, gorging ourselves on sweetmeats and knitting tiny caps.”
> “Oh, it sounds perfect. But what will happen afterward?”
“That will be your decision. But if you’re set on finding a family to take the child in, perhaps we might find one nearby. Then you could visit whenever you liked. Our children could play together.”
Davina clasped Emma’s wrist. “I can’t believe you would do this for me.”
“It’s no imposition. You can’t know how happy it makes me to help you this way.”
“Oh, but I shall need Papa’s permission first. That’s the only snag.”
“Surely he wouldn’t deny you the chance to visit a duchess.”
“Well . . .” Davina looked hesitant. “It’s merely that—”
“I’m not the usual sort of duchess,” Emma finished. And for that matter, her husband wasn’t the usual sort of duke. He hadn’t been seen publicly in years, and then he’d wed a seamstress.
“There will be a certain amount of curiosity,” Davina said.
Curiosity. What a charitable way of saying gossip.
Emma knew the unkind things ladies said about one another. In the dressmaking shop, they’d spoken in front of her as though she didn’t exist.
“But surely the duke will expose you to society,” Davina said. “He’ll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners.”
Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.
This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately—which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent—or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.
It all felt rather hopeless.
“What if your father won’t grant you permission?” she asked.
“I suppose I shall be forced to run away,” Davina said softly. “I’m the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I’m ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?”
“Yes. I can.”
Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she’d needed him most, he’d chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.
She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma’s own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman’s future.
No matter what it took, she would find a way.
And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice—or drag, if need be—her husband to her bed.
“Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?” Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma’s hair for dinner.
“No,” Emma answered. “Not particularly.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Why is it too bad?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . what if you tripped, and the duke had to catch you? That would surely encourage his affection. Or spill wine on your dress, and he would whip off his cravat to mop it up.” Before Emma could respond, Mary perked with another idea. “Ooh, you might even turn your ankle. Then he would have to carry you. That would be romantic.”
“I’m not going to turn my ankle.”
“You don’t think you could try? Even just a little stumble?”
“No.”
“Never mind it. We’ll think of something else. I was pondering, what if you went up to the attic . . . and then Mr. Khan sent the duke up to the attic . . . and then you and the duke were locked inside the attic, together. Accidentally.”
“Mary. You need to abandon these ideas. The duke is not going to fall in love with me—not even in a locked attic. In fact, he’s rather put out with me at the moment.”
Or at least he was put out with her cat.
With a sigh, Mary put the last pin in Emma’s hair. “There, now. Turn and let me have a look at you.”
After looking Emma over, Mary reached forward and grasped the sleeves of her gown, slid them off her shoulders, and tugged the bodice down so far, it barely covered her areolae. “That’s something, at least.”
When Emma arrived in the dining room, the duke wasn’t even there to angle for a glimpse of her areolae. She waited a quarter hour. Nothing.
He must truly be infuriated with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t see him later tonight, either. At this rate, they would never accomplish procreation.
She prepared to return to her rooms, planning to ring the maid for a dinner tray and sink into bed with a novel. As she passed down the corridor, however, someone called to her in a low whisper.
“In here.”
She turned, curious. The duke was in his library, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the empty, unlit fireplace.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh.” He raised an open palm in her direction. “No sudden movements.”
“All right.” She drew out the words, kicking off her slippers and making her way into the room on stocking feet, sitting next to him on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her skirts and stared into the fireplace, too. “What are we looking at?” she whispered.
“Your cat. The little beast is hiding behind the grate. We’ve been waiting one another out.”
Emma peered into the dark fireplace. Yes, she could just make out a set of green eyes gleaming back at her from the sooty recesses of the hearth.
“How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“What time is it now?”
“Half seven.”
“Four hours, then.”
“Four hours? And how long do you plan to stay like this?”
He set his jaw and glowered at the fireplace. “As long as it takes.”
She noted an open trunk sitting on the opposite side of him. Two thick leather straps with buckles lay at the ready.
She gasped. “You’re going to lock Breeches in a trunk?”
“For the night, yes. Doors don’t seem to contain the beast.”
“With no food, no water?”
“I made air holes. And believe me, he’s fortunate to get that much.”
“But . . . why?”
“Is it not obvious?” For the first time since she’d entered the library, he slid a glance toward her. “Because I intend to impregnate you tonight, or make a valiant attempt at it. And this time, there will be no interruption.”
He turned back to regarding the grate.
“Oh.” Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping from her neck to her hairline. “Were you terribly hurt last night? Are you furious with me?”
“I don’t know that I can ever forgive you,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m going to have a scar.”
She paused a moment, then laughed.
The corner of his mouth quirked with a smug little smile. He was pleased with himself for having provoked her to laughter. Emma was pleased, as well. When he wasn’t using that sharp wit to slice her to ribbons, he had a rather charming sense of humor.
“I’ll be back,” she said, drawing to her feet.
A quarter hour later, she returned with a tray of sandwiches, two glasses, and an uncorked bottle of wine.
“Here.” She offered him a roast beef sandwich. “To keep up your stamina.”
He accepted it and took a large, manly bite.
“No progress?” She bit the corner from an egg-and-cress sandwich.
He shook his head. “Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?”
“Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?”
He reached for another sandwich. “For that, you can thank my father. The summer I was nine, my mother overheard me utter some foul words I’d learned at school. My father drew me aside and told
me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an educated gentleman and he never wanted to hear me use such crude language again. He said, ‘Blaspheme as you will, but at least use words from Shakespeare.’ I’d read all the plays by the summer’s end.”
“Quite ingenious of him.”
“He was a wise man. A good man. I may not be a wise or good man, but I at least possess a sense of duty. His legacy, and everything and everyone he protected, has fallen to me. I won’t let that wither and die.”
“And you still draw your curses from Shakespeare.”
“I try, in speech at least, as a way to honor his memory. I cannot claim my thoughts are always so literary in their inspiration.”
Emma let the quiet abide for a moment. “You must miss him a great deal. And to lose him so young. How did it—” She broke off the question. Perhaps she was delving too deep.
“A fever took them both. I was away at school.”
“Oh, dear.” She inched a bit closer. “That must have been terrible.”
“I’m glad I wasn’t there to see them ill. They’ll always be strong in my memory that way. Likewise, I’m grateful they never had to see me after I was . . . you know. Like this.”
She gathered his meaning, but she didn’t believe he was sincere. Having a loving family around him would have made all the difference.
He downed a large swallow of wine, then glanced toward her. “What about your parents? You mentioned leaving home for London at a tender age. What was that about?”
She chewed a bite slowly. “The usual. Strict discipline. Youthful rebellion. Words exchanged that couldn’t be taken back.”
“That,” he said, “was not an answer.”
“Yes, it was. You asked a question. I replied. With words and everything.”
“I gave you details. Ages, events . . . feelings. I cracked open my soul.”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“All right, fine. I don’t have a soul. But the point remains. You can be more specific than that.”
“It’s a boring story, truly.” Before he could object, she withdrew a clipped bit of newsprint from her pocket. “Now this is an interesting story. ‘Cloaked Monster Menaces Mayfair.’”