by Tessa Dare
She found a pair of elbow-length gloves and added them to the growing heap on the bed. “One of us will have to give. We can’t both have our way on this.”
“Then I get my way.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a man, and your husband, and a duke.”
Emma responded to that the way he suspected she would—by skewering him with an irritated look. However, at least she stopped careening about the room like a billiard ball.
She sank onto the edge of the bed. “I have to help her, Ash. You must understand why. That could have been me.”
“Yes, but it isn’t you.” He crossed to sit beside her. “Be honest. Are you doing this for Miss Palmer, or for yourself?”
“I’m doing it for Miss Palmer. And for myself. And for all young women who find themselves punished for no greater crime than following their hearts. Davina has only a few choices left to her, but those choices belong in her hands. Not her lover’s, not her father’s. Most definitely not yours.”
“That would be all well and good, and I would not argue with it—if you weren’t planning to use my house for this deception.”
“I’m not using your house. I’m going to use my house. The one you promised me from the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a matter-of-fact look. “You told me I could go to Swanlea once I was pregnant. Well, I’m pregnant.”
Despite the early-morning darkness outside, for Ash the room was suddenly unbearably bright. Clocks ticked and the fire crackled, and the sounds were a clamor in his brain. He needed to shut them out. To shut everything out.
Oh, God.
Emma was absolutely correct. He had told her, in their first week of marriage, that she might go to Swanlea as soon as she was with child—and not before. And from that day on, she had worked quite diligently to make that pregnancy happen.
“So this isn’t a recent plan you’ve devised. You’ve been planning this from the start.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t fault me for having practical reasons for accepting your proposal, when you know very well you did, too. It was a marriage of convenience for us both, at first.” She rose from her bed and went to her dressing table.
He passed a hand over his face. “This explains everything. Why you were so keen to have Swanlea readied by Christmas. Why you peppered me with all your little endearments. You told me you were infatuated. Carnally attracted to my body, the freakish horror it is. God, how laughable. You must think me a fool.”
He was a fool. He should have known better than to believe any woman could see him that way.
Pacing the room back and forth, he made his voice light in imitation. “‘Take me to the theater. Come to Penny’s for tea. Let me dress you up in smart new attire. Oh, you’re so splendid and handsome.’”
“Ash, you are being absurd.”
“I let you call me bunnykins,” he growled. “Now that was absurd.”
“You think that was bad? Oh, I’m just getting started. You are such a wienerbrød.”
He sputtered. “That is the vilest thing I’ve ever heard. And I don’t even know what it means.”
“It’s an Austrian pastry.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s probably delicious, but if I had one right now, I would lob it at your head.”
“You are a clever one, aren’t you. All this time, you’ve been scheming. No wonder you were eager to spread your legs for me in every corner of the house. The faster you dispatched your duty to get pregnant, the sooner you’d make your escape. Isn’t that so?”
“It is not so!” Emma slammed her hairbrush onto her dressing table. “How dare you. How dare you imply that what we shared is tawdry and cheap. How could you even think that of me?” She fumed at a jumble of hairpins. “All this because I’ve asked you to take me to a ball.”
“If I wanted to attend balls, I would have married Annabelle and I’d be hosting one tonight. I married you expressly to avoid that ordeal.”
She wheeled on him with a glare that he richly deserved. “Lord, how I hate that woman. She made you feel like a monster, and ever since, you’ve devoted yourself to making it the truth. I can tell you a hundred times over how much I want you, how deeply I love you—and yet you still choose to believe her word over mine. She made you impossible to live with, and entirely too difficult to love.”
“Well,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to spare you any further difficulty.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I’m not certain I know you at all.”
Ash was well aware of the cutting edge in his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften it. He was wounded, reeling, and that familiar, detestable impulse overrode his thinking. That need to lash out at her—to render her too occupied with her own wounds to look closely at his.
It wasn’t working, though. It never had worked, not on her.
“You are afraid,” she said.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You are afraid of everything. Of being loved. Of loving. Of being a father to your own child. And you are starting a row with me because you’re terrified of attending a godforsaken ball. Thunder all you like, Ash. You’re not fooling me.”
“You’re not fooling me, either. None of this nonsense you’re planning has anything to do with Davina Palmer. It’s all about you. Don’t pretend otherwise. By telling her to run from her father, you think you can settle a score with your own.”
They stood in silence for a moment, looking everywhere in the room but at one another.
“I’m sorry this all came as a surprise,” she said. “I should have told you about Davina. Not trusting you with the secret was my mistake. But I don’t believe I’m making a mistake in helping her.”
“Fine,” Ash said wearily. “Go to this ball. Lie to everyone. Take a vulnerable girl from her family and hide her in the country if you like. I won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go along.”
“I’ll go on my own if I must, but let’s not part in anger.”
“There’s no anger. Why would I be angry? You’re absolutely right. We had an agreement. You allow me to get you with child, and I give you a house.”
“I love you. You know that.”
Did he know that?
He heard her say the words, yes. But after the past quarter hour, he wasn’t certain he believed them anymore.
No, that wasn’t fair to her.
He wasn’t certain he’d ever believed them, or that he ever could.
“It’s late.” She approached him. “Let’s go back to bed. It will all seem more clear in the morning.”
He held her off with an outstretched hand. “I think it’s all clear to me now. I’ll send an express straightaway to Swanlea, directing the staff to prepare for your arrival. You’ll have the coach, of course. You may leave with Miss Palmer as soon as you wish. I’ll have Mary follow with the rest of your things.”
Ash knew he was about to go too far. Strike too hard, cut too deeply. If he were the man she needed, he would hold back—but he wasn’t a whole, healthy man any longer. A few parts of him were missing. Many others were twisted beyond recognition, both inside and out. He was too embittered to deserve her love, too misshapen to hold it.
And he was too damned ugly to stand at her side. In a ballroom, or anywhere.
This was the reason, he reminded himself, that he’d insisted on a temporary arrangement. This situation with her friend was a timely reminder. Their marriage was never supposed to last.
“Ash, don’t do this.”
He put his hand on the doorknob and prepared to leave. “As you say, our bargain is satisfied. You needn’t come back.”
You needn’t come back.
Emma stared at the closed door. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She’d been turned away like this before, and she recognized the feeling. As if her stomach had been tossed off the cliffs of Dover. Tied to a rock. Which was tied to an anvil.
; But then, she had no one to blame but herself.
Her heart was a fool, and apparently she would never, ever learn.
Fortunately, she didn’t have time to stand about weeping. There was work to be done.
She needed a gown. Not just a gown, but the gown. Luxurious, elegant, impeccable. A gown that screamed not merely wealth, but refinement and exquisite taste. She needed to look like a duchess.
After years of using her skills to bring out the beauty in other women—and the occasional undeserving man—she must turn that eye on herself today. Take a hard look in the mirror. Stop focusing on faults that needed concealing, and look for the beauty that could be drawn out.
She had one day. And precious little to work with, save some yards of sapphire-blue velvet draperies and a few embellishments left over from making Davina’s pelisse. A handful of false pearls, a bit of ribbon. Her eye fell on the sparkling combs she’d worn to the theater. Perhaps she could pry the crystals off.
Right, then. The first thing she needed was a pattern. Easiest to cut the pieces from a garment that had previously been fitted to her measurements. She went to the closet, pulled out her one and only proper gown, and began to yank it apart at the seams.
It felt good.
Chapter Thirty
Ash needed an outlet for his emotions, and badminton was not going to do. Not tonight. He was still confused, still angry. Mostly, he was annoyed with himself.
Emma had left the house six minutes ago, and already he missed her like hell.
He’d stubbornly refused to watch her depart for the evening, much less bid her farewell. Too perilous.
However, he was suffering anyway. No matter where he went in the house, he couldn’t escape the misery. The cat followed him around, blaming him in plaintive yowls. In every room, she’d tugged the draperies down to admit the light. The symbolism of it was trite and syrupy, and it all made him want to throw rocks through the window glass and then lay prostrate on the carpet, desperate with longing.
It was definitely time for some manly sport. Cricket by candlelight? He’d done stranger things.
In the ballroom, Ash held down the narrow end of an Aubusson carpet runner borrowed from the corridor, taking practice swings with a cricket bat.
In the center of the space stood Khan, glumly enduring his role as bowler.
“Come along, then.” Ash was ready to rattle some portraits on the far wall of the ballroom.
Khan plucked a ball from the basket, wound his arm, stepped forward, and bowled. Rather forcefully, as it turned out. The ball took a sharp bounce off the carpeting. Ash swung the bat and caught only air.
He glanced behind him at the missed ball.
“Just warming up the muscles, you know.” He took a few more idle swings.
“But of course, Your Grace.”
Khan took up a second ball and bowled it with surprising speed and skill. This time, Ash grazed the thing—just barely.
“Quite an arm on you, haven’t you?”
The butler’s next effort bounced directly at Ash’s feet, shooting upward and hitting his shin with one devil of a wallop.
“Ow.” Ash rubbed his smarting leg with the flat of his hand. “Take care, will you?”
Before he could even lift his bat, Khan bowled again. This ball struck Ash directly in the thigh. There could no longer be any doubt that he’d aimed for Ash purposely.
“What was that for?”
“You’re letting her leave, you bloody fool.”
Ash threw up his hands. “It’s what she wants! She’s been planning it for months. Manipulated me into tupping her all over the house, going out in society, and—and feeling things.” He walked in a circle, shaking the stinging pain from his leg.
Ash barely managed to duck as another ball whistled by his ear. “Good Lord. What the blazes are you doing?”
“A missile knocked the sense from you once. Perhaps another can knock it back in.” He reached for another ball. “You vowed to love, comfort, honor, and keep your wife. It was in the vows. I was there.”
Ash lifted the cricket bat and pointed it at him. “Then you should recall she vowed to obey me. Look how that’s turned out.”
The butler pulled his arm back, preparing to bowl.
Ash flinched. “Wait.” He threw the bat aside and held up both hands in surrender. “Listen to me, will you? If she wants to leave for the country, that’s best.” He passed a hand over his twisted face. “She doesn’t need me.”
“Of course she doesn’t need you.” Khan’s indignant words rang through the ballroom. “Only a fool would underscore it.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
Khan gave a long-suffering sigh. “Go. To. The. Ball. Whether you agree with her or not. Whether she goes to Swanlea or not. You know how Miss Worthing will be salivating to tear her apart. If you send her to face that on her own, you’re no better than the rest of them. First that rotter Giles—”
Ash frowned. “Who’s Giles?”
“The squire’s son. In Hertfordshire. Don’t tell me she hasn’t—”
“Yes, yes. Of course she told me. I didn’t ask for the blackguard’s name.”
Khan began again. “First Giles. Then her father. Next, that villain Robert . . .”
“Wait, wait, wait. There was a Robert?”
The butler winged the last cricket ball. “Robert. The one who made a pretense at courting her, when his true goal was to learn about the ladies who came into the modiste’s shop? The one who eloped with a rubber heiress? She must have told you this.”
Not only did Ash not know about Robert—he didn’t even know there could be such a thing as a rubber heiress.
Khan stalked about the ballroom, gathering the errant cricket balls into the basket. “Every one of those men failed Emma in the same way: He chose protecting his own pride over standing by her. And now you’ve done the same. You’d rather skulk about London playing at ‘monster’ than stand at her side for one night and be the man she needs. How utterly infantile.”
Ash groaned.
“You’re going to lose her. And when you do, you are losing me. I’ve served your family for thirty years. I’m due a pension, and I’m not enabling this self-pitying codswallop any further. I wish you all happiness living alone and growing old with your twenty cats.”
“I never expected any different outcome,” Ash protested. “Emma and I had an arrangement of convenience, not a love match.”
“Your Grace, you wouldn’t know a love match if it punched you in the stomach.” The butler plunked the basket of cricket balls at Ash’s feet. “Dodge.”
“What?”
Thwack.
Khan dealt him a solid blow to the gut. Ash doubled over.
The butler tugged on his vest. “You were supposed to dodge.” He bowed deeply, then departed the room.
Ash was left dazed and hunched over, working for breath. He braced one hand on the wall. “Damn, Khan.”
He supposed he’d deserved that. And really, what was one more injury atop all the others?
He’d spent years hurting. For that matter, so had Emma. Neither of them could undo each other’s wounds. He couldn’t go back in time and tell her not to waste her love on a series of increasingly worthless men.
Ash was her worst choice of all. He was supposed to be the one and only man in her life who hadn’t let her down?
Impossible. It was already too late.
But curse it all, perhaps his butler was right. Tonight was different. The gossips of London would eat her alive, and the least he could do was throw himself out as the bloodier cut of meat. Drawing attention was one task to which he was especially well suited.
“Khan!” He stormed into the corridor. “Brush down my black tailcoat and polish my boots.”
From the opposite end, the butler gave him a bored look. “I already did, Your Grace.”
“You are so insufferably presumptuous.”
“You’re welcome.”
No time for further conversation. He needed to dress.
Upstairs, Ash hopped around the bedchamber on one foot, pulling a boot onto the other. He windmilled in a backward circle, chasing his own coat sleeve. His cravat knot resembled a boiled potato. At last, he decided he had sufficient wool and linen heaped upon his person, even if it was in complete disarray.
After a mad scramble down the stairs, he flung open the rear door to leave, and—
And the damned cat streaked between his boots, disappearing into the alley behind the mews.
The little bastard.
Ash jogged in pursuit. He couldn’t let the cursed beast get away. Someone, or something, had to be there for Emma if everything else went to hell.
“Breeches!” he called, dashing down to the corner and then hooking left. “Come, Breeches. Come.” He whistled, chirped, snapped his fingers, peered into every crack and crevice. “Breeches!”
Ash tried, very hard, not to think about how this scene must appear. A scarred madman sprinting up and down the dark lanes of Mayfair, calling the words “come” and “breeches” repeatedly while making kissing noises. Sporting wild hair and a misbuttoned waistcoat. Excellent.
When the trio of men cornered him in a blind alley, tackling him to the ground and throwing a sack over his head, he couldn’t claim to be terribly surprised. Ash was certain they meant to take him to Bedlam.
He was, unfortunately, mistaken.
Gravely so.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ash paced the jail cell, muttering to himself. All the words he’d held back for years, every curse his father had forbidden him to utter . . . he’d been saving them for this occasion. Now was the time.
“Shite. Bugger. Bloody hell. Christ.”
His drunken cellmate watched him from the corner, following him back and forth with glassy eyes. “Oi. Mind yer language, will ye?”
“Mind your own affairs.” He kicked at the wall of the cell. “Fuck.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.