by Tessa Dare
"I can contribute a few astronomical ones, I suppose," Alexandra said. "Bright star, twinkles, moonbeam, sunshine . . ."
"Oh, Lord." Emma could just imagine the duke's reaction to "Twinkles." "Those are perfection. What do you think, Nicola?"
"I don't know. I'm surrounded by gears and levers, for the most part. Pet names aren't my forte." Her eye fell on the biscuits. "I suppose there are the sweet things. Sugar, honeycomb, tartlet."
"I'm afraid I've tried most of those already."
"Sweetmeat?" she suggested in perfect innocence.
After a moment's pause, the rest of them dissolved into laughter.
"Oh, dear heavens." Alexandra dashed a tear from her eye.
Nicola looked at the three of them. "What?"
"Nothing," Emma said. "You truly do have a brilliant mind." She nodded at the notebook. "You must most definitely add sweetmeat to the list."
A half hour later, she left Lady Penelope Campion's house with a packet of leftover biscuits and a quiver full of verbal arrows. Hopefully one or two of them would pierce the reserve of laughter in his chest. She knew better than to aim for his heart.
Penny embraced her in farewell. "Do keep trying with your cat. The creatures most difficult to reach make the most loving companions in the end."
Emma felt a sharp twinge of irony. She had no doubt in Penny's ability to tame not only cats, but pups and goats and Highland calves and even traumatized hedgehogs.
But the duke she'd married was a different sort of beast.
Chapter Thirteen
Bang.
Ash lifted his head from the accounts ledger.
Don't mind it, he told himself. Mrs. Norton will see to whatever it is. It's not your concern.
But when he lowered his head, he found himself unable to focus on the work at hand. He pushed back from the desk and stood, leaving the room in brisk paces.
If he'd ever possessed the ability to ignore explosive noises, he'd left that talent behind at Waterloo.
After tense moments of searching, he discovered the source of the clamor. A brass embellishment had crashed to the morning room floor. That sight, in itself, was nothing particularly remarkable. What took him aback was the other half of the scene: His wife standing on a ladder and clinging to the curtain rod, a good twelve feet above the floor.
She craned her neck to look at him. "Oh, hullo."
"What is this?"
"I'm taking down these draperies."
"Alone?" He crossed the room and put his hands on the ladder. Someone had to be near her in case she tumbled and fell.
"Sorry if I alarmed you with all that noise. I lost my grip on the finial."
She'd lost her grip on the finial. Bully for her. Ash was losing his grip on his sanity.
"Since you seem to need reminding, you are a duchess. Not a circus performer or a squirrel."
She made a dismissive noise. "It's a ladder, not a trapeze. And I engaged the wheel lock. I promise, I do know how these things work."
"Yes, but apparently you don't know how servants work." He braced the ladder under her feet, wheel lock or no. If she insisted on risking her neck, he felt entitled to bark at her. "Come down from there, then."
"I may as well finish what I came up here for. Or else all of this effort will have been for nothing."
"Oh, do go ahead," he said in a bored tone. "It's not as though I have anything else to do. I'm only amusing myself overseeing estates all over the country. Making improvements to the land. Looking out for the welfare of thousands of tenants."
"I won't be but a minute."
"Fine." He tilted his head. "But as a penalty, know that I'll be looking up your skirts the entire time."
He couldn't see all that much, unfortunately--just a pair of slim legs disappearing into a cloud of petticoats--but the sight stirred him all the same. Her stockings were knitted of plain, pale wool. Demure, innocent. Unspeakably arousing.
"There," she declared.
A waterfall of blue velvet rushed to the floor. The room flooded with sunlight.
Ash caught the ghost of his reflection in the windowpane. What a picture. Emma, descending from the heavens above him on a cloud of muslin, and him, the monster lurking beneath.
When she neared the last rung, he placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her. He extended his fingers as far as they would stretch, claiming as much of her as he could.
All too soon, her slippers met the floor.
He took a few steps in retreat before she turned around. There was too much light, and she was too close. He didn't wish to startle her.
She brushed the dust from her hands. "Oh, that's so much better."
"No, it's not. I can't imagine what you have against draperies."
"To begin, this house is a cave. We can't live in the dark."
"I like the dark."
"It's not good to work and read in dim lighting. You'll go blind."
"Hah. If frigging myself raw in adolescence and having a rocket explode in my face haven't accomplished that . . . Doubtful."
"Well, I'm not doubtful. I've seen it. It's what happens to seamstresses after too many years of fine stitching by weak light. Even I can't read for more than an hour at a time, and it's only been six years."
What an inconveniently affecting statement. It made him want to roll her into a ball and hold her in both hands forever, so that nothing could wound or frighten her ever again.
"Anyhow, these are lovely fabric." She reached for the edge of the fallen drape. "This velvet could be put to better use."
"No." He put his foot down, literally. With his boot, he pinned the river of blue velvet to the floor. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."
"Forbid what? You can't even know what I have in mind."
"Yes. I do. You have the ridiculous idea that you'll make a gown out of draperies. And I forbid it."
She stammered and flushed. "I . . ."
"You," he interjected, "are a duchess. You shop for your gowns. You ask servants to climb ladders. And that is the end of any argument."
This wife he'd acquired was far too enamored of economy. She'd come by the habit out of necessity, he supposed. Ash could understand that--even admire it, to a degree. He didn't like waste, either. However, she was under his care now. There would be no "making do" or scrimping for the mother of his heir.
She certainly wouldn't be caught wearing draperies.
"Tomorrow, you'll order a full wardrobe. I'll see that you have lines of credit at all the best shops in Bond Street."
"Madame Bissette's is the best dressmaking shop in Town, and the only one I could fathom entering without crumpling into a ball of fraudulence. But how could I return to the shop as a customer, mere weeks after leaving her employ?"
"That would be the best part. Think of the envy you'll inspire. The vindication after being undervalued."
"No doubt other women might enjoy gloating. But I wouldn't. Madame gave me a post, and she taught me a great deal. And the other girls in the shop were my friends. I don't want to embarrass them. Besides, paying a modiste to make me a wardrobe would be a waste. I have nothing if not time. I know the latest fashions. I've made gowns for many a fine lady."
"Yes," he said tightly. "I'm well aware of that."
She cringed. "Of course you're aware of it. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up Miss Worthing. I know how it must pain you to--"
"What pains me is the thought of my wife going about clad in draperies. You will not sew your own wardrobe." He tugged on his end of the velvet.
She tugged back. "Aren't ladies encouraged to do needlework?"
"That's different." He yanked with both hands, pulling her off balance. She stumbled toward him a step. "Fine ladies make useless things, like wretched pillows, and samplers no one wants, and disturbing seat covers for the commode. They don't use their skills to perform common labor."
"This isn't common labor. I enjoy it, when it isn't a twenty-hour-a-day task. There's a creativity
to it. I never had any talent for music or painting, but"--she clutched her end of the velvet and leaned back, putting her full weight into resisting him--"I'm good at this."
With a flick of his wrist, he wrapped the fabric around his left forearm, just as he'd do with the reins when driving a team. And then he braced his legs, flexed his arm, and gave a full-strength pull.
She came reeling toward him. He caught her in his arms.
His brain promptly went to porridge. Their little tug-o'-wills suited her. The exertion made her cheeks pink, and her labored breathing did delicious things for her breasts. Ash had to admit, she would look lovely in a dress of that sapphire velvet.
Nevertheless, it was out of the question. Emma would not sacrifice the pleasure of reading in favor of sewing her own gowns. He'd allow her to go about naked before he consented to such a thing.
Damn. Now he was picturing her naked.
"Listen to me. I know very well you can stitch a gown. You could be the best dressmaker in England, and I still wouldn't permit this." He reached for her hand and turned it palm side up, like a fortune-teller. With meaningful intent, he brushed his thumb over the calluses on her fingertips, lingering over each proof of her labor. "There'll be no more of these now."
She was quiet for a moment. "That's shockingly caring of you."
"It's not caring."
"Then how would you describe it?"
"As . . . something else." Anything else. Imagining her naked was only natural. Protecting her was his duty. Caring was much too dangerous. "I don't know. I'm not a dictionary."
She gave him a chastening yet affectionate look. A wifely look. "No, you aren't. You are very much a man."
His heart kicked and thrashed like an unbroken colt in a stable.
A man, she said. Not a title. Not a fortune. Not a twisted monster formed of scars. She couldn't know how those two simple words affected him.
She looked down at her hand, cradled in his. Then she turned it over, so that their palms pressed together and their fingers interlaced in a tight clasp.
Sunlight gilded the wisps of hair framing her face. Her dark eyes were wide, sincere. Unafraid. So lovely. Her gaze met his and held it, never straying to his patchy hair or his twisted cheek.
The moment was glorious.
And wonderful.
And accompanied by soaring orchestral music.
And exceedingly, unforgivably imbecilic of him to allow. This sort of thing could not happen. This kind of closeness was too great of a risk.
Ash cleared his throat. "This, uh . . . This thing we're doing is probably a bad idea."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Precautions." Her hand slipped from his. "I'll order a wardrobe tomorrow."
He stepped away. "You'll order a wardrobe later in the week. Tomorrow we're taking an outing."
"An outing? To where?"
"Swanlea. Your future house." Before she could grow too excited, he held up a hand. "Not to stay. Just for the afternoon, so you can make a list of what needs to be done."
They had an agreement, and for the good of them both, he needed to remember and adhere to it.
"Be ready tomorrow. We'll leave at dawn."
Chapter Fourteen
"Oh."
As she alighted from the carriage, Emma's lungs relaxed with the most silly, sentimental sigh. She even pressed both hands to her chest. "Oh, it's lovely."
Before her stood a perfect dream of a house. It featured a facade of solid brick, studded with enough windows to give the appearance of an open, friendly abode. A shallow pool in front of the house reflected the rows of gracious elms on either side. Unlike Ashbury House--designed to impress at best, and at worst, intimidate--Swanlea was not too grand, not too humble. It looked like a home.
"It's on the small side," the duke said. "Only twelve rooms."
She slid a look at him. Only?
The coachman, Jonas, flicked the reins. The team pulled the carriage away.
"Where is he going?" she asked.
"To the market town to change horses. If we're going to make the journey back this evening, we need a fresh team." He opened the door with the key and waved her over the threshold. "The house has been closed for some time. Twenty years."
"So I see."
In fact, the place was nearly empty. Only a few furnishings remained--scattered chairs here and there, a few chests and cupboards. The wall coverings were peeled in places, and the plaster ceilings were cracked. It charmed her, all the same. Weathered floorboards creaked beneath her feet, telling stories of children chasing one another up and down the stairs, and exuberant hunting dogs jumping to greet their beloved masters. The kitchen worktable had been scored by generations upon generations of knives--some cleaving game birds, others trimming pastry. Sunlight streamed through the uncovered windows.
Emma had the notion that the house was happy to see her.
Delighted to make your acquaintance, too.
"Have a look around," he said. "Make a list of the furnishings you'll need purchased, colors for the decor, any changes or modernizations you'd want. There are a great many repairs to be undertaken. The gardens no doubt need attention. There's an older couple who live on the property as groundskeepers. I'll have them hire maids and laborers to begin the work."
"Surely that's not necessary. I adore the house as it is, and at most it would need a staff of two or three. Putting you to that needless expense would seem wasteful."
"Think like a duchess, Emma. Cleaning, furnishing, and repairing the home will give employment to dozens of people, many of them in dire need. It's not wasteful. It's patronage."
"Yes, of course." She bit her lip. "I hadn't seen it that way."
Here was the man's single indisputable virtue. He was always thinking of the people who depended on him. He would not have married Emma otherwise. It was for their good that he wanted to quickly produce an heir.
I warned you, she wanted to say. I warned you I wouldn't make a proper duchess. You should have married a lady, not a seamstress with the thinnest claim to gentility.
But she was the duchess now. She'd undertaken the role, and she must do her best to fulfill it.
"Very well," she said. "If it's work they need, it's work we shall give them." She took out a notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. "I'll start a list."
The next few hours flew by as Emma traveled from room to room. She gave each chamber a purpose. Bedchamber, maid's chamber, morning room. Nursery. She scribbled lists of furnishings, requests for new paint and wall coverings, all the while noting any crack or dent needing repair. Modernizing the baths and kitchen--that would keep more than a few men employed. She walked the grounds next, listing trees in want of pruning and noting patches of brush by the stream that were overgrown. The pond likely required stocking. The kitchen garden was in need of a complete replanting. And while she was dreaming up work . . . why not put in an orchard?
When she was finished, she looked about for her husband. He wasn't in the house. Eventually she found him at the edge of the stream that ran through the property. He'd removed his topcoat and held it by two fingers, slung casually over his shoulder.
"There you are, bunnykins. I've been searching everywhere." She slapped the notebook into his hand. "Enough to employ half of Oxfordshire, I think."
He tucked the notebook into his waistcoat pocket without comment.
She turned her gaze to the arching branches above them. The stream spilled over a rocky patch, chattering and burbling in conversation with the birds. "This is an enchanting little spot, isn't it?"
"Best fishing on any of the ducal properties. Across the way, there's an excellent chestnut tree for climbing. It's a good place to raise a boy."
He clearly spoke from experience. The house had been closed twenty years, had he said? That made sense. It would have been shut up after his parents died. It was difficult to imagine him ever climbing chestnut trees and splashing about in a stream. But even the most imposing of men had once been a boy.
With him divested of his coat, clad in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, she could almost see it.
They walked the short distance back to the house.
Emma didn't see the carriage. "Evening's coming on. Shouldn't we be starting home?"
"Yes, we should be. Jonas still hasn't returned."
She tucked her skirts under her thighs and had a seat on the front step. "I suppose we'll wait and enjoy the sunset."
They waited. And waited.
The sun set.
Still no Jonas. Still no carriage.
It was full evening now, and fast fading to night.
"Where the devil is he? He could have broken a team of wild horses by now."
A knot of suspicion formed in Emma's stomach. "Oh, dear. I have a bad feeling about this."
"Don't fret. He's an experienced coachman. He won't have encountered any serious difficulty."
"That's not what I mean. I have a bad feeling that Jonas won't return tonight at all. Not because of an accident, but on purpose."
"What possible purpose could that be?"
Emma propped one elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. "It's the servants. All of them. They have formed this silly notion that if they force us together, we'll . . ."
"We'll what?"
"Fall in love."
"Fall in love?" Ash couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That's--"
"Absurd," she finished. "Of course it is. I tried to tell them as much. It's not going to happen, I said."
"The very idea is--"
"Ridiculous. I know. But they seem determined to force the matter, one way or another. They've been concocting all manner of schemes. Telling me to trip and turn my ankle. Spill wine on my gown. They even contemplated locking us in the attic of Ashbury House. It seems they've settled on abandoning us here for the night."
How dare they. Ash didn't care about his own comfort, but to leave Emma in an empty house overnight? Insupportable. If not criminal. After a moment of grim silence, he rose to his feet.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I am going to walk into the village and find that perfidious runagate."
She leapt to her feet. "Oh, no, you won't. You're not leaving me here. It will be full nighttime before half an hour is out. I'm not staying here alone."
He could hear the quaver of fear in her voice. She was right. It was too late to leave her here by herself.