The Duchess Deal

by Tessa Dare

  "I'll do better than that. I'll sew it for you myself." She held off Alexandra's objection. "I would love nothing more."

  "It's too much."

  "Not at all. Other ladies have the pianoforte or watercolors. My one accomplishment is dressmaking. Strange as it sounds, I miss the challenge. It's you who'd be doing me a favor."

  Many of the ladies who visited Madame's had been elegant and fashionable to begin with--but Emma's favorites were the ones who weren't. The quiet girls, the spinsters, the simply overlooked. Dressmaking wasn't superficial with them. A well-made, flattering gown had the ability to draw forth inner qualities: not only loveliness, but confidence.

  Alexandra Mountbatten was a beauty in hiding.

  "If you insist," she said shyly.

  "I insist. I'll only need to take your measurements, and then I'll draw up a few sketches."

  "Goodness. We had better see to the clocks before all that."

  They began a survey of the house. It became clear after just a few rooms that this was going to take a bit of time. The drawing room alone had three clocks: one standing, one ormolu, and one a sort of Viennese fancywork with a dancing couple who twirled on the hour.

  They worked their way through the morning room, the music room, and the dining room. Alex kept notes of every timepiece, room by room.

  When they came to the door of the ballroom, Emma stopped and pressed her ear to the door. Clanging and intermittent grunting could be heard from within.

  "We'll come back to that one later," she whispered, steering Alex back down the corridor to the safety of the entrance hall.

  They made their way upstairs, where Emma struggled to remember the names of all the guest bedchambers. Some were easy, like the Rose Room and the Green Suite, but they had to resort to making up names for the rest: the Unsettling Portrait Room, the Hideous Wallpaper Annex, and the Suite of Ridiculous Size.

  "What's this one?" Alex opened the next door. "Oh, it's the grandest yet."

  "These are the duke's rooms."

  Emma paused in the corridor. She hadn't been prepared for this. To be honest, she only knew these rooms to be her husband's because they were just down the corridor from hers. She'd never been inside them, and she was embarrassed to admit it. Even to Alex.

  She shouldn't be ashamed to enter, should she? She was mistress of the house, after all. It was no intrusion for her to come in and inventory the clocks. It wasn't as though she meant to rifle through his chest of drawers and sniff his laundry.

  Besides, she knew him to be downstairs--clanging and grunting with poor Khan. Lord, what suffering he inflicted on the man.

  Emma moved into the room, pretending to have the same confidence she'd shown when exploring the others.

  Alexandra scribbled in her carnet, taking note of the clock on the mantel of the antechamber before proceeding into the bedroom. There, she peered at the small timepiece at his bedside.

  "Is there a clock in the dressing room?" Alex asked.

  "I don't . . ." Emma cursed her own ignorance. Rather than admit it, she plowed forward in false surety. "I meant to say, no. There isn't."

  "Did you want me to set the pocket watch?"

  "The pocket watch?"

  Alexandra nodded toward the washstand. To the side of the basin and ewer stood a military rank of gentleman's toiletries: tooth powder, shaving soap and razor, cologne, a linen towel . . . and at the end of those, a silver tray holding a stickpin, pocket watch, and an assortment of shillings and pence.

  "I'm not certain," Emma said, unwilling to go that far. "I'll ask him about it later."

  Her gaze tracked back to that shaving soap and razor. She'd never stopped to consider it before, but it must be astoundingly difficult for him to shave around his scars. Yet he did so anyway, every day. Every evening, too, come to think of it. When he suckled her breasts or settled between her thighs--her skin heated at the memories--she never felt the scrape of whiskers against her skin.

  Did he go to all that trouble just for her?

  The thought was deeply stirring. She felt her body softening in unconnected places. The corners of her mouth. Her knees. Her heart.

  To distract herself, she wandered to a corner of the antechamber, where a Holland cloth had been draped over some tall, narrow furnishing. Could it be another clock, out of use? If so, Emma hoped it needed repair. She could pay Alex a frightful sum for mending it.

  However, when she pulled the cloth aside, she did not discover a clock behind it.

  She found a mirror.

  A full-length looking glass in a gilt oval frame, cracked to pieces. A spiderweb of splinters radiated from the center. Each shard reflected at a different angle, piecing her image into a patchwork Emma.

  She touched her fingertips to the center of the shattered web. It looked as if someone--a strong, tall someone--had driven his fist into the glass.

  A lump rose in her throat.

  Alexandra tugged at her elbow. "Emma, someone's coming."

  Oh, no.

  Someone was coming. Worse by far, she knew who it must be. Steps that heavy could only belong to one person in this house.

  The duke.

  "We should move on anyhow," Alexandra said.

  Emma whirled in place, desperate. If they left the suite now, they would confront him in the corridor--and he would be suspicious of her intent. Displeased, or even furious.

  A door creaked. He'd entered through the antechamber.

  Emma grabbed Alexandra by the wrist and tugged her to the other side of the room. Together, they dove behind a settee.

  "Why are we hiding?" Alexandra whispered. "It's your house. Your husband."

  "I know." Emma fluttered her hands. "But I panicked."

  "I suppose we're stuck now. Let's hope he doesn't mean to stay."

  Emma put a finger to her lips for silence as the duke's footsteps moved into the bedchamber. The room fell almost silent. When she couldn't bear it anymore, she peeked around the corner of the settee. His back was to her, and he--

  God have mercy. He was disrobing.

  She slunk back to the other side of the settee and quietly thunked her head against the upholstery.

  Why, why, why? Why now, why here?

  Well, she supposed "here" was the logical place to disrobe, it being his bedchamber. But that answer did nothing to assuage her rueful, silent bemoaning of the entire situation. She had never felt so stupid.

  "What is it?" Alexandra whispered.

  Frantic, Emma made every hand signal she knew to indicate the need for absolute silence. She probably invented a few new ones, as well.

  Remain calm, she told herself. Most likely he'd only come up to exchange his coat, or retrieve his watch or some other small item. Otherwise, wouldn't he ring for his valet?

  After waiting through twenty heartbeats--which likely added up to four seconds on Alexandra's chronometer--she peeked again.

  Oh, Lord. He'd tossed aside the coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and--as she watched--tugged his shirt free of his breeches and pulled it over his head.

  Her pulse stopped--and then began again as a low, painful throb.

  Dear heavens.

  The left side of him was muscled and sculpted and Roman-godlike and all the other descriptors a woman could muster to signal attractiveness and sheer, raw lust. That ridge between his flank and his hip alone . . . the way his trousers rode it, dipping to reveal an enticing glimpse of taut, firm backside.

  Emma wished she could claim she was riveted to that sight. All the places where he was strong and perfect. She wished her gaze had never wandered to the wounded side of him and stubbornly stuck there.

  But it had.

  And now she couldn't look away.

  The injuries he wore on his face were only the beginning. His torso bore a long, angry swath of scars that snaked from his neck, down the right side of his shoulder and chest, and then blazed around his ribs to end at the small of his back.

  As he splashed water over his fac
e and neck, the rivulets followed a tortuous path downward. His flesh was raised and twisting, as gnarled as the bark of ancient tree. Warring scars tugged at each other with aggressive fingers. And then there were a few bits of him that were simply . . . missing. Depressions that deepened into hollows, where fire had carved him away to sinew and bone.

  What a miracle that he'd survived at all. Then again, he was excessively ill-tempered and intractable. No doubt he'd simply refused to follow when death beckoned. That would be so like him.

  Oh, you stubborn, brave, impossible man. Curse you for being more attractive than ever.

  Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her. She was seized by the urge to run to him, but she didn't know what she'd do when got there. Kiss him, hold him, grope him, weep over him . . . ? She'd probably make a fool of herself doing all four at once. It was for the best, she supposed, that she was forced to remain behind this settee until he left the room.

  A clattering noise startled her out of her skin.

  Alexandra's carnet--and its metal case--had tumbled to the floor. Sorry, she mouthed.

  "Who's there?" The duke grabbed his razor from the washstand and whirled around.

  Emma cringed. There was nothing else to be done.

  "It's me." She popped up from behind the settee, giving him a smile and a jolly wave. "Just me. Only me. Definitely no one else."

  He stared at her with an expression that blended anger and disbelief. "Emma?"

  She gave Alexandra a soft kick before coming out from behind the settee and approaching her husband. "I . . . I thought you were downstairs. In the ballroom."

  "I was downstairs. Then I came upstairs."

  "Yes, of course."

  Behind him, Alexandra crawled out from behind the settee and began to scurry across the bedchamber carpet on all fours.

  If Emma didn't keep his attention focused on her, he would see Alexandra, and this already uncomfortable scene would enter . . . well, not quite the ninth circle of Hell, but Dante's lesser known invention: the sixth octagon of awkward.

  She asked breezily, "More badminton this afternoon?"

  "Fencing."

  "Oh, yes. Fencing." She touched her ear. That would explain the clanging, wouldn't it.

  In her peripheral vision, she saw Alexandra's farewell salute from the other side of the door. She exhaled with relief.

  "My turn to ask the questions," he said. "What the devil do you mean, coming in here to spy on me?"

  "Before I continue, could you . . . put aside the blade?"

  He looked surprised that he was still holding the thing. He folded the razor closed and tossed it on the washstand, where it landed with a bang. "Now explain what you were doing crouched behind my settee."

  She set her chin with confidence, having thought of the perfect excuse. "I was looking for the cat."

  "The cat."

  "Yes. The cat."

  "You mean that cat?" He nodded at the settee she'd been hiding behind.

  She turned. Breeches was curled up on the cushioned seat, asleep.

  When had that happened?

  As if he knew himself to be the subject of conversation, the cat lifted his head, stretched his long legs, and gave her an inquisitive, innocent look.

  Not since she'd been sixteen years old had Emma felt so thoroughly betrayed.

  You furry little beast. I found you starving in the streets, took you in from the cold, and this is how you repay me?

  "Enough," her husband said. "Just admit that you came to gawk at me. To invade my privacy against my wishes and satisfy your curiosity."

  "No." She shook her head in vehement denial. "No, I would never."

  "Don't lie to me," he thundered.

  She swallowed hard.

  He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. "Well, take what you wanted. Have a good, long look. And then get out."

  Once he'd finished his display, Emma locked her gaze on his, careful not to let it stray. "I didn't come here to spy on you. I swear it. Though I won't deny that once I was here, I couldn't help but stare."

  "Of course you stared. Who wouldn't? There are freak shows in the Tower of London that you'd have to pay a sixpence to see, and they aren't nearly this grotesque."

  "Don't say that," she pleaded. "Do you really have such a low opinion of me?"

  "I have an understanding of human nature." He thumped a fist to his chest. "I want you to own the truth. This is hardly the first time I've caught you staring, even if it is the most intimate intrusion yet. Do you dare deny it?"

  "No. I can't."

  He advanced on her. "You came here--hid behind my settee--to indulge your morbid fascination."

  She shook her head.

  "Admit it."

  "I can't admit it! It isn't true. I . . ." Her voice wavered. "I do stare at you, yes. But it's not because I find you grotesque. It certainly isn't morbid fascination."

  "Then what, pray tell, could it be?"

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Did she dare admit the truth? "Infatuation."

  "Infatu--" He retreated a pace and stared at her. As if she'd sprouted horns. And then sprouted pansies and teacakes from the horns.

  Emma didn't know what to do or say. She'd already done and said too much.

  Without another word, she ran from the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That evening's dinner was uncharacteristically free of Emma's usual teasing and relentless chatter. Ash could only suppose his wife was ashamed of herself, and well she should be. He wished he could stop caring--about her intrusion, about her lies.

  And about the way she wasn't taking any food or wine whatsoever.

  "You're not eating your soup," he finally said. "It's putting me off mine."

  "I . . . Never mind." With a dutiful grimness, she took a tiny spoonful of soup.

  He rolled his eyes. "Spit it out then."

  She froze, spoon poised in midair.

  "Not the soup. Whatever it is you mean to say."

  She put down her spoon. "We need to talk about this afternoon. About the fact that I'm infatuated with you."

  Ash shot a glance at the footmen. Go. Away.

  They went.

  He returned his attention to his addlebrained wife. "Why do you keep saying that?"

  "Because you keep asking! Because I must tell someone, and I don't know how to tell anyone else." She studied her soup. "I'm infatuated with you, however unwillingly. It's a problem."

  "It would be a problem," he said, "if it weren't a product of your imagination."

  "I'm not imagining things."

  He shrugged. "Maybe you're nearing your monthly courses. I hear women become seething maelstroms of irrational emotion at that time."

  "Well, now I'm seething." She gave him an irritated look. "You are such a man. And I'm stupidly attracted to you despite it. Perhaps even for it. Yes, I am certain it's infatuation. I've felt it before."

  Now Ash was the one who became a maelstrom of irrational emotion. That emotion being jealous anger. "Toward whom?"

  "Why should it matter?"

  "Because," he said, "I like to know the names of the people I despise. I keep them in a little book and pore over it from time to time, whilst sipping brandy and indulging in throaty, ominous laughter."

  "It was a young man back home, ages ago. Surely you know the feeling of infatuation. Everyone does. It's not merely physical admiration. Your mind fixes on a person, and it's as though you float through the days, singing a song that only has one word, thinking of nothing but the next time you'll see them again."

  "And you claim to be feeling this way. Float-ish. Singsong-ish. About me."

  She sighed. "Yes."

  "That's absurd."

  "I know, but I can't seem to stop it. I have an unfortunate habit of looking for the best in people, and it makes me blind to their flaws."

  "I'm entirely composed of flaws. I can't imagine what more evidence you'd need."

  "Neither do I. That's what worries me." She
fidgeted with her linen napkin. "I mean, it will end. These things always do. Either you wake from the spell, or you fall properly in love."

  "Which was it with this boy back home?"

  "I thought it was the second, but then he made it clear he didn't feel the same. The illusion snapped, and I saw him for who he truly was."

  He sat back in his chair. "There's your answer, then. We can settle this right here and now. I'll tell you I don't feel the same. Because I don't."

  "I wouldn't believe you." She paused. "I think you're infatuated with me, too."

  Ash carved the roasted pheasant, sawing away at the blameless bird with displeasure. He slung a portion onto her plate. "I can't imagine what would make you believe that."

  "You come to my room a bit earlier each night."

  "Perhaps I'm eager to have it out of the way."

  "It's not only that your visits are earlier. They grow longer, too."

  He stabbed a fork into the pheasant's breast. "What is this? Are you keeping a little ledger of my virility in your nightstand? Charting my stamina? Making graphs?"

  She cast a little smile into her wineglass. "Don't pretend you wouldn't be flattered if I did."

  "Stop smiling. There's only one reason I come to visit your room at any hour. You're supposed to be conceiving my heir. To that end, I insist on your proper nourishment and good health. Eat your dinner."

  She picked up her fork. "If you say so, my treasure."

  "I daresay I do, you little baggage."

  Ash glowered at the silver candlesticks. This was a problem, indeed. It was all well and good--expedient, truly--if they pleased one another in bed. Outside the bedchamber, however, maintaining distance was essential. He must not encourage any foolish sentiment on her part, even if her admiration of him could be credited--and it couldn't.

  The truth was plain, he reminded himself. She was making excuses for having been caught in his bedchamber and then having fled as though the Devil licked at her heels. She hoped to forestall his anger by puffing up his pride.

  Infatuated, she'd said. Unthinkable.

  And if she believed him to be taken with her, she left him no choice but to prove her wrong.

  Tonight, Ash resolved, he wouldn't go to her bed at all.

  Keeping his resolution proved more difficult than Ash could have guessed.

  He didn't know what to do with himself. It was too early to go out walking--the streets would be thick with people at this hour. To pass the time, he poured himself a brandy and decided to look over the land agent's report from Essex.