The Duchess Deal

“Separate ways?”

“You’d have your own house in the country. I’ll have no further need of you then.”

When they turned onto a busier lane, he tugged down the brim of his hat and turned up the collar of his coat. Night was falling, but the moon was bright. He obviously didn’t want to draw attention. Sympathy breezed into Emma’s heart like an unwelcome visitor.

“You’re assuming,” she continued, “that your theoretical child would be male. What if you fathered a girl? Or five of them?”

He shrugged. “You’re the vicar’s daughter. Pray for a boy.”

“You are terrible.”

“Since we are on the subject of personal failings, you are irrational. You’re allowing pride to cloud your common sense. Spare yourself the effort of argument and skip to the inevitable conclusion.”

“I conclude that this conversation is madness. I don’t understand why you keep speaking as though you’d marry me.”

“I don’t understand why you keep speaking as though I won’t.”

“You are a duke. I am a seamstress. What else is there to be said?”

He held up one hand and counted off on his fingers. “You are a healthy woman of childbearing age. You are a gentleman’s daughter. You are educated. You’re passably pretty—not that it’s a concern for me, but a child should have at least one nonhideous parent.” He was down to his last finger. “And you’re here. All my requirements are met. You’ll do.”

Emma stared at him in disbelief. That was, perhaps, the most unfeeling proposal she could imagine. The man was cynical, insensitive, condescending, rude.

And she was definitely going to marry him.

Against all logic, and contrary to everything she knew of society, he appeared to be making her an earnest proposal of marriage. She would be the greatest ninny in England to refuse.

Seamstresses didn’t have many long-term prospects. The years of detailed needlework caused their eyes to fail and fingers to stiffen. Emma knew that her best chance—perhaps her only chance—at security was to marry. She would be a fool to refuse any duke, even if he were a bedridden septuagenarian with poor hygiene.

This particular duke was none of those things. Despite his many, many faults, Ashbury was strong, in the prime of life, and he smelled divine. He offered her security, at least one child to dote upon . . .

And a house.

A quiet house of her own in the country. Precisely the thing that would allow her to help Miss Palmer, at a time when the poor girl had no one else.

The duke slowed to a halt. “By the Holy Rood. This isn’t right.”

Drat. That would teach her to dream, even for a second. He’d come to his senses after all. This was the moment where he sent her away, and she ended an old woman on the docks, darning sailors’ shirts for ha’pennies and muttering about how she might have been a duchess.

“We’re in the middle of St. James Park,” he said.

“Are we?” She took in their surroundings. Autumn-browned grass. The half-bare branches of trees. “I suppose we are. What’s a Holy Rood?”

“The cross of Christ. And you call yourself a vicar’s daughter? You father would be appalled.”

“Believe me, that wouldn’t be a new development.”

“Just where is it you live, anyway?”

“In an attic garret, two doors down from the shop.”

“So we’re here because . . .”

She bit her lip. “I was hoping to lose you. But I’ve since changed my mind.”

“Damned right you have.” With gruff impatience, he drew her to his side, steering her with a hand to the small of her back. “Do you know what kind of scum lurks in St. James Park by night?”

“Not really.”

“Pray you do not have occasion find out.”

“It’s barely nightfall yet. I’m certain we’ll be—”

She didn’t have a chance to complete the thought. A pair of men emerged from the shadows, almost as though the duke had hired them precisely to prove his point.

And from the looks on their faces, the men were expecting to be paid.

Chapter Four

Ash hated always being right.

He positioned himself between the men and Emma, keeping one hand on her back and clutching his walking stick with the other. “Well?” he goaded. “Get to it, already. Tell me what it is you want, so that I can tell you to get stuffed, and we can all carry on with our lives. I’ve a full schedule this evening.”

“Toss over the purse, guv. Watches and rings, too.”

“Get stuffed. There, now. See how easy that was?” He slid his arm around Emma’s shoulders. “We’ll be going.”

The second man held up a knife. “Hold there. I wouldn’t try anything clever.”

“I should hope you wouldn’t,” Ash replied dryly. “You’d no doubt injure yourself in the attempt.”

The man with the knife feinted, jabbing it in the direction of Ash’s ribs. “Shut it. And give up your coins and baubles, unless you fancy bleedin’ to death in front o’ your bit of skirt.”

His bit of skirt?

“Not to worry, miss.” The first man chuckled, winding a length of rope around one of his hands and pulling it tight with the other. “We’ll be glad to take you off the gentleman’s ’ands.”

A savage growl rose in Ash’s throat. “Like the devil you will.” Brandishing his walking stick like a sword, he sliced the air in a wide arc, forcing the footpads back. “Touch her and you will pay with your lives, you diseased, maggoty curs.”

He’d gone beyond anger, sailed straight past rage, and crashed into a place of primal fury, where blood ran in colors he hadn’t known to exist.

The blade glinted in the gathering dark. Its owner lunged, but Ash stepped to the side, pushing Emma back with his free arm. With a vicious strike, he sent the blackguard to his knees. The knife tumbled into the grass.

Whirling around, he raised his walking stick again, preparing to deal the other cutpurse a backhand blow, hard enough to crush bone.

Before he could swing, a gust of wind dislodged his hat.

In unison, the thieves recoiled.

“Sweet Jesus,” one of them whispered.

“Christ ’ave mercy,” the other said, scrambling backward on his hands and feet. “’Tis the Devil, to be sure.”

Ash stilled, fuming with a wrath that burned his lungs and holding his stick poised for violence. However, violence no longer appeared necessary. After a tense silence, he lowered the stick. “Begone.”

Neither of them dared to move.

“Begone!” he roared. “Slink home like the craven whoresons you are, or I swear to you, you will beg for the Devil to take your souls.”

They scrambled and fled. No victory had ever been so hollow.

On returning to London, Ash had harbored a small hope that he might not look quite so monstrous as his few interactions had led him to believe. Maybe Annabelle was just Annabelle—shallow and prizing appearances above all else. Perhaps his former friends truly had been too busy to visit more than once, and the majority of his servants really had needed to visit far-flung relations who’d suddenly taken ill.

Maybe—just maybe—the scars weren’t that bad.

He’d been deluding himself. That much was now clear. His appearance was every bit as repulsive as he’d feared, if not worse. Those were hardened criminals he’d sent scurrying like rats into the gutter. And he expected a quick-witted, lovely young woman to rejoice at his offer of marriage?

Everyone would revile him. No woman with any sense would have him. When he turned, Emma would be gone. He was certain of it.

He knew nothing.

She was still there, wielding a tree branch in both hands as she stared after the retreating brigands. His cloak had slipped from her shoulders. Her breaths made angry clouds of vapor in the cold air.

At length, she dropped the branch, then moved to retrieve his hat from where it had landed a few feet distant. “Are you unharmed?”

Ash stared at her in bewilderment. Her question didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.

She’d not only not run, she’d prepared to defend him—absurd as that was. He didn’t know what to do with her, and he didn’t have the faintest notion what to do with himself. He couldn’t help but feel . . .

He couldn’t help but feel. All manner of emotions, and all of them at once.

To begin, he was vaguely insulted by the suggestion that he might need help from a wisp of a girl. That led to a growing desire to possess her, to show her just who protected whom in this exchange. And then, beneath everything, there was some quiet, unnameable emotion that made him want to lay down his pride, rest his head in her lap, and weep.

That third was, of course, unthinkable. Never going to happen. Nevertheless, the decision was made. She’d sealed her own fate.

If she meant to escape him, she’d missed her chance.

He’d be damned if he’d let her get away now.

Emma sensed the change in him. The stony set of his jaw. The furious rise and fall of his breath. No blue remained in his eyes—only a cold, glittering black.

He’d been intense from the first, but now he was . . . so intensely intense, she couldn’t find a word to properly describe it. But she felt it. Oh, she felt it to her toes. Each hair on her body lifted at the root; her every nerve jumped to attention.

Her body knew something would happen.

Her mind had no idea what it would be—except that it would involve the unleashing of formidable power.

“Your hat,” she said. As if it might need explaining that the hat-shaped object in her hand was indeed a hat and not, say, a joint of mutton.

He took the hat.

He took his cloak from where it had fallen to the spongy turf.

And then he took her.

He didn’t offer his arm, as gentlemanly custom would dictate. He gripped her by the elbow instead, herding her toward the street. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m not,” she muttered.

Not that Emma was happy they’d been set upon by thieves. That had been terrifying, and she had no desire to ever experience it again. However, now, with the benefit of knowing they’d escaped unscathed, she could revisit the memory and feel a thrill at his instinctive move to guard her and the outraged precision with which he’d dispatched the two men.

No one had ever protected her that way.

Whatever attraction she’d felt toward him beforehand—and she had felt an attraction, no matter how unwillingly—was increased a hundredfold.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” she said. “It was all my fault. We would not have ended here in the park if—”

“If I’d paid the slightest attention. The fault was mine.” He led her out of the park without further conversation. At the nearest crossing, he hailed a hackney cab. “You’re going home. My carriage will come for you tomorrow. Have your things ready.”

The air vacated her lungs. “Wait. What are you saying?”

“From there, you’ll go to a hotel. Mivart’s, I think.”

Mivart’s. The finest, most luxurious hotel in Mayfair. Emma had visited it once, to hem a gown for a visiting Austrian baroness. She had never imagined she would stay in such a place.

“I’ll send for you once the solicitors have finished the contracts.” The duke opened the hackney’s door and stuffed Emma into it. “We’ll be married at Ashbury House.”

“But . . . but . . .”

He gave directions to the hackney driver, then moved to close the door and shut her inside. “On second thought, don’t pack your belongings. I’ll buy you new. I’ve no use for moldy potatoes.”

She thrust her boot into the door opening before he could close it. “Wait.”

He stared at her. “What?”

Excellent question. Emma didn’t have the faintest idea what. Only that this was all happening so fast. Too fast. Her life had been set spinning, and she didn’t want to make it stop—but she needed some sort of handle to grasp.

“I . . . I insist on bringing a cat.”

He made a noise of unmitigated disgust. “A cat.”

“Yes, a cat. My cat.”

Emma, you idiot. You don’t even have a cat.

She would find one, she decided. If she meant to enter a marriage with no promise of affection and inhabit that vast, elegant house, she needed at least one ally. What better than a fuzzy, wide-eyed kitten?

“For a bride of convenience, you are proving to be a great deal of trouble.” He tucked her foot into the hackney, then leveled a finger at her before closing the door. “This cat of yours had better be well-behaved.”

Chapter Five

The cat was the most foul, filthy, repulsive creature Ashbury had seen in his life, outside of the rare occasions when he regarded himself in a mirror. It was no more than a collection of bones encased in smudge-colored fur, and doubtless crawling with fleas.

His bride clutched the beast with both hands, holding it in front her like some sort of spinster bouquet.

Excellent. What was it they said? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something yowling.

Ash scowled at the thing.

The creature hissed in reply.

The dislike would seem to be mutual.

“Does it have a name?” he asked.

She looked up, as if startled by the question. “What?”

“A name. Does the cat have one?”

“Oh. Yes. Breeches. His name is Breeches.”

“Breeches?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” She showed no signs of releasing the thing. Instead, she looked about the hall. “Where are we reciting our vows? The library?”

“You can’t mean to hold that thing throughout the ceremony.”

“But if I put him down, I fear he’ll run off. Besides, he wants to be a witness. Don’t you, Breeches?” She turned the cat to face her and made a kissy face. “This is the Duke of Ashbury. Aren’t you pleased to meet him?” She took the creature’s paw and mimicked a wave of greeting in Ash’s direction. “He’s quite friendly.”

The cat’s claws made a vicious swipe through the air.

Right. That was it.

Ash reached out, wrested the animal from her grasp, and set it on the floor. The gray beast darted off at once.

“This house is enormous,” she objected. “He might be lost for days.”

“We can only hope.”

He tugged at the front of his waistcoat and turned to have a proper look at his bride. Of all that cat’s many offenses, its worst by far was obscuring his view of her. Thus far, he had seen her only two ways: first, wearing a gown made of leprous icicles, and second, wearing a modest shopgirl frock.

The morning dress she wore today was simple, but a welcome respite for his beauty-starved eyes. It was fashioned from wool in a rich, flattering shade of blue. The fit was perfect. He supposed that shouldn’t have been a surprise—she’d likely sewn it herself—but the frock embraced her in all the best places. The sleeves were long, and she’d added an edge of slender lace at the wrists. The merest hint of sweetness, like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar.

It was charming.

No, no. Charming? Had he just thought that word? He wasn’t charmed. He was never charmed. Bah.

He was ruttish, that was all. Eager to break an interminable stretch of celibacy. He admired her frock for one reason: because it would make such a satisfying heap on the floor.

What a shame he wouldn’t have the opportunity to see it that way. It would be dark when he visited her bed tonight.

Her rose-petal lips moved. Damn it, that meant he’d been staring at them. And now he hadn’t heard whatever it was she’d said.

“The curate is in the drawing room,” he said.

She hesitated.

He braced himself to hear, I can’t possibly do this, or What was I thinking? or I’d rather be hungry and homeless, thank you.

“Which way is the drawing room?”

With a relieved sigh, he turned and offered her his arm. “This way.”

Her steps were not precisely light, and he couldn’t fault her for it. She no doubt would have wished to marry for love, and he was about to steal that dream from her tiny, work-reddened fingers—replacing the charming, handsome groom of her dreams with an ill-tempered monster.

Guilt jabbed him in the ribs.

He had to ignore it. War had taught him two things. First, life was fleeting. Second, duty wasn’t. If he died without an heir, his toad of a cousin would carve up the lands, making every decision for his own expedience and enrichment. Ash would have failed the thousands who depended on him.

And if he failed them, he would not be the man his father raised. No prospect could be more gutting.

The irony of it hit him as they entered the drawing room.

He was the one marrying for love.

Just not hers.

It wasn’t precisely the wedding of Emma’s youthful imaginings. She’d seen herself having a church wedding, naturally, packed with friends, neighbors, relations. She’d dreamed of wearing pink ribbons and a crown of flowers in her hair. But then, she’d abandoned those girlish fancies years ago.

In the drawing room, there were no guests or flowers—only the curate, the butler, the housekeeper, and a frightful number of papers awaiting her signature. Emma riffled through the pile, intimidated. She supposed there was no better place to begin than the beginning.

She was only halfway through the second page before the duke’s patience expired.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Reading them?”

“Of course I’m reading them. I don’t sign anything I don’t read first. Do you?”

“That’s different. I might have something to lose.”

And Emma didn’t. That was the duke’s clear implication. In truth, it would be hard to argue the point. She’d already left the dressmaking shop, her garret, and most of her belongings behind.

He left her to her reading, retreating to pace in circles at the other end of the drawing room. Emma was visited by the strange suspicion he might be as nervous as she was.

No, that couldn’t be. More likely, he was eager to have it done.

“May I assist you, Miss Gladstone?” The murmured question came from nearby. “I know how weighty those stacks of paper can be.”

She looked up to find the butler standing near. She’d met him the other day. What was his name? Mr. Khan, she thought she recalled.

What she remembered with certainty was that she’d liked him at once. He had bronze skin, an Indian cadence to his speech, and silver hair with a part as arrow-straight as his posture. He’d treated her with kindness, even when she’d appeared on the doorstep with no card and no invitation. In fact, he’d seemed strangely delighted to see her.

“The duke isn’t always like this,” Khan confided, handing her the next set of papers.

“No?” Emma pounced on the kernel of hope.

“Usually, he’s a great deal worse.” With a glance over his shoulder, the butler exchanged one set of papers for another. “He’s been alone and is determined to remain that way. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he respects those who challenge him. I suspect that’s why you are here. He’s angry, resentful, bored, in more pain than he lets on—and you’ll either be the making of him, or he’ll be the ruin of you.”

She swallowed hard.

“If it helps,” he said, “the entire staff is pulling for the former.”

“It does help. I think.”

Whatever was required to “be the making” of a wounded duke, Emma was positive she lacked it. However, if Khan wanted to be in her corner, she wouldn’t complain. She needed to have one friend in the house, and it clearly wasn’t going to be her husband.

Nor that cat, wherever it was.

“What’s going on over there?” the man in question demanded.

“Nothing,” she called. “That is, I’m nearly finished.” To the butler, she whispered, “Do you have advice?”

“I suppose it’s too late to run.”

“Other than that.”

“Drink heavily? Someone in the house ought to, and I cannot.”

“Khan, stop standing about and make yourself useful. Fetch the family Bible.”

The butler straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The subtle wink he gave her in parting was one of beleaguered sympathy. We’re in this together now, it seemed to say.

She reached for the pen.

Once she’d finished signing all the contracts, the curate cleared his throat. “Are we ready to begin, Your Grace?”

“God, yes. Let’s get on with it.”

As she and the duke took their places side by side, Emma couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. His uninjured profile was to her. Decisive and compelling, with no trace of doubt on his features.

Then he suddenly turned his head, displaying his scars. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, she looked away—and instantly knew in her stomach that looking away was the wrong thing to do.

Well done, Emma. Just capital. That won’t offend him at all.

As they recited their vows, the duke clasped her hand to slide a plain gold band on her finger. His grip was firm and unsentimental, as if he were asserting a claim. The two servants signed as witnesses, and then they and the curate departed.

They found themselves alone, the three of them. Emma, the duke, and a thick, uncomfortable silence.

He clapped his hands. “Well, that’s done.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’ll have the maid bring some refreshment to your suite. You’ll want to rest.”

As he turned to leave, Emma put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

He turned back. “What.”

The word wasn’t a question, but a scolding.

She steadied her nerves. “I want to have dinner.”

“Of course you will have dinner. Do you think I mean to starve you? That would hardly suit my purposes of siring a healthy child.”

“I didn’t mean that I merely wish to be fed. I’d like the two of us to dine together. Not only tonight, but every evening. Proper dinners, with multiple courses. And conversation.”

From his expression, one would think she’d suggested nightly abdominal surgery. Performed with a knitting needle and a spoon.

“Why would you want that?”

“There must be something more than bedding between us. We must come to know one another, at least a little bit. Otherwise, I’ll feel too much like a . . .”

“A broodmare. Yes, I recall.” He looked to the side, sighed, and then looked back at her. “Very well, we will dine together. However, let’s have a few matters settled right now. This is a marriage of convenience.”

“That’s what we agreed.”

“There will be no affection involved. In fact, every precaution will be taken against it.”

“I’m surprised you believe we’ll need any precautions.”

“Only one act is required on your part. You must permit me to visit your bed. I’m well aware of my distasteful appearance. You need not fear any crude or lascivious attentions from my quarter. All encounters will be as dignified as possible. No lights, no kissing. And of course, once you are pregnant with my heir, we will be done.”

At this, Emma was stunned. No kissing? No lights? On account of his “distasteful appearance”?

The pain implied in that litany tugged at her emotions. Annabelle Worthing’s rejection must have been a cruel blow. Even if he’d formed the idea that his scars were intolerably repulsive . . . Emma was his wife now. She refused to underscore it. She knew how it felt to be an outcast.

He turned to walk away. Once again, she stopped him.

“One more thing. I want you to kiss me.”

She was mortified by the way she’d blurted it out, but it was done—and now she must not back down. If she ceded to him on this, she would never regain what little ground she held.

“Have you been paying attention? I only just now stipulated there would be no kissing.”

“You said kissing in bed,” she pointed out. “This isn’t bed. I promise, I’ll only ask the once.”