The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1) Page 23

  “Don’t stop,” he moaned.

  She stopped.

  He growled with frustration. “Don’t don’t stop.”

  She began to move again, accelerating her pace.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “And I’m yours. Entirely yours. You won’t be rid of me.”

  God. The pleasure was keen, and he was tempted to surrender to it, arching his hips to pump her hard and fast until she came around him and he spent into her. But he forced himself to hold back.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  He wanted more than pleasure right now. She was giving so much of herself to him, freely and without reserve. In ways he’d never given himself to anyone—not before, not after. The courage within her small frame was profound, her generosity boundless. He felt like a coward in comparison.

  Make love to me. Be brave with me.

  “Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t touch me everywhere.”

  One of her hands slipped beneath the shredded linen of his shirt, drawing the panels aside to expose his chest. Her fingers skimmed over his skin. And his scars. Her touch pained him in places, and he was dead numb in others. In moments, his blood sang with bliss. No matter what the sensation, each moment was exquisite. He closed his eyes, lost in her caress.

  Emma. My love, my love.

  “Don’t kiss me,” he choked out.

  Without hesitation—as though she’d been waiting and hoping for the invitation—her lips were on his, softer than her touch. Warmer, too. Each brush of her lips was a blessing he didn’t deserve, but he was powerless to turn her away.

  She kissed her way up the ruined side of his neck, tracing his misshapen ear with her tongue and running her fingers through his patchy hair. Then she blazed a path down the other side, from his jaw to his shoulder, dragging openmouthed kisses over his skin.

  She lavished both sides of him with equal attention and sweet, sweet tenderness, until he felt his two halves knitting together in the center. Somewhere close to his heart.

  Her brow pressed to his, and she held him tight.

  It was time.

  She braced her hands on the back of the chair. He framed her waist in his hands. Pulling her down, straining upward—not content any longer to let her take the lead. He wanted—needed—to battle out of himself, find refuge in her. Reach the place where they could be one.

  “Don’t love me.”

  The words came unbidden from his throat. Not a thought, but a plea.

  “Too late,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Don’t tell me so. Don’t say the words.”

  “I love you.” She cupped his face in her hands and brushed a kiss to his lips. “I love you so much.”

  There was nothing left for him to resist. He held her to him, and as they tumbled over the edge together, no joy could have been more complete.

  He was complete.

  He held her tightly in his arms, pressing kisses to her hair. “I love you. You will never know how much I love you. There aren’t words.”

  She levered herself to a sitting position. Her drowsy eyes came into focus. She stared down at her hands where they lay against his red, twisted scars. All color drained from her face. The expression that overtook her face was no longer one of love or pleasure, but one of faint disgust.

  “Emma?”

  God, please. Not again. Not you.

  Don’t leave me. Not now, not ever.

  “I’m sorry,” said, slipping off his lap. “I’m so sorry, I . . . I have to—”

  She fled the library in a rush, darting into the connecting room.

  As he drew to his feet and pulled up his trousers, he heard it.

  The wrenching, unmistakable sounds of his wife being sick.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Emma straightened, pushing the hair from her face. The perspiration on her brow and chest had turned ice-cold. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her face and neck. Then she poured herself a thimble of sherry from a decanter on the sideboard and rinsed her mouth before spitting it into the unlucky potted plant she’d befouled.

  “I tried to warn you,” he said from behind her. “You should have listened. I told you it was for your own good. But you insisted anyway.”

  She turned to face him. “I don’t understand. What are you going on about?”

  “It was the same with—” He broke off.

  With Annabelle, she finished in her mind.

  He pulled together the torn sides of his shirt. “I knew this would happen. Not that I blame you. It’s repulsive, and that’s a simple fact. I’m not angry.”

  “Is that what you think?” She put a hand to her brow, then dropped it. “Oh, Ash. You darling idiot. I am not sick with revulsion. I am pregnant.”

  He blinked and stumbled sideways. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand?” She smiled. “I’ll explain it. On nearly every night since we married, and a goodly number of the days as well, you penetrated me with your manly organ and spilled your seed in the vicinity of my womb. That particular act—especially at the frequency we’ve practiced it—commonly results in conception.”

  “But you had your courses.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You said you were feeling poorly. You kept to your bed for four days.”

  “I was feeling poorly. I’d caught a cold.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “I did tell you. In the note. I worried the ailment might be catching, and I didn’t want to pass it to you or the servants. Do fine ladies really take to their beds for days every month? I can assure you, seamstresses don’t have that luxury.”

  “Let’s move on from the menstruation habits of the upper classes, please. What I’m saying is, you should have mentioned this to me before now.”

  She turned aside. “It was too early to be certain.”

  “You missed your courses. You’re vomiting. You swooned after the theater. And, now that I think about it, your recent appetites have been variable in more ways than one. Be honest, Emma. You must have suspected this for weeks.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “Then why would you hide it from me?”

  “Because of our bargain! You said from the start, once I’m with child, it would be over, and . . .” Her voice faltered. “And I didn’t want it to be over.”

  “Oh, Emma. Who is the darling idiot now?” He placed his hands on either side of her face. “It isn’t over. It could never be over. I’d sooner die than let you go.”

  “Then I want to be with you. Live with you. Wake in the same bed every morning, dine together every evening. Bicker and make love and . . . play badminton if you truly insist. Raise our children together.”

  He tensed, just as she’d feared he would. “I’m not good with children.”

  “That’s not true. What about Trevor?”

  “Trevor is abnormal. Highly abnormal.” He jabbed a finger in his own chest. “You know I’m impatient. Irritable. Demanding.”

  She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Also caring. Loyal. Protective.” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “So you’re imperfect. Who isn’t? Being imperfect is better than being distant.”

  He folded her in an embrace, tucking her head protectively under his chin, but Emma didn’t feel entirely comforted.

  “I would never abandon you. You know that. I will provide for every—”

  “Providing is not enough. Children shouldn’t be strangers from their fathers. No matter what they are told, or what reasons they are given—they will always fear, deep down, that it’s their fault. I know you wouldn’t want to hurt your child that way.”

  “Emma . . .”

  “You had a wonderful, loving father. You lost him to illness far too soon, but you never doubted that he loved you. I spent the entirety of my childhood wondering what I’d done wrong. Asking myself, how had I failed? Why couldn’t I earn his
love?”

  He clutched her tight and murmured soothing words.

  “And when I couldn’t win my father’s affection, I tried chasing after it elsewhere. From the most inadvisable sources. Like a squire’s son who was already promised to another.”

  “Like a hulking, misanthropic monster of a duke.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”

  “I wish we’d met years ago.”

  “Oh, yes. Back when you had your choice of any lady in England?” She laughed softly. “You would never have looked at me.”

  “I want to contradict that. But I was excessively stupid then. You may be right.”

  “I’m right about a great many things. And I’m telling you this: Our child needs his father in his life. Not just occasionally, and not through the post.”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. Worry etched his face. He doubted himself. And when a strong man doubted himself, it meant something. Ash wouldn’t undertake any endeavor—especially not one so important as this—if he wasn’t certain he could do it, and do it well.

  Emma couldn’t solve this with words or kisses. He would have to work through it himself.

  “There’s plenty of time,” she whispered. “It’s not as though the babe will be born tomorrow. By my counting, you have seven months to grow accustomed to the idea.”

  “You say a father shouldn’t be distant. But I’m not good at letting anyone close.” He set his jaw. “I don’t know that seven months could be enough.”

  She tried not to sound disheartened. “I’ll admit, you do have a very thick skull. But I have my ways of getting through it.”

  Or she would have her ways, she vowed.

  Just as soon as she thought of some.

  Emma had never been one for late-night eating. But then, she’d never been pregnant before.

  It was well past midnight. She was just emerging from the pantry into the kitchen—a plate heaped with cold roast beef in one hand, a crock of blackberry preserves in the other, and a buttered roll clenched between her teeth—when a sinister figure appeared in her path. The looming black silhouette stood between her and the lamp she’d left on the table.

  Emma screamed.

  That was to say, she screamed through a buttered roll. The sound that came out was less of a proper shriek and more akin to Mraarrrmghhffff! The crock of preserves crashed to the floor. In her panic, she flung the contents of the plate at her attacker.

  “Your Grace, it’s me.”

  “Mmmmf?” She turned her head and spat out the roll. “Khan?”

  “Yes.” He peeled a slice of beef from his neck.

  “I’m so sorry. You startled me.”

  He crouched at her feet and began to gather pieces of broken crockery. “Quite understandable. I should have dodged.”

  “I was hungry,” she confessed, kneeling to help him clear the mess. “I didn’t want to wake anyone. On that note, I should think you’d be sleeping in bed.”

  “One of the footmen woke me.” He took the bits of crockery from her, then wiped her hands with a bit of muslin toweling. “Apparently a young woman showed up sobbing on the doorstep, asking for you. They’ve put her in the parlor for now.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Davina.

  Emma abandoned the plates of food and rushed down the corridor to the parlor. She found Davina on the settee, her face buried in her hands.

  “Oh, dear.” Emma went to sit beside her and clasp her in a tight embrace. “How is it you’re here?”

  “I slipped out. My father is a sound sleeper. He never notices any comings and goings at night.” She put a hand on her belly. “That’s rather how I landed in such a muddle.”

  “What’s happened?”

  The girl shed hot tears on Emma’s shoulder. “My maid discovered the truth. She knows I haven’t had my courses in months, and when she confronted me . . . Oh, I’m not a convincing liar.”

  “That’s because you’re a good-hearted person.”

  Davina sniffed and sat straight. “She threatened to tell Papa unless I do. And I can’t tell Papa. I just can’t. He’ll be so upset.”

  Sympathy caught Emma’s heart and wrung it with vigor. “Oh, Davina.”

  “I just feel so alone.”

  “You aren’t alone. I made a promise to help you, and I mean to keep that promise.” She patted the girl’s hand. “I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to approach your father for his blessing, but we’ll go without it if we must. You can stay here tonight, and we’ll make the journey to Oxfordshire tomorrow.”

  “Wait. There’s one more chance. We can still gain Papa’s permission properly.”

  “How?”

  “There’s to be a ball tomorrow night. The last before most of the ton leaves for Christmas.”

  “At your house?”

  “No. I’m only invited. But if you and the duke could attend . . .”

  “I don’t know, dear. I wish I could say yes, but—” She hesitated. “The duke is reluctant to attend parties or balls. He rather despises them. And to appear at one without an invitation . . .”

  “A newlywed duke and duchess? No one would turn you away.” The girl took Emma’s hand and squeezed. “Please, Emma. I’m begging you. If I run away, I might be able to hide this from Papa for a few weeks longer—but he’s bound to discover the truth. This is the only chance.”

  “Then we must take it.” Emma steeled her resolve. She didn’t want to attend a ball. Ash would most certainly prefer a needle to the eye. But Davina needed this, and she couldn’t let the girl down. “You’d better go before you’re missed. I’ll call the carriage to take you home.”

  Minutes later, Emma walked a tearful Davina down to the coach and bid her farewell with a tight hug.

  After the footman closed the carriage door, Emma rapped on the window. “I almost forgot to ask,” she said loudly, as to be heard through the window glass. “Who is hosting this ball?”

  Davina half-shouted in reply as the carriage rolled away.

  Her answer destroyed Emma’s appetite.

  Ash confronted Emma in the entrance hall, just as she closed the door behind her. “Who was that? Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “There wasn’t time to explain.”

  “There’s time now.” He followed Emma as she mounted the stairs.

  “I’m sorry. There truly isn’t. I’ll need to pack my things, but that can wait until tomorrow. First I must come up with the gown.”

  “The gown?” Ash was utterly lost. What the devil was she on about? “You need to slow down and tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  “The girl in the parlor was Miss Davina Palmer. I used to stitch her gowns at the dressmaking shop. She’s young, she’s pregnant, and she’s absolutely terrified, with nowhere else to turn. I promised I’d help her. I have to help her. That’s why we’re going to a ball tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s properly tonight, I suppose.”

  What?

  Once they’d moved into her bedchamber, he shut the door behind them. “I fail to understand how our attendance at a ball is going to help a young lady who finds herself in a such a situation.”

  “It’s quite simple. I’m going to invite Miss Palmer to visit me at Swanlea. However, she will need her father’s permission to accept the invitation. In order for that to happen, we need to make the acquaintance of her father. Therefore, we are going to a ball.”

  Emma passed into her dressing room and began rifling through her wardrobe, choosing a pair of stockings and silver-heeled slippers, then bringing them back to the bed. “Drat. If only the red silk hadn’t been ruined in the rain. I’ll have to come up with something else, and quickly. Thank heavens I ordered you a new tailcoat and black trousers when I chose your wardrobe.”

  Ash leaned his elbow atop the chest of drawers, exhausted. It was the middle of the night, after all. Perhaps he was dreaming all of this.

  “I’m not attending the Pa
lmers’ ball.” He added, “Neither are you.”

  “It’s not the Palmers’ ball.” She paused. “It’s the Worthing family’s affair.”

  Ash required several moments to recover his powers of speech. “The Worthing family?”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to attend a ball at Annabelle Worthing’s house. Jesu Maria. Unthinkable.

  She said, “Believe me, I’m not happy about it, either. Of course I’d rather it were anywhere else. But it isn’t, and this must be done.”

  She’d gone mad. He blamed her delicate condition. Apparently pregnancy took a woman’s sense and launched it out the nearest window.

  “Ash, please. I would never ask for myself. But Miss Palmer has no one else.”

  “What of the child’s father? What of her own family?”

  “She can’t confide in them.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The fact that she told me so. She may be a young woman, but she is a grown woman. She knows her own mind . . . even if she does not understand the precise workings of human breeding organs.”

  “How would inviting her to Swanlea help?”

  “She wants to give birth in secret and find a family to raise the child. If she does so in the country, she can return to London for the Season next June with no one the wiser.”

  “No.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “No. Never mind the ball. You’re not going to make off with a pregnant young woman and embroil us both in a months-long deception. I will not permit it, and I will certainly not be a part of it.”

  “Ash, please. If you truly—”

  He held up a hand. “Stop right there. Do not play that game.”

  “What game?

  “The if-you-loved-me-you’d-do-as-I-ask game. Because I can volley it right back at you. If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask. If you loved me, you would trust my judgment. If you loved me, you’d give me back my draperies. It’s nothing but a weak attempt at blackmail, and if you’re going to sink that low, at least demand something that involves jewels or nakedness.”