The Duchess Deal Page 6

  Please.

  Ash removed his hand at once. Struggling to catch his breath, he pushed himself up on one elbow, then rose to a sitting position. "Sorry."

  He fumbled for his dressing gown, and then thrust his arms through the sleeves. By the fact that the thing barely covered his arse when he stood, he deduced that he'd put it on upside-down.

  "It's fine," she said. "Truly. We can continue."

  "No. I've pressed you too far, too quickly." He thought about attempting to retrieve his candle, then abandoned the idea. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could find his way to the door.

  "But--"

  "It will wait for tomorrow."

  He opened the door, went through it, and closed it behind him. He paused, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. But when he started to leave, he felt something tugging him back.

  Damn it. He'd shut a fold of his dressing gown in the door.

  He thunked his head against the doorjamb. Did marriage make utter fools of all men? Or was it just him?

  He turned the doorknob again.

  "Did you change your mind?" she asked.

  "No," he replied, defensive. "I came back to tell you that I hadn't."

  "Oh."

  "So you needn't worry I'll be returning tonight. Aside from this time, of course."

  He shut the door on her reply, but it followed him into the corridor.

  "If you say so."

  Ash took all his unsatisfied lust and carried it out-of-doors, into the night. He'd considered giving himself some manual relief. However, the idea of spending his wedding night with his own hand was too pathetic to contemplate.

  Walking it off was the only respectable option.

  He stuck to the narrower lanes and the alleyways behind the mews, keeping the collar of his cloak upturned and his hat pulled down over his brow.

  Eventually, he out-walked the aching tension in his groin. Yet there was something else he couldn't seem to shake.

  Please, she'd whispered.

  Please.

  The word had shocked him. He'd pulled away at once, uncertain whether she'd uttered it in pleasure or pain. Her breathless voice almost suggested the former--but that was too absurd to contemplate.

  First, she was a virgin. Second, she was a vicar's daughter. Third, she was a virgin vicar's daughter. And fourth, he was the scarred, ill-tempered--if fantastically wealthy--wretch who'd strong-armed her into in a marriage of convenience with no courtship whatsoever.

  He must have hurt her, or scared her, or--most lowering to contemplate--repulsed her.

  At best, he'd merely pressed her beyond her comfort for the first night.

  Ash kicked at stones as he walked. Until he kicked something rotted and soft. Ugh. He didn't know what it was, but he was not stopping to investigate. He switched to poking at obstacles with his walking stick.

  He would have to revise his plan, he decided. Take the bedding slowly, even if the waiting was torture. If he pushed her too far, too fast, and she shied from him . . . It all would have been for nothing. He would have no legitimate heir, and his father's legacy would die with him.

  Unthinkable. He would not allow that to happen.

  Please.

  It echoed through his mind again. A fresh shiver of arousal traveled the length of his spine.

  He gave himself a mental shake.

  She was not sighing in ecstasy, you clotpole.

  That was only his desperate, lonely, sex-starved imagination, grasping at any phantom resembling affection.

  He walked through the shuttered stalls of Shepherd Market, using his walking stick to push refuse out of his way and into the middens.

  He prodded at a heap of rags.

  The heap of rags stirred.

  It unfolded, transforming into the figure of a young girl. No doubt she'd been left there to keep watch on the family stall by night.

  "Whassat?" She drew herself up to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes, and turned to blink up at his face.

  She blinked again.

  And then she shrieked, loud and long enough to wake the dead.

  "It's all right," Ash muttered. "I don't wish to--"

  She paused for a breath, then unleashed another high-pitched scream. Dogs nearby began to snarl and bark.

  "Be still, child. I'm not going to--"

  "Get away!" She kicked at his shin, shouting. "Get away! Leave me be!"

  "I'm going." He fished for what coins he had in his pocket, placed them beside the boarded-up stall, and made a hasty retreat. His heart was pounding.

  See? he chided himself, once he was some distance down the lane.

  Children screamed at the sight of him. Dogs howled as they would at a fiend.

  No woman would be begging for him now. Not in bed, in the dark.

  For that matter, not by day in the park.

  Not on land, not at sea. She does not want you, Ashbury.

  God, he was a blithering idiot.

  Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. He halted in his paces, turning an ear toward the sound. From the same direction, he heard a wallop, followed by a coarse shout.

  Ash frowned. Then he started into motion, following the sounds in brisk strides. Walking stick at the ready.

  Whatever the trouble, it wasn't his concern.

  But it might prove a welcome distraction.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Emma took herself to the morning room. It seemed the expected thing. When she entered the sun-washed space, her gaze skipped over the tasseled upholstery and vases of flowers and went straight to the humblest furnishing in the room: an escritoire.

  Perfect.

  She had letters to write.

  She sat at the writing desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, unstoppered the ink, and dipped the quill.

  Her first priority was sending a note to reassure Miss Palmer, but Emma wasn't certain how to do so. A message delivered from Ashbury House would raise eyebrows. No one even knew a Duchess of Ashbury existed yet. It wouldn't be wise to call at the Palmer residence, either. Emma was merely a seamstress in their eyes. Once word got about that the duke had married, perhaps, but for now . . .

  Fanny. Yes. She would write a note and send it in care of Fanny, asking her pass it along when Miss Palmer returned to the shop.

  That accomplished, Emma turned her attention to another letter.

  One that was six years overdue.

  Dear Father,

  It has been much too long since we've spoken.

  But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested it might be too soon.

  Dear Father,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health.

  She stared at the sentence. As many times as she'd wished him to suffer boils, she wasn't certain that was accurate, either.

  Emma crumpled the sheet of paper and tried once more. Apparently polite salutations weren't going to serve.

  Father,

  Do you recall the last time we saw one another? If not, permit me to remind you. You cast me out into a storm, barred me from my home, and told me no respectable man would ever want me. Well, it is my cold pleasure to inform you now, sir--you were gravely mistaken. Someone wanted me after all, and that someone is a duke.

  But then . . . once again, she doubted. Did the duke truly want her? They'd agreed to a marriage of convenience, no more. For him, bedding her was a means to an end.

  Her thoughts returned to their disastrous attempt at consummation the previous night. Perfunctory as the act was intended to be, and all his "rules" notwithstanding, his caresses were tender, patient. His hands told an entirely different story than his gruff, cynical words, and she couldn't help but respond.

  She'd been alone so long, isolated and untouched.

  Waiting.

  He'd awakened her desires. And yet, the moment she'd surrendered to them . . . he'd stopped. As if he'd been shocked by her response, or even displeased with it.

  Perhaps
he didn't want her, after all. Or more to the point, perhaps he didn't want a freely passionate wife, and that would only affirm her father's judgment.

  No decent man will have you.

  Devastating.

  Yes, their relationship was a convenient agreement. Yes, she'd resolved to keep her reckless, foolish heart uninvolved. Still, she craved a bit of closeness. Though she'd scraped by on her own for years, she was starved for human connection. And now she'd tethered herself, for the remainder of her life, to a man unwilling to connect with anyone. She felt more alone than ever.

  Don't be maudlin, Emma. It was only one night. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected. Surely it would improve with time.

  A flurry of odd noises saved her from wallowing in self-pity. Emma rose from the writing desk. The cat had probably found a divan or chaise to claw to shreds. That might be a blessing in disguise if he had. Replacing the upholstery would give her a project to undertake.

  As she followed the sounds, however, they sounded less and less likely to be feline. Soft thwacking and muffled grunting emanated from behind a set of imposing double doors.

  She approached in soft footsteps and placed her ear to the door.

  "Really, Khan." The duke's voice. "Try to muster a bit of effort."

  "I am attempting to do so, Your Grace."

  "Then muster harder. It's your turn to receive."

  Emma pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside. She discovered a grand, open space, floored with inlaid parquet and bordered by walls hung with life-sized portraits. Capping off the opulence, elaborate scrollwork and chandeliers decorated the ceiling.

  And across the middle of this majestic ballroom was strung a sort of crude netting. Two men--the duke and his butler--faced off on either side of it.

  The duke swung a racquet, sending a plumed cork sailing over the net.

  Khan, having caught sight of Emma, paid it no notice--with the result that the shuttlecock bounced directly off his forehead.

  "Oh, come on." The duke shook his racquet in accusation. "I all but sealed and posted you that one."

  Khan ignored his employer, opting to bow in Emma's direction instead. "Good morning, Your Grace."

  The duke whipped around, still holding his racquet at a threatening angle. He swept a glance over her. "You."

  Be still her heart. What a salutation.

  She moved into the room. "I thought you were joking about the badminton."

  "I wasn't."

  "So I see."

  After a pause, he waved her toward the doors. "Well? You must have things to do. Take breakfast. Confer with the housekeeper, now that you're mistress of the place. Do something ridiculous with your hair."

  "I've accomplished the first and second, and I will politely decline the third. I'm out of occupations at the moment."

  "Wonderful," Khan interjected, striding toward her. "You can take over this one." He pressed his racquet into Emma's hand. Before making for the door, he mouthed two words. Save. Me.

  "Where do you think you're going?" the duke demanded.

  The butler turned in the doorway. "I'm not certain, Your Grace. Perhaps I'll do something ridiculous with my hair."

  He bowed, closed the double doors, and was gone.

  The duke bellowed after him. "I'll dock your wages for this, you milk-livered cullion."

  In the ensuing quiet, Emma regarded the racquet in her hand. "Khan doesn't seem to enjoy badminton."

  "He enjoys steady employment. We have sport three times a week. A man needs to keep up his stamina somehow."

  Stamina. Yes. Just looking at the duke, it was plain to see that he'd been an active man, long before his injury. Those shoulders and thighs could not have developed overnight. As he bent to retrieve the shuttlecock, she admired the tight contour of his backside. That didn't come from idleness, either.

  He stood, and she quickly averted her gaze.

  Drat.

  Again, she'd been caught staring. Again, he would misinterpret it entirely.

  It wasn't her fault, Emma told herself, but simply an occupational habit. Knowing fabric and thread was only part of a seamstress's work. Key to success was understanding the body beneath the garments. How joints fit together; how muscles flexed and stretched. After years of practice, Emma only had to glance at a person to imagine them stripped of all clothing--and when regarding a person so finely formed by God and honed by exertion, the temptation proved difficult to resist.

  But how did one say such a thing?

  My apologies. I wasn't staring out of horror. I was merely undressing you in my mind.

  Oh, that would go brilliantly. Very duchesslike, that.

  When the duke finished setting aside the equipment, he reached for his topcoat.

  "We . . ." Emma forced herself to say it. "We could play. The two of us. You and I."

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  He respects those who challenge him, she reminded herself. Although, at the moment, the piercing quality of his gaze didn't strike her as admiration.

  But Emma was in for the penny now. She may as well try for the pound.

  "I adore badminton." She attempted to twirl the racquet in a casual, sporty fashion. Instead she dropped it, and it bounced off her toe. She bit her lip, holding back a yelp of pain. "Whoops. How careless of me."

  She picked up the racquet with as much dignity as she could manage and limped to the other side of the ballroom, ducking under the net.

  She gave him a game smile. "Shall we?"

  "Very well. Let's wager on it."

  "If you like. What is the forfeit?"

  Now Emma's interest was piqued. Weren't the forfeits in these wagers typically naughty? A kiss, perhaps, or two minutes locked in the closet.

  "When I win, you agree to leave me be. I've already conceded dinners, and further interruptions are unwelcome. I have a dukedom to manage."

  Well, and badminton to play, it would seem--which apparently outranked his wife in his leisure-time priorities.

  "Fine," she said, feeling testy. "But if I win, you agree to treat me with a modicum of respect."

  "Oh, come now. I already give you a modicum."

  "More than a modicum, then." Emma considered. "How much is a modicum, anyway?"

  "Somewhere between a soupcon and a whit, I imagine."

  "Then I want an ounce."

  "An ounce?"

  "Two ounces. Actually, no. I should like a full pint of respect."

  He shook his head. "Now you're just being greedy."

  "Greedy? I realize I may not be as captivating as a shuttlecock or a decanter of brandy, but I am your wife. The woman who is to be the mother of your child."

  After a pause, he said, "There's no purpose in arguing the point. You're not going to win."

  That's what you think.

  She might not win this silly game, but she was determined to triumph eventually. The battle began here and now.

  He retrieved his racquet and a shuttlecock, took his position on the court, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the shuttlecock sailing over Emma's head before she could even move.

  "Well done," she said. "One point to you."

  "That wasn't even a serve. I was merely lobbing you the shuttlecock. First service should be the lady's. There's your modicum."

  "But of course. Thank you, darling." With an awkward swipe of the racquet, she managed to send the shuttlecock flying . . . straight into the net.

  This time, he was the one to stand still in the center of the court. "What did you call me?"

  "I called you 'darling.' We discussed at dinner yesterday that I must call you something. I refuse to address you as Ashbury or Duke, and you didn't like 'dear husband' or 'sweeting' or 'heart.'" She motioned toward the shuttlecock lying on the floor. "I believe it's your turn, darling."

  "I am no one's darling." He batted the shuttlecock with a fierce backhand swat.

  To her surprise, Emma managed to scramble under the falling missile and return i
t. "I don't know if you have a say in that."

  "I'm a duke. I have a say in everything."

  Another effortless return on his part; another ungainly, desperate swipe on hers. This time, she missed.

  "Darling is in the eye of the beholder." Emma was already a bit out of breath as she retrieved the dropped shuttlecock. "If I choose to make a darling of you, there is nothing you can do about it."

  "Of course there's something I can do about it. I can have you sent to an institution for the feebleminded and insane."

  She shrugged. "If you say so, cherub."

  He leveled his racquet at her. "Let's set something straight, the two of us. You seem to be plotting a campaign of kindness. No doubt with the aim of soothing my tortured soul. It would be a waste of time. My temperament was not created by injury; it will not be magically healed by sweetness or pet names. Am I making myself clear? Do not harbor any illusions that my scars transformed me into a jaded, ill-tempered wretch. I was always--and shall remain--a jaded, ill-tempered wretch."

  "Were you always this long-winded, too?"

  He growled.

  Emma's next attempt at a serve skittered across the floor. No matter. She was enjoying this game anyway.

  "Ashbury is my title. It is what I've been called since my father died. No one calls me anything else. I've told you this."

  "And as I told you, I am your wife. Being the only one who addresses you differently is rather the point."

  Speaking of points, Emma had lost count of how many points she was behind.

  He sent a serve back toward her. Emma noticed a hitch in his swing. He winced ever so slightly. Perhaps the reason behind the thrice-weekly sport was not mere boredom, but restoring the use of an injured arm. If so, his wounds must extend beyond his visible scars.

  She wondered how severe those wounds were. She wondered how much they still pained him.

  Too much wondering. It wouldn't all fit in her brain. Instead, it traveled down to her chest and tightened there.

  She smiled. "Shall we continue, poppet?"

  His glare in response could have shattered marble.

  After a few minutes' practice, Emma's agility had improved. She could hold her side of a respectable volley.

  "What about 'precious'?" she suggested.

  "No."

  "'Angel'?"

  "God, no."

  "'Muffin'?"

  In response to that, he hit the shuttlecock so hard, it sailed all the way to the back wall and thwacked one of his ancestors right in the powdered wig.

  She cheered. "Well done, my precious angel muffin."

  "This stops," he said. "Now."