The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

“No, I intend to use my vast influence in the House of Lords to overturn the laws of primogeniture, then persuade the Prince Regent to create a new title and duchy. That accomplished, I will convince him to name a vicar’s daughter from Hertfordshire a duchess in her own right. Of course I mean through marriage, Miss Gladstone.”

“I’ll have my solicitor draw up the papers.” He returned to his place behind the desk. “We can do it on Monday.” “Your Grace, I don’t—” “Tuesday, then.” “Your Grace, I cannot—” “Well, I’m afraid my schedule is quite booked for the rest of the week.” He flipped through the pages of an agenda. “Brooding, drinking, indoor badminton tournament . . .”

“Your Grace, I can’t admit visitors after hours.” “I’m not a visitor. I’m a customer.” He strolled around the darkened shop, prodding a headless dressmaking form with his walking stick. “I need a new waistcoat.” “It’s a dressmaking shop. We don’t offer gentlemen’s attire.” “Very well, I’m here to order a gown.” “A gown for whom?” “What does it matter?” He made an annoyed gesture. “For a particularly ugly woman, approximately my size.”

He stared at her. “If you want a gown—” “It’s not that I want a gown.” “If your very ugly, duke-sized friend wants a gown, I will need measurements. Sleeve, torso, hem.” She arched an eyebrow. “Bosom.”

Her shoes tapped over the cobblestones at an irritated clip. “I will not be your mistress. My body is not for let.” “That can’t be entirely true. You’re a seamstress, aren’t you? Your fingers are for let.” “If you don’t know the difference between a woman’s fingers and her womb, I would definitely not share a bed with you.”

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.

The same footman’s hand shot toward the ceiling. “Bees! Hornets! Spiders! Snakes!” “Frogs. Locusts. Rivers of blood,” Cook deadpanned. “I believe we’ve covered all the plagues, Moses.”

“It’s a bruise,” Ash said. “One derived from manly activity. I’m telling you, he loves it.” “He was weeping,” she returned. He spread his hands. “Tears of joy.”

She retrieved a broadsheet from the table and held it up for his view. It was emblazoned with the headline “Monster of Mayfair Strikes Again.” Ash reached for it. “I hadn’t seen that one. That’s brilliant. I’ve top billing, too.” “There are several.” He paged through the stack she offered. “Monster of Mayfair Assaults Local Lad.” “Monster of Mayfair Terrorizes Three in St. James Street.” “Monster of Mayfair Abducts Lambs from Butcher. Dark Rituals Suspected.”

Ash grabbed the broadsheet from her hand and regarded it with horror. “‘Monster of Mayfair Saves Puppies from Burning Storehouse’?” This . . . this was an outrage. Widows. Downtrodden. Puppies. Someone was chipping away at the legend he’d so carefully constructed. He took the stack of broadsheets and leafed through them, skimming the stories themselves. A pattern of suspiciously similar phrases began to emerge. This paper has it on the highest authority . . . An anonymous source of great repute . . . “The pups wouldn’t cease licking him in gratitude,” a lady of Quality reports . . . So. Emma and her friends hadn’t merely collected these stories. They’d concocted them, the little coven of witches.

Penny offered him the odious tray of edible deceit. “Do take another sandwich, Ash. Or was it lambkin?” “It’s starshine, I believe,” Miss Mountbatten said. “No, no,” Miss Teague said. “I could have been certain it was hot cross bun.” As they all slipped into giggling again, Ash accepted the sandwich and arrowed a look at his wife. Emma sipped her tea, casting him a coy smile over the cup’s rim. Just you wait, he thought, taking a resentful bite of vegetable falsehood. Just you wait until we get home.

“Thank you,” she said. “You were wonderful.” “It was nothing.” And truly, it hadn’t been much of an imposition. Once all their merciless teasing was out of the way, he’d even enjoyed himself. “I can’t believe you ate two of those dreadful sandwiches.” Correction: He’d enjoyed himself—save for that.

She licked her lips and bent forward. “Wait,” he choked out. She paused. Why? Why had he said that? “It’s not kissing,” she said with a coy arch of her eyebrow. “It’s licking. And sucking. Won’t you like it?” “That’s . . . not in question,” he said firmly. Firmly in many senses of the word. “But we’re supposed to be procreating. I can’t make your mouth pregnant. Strictly speaking, this is outside our agreement.” “So what will you do?” She looked up at him, amused. “Bring a suit in Chancery? Your Honor, my wife dared to unclothe me. She proceeded to caress my person, with both hands and lips, against our sworn agreement to the contrary.” “Emma, you . . .” “And then”—she gave a theatrical gasp—“the disobedient wench did place her mouth on my engorged staff.” She gave him a slow, exploratory lick. “Jesus.” She backed off, lifting an eyebrow. “My, my. Such blasphemy. Is that in Shakespeare?” He gritted his teeth. “Second Henry the IV, act two, scene two.” “Really? Interesting.” She brushed a light, feathery kiss to the very tip of his cock.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. Ash startled, flung the walking stick aside in a stupid attempt to dispose of the evidence, and then stood motionless as his beaver hat plummeted toward the earth out of nowhere, glancing off his shoulder before crashing to the floor. It must have looked as though he’d been the target of some sort of lightning bolt from Olympus, only a more fashionable one. She stared at him from the top of the staircase. He decided there was only one way to deal with the situation. Denial. He cast an accusatory glance at the ceiling, then bent to retrieve his hat, dusting it off with an air of irritation. “I’ll get Khan on that straightaway.”

“You’re mine,” he said hoarsely, lifting his head and staring deep into her eyes, willing her to believe. “If you leave, I will follow. Do you hear me? I will follow and find you and cart you home.”

“I . . .” She blinked a few times. “I . . .” His mind completed her interrupted thought in a dozen dangerous ways. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She could have all manner of things to tell him. It could be anything. I . . . have a pebble in my shoe. I . . . want a pony. I . . . would do murder for a cup of tea right now.

“Sixty minutes too many,” he said testily. “You are wet, and you are cold. You don’t like being cold. Therefore, I despise you being cold. I would go about murdering raindrops and setting fire to the clouds, but that would take slightly more than an hour. Perhaps even two. So we’re here, and you will cease complaining about it.”

“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?”

man his book really has me laughing and crying in equal measures

“Ash, you are being absurd.” “I let you call me bunnykins,” he growled. “Now that was absurd.” “You think that was bad? Oh, I’m just getting started. You are such a wienerbrød.” He sputtered. “That is the vilest thing I’ve ever heard. And I don’t even know what it means.” “It’s an Austrian pastry.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s probably delicious, but if I had one right now, I would lob it at your head.”

“Your Grace, you wouldn’t know a love match if it punched you in the stomach.” The butler plunked the basket of cricket balls at Ash’s feet. “Dodge.” “What?” Thwack. Khan dealt him a solid blow to the gut. Ash doubled over. The butler tugged on his vest. “You were supposed to dodge.” He bowed deeply, then departed the room.

Ash tried, very hard, not to think about how this scene must appear. A scarred madman sprinting up and down the dark lanes of Mayfair, calling the words “come” and “breeches” repeatedly while making kissing noises. Sporting wild hair and a misbuttoned waistcoat. Excellent.

“That’s another thing.” Ash pointed at Trevor as he hastened in backward steps toward the hackney. “You’re going to be a gentleman. Don’t curse like a common lout. If you must blaspheme, do so in educated fashion.” He opened the hack’s door and climbed in. “Take your oaths from Shakespeare.”

She could scarcely speak. “That was quite nicely said.” “You think so?” “Did you practice it on the way here?” His chin pulled back in a gesture of offense. “No.” “I wouldn’t think less of you for it.” “Then yes, I did. But that doesn’t make it any less sincere.” He stroked his thumb down the space between her shoulder blades. “Can you possibly comprehend how much I love you?”

She stared at the box with weepy eyes. “It’s a ring,” he said. “I love it.” “Emma, you haven’t opened it.” “Yes, I know. I don’t have to. I love it already.” “That’s ridiculous.”

He made a silent vow to her—and to himself—that he would never hide the scars again. The entirety of his wretched past had led to this moment, and to deny them would be to deny her. Others might view the scars as his ruin. Ash knew the truth. They were his making. And Emma was his salvation.

“Well, if this is a portrait you’d be willing to hang in the stairwell . . .” “Proudly. And it’s going in the drawing room. Right over the mantel.” “It will have to be a large painting to fit us all.” “All?” “You, me, and our ten children.” Her eyes went wide in the mirror. “Ten?” “Very well. You, me, and our elev—”