More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“Miss Gladstone, you don’t seem to understand how this whole intruding-on-a-duke’s-solitude business works. You should be intimidated, if not terrified. Yet there’s an appalling lack of hand-wringing in your demeanor, and no trembling whatsoever. Are you certain you’re merely a seamstress?”
Not to mention, she was a vicar’s daughter. He’d always dreamed of debauching a vicar’s daughter. Really, what man hadn’t? However, he was not quite so diabolical as to accomplish it through extortion.
He sighed with annoyance. “I am a duke. I’m not asking you to marry me. I am offering to marry you. It’s a different thing entirely.”
“I am a duke. Of course I didn’t follow you. I had you followed. It’s an entirely different thing.”
“We can accomplish both those things at once. I’ll take you home. My carriage is just outside.” “Thank you, I prefer to walk.” “More convenient still. My feet are even closer than the carriage.”
Look, he was already thinking of her as Emma. A small, stubborn little name, Emma. It suited her.
In truth, she’d been struggling to keep pace with him since the moment she’d entered his library. Wrestling to understand his intentions, sparring with his wit. Chasing after her own body’s responses. He was exhausting. Less of a man, more of a gymnasium.
“A broodmare. Hm. I’m not certain I mind that comparison. If you’re a broodmare, that would make me the stud.” “And there,” she said, “is the injustice of the world in a nutshell.” He ignored her statement. “On reflection, I prefer ‘stallion.’” “Never mind the horses!”
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.”
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.
“On second thought, don’t pack your belongings. I’ll buy you new. I’ve no use for moldy potatoes.”
“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.
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.
It was charming. No, no. Charming? Had he just thought that word? He wasn’t charmed. He was never charmed. Bah.
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.”
“The soup smells divine,” she said. In the distance, she saw the duke motion to a footman. “You heard her. Pour Her Grace some more wine.”
“If you insist. I suppose we can converse as normal English people do. We’ll talk about the weather, or the latest horse race, or the weather, or the price of tea, and oh, did we happen to discuss the weather?”
“I know how these things go. A week becomes a fortnight, and then a fortnight becomes a month. Before I know it, you’ve run off to some seaside hamlet to hide for a year or two.” “If you believe I’d do that, you don’t know me very well.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you believe you won’t be tempted, you don’t know me at all.”
A flash of silver fur darted from the side of the room. Breeches leapt onto the table, sank his teeth into the steamed trout, and absconded with it before either of them could say a word. “That’s it.” The duke threw his linen napkin on his plate. “Dinner is over.”
“I think you’re playing me a trick. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling these away and find there’s nothing beneath them but a pair of pincushions and a broomstick.”
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.
“You.” Be still her heart. What a salutation.
“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.”
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.
“I don’t know that I can ever forgive you,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m going to have a scar.”
She’d given up on trying to understand anything in this house. She was a barnacle on the hull of the HMS Penelope—she’d no idea of their destination, but she was along for the ride.
For a man who’d survived severe burns, Ash sounded ironic at best. At worst, it felt cruel.
The creatures most difficult to reach make the most loving companions in the end.”
She’d lost her grip on the finial. Bully for her. Ash was losing his grip on his sanity.
“Since you seem to need reminding, you are a duchess. Not a circus performer or a squirrel.”
I promise, I do know how these things work.” “Yes, but apparently you don’t know how servants work.”
“There.” He stood back, chest heaving with exertion. “I made you a fire. You may now admire my manliness.” “I do, rather.”
He should have blamed Jonas, or the entirety of his staff. But in truth, this was his fault. Like everything else in his life, it had backfired in spectacular fashion.
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.
“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.”
“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.”
“Go. Now. Before I use you in ways you don’t want to be used.” She swept a gaze over him, biting her bottom lip. “It’s not being used if I want it, too.”
Once you arrive in the eternal furnace, there are sinful debts to be settled. ‘Hell to pay’ is not merely a saying. Then there are the endless papers to be signed and filed.” “Papers to be filed?” “Naturally there are papers. It should surprise no one to learn that Hell is a vast, inefficient bureaucracy.”
Doesn’t your Holy Bible have something to say about forgiveness?” The man cowered in silence. “No, truly. I’m asking. Doesn’t it? I’m a demon, I don’t read the thing.”
“What day is this?” Ash demanded. “Th-Thursday.” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned.” “But . . . aren’t you damned already?” “Silence!” he boomed.
Her censure almost made Ash feel guilty, and he never felt ashamed of his actions. Only his appearance.
“Do you know what this means?” “I’m married to an unchecked vigilante?” “No. Well, maybe. But also—it means people are making up their own Monster of Mayfair stories just to share in the notoriety. It means I’m a legend.”
“Never mind.” “I will pay mind when and where I wish, thank you.
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.
he didn’t suppose that she’d care to hear the truth: that the way she looked in that gown made him feel vastly unequal, and a little bit queasy.
Did you notice the waistcoat? Stupendous.” “I don’t know about stupendous.” “Well, I know all about stupendousness, and I tell you, this waistcoat is the very definition.” “I’ll take your word for it, then.”
“Tonight,” he said, “you will shine like a jewel. A ruby. An extraordinarily big ruby.” He cocked his head. “You’d be the world’s largest ruby on record, I suppose. One with . . . arms.”
“You will not speak such words in her presence.” He had to force the words through clenched teeth. “She is the Duchess of Ashbury. You’ll address her with the honor that title confers.” “I will not curtsy to a girl who knelt at my feet, simply because she gets down on her knees for you.”
“Damn it, Emma. Look at me.” Look at me. Look at me. Because you’re the only one who does. Likely the only one who ever will.
