The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

She was a great improvement on the gown. Complexion: cream. Lips: rose petals. Lashes: sable. Backbone: steel.

“May I have my money, please?” He extended a hand, offering her the money. She reached for it. He closed his hand around the coins. “Once you give me the gown.” “What?” “If I pay you for your work, it’s only fair that I get the gown.” “For what purpose?” He shrugged. “I haven’t decided. I could donate it to a home for pensioned opera dancers. Sink it to the bottom of the Thames for the eels to enjoy. Hang it over the front door to ward off evil spirits. There are so many choices.” “I . . . Your Grace, I can have it delivered tomorrow. But I must have the money today.” He tsked. “That would be a loan, Miss Gladstone. I’m not in the money-lending business.” “You want the gown now?” “Only if you want the money now.”

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. A thought occurred to him. Maybe—just maybe—he could still manage that fantasy, through different, somewhat less fiendish, means. He regarded Emma Gladstone from a fresh angle, thinking of that list of requirements in his interrupted letter. She was young and healthy. She was educated. She came from gentry, and she was willing to disrobe in front of him. Most importantly, she was desperate. She’d do. In fact, she’d do very well indeed.

“Here is your choice, Miss Gladstone. I can pay you the two pounds, three shillings.” He placed the stack of coins on the desk. She stared at them hungrily. “Or,” he said, “I can make you a duchess.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I must have misheard.” “I said I will make you a duchess.” “Surely . . . surely you don’t mean through marriage.” “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.” She gave a strained laugh. Laughter seemed the only possible response. He had to be joking. “You can’t be asking me to marry you.” 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.” She opened her mouth, only to close it again. “I need an heir,” he said. “That is the thrust of the matter.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Miss Gladstone.” She doubted it. “You’re incredulous. How could a woman of your standing possibly ascend to such a rank? I can’t deny you’ll find yourself outclassed and un-befriended among the ladies of the peerage, but you will no doubt be consoled with the material advantages. A lavish home, generous lines of credit at all the best shops, a large settlement in the event of my death. You may pay calls, go shopping. Engage in some charitable work, if you must. Your days will be yours to do whatever you wish.” His voice darkened. “Your nights, however, will belong to me.”

“Your Grace, you called my work ‘unicorn vomit.’ You asked me to disrobe for money. Then you made the absurd declaration that you would make me a duchess, and that I should visit your bed on Monday. This entire interview is nonsensical and humiliating. I can only conclude that you are making sport of me.” He lifted one shoulder in an unapologetic shrug. “A scarred recluse must have some amusement.” “What about your full schedule of drinking and indoor badminton? Isn’t that enough?” She had lost all patience now. She enjoyed a bit of teasing, and she could laugh at herself—but she had no desire to be the object of cruel jokes. “I’m beginning to suspect Miss Worthing’s reason for jilting you. You are exceedingly—” “Hideous,” he supplied. “Repulsive. Monstrous.” “Exasperating.” He made a sound of bemusement. “So I’m being reviled for my personality? How refreshing.” Emma lifted her hands in a nonthreatening gesture. “Your Grace, I shall impose on you no further. I am going to approach the desk, pick up the coins, and then back away. Slowly.”

“Now,” he said, “perhaps you’ll pay attention. I don’t recall saying anything about a mistress. I believe I used the word ‘duchess.’” He gestured at their bleak surroundings. “I would not trouble to come here for any other purpose.” “You can’t be serious. Not really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly.” He allowed a few moments to pass. “Are you quite done listing adverbs? I should hate to interrupt.” His little penguin bounced in agitation. Ash was agitated, as well. Judging by her insistence that he couldn’t possibly want her, he suspected some other man had made her feel unwanted. That made him furious. “Listen to me, Emma.” Look, he was already thinking of her as Emma. A small, stubborn little name, Emma. It suited her. “The answer is yes,” he said. “I am serious. Really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly. And I mean to have you, completely.”

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.” He passed a hand over his face. “Dinner. Kisses. This is what I get for wedding a vicar’s daughter from the country. Girlish notions about romance.” “Believe me, being a vicar’s daughter from the country did nothing to fill me with notions of romance.” Strumpet. Harlot. Jezebel. The cruel words whispered from the shadowy corners of her memory. She tamped them down, as she’d learned to do over the years. Perhaps someday she would learn how to banish them. “I can do without a jeweled ring, or guests, or a fine gown,” she said. “I’m only asking for this one tiny gesture, to make it all feel a bit less . . . cold. More like an actual wedding.” “It was an actual wedding. The vows are perfectly legal and binding. A wedding does not require a kiss.” “I think my wedding requires one.” Her voice gathered strength. “A woman only gets one of these ceremonies, and as hasty and contractual as it’s all been thus far, I’d appreciate one small gesture that makes me feel like something other than chattel.”

“I’m so glad you’ve come. We all are.” “Thank you,” Emma said, bewildered. Surely an experienced lady’s maid would be insulted to find herself in service to a duchess who had been, until a quarter hour ago, a seamstress. Wouldn’t she? Apparently not. “Never hesitate to call upon us. We are here to serve you in any way.” “You’re very kind.” “Kind?” Mary asked. “Not at all, Your Grace. It’s clear at a glance that you’re a vast improvement over that horrid Miss Worthing. Once the duke falls in love with you, everything’s going to be so much better.” “Wait.” Emma halted in the corridor. “Once the duke falls in love with me?” “Yes, of course.” Mary clasped her hands at her breast. “What a thrill it would be if it took only a few days. Perhaps it will only take the one night! Though I suppose a few months is the more likely course. We mustn’t get too ahead of ourselves.” “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea,” Emma said. “This isn’t a love match, and I can assure you, it’s not going to become one. Not in a few days, nor a few months. Not ever.” “Your Grace, never say it. It must happen.” Mary looked over both shoulders before continuing. “You don’t understand how we suffer here. Ever since his injury, the duke has been miserable—and he’s made our lives unbearable as well. He never leaves the house, never has visitors. Never asks Cook for anything but the simplest of dishes. The staff is as lonely and bored as the duke is, and atop it we’re in the service of a master whose moods ru...

She wasn’t a seamstress any longer. She was a wife, a duchess. And she was terrified.

“You mentioned that I would have my own house.” “Yes, it’s called Swanlea. Situated in Oxfordshire. Not a grand house, but comfortable enough. The village is a few miles distant. No one’s been in residence for years, but I’ll have it opened for you.”

“What do I call you now? Not Your Grace, surely.” “Ashbury. Or Duke, if you must be more familiar.” Heavens. Being addressed as Duke counted as familiar? “I’m your wife. Surely that means I’ve earned the privilege of calling you something more friendly. What did they call you when you were younger, before you inherited? You weren’t Ashbury then.” “I was addressed by my courtesy title.” “Which was . . . ?” “The Marquess of Richmond. A title which will become my heir’s. Soon, with any luck. You may as well save it for him.” She supposed he was right. “What about your family name?” “Pembrooke? Never used it.” Emma wasn’t inclined to use it, either. Too stuffy, and it didn’t precisely trip off the tongue. “Your Christian name, then.” “George. It was my father’s name, and his father’s name before that, and the name of every third gentleman in England, it would seem.” “It’s my father’s name, too.” She shuddered. “So that’s out. We’ll have to find something else.” “There is nothing else. There’s Ashbury, or Duke. Choose one.” Emma thought on it for a moment. “No, dear husband, I don’t believe I shall.” He dropped his fork and glowered at her. She smiled. He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said. But he respects those who challenge him. If respect was what the duke had to offer, respect was what she must earn. Emma could put up a challenge. She hoped her husband was up to the task of meeting it. She reached for a nearby bowl. “Would you like more sauce, sweeting?” His fingers strang...

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 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.

“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.”

“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 soupçon 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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Tonight, this will be all business,” he announced. “In. Out. Done.” Possibly the least seductive words imaginable, but Emma was apparently a madwoman, because they excited her all the same. He did not bank the fire completely, leaving a bit of warmth and a faint amber glow. With less stumbling than last time, he joined her on the bed. He found the edge of the quilts—she’d limited herself to two tonight—and flung them back in one motion before stretching his body alongside hers. She held her breath, waiting for the first brush of exquisite contact. “Good God,” he said. “You’re naked.” Well, this wasn’t off to the most promising start. “Why would you be naked?” Had she heard him correctly? Had he truly just asked why she would be naked? How could this even be a question? “I didn’t disrobe last night only because I thought you might want to undress me.” He was silent. “Shall I undress you?” she asked. “No.” And then, with a tone of resignation, “Let’s just get on with it.” Oh, now that was too much to be borne. She couldn’t remain silent any longer. She pushed up on her elbow. “What am I doing wrong? Surely your previous lovers were active participants in the act.” “Yes, but they were experienced. A few of them professionals. You’re a wife. You’re not supposed to enjoy this, you’re supposed to lie there and endure it.” “So that’s what you expect from me. A silent, listless partner.” “Yes.” “Very well,” she said, disheartened. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t stop,” she begged, breathless. “Please. I’m fine. I promise. I’m very, very, very fine.” He hushed her. “Don’t make a move.” “Why not?” “Because we’re not alone.”

“Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?” “Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?”

“Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano.”

“Where on earth did you come from?” She was silent for a long moment. “Hertfordshire.” He laughed, without restraint or apology. “You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.” “Just try it, blossom.” He sat up in bed. “But if you insist on something else, just use Ash. It’s what my friends call me.” Or called me, when I still had friends.

Walking through the streets that night was a novel experience. Forget stalking and prowling down the darkened alleyways. Tonight, Ash was all but skipping. Gamboling. He didn’t encounter any enraging specimens of human refuse. He was no longer sexually frustrated to the point of irascibility. He felt almost . . . human again. He even strolled across an open square.

“So where are we off to tonight?” the boy asked. We? Now that was too much. Ash halted in the center of the empty square. “Just what is it you want?” The boy scratched his ear and shrugged. “To see you thrash someone new. Give some fellow what’s coming to him.” “Well, then.” Ash lifted his walking stick and gave the lad a shove with the blunt end, sending him arse-first into the shrubbery. “There you have it.”

“Listen to me. I know very well you can stitch a gown. You could be the best dressmaker in England, and I still wouldn’t permit this.” He reached for her hand and turned it palm side up, like a fortune-teller. With meaningful intent, he brushed his thumb over the calluses on her fingertips, lingering over each proof of her labor. “There’ll be no more of these now.” She was quiet for a moment. “That’s shockingly caring of you.” “It’s not caring.” “Then how would you describe it?” “As . . . something else.” Anything else. Imagining her naked was only natural. Protecting her was his duty. Caring was much too dangerous. “I don’t know. I’m not a dictionary.” She gave him a chastening yet affectionate look. A wifely look. “No, you aren’t. You are very much a man.”

“Evening’s coming on. Shouldn’t we be starting home?” “Yes, we should be. Jonas still hasn’t returned.” She tucked her skirts under her thighs and had a seat on the front step. “I suppose we’ll wait and enjoy the sunset.” They waited. And waited. The sun set. Still no Jonas. Still no carriage. It was full evening now, and fast fading to night. “Where the devil is he? He could have broken a team of wild horses by now.” A knot of suspicion formed in Emma’s stomach. “Oh, dear. I have a bad feeling about this.” “Don’t fret. He’s an experienced coachman. He won’t have encountered any serious difficulty.” “That’s not what I mean. I have a bad feeling that Jonas won’t return tonight at all. Not because of an accident, but on purpose.” “What possible purpose could that be?” Emma propped one elbow on her knee and rested her chin in her hand. “It’s the servants. All of them. They have formed this silly notion that if they force us together, we’ll . . .” “We’ll what?” “Fall in love.”

“There.” He stood back, chest heaving with exertion. “I made you a fire. You may now admire my manliness.” “I do, rather.”

“Good morning.” His gaze roamed her face and body. Why yes, I do wake up this beautiful every morning. When you leave me at night, you should know this is what you’re missing. He scratched behind his ear like a flea-bitten dog and yawned loudly before reaching for his boot. “I’m dying for a piss.” Emma blew out her breath. Fine. Sleeping Beauty and her prince they were not. In that case, she would stop pretending. “That was the worst night imaginable.” He shoved one foot into its boot. “If that’s the worst you can imagine, your imagination is lacking.” “It’s hyperbole,” she said. “You know what I mean. It was terrible.” “Perhaps. But we survived it, didn’t we.” He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet. “You’re right.” She tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt. “I’ve been through worse in the past, and I know you have, too. At least we had each other.” His gaze changed, the way it did in rare moments. Their icy blue melted to pools of deep, unspoken emotion. Compelling and dangerous. She was drawn to them. She could drown in them. “Emma, you—” He broke off and began again. “Just don’t get used to it. That’s all.” “The thought never crossed my mind,” she lied. “Good.” Emma had no logical reason to feel hurt by his words, but she did. The rumble of carriage wheels coming down the drive rescued them from the charged silence. He tugged on his waistcoat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some eviscerating to do.”

“Well, take what you wanted. Have a good, long look. And then get out.” Once he’d finished his display, Emma locked her gaze on his, careful not to let it stray. “I didn’t come here to spy on you. I swear it. Though I won’t deny that once I was here, I couldn’t help but stare.” “Of course you stared. Who wouldn’t? There are freak shows in the Tower of London that you’d have to pay a sixpence to see, and they aren’t nearly this grotesque.” “Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “Do you really have such a low opinion of me?” “I have an understanding of human nature.” He thumped a fist to his chest. “I want you to own the truth. This is hardly the first time I’ve caught you staring, even if it is the most intimate intrusion yet. Do you dare deny it?” “No. I can’t.” He advanced on her. “You came here—hid behind my settee—to indulge your morbid fascination.” She shook her head. “Admit it.” “I can’t admit it! It isn’t true. I . . .” Her voice wavered. “I do stare at you, yes. But it’s not because I find you grotesque. It certainly isn’t morbid fascination.” “Then what, pray tell, could it be?” Her heart pounded in her chest. Did she dare admit the truth? “Infatuation.” “Infatu—” He retreated a pace and stared at her. As if she’d sprouted horns. And then sprouted pansies and teacakes from the horns. Emma didn’t know what to do or say. She’d already done and said too much. Without another word, she ran from the room.

“You are such a man. And I’m stupidly attracted to you despite it. Perhaps even for it. Yes, I am certain it’s infatuation. I’ve felt it before.” Now Ash was the one who became a maelstrom of irrational emotion. That emotion being jealous anger. “Toward whom?” “Why should it matter?” “Because,” he said, “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.” “It was a young man back home, ages ago. Surely you know the feeling of infatuation. Everyone does. It’s not merely physical admiration. Your mind fixes on a person, and it’s as though you float through the days, singing a song that only has one word, thinking of nothing but the next time you’ll see them again.” “And you claim to be feeling this way. Float-ish. Singsong-ish. About me.” She sighed. “Yes.” “That’s absurd.” “I know, but I can’t seem to stop it. I have an unfortunate habit of looking for the best in people, and it makes me blind to their flaws.” “I’m entirely composed of flaws. I can’t imagine what more evidence you’d need.” “Neither do I. That’s what worries me.” She fidgeted with her linen napkin. “I mean, it will end. These things always do. Either you wake from the spell, or you fall properly in love.” “Which was it with this boy back home?” “I thought it was the second, but then he made it clear he didn’t feel the same. The illusion snapped, and I saw him for who he truly was....

“I have a confession to make,” she said. “God, I hope it’s a long one.” “Breeches isn’t my pet. Or he wasn’t, until the morning of our wedding day. I plucked him off the street. Given the nature of our arrangement, I needed something warm and cuddly to bring with me. Some creature I might be able to care for. Love.” Her lips curved into a slight, rueful smile. “The little beast didn’t even have a name until you asked me for one.”

“Of all the names that could have come to me,” she said. “Buttons. Boots. Even Pocket would have been better. But no. I had to blurt out Breeches. Do you want to know why?” “I don’t know how you expect me to give a damn right now.” He’d moved on to memorizing every contour of her thighs. “Because that’s where I’d been looking at the moment, you see. At breeches. More accurately, your breeches. Admiring how you . . .” She cleared her throat. “. . . filled them.” He lifted his head. Now he gave a damn. “Admiring,” he echoed in disbelief. “Yes. Perhaps even lusting.” That settled it. None of this was real. He was dreaming. Lord, let me never wake. “I am wildly attracted to you. Physically attracted to you. I have been from the first. And yes, I’ve done a great deal of staring.” She stepped free of her pooled chemise. “I want you with a keen, carnal passion. I won’t pretend otherwise, and I’m not going to apologize for it. Not anymore.” He swallowed hard. “I see.” “Good.” She moved toward him. Ash leapt to his feet and held her off with an extended arm. “You’ve made your point. Quite vividly. Now you may return to your bed.” “Return to my bed? Without us even . . .” She waved her hand to fill the gap in her sentence. “Why?” “Because the only activities I can imagine at the moment involve complete and utter depravity. And you”—he waved his hand in imitation—“cannot bring yourself to speak the tamest of them.” “We don’t have to do much speaking, do we?” Very well, he could demon...

“I lived in the grip of laudanum. I know what it is to crave. To tremble with wanting, be ruled by need. It nearly destroyed me. This is worse. There’s no respite. As soon as I leave your bed, I’m counting the hours until the next night.” He pulled her hips higher, forcing her to balance on her toes. “Sometimes,” he panted, “even in the middle of the day, I have to lock the library door and stroke my own cock, spending into a handkerchief like a randy youth. And it’s still not enough. It’s never enough.”

“Know this, you mammering canker-blossom.” Ash skirted the bed in ominous steps. “We will meet again. You will not know the year, nor the day, nor the hour. In the cold of every night, you will feel the flames licking at your heels. Your daily porridge will taste of sulfur. With every breath, every step, every heartbeat in the remainder of your miserable, lumpish life . . . you will quiver with unrelenting fear.” He went to the window and prepared to climb through it, disappearing into the night. “Because I will come for you. And when I do, there will be no escape.”

“The object of this marriage is to get you with child.” “Yes.” Her voice was drowsy. “I seem to recall that was our bargain.” Her head tilted to the side, and he ran his tongue along the elongated slope of her neck. She tasted both tart and sweet. Delicious. “So if we do this twice a day,” he murmured, “that would make our objective twice as likely.” “I . . . I suppose it would.” “No supposing about it.” He tweaked her nipple. “It’s simple mathematics.” After a pause, he heard a little smile in her voice. “Is it, my fawn?” Saucy, impudent wench.

No matter what he suggested, she never told him no. She always said yes. She said “yes” and “yes” and “more” and “please.”

Perhaps he had another month of “yes,” but he must never forget this: The long, bitter life stretching beyond it would always be “no.”

“What do you think of this? The Beast of Berkeley Square.” “More like the Pest of Piccadilly.” “Or we could go with something simpler. Like Doom. Or the Raven.” “I suggest Gnat. Or the Measle.” “Maybe the Doom-Raven?” Ash shook his head. “Jove that thunders, you are a menace.” “Wait. That’s brilliant. I’ll be known as”—he swiped one hand before his face, as if tracing a broadsheet’s headline—“the Menace.” Oh, indeed you will be.

“I’ll make you a bargain. I won’t pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won’t pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face.” Her demeanor softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume.” “No, you shouldn’t.”

“Come to tea with my friends Thursday next. That’s what I’m on about.” He began to object. “I’m n—” She pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. Her fingertips were scented with herbs and honey. Intoxicating. How was he supposed to stay irritated when she smelled so lickable? “Lady Penelope Campion’s house. It’s just across the square. That shouldn’t be any great trial.” She lifted an eyebrow in teasing fashion. “That is, unless you’re afraid of a few harmless spinsters.”

“Lady Penelope. A pleasure.” Ash reached for Penelope’s hand, intending to bow over it, but she only laughed. Instead, she placed her ungloved hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for a hug. As if it were nothing. “Come in, come in.” Penelope threaded her arm in his and led them inside. “And you must call me Penny. We’re old friends. I’ve seen you in your nightshirt. You don’t expect me to use ‘Your Grace,’ I hope.” “Ashbury will suffice.” “Ash,” Emma said. “He goes by Ash among friends. At home, it’s pumpkin.” He sent her a look. She smiled in return. “Ash it is,” Penny said, patting his arm.

“It’s just as we suspected.” Miss Mountbatten grinned. “The so-called monster is merely misunderstood.” “If you want to know my opinion . . .” Emma began. “I don’t,” he muttered. “I don’t think he’s a monster at all,” she finished. “In fact, I heard that he stopped by a foundling home with great sacks of sweets, and that they mobbed him with hugs and kisses. I suspect that will be in the broadsheets tomorrow.” “I suspect,” he said through a tight smile, “there will be a story of a duchess and her three accomplices jailed for slander.” After a brief pause, the four ladies broke into simultaneous laughter. 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.

She didn’t like their bargain anymore, and she was running out of time to renegotiate.

“Well . . . ?” she prompted. She looked pleased with herself and eager for praise. “It’s a finely made coat,” he said. “But do you like it?” I like it very much. But most of all, I like you—a great deal more than I ought—and even if it’s too late for me to save myself, I’m not going to give you false hope. He swung his arms. “Well, it does offer more flexibility in the arms. You know, for punching orphans and sacrificing lambs to Satan.” She returned to the boxes, stacking them with brisk, irritated motions. “Does it give you some sort of cruel satisfaction, always belittling my work? I know it doesn’t impress you, but it’s my chief talent. I’d have made a career of it, if not for—” She cut off the statement. “If not for what?” “Never mind.” “I will pay mind when and where I wish, thank you. If not for what?” “If not for you.” He blinked at her. “What could I have to do with it? What, you would have opened your own shop with your two pounds, three shillings?” “I planned to become an independent dressmaker, but I needed a way to attract my own customers. A gown that showed my best handiwork, on display at one of the largest social events of the Season.” “Annabelle’s wedding gown.” “The snow-beast pelt splattered with unicorn vomit. Yes.” He gestured expansively. “Well, I’m so sorry I interfered with your plans for a lifetime of degrading labor and gave you a life of wealth and privilege instead.” She pushed her hair back with her wrist. “Of course I wouldn’t trade one for t...