The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

“So what would you have me do?” She spread her arms, indicating the dozens of boxes. “Use this. Get out of the house. Take me with you. Somewhere. Anywhere.” He groaned. “Emma . . .” “It doesn’t have to be public. Surely there’s somewhere we could go without being seen. Vauxhall, perhaps. Or a masquerade. I want to spend time with you. Take me along on one of your nightly prowls about London, if nothing else.” “That’s not going to happen. None of it is going to happen.” “Because you’re too proud.” “Because I am decided. You shouldn’t presume that a few new topcoats will change my mind. We had a bargain, I remind you, and it did not include outings and jaunts about Town. Your role in this marriage is confined to precisely one purpose.” “Broodmare.” Her eyes brimmed with hurt. “Yes, I recall.” She left the room.

“Wienerbrød.” This non sequitur came from Nicola. “Your pet names for the duke,” she said, leafing through a cookery book. “Add it to the list. It’s a Viennese pastry. Wienerbrød.” Emma burst into laughter. Oh, how she’d needed that today. “Thank you, Nicola. That’s perfection.” That pet name was so thoroughly absurd and humiliating, her husband just might deserve it.

Emma deserved to be seen. And this night was for her.

“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.”

“Why would you spoil the ending?” “I didn’t spoil it. It’s a Shakespearean tragedy. They’re all that way. Everyone dies; the end.” He reached for her hand. “Let’s be going.” “Why do you want to leave so badly?” “You should want to leave, too.” His voice darkened. “Unless you want to lift your skirts and sit on my lap so I can take you right here in the box.” So she was the source of his distraction? “You are always making these suggestions as though they should be threats. Meanwhile, I’m only intrigued.”

There. There, down a narrow side lane—was that a bit of red? He jogged in pursuit. “Emma! Emma!” By the time he’d covered half the distance, she turned around. “Stop,” she shouted. “Leave me be.” He slowed to a walk. For every step he took toward her, she made one in reverse. “Can’t we discuss this somewhere less wet?” he called to her. “What is there to discuss?” “Emma, don’t play games. I know you’re distraught.” “I’m fine, Duke. That’s what you wanted me to call you, isn’t it? Duke?” “You’re clearly not fine.” He held up his hands in a truce. “Don’t mind anything she said up there. Her ire wasn’t aimed at you, it was aimed at me. Annabelle is . . . Annabelle. Still, you’ve every reason to be angry or overwrought.” She gave a defiant sniff. “There’s nothing to be angry or overwrought about, Duke.” “Really, you can cease calling me that.” She wiped the droplets from her face. “Perhaps I will use Ash, after all. It’s growing on me. So very flexible, you know. Horse’s Ash . . . Jack-Ash . . . Ash-hole. ” Very well. He deserved that. And if he had been any less desperate to get her out of this rain, he probably would have laughed.

“Do you want the truth, Emma?” The lift of her shoulders was more shiver than shrug. “Why not? We have always had honesty, if nothing else.” “The truth is this.” He took her in his arms. “I cared for Annabelle Worthing’s feelings more than I cared for yours.” She sobbed and struggled. “Then let me go.” “I’d sooner die.” He lashed his right arm around her waist and used his good hand to cup her chin, tilting her face to his. Holding it tight, forbidding her to turn away. “Look at me.” She sniffed, blinking away the rain. He gripped her chin and gave her head a little shake. “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. At last, her dark eyes tipped up to meet his.

“No, Emma. I didn’t care for your feelings. It didn’t matter if you wanted me or if you didn’t. I didn’t have the patience for courtship, couldn’t take the time to make you feel brave and witty and pretty and intelligent, and all the things I adored about you from the first. I certainly didn’t have the decency to let you walk away. I cared only for myself. Do you hear me? I only knew I had to have you.” Not only have her, but keep her. Make her his own. Even now, the thought of letting her walk away . . . he couldn’t bear it. No. He wouldn’t allow it. This wasn’t tenderness that filled him with a fiery resolve. It was possession. Pure, raw, wild. If she could glimpse the brutish, primal impulses coursing through him, she would run like a rabbit flees a ravening wolf. And he would catch her. “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.” Lightning flashed, slicing through the dark. For the briefest of moments, everything was bright and clear. The alley around them, the sky above. The space between her body and his, and every emotion she wore so bravely on her face. Just before they lost the moment to darkness, he crushed his mouth to hers in a desperate kiss.

“You’re not cold anymore?” “No.” “Good.” The flat of his palm slid up and down her arm. “Then sleep.” Her eyelids grew heavy. “Ash . . .” “Sleep.” His arm flexed, gathering her tight. “I’ll keep you warm and safe. I’ll keep you always.”

Waking in his arms was lovely. She rolled onto her other side, facing him. His gaze was tender, and his touch even more so. He skimmed a caress down her cheek, then down over her shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind her matted hair. Then his arm went around her, and he gave her a kiss that was every bit as sweet and gentle as the previous night’s was fierce and demanding. When they parted, he sighed her name. “Emma.” She touched his cheek. “Good morning, my sunshine.” He sat up in bed with a start. “Look at us. How did this happen? I thought we agreed that there would be no affection.” “We did.” “We had rules.” “There were precautions.” The left side of his mouth pulled into a smile. “Not enough of them, apparently.”

“If we married, she demanded that I agree to certain rules.” “Rules?” He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. Spoke of pain and anger and a wound that went deeper than any of his scars. Rules. Oh, no. She reached for her shift. “Surely you don’t mean—” “Husband and wife by night only. No lights. No kissing. Once she bore me an heir, we would never share a bed again.”

“I’ve been thinking, dumpling.” He flopped back on the bed and groaned. “Em-ma.” “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to call you Ash. It’s just not who you are. Ash is the dead, cold remnants after a fire. The parts that get swept away and discarded. You’re not Ash to me. You’re alive and blazing and more than a little dangerous. You always keep me warm.” Lest he grow too panicked at the praise, she decided to lighten her tone. “Besides, it’s too amusing to devil you.” “Amusing for you, perhaps.” “Let’s have a compromise. When we’re in the company of others, I will call you Ash or Ashbury. When we’re alone, you’ll allow me my little pet names.” “Fine. But you must confine yourself to an agreed upon list. No more rainbows and buttercups.” “I suppose I can do that.” He considered. “Here are the ones I’ll allow. ‘My stallion,’ ‘my buck,’ and . . . ‘my colossus of man-flesh.’” She laughed in his face at that last. “Let’s keep to the traditional endearments, shall we? Such as ‘my dear’?” “That’s acceptable.” “‘Darling’?” He made a face of disgust. “If you must.” She chewed on the pastry, trying to gather courage. “How do you feel about ‘my love’?” He stared deeply into her eyes, as though questioning her sincerity. However, she knew it wasn’t what lay within her that mattered—it was whether he’d allow himself to believe the words. The familiar shields overtook his expression, closing the door on possibility. “‘My stallion’ it is.” Emma was disappointed, but she decided not to press th...

“Over the years, I’ve thought of you often,” he said. “Worried over you. Prayed.” “I’m not certain I can believe that. If you found me this easily now, why not years ago? If you worried, why did you never send a letter, never ask whether I had enough to eat or coal to keep warm at night? You didn’t care. You probably thought it my due penance.”

“Begone, you beetle-headed gudgeon.” Oh, the look on his face. For as long as she lived, she would laugh whenever she recalled it. “Beetle-headed . . . ?” He huffed with offense, and his face turned purple with rage. “You will not speak to me that way, Emma Grace Gladstone.” “Emma Grace Gladstone,” she echoed. “No, Emma Grace Gladstone would not have dared to speak to you that way. But I’m Emma Grace Pembrooke now. The Duchess of Ashbury. And if you ever speak to me again, you will address me as Your Grace.”

“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.”

“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.”

“You are a clever one, aren’t you. All this time, you’ve been scheming. No wonder you were eager to spread your legs for me in every corner of the house. The faster you dispatched your duty to get pregnant, the sooner you’d make your escape. Isn’t that so?” “It is not so!” Emma slammed her hairbrush onto her dressing table. “How dare you. How dare you imply that what we shared is tawdry and cheap. How could you even think that of me?” She fumed at a jumble of hairpins. “All this because I’ve asked you to take me to a ball.” “If I wanted to attend balls, I would have married Annabelle and I’d be hosting one tonight. I married you expressly to avoid that ordeal.” She wheeled on him with a glare that he richly deserved. “Lord, how I hate that woman. She made you feel like a monster, and ever since, you’ve devoted yourself to making it the truth. I can tell you a hundred times over how much I want you, how deeply I love you—and yet you still choose to believe her word over mine. She made you impossible to live with, and entirely too difficult to love.” “Well,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to spare you any further difficulty.” “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” “I’m not certain I know you at all.”

“You are afraid,” she said. “I’m not afraid.” “You are afraid of everything. Of being loved. Of loving. Of being a father to your own child. And you are starting a row with me because you’re terrified of attending a godforsaken ball. Thunder all you like, Ash. You’re not fooling me.” “You’re not fooling me, either. None of this nonsense you’re planning has anything to do with Davina Palmer. It’s all about you. Don’t pretend otherwise. By telling her to run from her father, you think you can settle a score with your own.” They stood in silence for a moment, looking everywhere in the room but at one another. “I’m sorry this all came as a surprise,” she said. “I should have told you about Davina. Not trusting you with the secret was my mistake. But I don’t believe I’m making a mistake in helping her.” “Fine,” Ash said wearily. “Go to this ball. Lie to everyone. Take a vulnerable girl from her family and hide her in the country if you like. I won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go along.” “I’ll go on my own if I must, but let’s not part in anger.” “There’s no anger. Why would I be angry? You’re absolutely right. We had an agreement. You allow me to get you with child, and I give you a house.” “I love you. You know that.” Did he know that? He heard her say the words, yes. But after the past quarter hour, he wasn’t certain he believed them anymore. No, that wasn’t fair to her. He wasn’t certain he’d ever believed them, or that he ever could.

“Listen to me, will you? If she wants to leave for the country, that’s best.” He passed a hand over his twisted face. “She doesn’t need me.” “Of course she doesn’t need you.” Khan’s indignant words rang through the ballroom. “Only a fool would underscore it.” “What am I supposed to do, then?” Khan gave a long-suffering sigh. “Go. To. The. Ball. Whether you agree with her or not. Whether she goes to Swanlea or not. You know how Miss Worthing will be salivating to tear her apart. If you send her to face that on her own, you’re no better than the rest of them. First that rotter Giles—” Ash frowned. “Who’s Giles?” “The squire’s son. In Hertfordshire. Don’t tell me she hasn’t—” “Yes, yes. Of course she told me. I didn’t ask for the blackguard’s name.” Khan began again. “First Giles. Then her father. Next, that villain Robert . . .” “Wait, wait, wait. There was a Robert?” The butler winged the last cricket ball. “Robert. The one who made a pretense at courting her, when his true goal was to learn about the ladies who came into the modiste’s shop? The one who eloped with a rubber heiress? She must have told you this.” Not only did Ash not know about Robert—he didn’t even know there could be such a thing as a rubber heiress. Khan stalked about the ballroom, gathering the errant cricket balls into the basket. “Every one of those men failed Emma in the same way: He chose protecting his own pride over standing by her. And now you’ve done the same. You’d rather skulk about London play...

“You’re here,” he repeated, taking her hand and drawing it against his chest, right above his pounding heartbeat. “In my heart. Somehow you crashed your way into it when I wasn’t looking. The same way you barged into my library, I suppose. But you’re here now, inside. Emma, you’re the very life of me.”

“Our children will love you.” She turned in his embrace, putting her arms around his neck. “Just as I do. When they’re still in arms, they’ll tug at your ears and tweak your nose, and coo and laugh just as all babies do. A few years later, and they’ll beg to ride on your shoulders, never caring if one of them is injured. When they go to school, they will be nothing but proud. A father who’s a scarred war hero? What could be more impressive to boast about in the schoolyard?” “Being injured in battle doesn’t make a man a war hero.” She stared deep into his eyes. “Being their father will make you their hero.” His heart twisted into a knot. Drawing him down to her, she pressed her forehead to his, nuzzling. “It will make you my hero, as well.”