The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

Emma Gladstone had learned a few hard lessons by the age of two-and-twenty.

Most of the time, a girl needed to rescue herself. This afternoon was one of those times.

Good afternoon. I’m Miss Emma Gladstone. I’m here to see the mysterious, reclusive Duke of Ashbury. No, we aren’t acquainted. No, I don’t have a calling card. I don’t have anything, really. I may not even have a home tomorrow if you don’t let me in. Oh, good heavens. This would never work.

From his library desk, Ashbury heard an unfamiliar ringing sound. Could it be a doorbell? There it came again. It was a doorbell. Worse, it was his doorbell.

I don’t know what the devil you’ve been doing for the past year, but the state of my affairs is deplorable. Sack the Yorkshire land steward directly. Tell the architect I wish to see the plans for the new mill, and I wish to see them yesterday. And there’s one other thing that requires immediate attention.

Ash hesitated, quill poised in midair. He couldn’t believe he was actually going to commit the words to paper. But much as he dreaded it, it must be done. He wrote: I need a wife.

He supposed he ought to state his requirements: a woman of childbearing age and respectable lineage, in urgent need of money, willing to share a bed with a scarred horror of a man. In short, someone desperate. God, how depressing. Better to leave it at that one line.

I need a wife. Khan appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, I regret the interruption, but there’s a young woman to see you. She’s wearing a wedding gown.”

“Well, that’s uncanny.” Perhaps his solicitors weren’t as useless as he thought. He dropped his pen and propped one boot on the desk, reclining into the shadows. “By all means, show her in.”

He was blinded. Not by her beauty—though he supposed she might be beautiful. It wasn’t possible to judge. Her gown was an eye-stabbing monstrosity of pearls, lace, brilliants, and beads. Good Lord. He wasn’t accustomed to being in the same room with something even more repulsive than his own appearance.

was shielding himself from . . . from that.

“I’m sorry to impose on you this way, Your Grace,” the young woman said, keeping her gaze fixed on some chevron of the Persian carpet.

“I should hope you are.” “But you see, I am quite desperate.” “So I gather.” “I need to be paid for my labor, and I need to be paid at once.” Ash paused. “Your . . . your labor.” “I’m a seamstress. I stitched this”—she swept her hand...

“When your engagement ended, she never sent for the gown. She’d purchased the silk and lace and such, but she never paid for the labor. And that meant I went unpaid. I tried calling at her home, with no success. My letters to you both went unanswered. I thought that if I appeared like this”—she spread the skirts of the white gown—“I would be impossible to ignore.” “You were correct on that score.” Even the good side of his face twisted. “Good Lord, it’s as though a draper’s shop exploded and you were the first casualty.”

“Miss Worthing wanted something fit for a duchess.” “That gown,” he said, “is fit for a bawdy-house chandelier.” “Well, your intended had . . . extravagant preferences.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t even take the whole thing in. It looks like unicorn vomit. Or the pelt of some snow bea...

“This embroidery alone . . . I worked for a week to make it perfect.” She skimmed a touch along the gown’s neckline. Ash followed the path her fingertips traced. He couldn’t see embroidery. He was a man; he saw breasts. Slight, enticing breasts squeezed by that tortured bodice. He enjoyed them almost as much as he enjoyed the air of determination pushing them high.

He snapped his fingers. “I have it. Your father is a scapegrace. In debtor’s prison. Or spending the rent money on gin and whores.” “My father is a vicar. In Hertfordshire.”

Ash frowned. That was nonsensical. Vicars were gentlemen. “How does a gentleman’s daughter find herself working her fingers to nubs as a seamstress?”

“Sometimes life takes an unexpected turn.” “Now that is a grave understatement.”

“The broken engagement must have been a blow. Miss Worthing seemed a lovely young woman.” He counted money into his hand. “If you spent any time with her, you know that isn’t the case.” “Perhaps it’s for the best that you didn’t marry her, then.” “Yes, it was excellent foresight that I destroyed my face before the wedding. What bad luck it would have been if I’d waited until afterward.” “Destroyed? If Your Grace will forgive me saying it, it can’t be that bad.”

He snapped the lockbox closed. “Annabelle Worthing was desperate to marry a man with a title and a fortune. I am a duke and ungodly wealthy. She still left me. It’s that bad.”

He stood and turned his ruined side to her, offering her a full, unobstructed view. His desk was in the most shadowy corner of the room—and purposely so. The room’s heavy velvet drapes kept out much of the sunlight. But scars as dramatic as the ones he wore? Nothing but complete darkness could obscure them. What bits of flesh had escaped the flames had only been ravaged further—first, by the surgeon’s knife and then, for hellish weeks afterward, by fever and...

He prepared to hand over the money, bidding her—and that gown—a grateful adieu. Before he could do so, she exhaled decisively. “Fine.” Her hands went to the side of the gown. She began to release a row of hooks hidden in the bodice seam. One by one by one. As the bodice went slack, her squeezed breasts relaxed to their natural fullness. The sleeve fell off her shoulder, revealing the tissue-thin fabric of her shift. A wisp of dark hair tumbled free, kissing her collarbone.

Jesu Maria.

“Stop.” She froze and looked up. “Stop?” He cursed silently. Don’t ...

could scarcely believe he’d managed the decency to say it once. He’d been on the verge of a private show for the price of two pounds, three. Significantly higher than the going rate, but a bargain when the girl was this pretty. Not to mention, she was a vic...

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.”

A duchess? Well. Emma was grateful for one thing. At least now she had an excuse to stare at him.

The contrast was extreme. The injured side of his face drew her attention first, of course. Its appearance was tortured and angry, with webs of scar tissue twisting past his ear and above his natural hairline. What was more cruel—his scarred flesh stood in unavoidable contrast with his untouched profile. There, he was handsome in the brash, uncompromising way of gentlemen who believed themselves invincible.

Emma didn’t find his appearance frightful, though she could not deny it was startling. No, she decided, “startling” wasn’t the right word. Striking. He was striking.

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.”

“Your Grace, do you feel feverish?” “Not at all.” “Perhaps you ought to have a lie-down. I could send your butler for a physician.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Do you need a doctor?” “Maybe I do.” Emma touched one hand to her brow. Her brain was spinning.

Oh, Lord. Perhaps she’d given him the wrong impression with her willingness to disrobe. “Are you—” There seemed no way to say it but to say it. “Your Grace, are you trying to get me into your bed?” “Yes. Nightly. I said as much, not a minute ago. Are you listening at all?” “Listening, yes,” she muttered to herself. “Comprehending, no.”

“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.”

She stiffened her posture. “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.”

can’t tell him. He’s a painter. I met him when he came to paint the portrait of our dogs, and I . . . It doesn’t matter. He’s gone. Went to Albania in search of ‘romantic inspiration,’ whatever that means.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re shut for the eveni—” “You’re not shut for me.” She found herself pushed aside as a man bulled his way through the door. He wore a dark cape and a tall hat with its brim pulled low, concealing most of his face—but she knew him at once. Only one man would have behaved in such a presumptuous manner.

The Duke of Ashbury. “Miss Gladstone.” He inclined his head in the slightest possible nod. “I told you we’d meet again.” Oh, Lord.

“How did you know where to find this shop?” she asked, suspicious. “Did you follow me?” “I am a duke. Of course I didn’t follow you. I had you followed. It’s an entirely different thing.”

But it was too late. Now, as she looked up at him, all she could see was a man. One with searching blue eyes and a hidden heart beating in a strong, defiant rhythm. A man with wants, needs. Desires. A man who’d reached out for her yesterday, and now . . . And now gave every indication of leaning in for a kiss.

Ash had never wanted to kiss a woman more. He wanted to kiss her so badly, he could taste it. He’d devour the pink sweetness in those lips, stroke all the tart words from the tip of her tongue. Teach her a lesson or two. Leave her breathless. Rattle her to her bones.

He wanted to do far more than kiss her, of course. As he leaned forward, he could peer through the gap of her fichu and catch a glimpse of the valley between her breasts—that dark, fragrant rift that held so many promises of pleasure. By Venus’s hand.

He stroked a callus on the tip of her second finger. It made him angry. A gentleman’s daughter should have soft hands, but life had hardened her in these small ways. He had disturbing fancies of lifting her hand to his lips and kissing all that hurt away. She sucked in her breath, as if she could read his thoughts. Or maybe her own thoughts had startled her.

“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.”

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.”

“If it’s a wife you want,” she said, “surely you could find many women—many well-bred ladies—who would be willing to marry you.”