The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

He lifted his mouth from hers, but he couldn’t wrench his gaze from her face. Long seconds passed before she opened her eyes, as though she were savoring the sensations. Stamping a memory. As though she’d enjoyed it.

He was a wretched fool for ever indulging her with this kiss. He’d neglected to consider that one kiss made a man want another. And another. And yet another still, each more passionate than the last.

He would have her later, in bed and often. But he wouldn’t have her like that again. He wouldn’t taste the fresh sweetness lingering where her lips had met his. The taste of...

She swayed on her feet, finding her balance. “Thank you.” It was entirely my pleasure, he thought. And I shall never forgive you for it. He said, “Dinner’s at eight.”

“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.”

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 run from black to the darkest gray. We are—all of us—counting on you.”

“You’re our only hope. The duke’s only hope, too, I daresay.”

At eight o’clock, Emma found herself seated at one end of a mile-long table. She could scarcely make out the opposite end of it. The white linen surface seemed to disappear into the horizon. A few bits of crystal and silver twinkled like far-off stars.

The duke entered, nodded in her direction, and then began a prolonged, unhurried stroll to the far end of the dining room. It took him a full minute. There, he waited for a footman to draw out his chair, and then he sat. Emma blinked at the manly dot in the distance. She needed a spyglass. Or a speaking trumpet. Both, preferably. Conversation would be impossible without them.

“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.” Emma let her spoon fall into her bowl. This was ridiculous.

She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, gathering the bowl in one hand and her wineglass in the other. The servants looked to one another, panicked, as she walked the full length of the dining table and set her food at his end. She chose the corner facing his unscarred side, to lessen the awkwardness. He looked annoyed. She didn’t care. He broke the silence. “Really?” “Yes, really. We had a bargain. I admit you to my bed; you appear at the dinner table. And we engage in conversation.”

“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, a...

“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.” “It sounds enchanting. I’d love to go for a visit. Would it be ready by Christmas?” Christmas seemed her best chance. It was only some nine weeks away. That would put Miss Palmer at nearly six months pregnant—but with luck and clever dressmaking, she might be able to conceal her condition that long.

“Your Gra—” She broke off mid-syllable, frowning. “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 befor...

“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...

If respect was what the duke had to offer, respect was what she must earn. Emma could put up a challenge. She hoped her husba...

She reached for a nearby bowl. “Would you like more sauce, sweeting?” His fingers strangled the stem of his wineglass. She could practically hear the grapes call...

“If you don’t cease that nonsense,” he said, “you will regret it.” “Is that so, my heart?” He plunked one forearm on the table and turned to face her. Piercin...

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.”

He was damnably anxious. Emma wouldn’t be the only inexperienced one tonight. He was hardly a virgin himself—but he’d never bedded a virgin before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from her quarter. Would she be merely timid, or outright terrified? How much pain was he likely to cause?

“You know, a bit of light might be a good idea.” “No. It would not be a good idea.” “I’ve seen your scars already.” “Not like this.” And not all of them. The scars on his face were merely the prologue to an epic tale of deformity.

She might be able to stomach his appearance from across the room or in a darkened carriage, even at the dinner table. But within the intimacy of the marriage bed? Unclothed, in the light? Not a chance. The point had been made painfully clear the first—and last—time he’d allowed a woman to view him that way.

“I’m over here,” she said. “This way.” He followed the sound of her voice, stumbling a bit over some carpet fringe, but otherwise arriving at the edge of the bed in one piece. After tugging at the sash of his dressing gown, he undid the knot and slipped free of the garment, setting it aside.

made no difference to him. The female body came in all shapes and sizes, and he’d never seen any reason to complain about the variety.

Ash stretched out beside her on the bed, the better to aid his explorations. He tried to murmur something soothing as he skimmed over the prominence of her hip and further upward, until he located the edge of the coverlet. But truthfully, his voice didn’t lend itself to calm tones at the moment. Years’ worth of pent-up lust coursed through his body. His cock swelled and stiffened against the bedding. By the time he grasped the hem of the coverlet and began to draw it downward, his body was ready. Very, very ready.

He drew the blanket downward and made another attempt. This time, his hand connected with a thickly padded quilt. Good God, she was layered like an onion. No wonder her leg had felt thick enough to support a small tree. “How many of these are there?” he asked, trying to locate the edge of the quilt. “Only five or so,” she answered. “Five?” He flung back the quilt, not bothering with patience any longer. “Are you attempting to deter me? Exhaust me before I even get to the act?” “I was cold. And then you banked the fire.”

When he reached for her this time, he found what he’d been seeking. Her. Emma. His bride. His hand did not land on a breast, he realized with some disappointment, but her waist instead. That would

He stroked his hand downward, over her bared hip. He gave a helpless groan. God. He wanted to touch every part of her. The tender skin at her wrist, her lips, her hair. Her hair. He wondered if her hair was undone, and whether he dared to reach for the dark, heavy silk of it, twining his fingers round and round. An imprudent idea, he decided. The way this night was going, he would probably poke her in the eye instead.

He’d meant to bring some oil to ease the way. He couldn’t go back to retrieve it. If he stopped now, Lord only knew how many layers she’d be buried under when he returned. Instead, he raised two fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, wetting them. Then he reached between her thighs. She gasped.

He parted her folds, and then pressed his second finger inside her heat. Just a fingertip at first, and then a few inches more. Goddamn. Bloody hell. Jesus Christ. Fuck. And every other bit of blasphemy he would have been thrashed as a youth for daring to say. She was so hot, so tight, and made of the same flawless silk inside as her body was without.

“Please.” Her breaking voice pierced through his haze of lust.

That accomplished, Emma turned her attention to another letter. One that was six years overdue. Dear Father, It has been much too long since we’ve spoken.

Father, Do you recall the last time we saw one another? If not, permit me to remind you. You cast me out into a storm, barred me from my home, and told me no respectable man would ever want me. Well, it is my cold pleasure to inform you now, sir—you were gravely mistaken. Someone wanted me after all, and that someone is a duke.

“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.”

“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.” Stamina. Yes. Just looking at the duke, it was plain to see that he’d been an active man, long before his injury.

“I adore badminton.” She attempted to twirl the racquet in a casual, sporty fashion. Instead she dropped it, and it bounced off her toe. She bit her lip, holding back a yelp of pain. “Whoops. How careless of me.”

She gave him a game smile. “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...

“What did you call me?” “I called you ‘darling.’ We discussed at dinner yesterday that I must call you something. I refuse to address you as Ashbury or Duke, and you didn’t like ‘dear husband’ or ‘sweeting’ or ‘heart.’” She motioned toward the shuttlecock lying on the floor. “I believe it’s your turn, darling.” “I am no one’s darling.” He batted the shuttlecock with a fierce backhand swat. To her surprise, Emma managed to scramble under the falling missile and return it. “I don’t know if you have a say in that.” “I’m a duke. I have a say in everything.”

“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.” Speaking of points, Emma had lost count of how many points she was behind.

“I warn you, I don’t give up.” “I warn you, I am more stubborn by far.” “I left home at sixteen.” “Orphaned at eleven,” he replied, sounding bored. “I walked to London by myself. In the snow.” “I marched a regiment to Waterloo.”

“I had to make a new life on my own. Begging for work. Stitching my fingers to nubs.” She dashed across the ballroom, rescuing the shuttlecock just before it hit the floor. Her swing sent it rocketing upward, almost to the ceiling. He stood beneath the bundle of cork and feathers, waiting on it to swirl back to earth. “A rocket exploded in my face. I spent months near death. The scars left me a living monster. I quit opium by sheer force of will. My intended bride turned from me in revulsion. I’m still here.” He struck the shuttlecock, driving it into the parquet at her feet. “I win.” She put a hand to her side, struggling to breathe. “Very well. You win.”

As she looked at him, her smile faded. “You are in pain.” “No, I’m not.” She prodded his bad shoulder. He winced. “It’s nothing. Nothing to concern you, at any rate.” “I am your wife. If you’re hurting, it concerns me.” Stop, he silently pleaded. Don’t do that. Don’t come any closer, don’t ask about my wounds, don’t prod at them. Don’t care.

A better man would have been grateful for such sweet concern. And a part of him was grateful. A part of him wanted to fall at her feet and weep. But that bitter, scarred-over half of his soul couldn’t stomach her pity. The devil in him would lash out at her in some unthinking, unforgivable way—until she was so busy licking her own wounds, she couldn’t spare a thought for his. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked. “Yes,” he said sternly. “You can let me be.” See? She looked wounded already. For her own sake, and that of the son she would bear him, he had to push her away.