The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke, #1)

by Tessa Dare

But they seem determined to force the matter, one way or another. They’ve been concocting all manner of schemes. Telling me to trip and turn my ankle. Spill wine on my gown. They even contemplated locking us in the attic of Ashbury House. It seems they’ve settled on abandoning us here for the night.”

How dare they. Ash didn’t care about his own comfort, but to leave Emma in an empty house overnight? Insupportable. If not criminal. After a moment of grim silence, he rose to his feet. “Where are you going?” she asked. “I am going to walk into the village and find that perfidious runagate.” She leapt to her feet. “Oh, no, you won’t. You’re not leavin...

“When I woke from fever, the surgeon told me I must stretch and lift the arm every day if I wanted to keep the use of it. Otherwise the scars will heal too tight and then there’s no moving it at all. It’s as though the joint rusts over.” “So you play badminton.” “Among other things.” He struck the flint. “And it doesn’t pain you any longer?” Hurts like hell every time. “No,” he said.

“There.” He stood back, chest heaving with exertion. “I made you a fire. You may now admire my manliness.” “I do, rather.” Emma moved forward and held her hands out to warm them over the growing blaze. He had precisely three seconds to admire how her skin glowed

“If you knew the servants were scheming, you should have told me. I would have driven any such notions out of their heads.” “I tried to do just that. I told them this is only a marriage of convenience.” He wiped soot from his face with his sleeve. “Apparently you weren’t convincing.” “Well, maybe they wouldn’t be so hopeful about it if you weren’t such a miserable employer.”

“If that’s their problem, I can solve it for them. I’ll sack them all directly.” “Don’t, please. You know we’d never find replacements.” She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. “I don’t recall seeing any blankets in the house, did you?” “None. We’ll have to—” “No,” she interrupted. “We can’t. That’s exactly what they want.”

He was baffled. “What’s exactly what they want?” “Huddling.” “Huddling?” “Yes, huddling. Together. For warmth. The two of us. That’s obviously their plan, and we should refuse to play into it.” He bristled. “You don’t have to sound quite so disgusted by the idea.”...

“There!” She smacked his shoulder. “There, did you hear it just now? And there again.” Yes, he heard it. A light scraping noise that coincided with each slight breeze. “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s just the Mad Duchess.” “The Mad Duchess?” “The resident ghost. Every country house has one.” He made his voice mysterious. “The story is that my great-grandfather took a wife. A bride of convenience, for the purposes of siring an heir. She was pretty enough, but he began to regret the match soon after the honeymoon.”

“A hundred reasons. She tore down the curtains. She conspired with the servants. She called him ridiculous names. Worst, she had a demon consort that assumed the form of a cat.”

“Oh, really.” “Yes, really.” “She sounds terrible.” “Indeed. She was so much trouble, he locked her in a cupboard upstairs and kept her there. For years.” “Years? That seems extreme.”

“Extreme was what she deserved. She’d driven him mad, and he meant to return the favor. Locked her up. Tossed in a crust or a dampened sponge from time to time. On cold nights, you can still hear her scratching and clawing to get out. Do you hear it?” He paused. “There it is. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.” She swallowed audibly. “You are a cruel and horrid man, and I hope you...

“Are you eating?” he asked. “No,” she said. A few minutes of silence. There it was again. That crinkling, followed by light smacking of lips. “You’re eating something, I know it.” “I am not,” she said. At least, he thought that was what she intended to say. It came out more like, Ah mmf nah. “You little dissembler. Share.” “No.” “Very well, I’ll leave you here.” He rose to his feet. “All alone. In the dark. With the noises.” “Wait. All right, I’ll share.”

“They’re just a few boiled sweets. I bought them when we stopped to water the horses.” Ash unwrapped a morsel for himself. “The scratching sound is the branch of an oak tree that grows at the back of the house. It scrapes the windowsill of my old bedchamber. I climbed down that tree many a night to find mischief of one sort or another.” He popped the sweet into his mouth. “You’d better not give my heir that room.” “I’ll give you that room.”

“I don’t need a room,” he said, speaking around his own mouthful of sweetness. “This is your house.” “Well yes, but . . . You’ll come for visits, I assume.” “I don’t plan on it.” Her silence was astonished. “Will you not wish to see your child?” God love her. She didn’t understand. It didn’t matter if Ash wished to see his child. The child would not wish to see him.

will, of course, expect regular assurances of his well-being and education through correspondence.” “Correspondence? You would raise your own son through the post?” “I’ll be occupied. In London, and at the other estates. Besides, you’ve a surfeit of affection and bossiness. I don’t expect you’ll require my hand in his raising at all. My heir—” “Your son.”

will be far better off in your keeping.” “What if I don’t agree?” she asked. “What if I wish for him to know you? What if he wishes to not only know you, but love you, the way you loved your own father?” Impossible. Ash’s son could never admire him the way Ash

His father had been unfailingly wise, good-natured, and patient. Not ill-tempered and bitter, as Ash had become. His father had been strong. Able to lift his son onto his shoulders without wincing. His father had possessed a handsome, noble face. A face that had never failed to make Ash feel protected and secure. If Ash couldn...

“Is it the darkness?” he asked. “N-no. It’s . . .” She clung to his waistcoat. “This just h-happens sometimes.” He tightened his arms about her. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m here.” He didn’t ask her any further questions, but he couldn’t help but think them. His gut told him this wasn’t just a quirk of her character. It had an origin. Something, or someone, had caused it. Emma, Emma. What is it that happened to you? And who can I throttle to make it better? After several minutes, her shivering began to ease. So did the worry in Ash’s stomach. He’d been so concerned, he’d begun to consider attempting to carry her into the village for help.

This excursion had gone all wrong. She was meant to be enthralled with the prospect of an idyllic country life without him, and he was supposed to remind himself of his original intentions. Marry her, impregnate her, tuck her away in the country, and reunite with his heir a dozen or so years down the line.

Instead, now she was tucked securely under his arm, and he didn’t want to let her go. To make it worse, he couldn’t stop sniffing her hair. It smelled like honeysuckle. He hated that he knew that. 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.

She turned her head stealthily and looked up at him. He was still asleep, thank goodness. His spare hand lay neatly on his chest. His legs were outstretched in an arrow-straight line, crossed at the ankles. The pose was very male, very military, and it made Emma acutely aware of her own ungainly sprawl of limbs. It wasn’t only his posture that made her self-conscious. Why was it that men woke up looking just as handsome as they had when falling asleep—if not more so? Ruffled hair, an attractive shadow of whiskers. It wasn’t fair.

“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.

“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.”

“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.”

Besides, she knew him to be downstairs—clanging and grunting with poor Khan. Lord, what suffering he inflicted on the man. Emma moved into the room, pretending to have the same confidence she’d shown when exploring the others.

Her gaze tracked back to that shaving soap and razor. She’d never stopped to consider it before, but it must be astoundingly difficult for him to shave around his scars. Yet he did so anyway, every day. Every evening, too, come to think of it. When he suckled her breasts or settled between her thighs—her skin heated at the memories—she never felt the scrape of whiskers against her skin. Did he go to all that trouble just for her? The thought was deeply stirring. She felt her body softening in unconnected places. The corners of her mouth. Her knees. Her heart.

However, when she pulled the cloth aside, she did not discover a clock behind it. She found a mirror. A full-length looking glass in a gilt oval frame, cracked to pieces. A spiderweb of splinters radiated from the center. Each shard reflected at a different angle, piecing her image into a patchwork Emma. She touched her fingertips to the center of the shattered web. It looked as if someone—a strong, tall someone—had driven his fist into the glass. A lump rose in her throat.

Alexandra tugged at her elbow. “Emma, someone’s coming.” Oh, no. Someone was coming. Worse by far, she knew who it must be. Steps that heavy could only belong to one person in this house. The duke.

Oh, Lord. He’d tossed aside the coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and—as she watched—tugged his shirt free of his breeches and pulled it over his head. Her pulse stopped—and then began again as a low, painful throb. Dear heavens.

The left side of him was muscled and sculpted and Roman-godlike and all the other descriptors a woman could muster to signal attractiveness and sheer, raw lust. That ridge between his flank and his hip alone . . . the way his trousers rode it, dipping to reveal an enticing glimpse of taut, firm backside.

Emma wished she could claim she was riveted to that sight. All the places where he was strong and perfect. She wished her gaze had never wandered to the wounded side of him and stubbornly stuc...

The injuries he wore on his face were only the beginning. His torso bore a long, angry swath of scars that snaked from his neck, down the right side of his shoulder and chest, and then blaz...

As he splashed water over his face and neck, the rivulets followed a tortuous path downward. His flesh was raised and twisting, as gnarled as the bark of ancient tree. Warring scars tugged at each other with aggressive fingers. And then there were a few bits of him that were simply . . . missing. Depressi...

What a miracle that he’d survived at all. Then again, he was excessively ill-tempered and intractable. No doubt he’d simply refused to follow when death beckoned. That would be so like him. Oh, you stubborn, brave, imp...

Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her. She was seized by the urge to run to him, but she didn’t know what she’d do when got there. Kiss him, hold him, grope him, weep over him . . . ? She’d probably make a fool of herself doing all four at once. It was for the best, she supposed...

A clattering noise startled her out of her skin. Alexandra’s carnet—and its metal case—had tumbled to the floor. Sorry, she mouthed. “Who’s there?” The duke grabbed his razor from the washstand and whirled around. Emma cringed. There was nothing else to be done. “It’s me.” She popped up from behind the settee...

He stared at her with an expression that blended anger and disbelief. “Emma?” She gave Alexandra a soft kick before coming out from behind the settee and approaching her husband. “I . . . I thought you were downstairs. In the ballroo...

Behind him, Alexandra crawled out from behind the settee and began to scurry across the bedchamber carpet on all fours. 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. She asked breezily, “More badminton this afte...

“My turn to ask the questions,” he said. “What the devil do you mean, coming in here to spy on me?” “Before I continue, could you . . . put aside the blade?” He looked surprised that he was still holding the thing. He folded the razor closed and tossed it on the washstand, where it landed with a bang. “Now explain what you were doing crouched behind my settee.”