Oh, heavens. That was . . . intimidating. Emma had no idea how to reply. She was struggling to retain a few scraps of optimism for her own future, plus a thread of hope for Miss Palmer's. Now she had a score of servants depending on her to rescue them, too?
"I have every faith in you, Your Grace." Mary beamed again and opened the door to a lavish suite. "Now this is your private sitting room. The bath is just through that door. To the other side you'll find your bedchamber, and beyond that, the dressing room. Shall I leave you for a bit to settle in? You've only to ring for me when you're ready to dress for dinner. I have so many ideas for your hair." With a little wave and a hop, she disappeared.
Emma wasn't eager to be left alone. This sitting room alone was larger than the garret she'd lived in for the past three years. It must take bushels of coal to heat. If she wouldn't have felt so foolish, she would have cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted her name--just to see if it echoed back.
As she wandered through the other rooms, her gaze skipped from one luxurious furnishing to the next. She didn't know how she'd ever dare to use them.
In the bedchamber, everything was laid out and waiting. The small assortment of belongings she'd brought with her, and many luxuries she hadn't. Fresh flowers, no doubt from a hothouse. On the dressing table, she found a silver hairbrush and hand mirror. The bed was covered with new linens, freshly pressed.
Oh, Lord. The bed.
She couldn't think about that just now.
Her one and only frock remotely fit for a formal dinner had been pressed and hung in readiness. She hoped it wouldn't be obvious that it was merely a years-old bit of rescued silk she'd used to practice new styles. The waistline had been lowered and lifted countless times. The hem had been flounced and unflounced again. Ribbon trim had been exchanged for lace, then beading. It was hardly a proper gown, but it was what she had.
She took a folded quilt from the edge of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before sitting on the hearthrug, drawing her knees to her chest, and curling into herself like a bug.
She wasn't a seamstress any longer. She was a wife, a duchess.
And she was terrified.
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.
A servant snapped open a linen napkin with a flourish, laying it across her lap. Wine was poured into her glass. Another footman appeared with a tureen of soup, which he ladled into a shallow bowl before her. Asparagus, she thought.
"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."
He took a draught of wine. "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, and oh, did we happen to discuss the weather?"
"Shall we talk about life in the country?"
"That will serve. The upper classes always talk about the country when in Town, and the Town when in the country."
"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. If Emma could have her settled in Oxfordshire by the new year, this just might work.
"The house will be ready by Christmas," he said. "However, I doubt you'll be ready by Christmas."
"What do you mean?"
He waved for the servants to remove the soup. "You won't be going anywhere until you are confirmed to be with child."
What?
Emma choked on her wine.
The servants brought in the fish course, forcing her to hold her tongue.
The moment they had some measure of privacy, she leaned forward. "Do you mean to hold me captive in this house?"
"No. I mean to hold you to our bargain. Considering that the purpose of this marriage is procreation, I cannot allow you to reside elsewhere until that goal is achieved. Or at least well under way."
She searched her brain for a reasonable excuse. "But I've been yearning for Christmases in the country. Roasted chestnuts and sleigh rides and caroling." That much was no falsehood. Passing the holiday alone in a drafty garret had been lowering indeed. "I don't see why I couldn't visit for a week."
He speared a bite of fish. "I know how these things go. A week becomes a fortnight, and then a fortnight becomes a month. Before I know it, you've run off to some seaside hamlet to hide for a year or two."
"If you believe I'd do that, you don't know me very well."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "If you believe you won't be tempted, you don't know me at all."
Emma stared at her plate. This was an unforeseen complication. Helping Miss Palmer was one of the reasons she'd agreed to this marriage. Not the only reason, of course--but an important one. At the least, Emma needed to take the young woman to the country and see her settled, even if the duke insisted she return to London afterward. Now she learned he wouldn't permit any travel whatsoever. Not unless she was pregnant first.
She supposed it was possible she could be with child by Christmas, if she conceived soon. Very, very soon. And if she didn't . . . Well, she would just have to change his mind, she decided. He couldn't deny her a brief holiday once she gained his trust.
He doesn't trust anyone, Khan had said.
Wonderful.
"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 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 strangled the stem of his wineglass. She could practically hear the grapes calling for help. She hoped that was a good sign.
"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. Piercing blue eyes, striking scars, and all. "Yes."
Despite all her intentions to challenge him unabashed, Emma found herself, inconveniently, just a little bit abashed. Perhaps she should talk of the weather.
She was saved, however, from starting a discussion about the autumn chill.
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."
Chapter Seven
Ash cinched his dressing gown and tied the sash. Then he undid it and tried again. He'd made such a tight knot on his first attempt, he'd impeded his ability to breathe.
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?
He supposed there was one comfort he could offer her. Considering how long it had been for him, the whole matter ought to be over within minutes. If not seconds.
He padded down the corridor on bare feet. When he arrived at her bedchamber, he gave a knock of warning before opening the door a few inches.
"I assume you're ready," he said.
"Yes."
"Good."
He entered, extinguishing his candle soon after. She had a few tapers of her own burning, and he went about the room snuffing them in turn. When he'd banked the fire to a dim red glow, he turned to join her on the bed.
On his first step forward, he bashed his knee on the edge of . . . something. A table? The leg of a chair?
The bedclothes rustled. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he said tersely.
"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 been made painfully clear the first--and last--time he'd allowed a woman to view him that way.
The memory remained as sharp and painful as a poison-tipped arrow.
How could I bear to lie with . . . with that?
How, indeed.
Ash had no wish to relive that moment, and not merely to preserve his pride. This was a matter of saving his bloodline. He couldn't afford to frighten Emma off. When it came to bedding, she was already timid about the enterprise. He couldn't risk giving her any further reason to demur. A man was only allowed one wife. If she didn't give him an heir, that would mean the end of his line. At least the end of the decent side of it--the one without irredeemable prats.
"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.
He settled his weight toward the foot of the mattress and reached out to grasp--well, whatever part of her he could grasp. This would be a tricky business, deflowering a virgin bride in near-total darkness. Perhaps he ought to have strategized more in advance.
It was too late now. Ash felt around the quilted coverlet until his hand landed on what seemed to be a foot. An encouraging sign. He followed upward, sketching the shape of a leg.
Hm. Her calf was a bit stouter than he'd been expecting. But then, perhaps she was one of those women formed more amply below the waist than above it. It 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.
His hand swept over the familiar knob of a knee, and then up the slope of what must be a thigh. Now he was getting somewhere. A tightness gathered in his loins.
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 peeled the quilted satin downward and prepared to lay his palm on what he expected would be the linen of her night rail, and some part of her warm body beneath. It was like playing darts blindfolded. There was little way of knowing on which target his touch would land. He would have been satisfied with a shoulder or her belly, he supposed, but by God, he was hoping for a breast. Fate owed him a stroke of luck.
He braced himself for that pleasant jolt of first contact.
No jolt occurred. Instead of her shift and tempting body, his hand connected with . . . a wool blanket? Well, then. It would seem he had another layer to remove.
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."
"I think you're playing me a trick. Perhaps I'll keep peeling these away and find there's nothing beneath them but a pair of pincushions and a broomstick."
"You're down to the last one, I swear it. Let me."
Fabric shifted beside him, and beneath it, her body wiggled in a way that was pure torture. He was desperate to be between her legs, inside her. He had a vision of her beneath him, naked. Her legs locked around his waist, and her back arched in pleasure.
Abandon that fantasy, he told himself. It wasn't going to be that way. Not tonight, not ever.
"I'm ready," she whispered.
His cock throbbed at the husky sound of her voice.
Thank God.
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 do.
He made a fist in the fabric of her shift. As he hiked the linen--only daring to raise it as far as her waist--his breath was shaky.
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 moved his hand in a lateral caress, aiming for the center of her. As his fingertips brushed the tantalizing curls covering her mound, he cursed himself. 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.
Clenching his jaw in an attempt at restraint, he focused on the task at hand. He slid his fingers up and down the seam of her cleft. Her breathing quickened--with apprehension, no doubt.
"You do understand what will happen?" he asked belatedly, his voice thick with lust. "What goes where, and all that?"
He felt her nod. "Yes."
"I'll try to be gentle with you. Failing that, I'll be quick."
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.
Her breath came faster still, thin at the edges. Damn, he was a monster. She was anxious, even fearful. He was mindless with lust. Lost in the instinctive desire to lick and taste and suck, then take her hips in both hands and thrust deep.
If this didn't happen soon, he was going to spill his seed on all five of her blankets, and the entire exercise would have been in vain.
He pushed another finger inside her, sliding in and out, stretching her body to prepare his way.
Was she ready?
He withdrew his fingers to the tips, then thrust them both inside to the hilt, driving deep.
She cried out in surprise, and her hips bucked. "Please."
Her breaking voice pierced through his haze of lust.