Читать книгу The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 31

Ash paced the entrance hall, tapping his walking stick against the marble floor. Every few passes, he glanced at the clock. Thanks to Emma’s peculiar friend, he trusted the timepiece to be accurate to the second.

Ten past eight.

He stopped his pacing. He was behaving like some kind of courting swain, not a duke awaiting his tardy duchess—and he was most definitely not a lovesick pup. He simply despised waiting, that was all.

Craving motion, he lifted his walking stick perpendicular to the floor and placed his hat atop it. He thrust the stick upward, sending the hat a few feet into the air, then maneuvered to catch it. The next time, he sent the hat higher. After a dozen or so repetitions, he was lofting the hat to the heights of the vaulted ceiling, then tracking its fall to snag it before it hit the marble floor.

He’d just sent the hat soaring when he caught a shimmer of red at the top of the staircase.

Emma.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said.

Ash startled, flung the walking stick aside in a stupid attempt to dispose of the evidence, and then stood motionless as his beaver hat plummeted toward the earth out of nowhere, glancing off his shoulder before crashing to the floor. It must have looked as though he’d been the target of some sort of lightning bolt from Olympus, only a more fashionable one.

She stared at him from the top of the staircase.

He decided there was only one way to deal with the situation.

Denial.

He cast an accusatory glance at the ceiling, then bent to retrieve his hat, dusting it off with an air of irritation. “I’ll get Khan on that straightaway.”

He could sense her stifling a laugh.

“The performance begins in twenty minutes,” he said.

She remained at the top of the staircase, hesitant. Well, and why wouldn’t she be? She was about to go out in public accompanied by a man who flung hats and walking sticks about at random intervals.

“If you’d rather not,” he said, “it’s all the same to me. I’ve a report from the Yorkshire estate to look over.”

“Would you prefer to stay home?”

“Only if you prefer it.”

“I want to go. I should say, I’d hate to waste Mary’s efforts.” She touched a gloved hand to her hair.

What a horse’s ass he was. She wasn’t hesitating because she was concerned about his appearance. She was waiting for him to compliment hers.

He climbed the stairs, taking the risers two at a time. When he reached her side, he was out of breath—and it wasn’t from the exertion.

The glossy upsweep of her hair was wound through with ribbons and pinned with jeweled combs. A few locks of hair framed her face in loose spirals. A touch of delicate pink warmed her cheeks, and those lush eyelashes eroded his composure with each fluttering sweep.

Her eyes outshone it all. They were wide and searching, with pupils round and large enough that he could trip into them, and irises of deep, rich brown flecked with gold.

Somewhere lower, he knew there was a sumptuous gown and exquisitely framed breasts to ogle, but he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze south of her neck. She had him transfixed.

And he’d never felt more monstrous than he did standing next to her now.

“You look . . .” His mind stretched for words. He hadn’t prepared any compliments. Not the sort she deserved, at any rate, and he didn’t suppose that she’d care to hear the truth: that the way she looked in that gown made him feel vastly unequal, and a little bit queasy.

Should he deem her exquisite? A vision? An exquisite vision?

Bah. Insipid, the lot of them. He supposed a man couldn’t go amiss with “beautiful,” overused as it might be.

“The gown’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Brilliant. Now she’d stolen his word. He was starting from nothing again.

“You would have chosen better,” he said. “And the quality could have been finer, had it not been so rushed.” He fingered the embellished edge of her sleeve. “Whoever did this stitching, her skill is certainly nothing to touch yours.”

When he lifted his eyes, he found her staring into them.

Her lips curved in a little smile. “I love it.”

He had the sudden, stupid idea that he might float down the stairs. “I’m happy to hear it.”

Happy. Now there was a word he hadn’t uttered in some time.

“You look splendid,” she said.

“I’m glad you noticed.” He puffed his chest and tugged on the lapels of the black tailcoat she’d ordered for him. “It’s the result of expert styling and the best of tailors. Did you notice the waistcoat? Stupendous.”

“I don’t know about stupendous.”

“Well, I know all about stupendousness, and I tell you, this waistcoat is the very definition.”

“I’ll take your word for it, then.”

Ash offered her his arm, and she took it. He escorted her down the staircase and out to the waiting carriage, mindful of her voluminous skirts, but never pausing. He refused to give any appearance of reluctance.

Tonight, it didn’t matter that he was scarred and hideous and would prefer to hide from society.

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

The carriage ride to Drury Lane was quiet. Too quiet. As they bounced over the cobbled streets, Emma’s fears only grew. She’d been so consumed with her tender emotions, she’d neglected to worry over the rest of it. Appearing in a grand, opulent theater surrounded by ladies whose gowns she might have stitched.

She twisted her gloved hands in her lap. Her heart throbbed like a bruised thumb.

Finally, she decided to just have out with it. “I’m anxious. Aren’t you anxious?”

His reply was a gruff, wordless expression of denial.

Emma took it as a yes. She suspected he must be as nervous as she about appearing in public, if not more so. However, she knew better than to broach the subject. “I don’t know what to expect. I’ve never been to the theater.”

“Allow me to describe it for you. There’s a stage. Players stand upon it. They bellow their lines, spraying spittle all over the boards. Sometimes a character is murdered to liven things up. We sit in the finest box in the place and observe. It’s all rather—”

The carriage made a sharp turn. Emma slid toward the outer wall of the coach. He stretched an arm about her waist and drew her back to his side. Even after the compartment righted on its springs, he kept his arm about her, holding her tight and close.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“I told you, I’m anxious.” It wasn’t a lie.

“You’re cold.” He shook his head, drawing a fold of his cloak about her shoulders. “Where is your wrap?”

“I didn’t want to cover the gown.” In truth, she was more than happy to be held against his cologne-scented warmth. “It’s not an hours-long journey.”

“No, it’s isn’t.” He peered out the window. “We’ve already arrived.”

The lane outside the theater was a mad crush. The street bustled with coaches, horses, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen, and beyond them, the grand steps of the theater’s main entrance.

They drove straight past all of it.

The coachman stopped in a side lane. Apparently they would enter through some private entrance to avoid gawking crowds. He exited the carriage first. As he helped her down, he tugged the brim of his hat low, as always. It was a dark night, portending rain.

He guided her up narrow stairs, down an even narrower corridor, and, finally, into a well-appointed box. Two velvet-upholstered chairs faced the proscenium, and on a small table nearby waited a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses.

Once they were safely within, she heard him exhale for the first time since they’d exited the carriage.

“Here.” He pushed the chairs toward the front of the box. “You must sit right up front.”

“Or we could be further back.” She nodded toward the rear of the box, away from public view. “It doesn’t matter to me where we sit.”

“It matters to me.” He thumped the seat cushion. “You should have a full view of the stage. And the rest of the audience should have a full view of you.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t order that gown just so you could hide in the shadows. This is your introduction to London society as the Duchess of Ashbury. You are going to be seen. Not only seen, but admired.”

“Yes, but—”

But that means you might be seen as well.

“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.”

“Was any of that intended as a compliment?”

He sighed curtly. “Let’s begin again. You’re my duchess. You’re beautiful. Everyone should know it.”

As she took her seat, Emma tucked his words away to treasure later. And treasure them she would.

You’re beautiful.

No matter what happened, she’d always have that. And the part about the jewel with arms, she supposed.

She peered over the edge of the box, taking in the splendor of the theater. “What play is this?” she asked, suddenly realizing she didn’t even know.

“Titus Andronicus.”

“Shakespeare?” She smiled.

“Not one of the better ones, unfortunately.”

Her puddle of a heart began seeping down toward her toes. He’d brought her to a play he’d no doubt read several times, and it wasn’t even one he particularly liked. The gown, the champagne, braving the crowds . . .

He’d done it for her, and she loved him for it.

She loved him.

She’d known it already, but tonight was the hammer pounding a duke-shaped peg into her heart. It hurt like the devil, but there would be no removing it now. Not without a great deal of bleeding.

Despite all the effort he’d undertaken, he didn’t seem to be enjoying the evening. He was restless throughout the play, tapping his fingers against his knee with impatience and grumbling about the players.

Only two scenes into the fourth act, he leaned over to murmur in her ear. “This performance is both dreadful and interminable. I’ve had enough. I’m going to order the carriage.”

“What about the end of the play? I want to know what happens.”

“The nurse is stabbed. Mutius is stabbed. Bassianus is stabbed. Saturninus is stabbed. Martius and Quintus are beheaded. Tamora dies of a stomach ailment—the cause of which you really don’t want to know—and Aaron is buried to his neck and left to starve.”

She turned to him in disbelief. “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.” With nonchalance, she laid a hand on his thigh. Then stroked a single fingertip in lazy circles.

His thigh tensed beneath her touch. “Woman, you are killing me.”

She shrugged. “As you said, it is a Shakespearean tragedy. Everyone dies; the end.”

“Enough.” He launched to his feet. “I am ordering the carriage, and we are going home. To bed. And you are going to die no fewer than ten ‘little deaths’ before I’m through with you.”

Very well. If he insisted.

Once he’d left, Emma tried, rather unsuccessfully, to return her attention to the play. The players might as well have been speaking Latin. The dialogue coasted in through one of her ears and left through the other, making no impression in between.

After a few short minutes, she rejoiced to hear the sound of the door opening. She drew to her feet, eager to leave, no longer caring about the characters’ tragic demises.

But it wasn’t the duke who’d entered the box.

It was Miss Annabelle Worthing.