Читать книгу The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm - Candace Camp, Candace Camp - Страница 37

Emma straightened, pushing the hair from her face. The perspiration on her brow and chest had turned ice-cold. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her face and neck. Then she poured herself a thimble of sherry from a decanter on the sideboard and rinsed her mouth before spitting it into the unlucky potted plant she’d befouled.

“I tried to warn you,” he said from behind her. “You should have listened. I told you it was for your own good. But you insisted anyway.”

She turned to face him. “I don’t understand. What are you going on about?”

“It was the same with—” He broke off.

With Annabelle, she finished in her mind.

He pulled together the torn sides of his shirt. “I knew this would happen. Not that I blame you. It’s repulsive, and that’s a simple fact. I’m not angry.”

“Is that what you think?” She put a hand to her brow, then dropped it. “Oh, Ash. You darling idiot. I am not sick with revulsion. I am pregnant.”

He blinked and stumbled sideways. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?” She smiled. “I’ll explain it. On nearly every night since we married, and a goodly number of the days as well, you penetrated me with your manly organ and spilled your seed in the vicinity of my womb. That particular act—especially at the frequency we’ve practiced it—commonly results in conception.”

“But you had your courses.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said you were feeling poorly. You kept to your bed for four days.”

“I was feeling poorly. I’d caught a cold.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I did tell you. In the note. I worried the ailment might be catching, and I didn’t want to pass it to you or the servants. Do fine ladies really take to their beds for days every month? I can assure you, seamstresses don’t have that luxury.”

“Let’s move on from the menstruation habits of the upper classes, please. What I’m saying is, you should have mentioned this to me before now.”

She turned aside. “It was too early to be certain.”

“You missed your courses. You’re vomiting. You swooned after the theater. And, now that I think about it, your recent appetites have been variable in more ways than one. Be honest, Emma. You must have suspected this for weeks.”

“Perhaps.”

He caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “Then why would you hide it from me?”

“Because of our bargain! You said from the start, once I’m with child, it would be over, and . . .” Her voice faltered. “And I didn’t want it to be over.”

“Oh, Emma. Who is the darling idiot now?” He placed his hands on either side of her face. “It isn’t over. It could never be over. I’d sooner die than let you go.”

“Then I want to be with you. Live with you. Wake in the same bed every morning, dine together every evening. Bicker and make love and . . . play badminton if you truly insist. Raise our children together.”

He tensed, just as she’d feared he would. “I’m not good with children.”

“That’s not true. What about Trevor?”

“Trevor is abnormal. Highly abnormal.” He jabbed a finger in his own chest. “You know I’m impatient. Irritable. Demanding.”

She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Also caring. Loyal. Protective.” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “So you’re imperfect. Who isn’t? Being imperfect is better than being distant.”

He folded her in an embrace, tucking her head protectively under his chin, but Emma didn’t feel entirely comforted.

“I would never abandon you. You know that. I will provide for every—”

“Providing is not enough. Children shouldn’t be strangers from their fathers. No matter what they are told, or what reasons they are given—they will always fear, deep down, that it’s their fault. I know you wouldn’t want to hurt your child that way.”

“Emma . . .”

“You had a wonderful, loving father. You lost him to illness far too soon, but you never doubted that he loved you. I spent the entirety of my childhood wondering what I’d done wrong. Asking myself, how had I failed? Why couldn’t I earn his love?”

He clutched her tight and murmured soothing words.

“And when I couldn’t win my father’s affection, I tried chasing after it elsewhere. From the most inadvisable sources. Like a squire’s son who was already promised to another.”

“Like a hulking, misanthropic monster of a duke.”

“That’s not what I meant. I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”

“I wish we’d met years ago.”

“Oh, yes. Back when you had your choice of any lady in England?” She laughed softly. “You would never have looked at me.”

“I want to contradict that. But I was excessively stupid then. You may be right.”

“I’m right about a great many things. And I’m telling you this: Our child needs his father in his life. Not just occasionally, and not through the post.”

She pulled back and looked up at him. Worry etched his face. He doubted himself. And when a strong man doubted himself, it meant something. Ash wouldn’t undertake any endeavor—especially not one so important as this—if he wasn’t certain he could do it, and do it well.

Emma couldn’t solve this with words or kisses. He would have to work through it himself.

“There’s plenty of time,” she whispered. “It’s not as though the babe will be born tomorrow. By my counting, you have seven months to grow accustomed to the idea.”

“You say a father shouldn’t be distant. But I’m not good at letting anyone close.” He set his jaw. “I don’t know that seven months could be enough.”

She tried not to sound disheartened. “I’ll admit, you do have a very thick skull. But I have my ways of getting through it.”

Or she would have her ways, she vowed.

Just as soon as she thought of some.

Emma had never been one for late-night eating. But then, she’d never been pregnant before.

It was well past midnight. She was just emerging from the pantry into the kitchen—a plate heaped with cold roast beef in one hand, a crock of blackberry preserves in the other, and a buttered roll clenched between her teeth—when a sinister figure appeared in her path. The looming black silhouette stood between her and the lamp she’d left on the table.

Emma screamed.

That was to say, she screamed through a buttered roll. The sound that came out was less of a proper shriek and more akin to Mraarrrmghhffff! The crock of preserves crashed to the floor. In her panic, she flung the contents of the plate at her attacker.

“Your Grace, it’s me.”

“Mmmmf?” She turned her head and spat out the roll. “Khan?”

“Yes.” He peeled a slice of beef from his neck.

“I’m so sorry. You startled me.”

He crouched at her feet and began to gather pieces of broken crockery. “Quite understandable. I should have dodged.”

“I was hungry,” she confessed, kneeling to help him clear the mess. “I didn’t want to wake anyone. On that note, I should think you’d be sleeping in bed.”

“One of the footmen woke me.” He took the bits of crockery from her, then wiped her hands with a bit of muslin toweling. “Apparently a young woman showed up sobbing on the doorstep, asking for you. They’ve put her in the parlor for now.”

“Oh, no.”

Davina.

Emma abandoned the plates of food and rushed down the corridor to the parlor. She found Davina on the settee, her face buried in her hands.

“Oh, dear.” Emma went to sit beside her and clasp her in a tight embrace. “How is it you’re here?”

“I slipped out. My father is a sound sleeper. He never notices any comings and goings at night.” She put a hand on her belly. “That’s rather how I landed in such a muddle.”

“What’s happened?”

The girl shed hot tears on Emma’s shoulder. “My maid discovered the truth. She knows I haven’t had my courses in months, and when she confronted me . . . Oh, I’m not a convincing liar.”

“That’s because you’re a good-hearted person.”

Davina sniffed and sat straight. “She threatened to tell Papa unless I do. And I can’t tell Papa. I just can’t. He’ll be so upset.”

Sympathy caught Emma’s heart and wrung it with vigor. “Oh, Davina.”

“I just feel so alone.”

“You aren’t alone. I made a promise to help you, and I mean to keep that promise.” She patted the girl’s hand. “I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to approach your father for his blessing, but we’ll go without it if we must. You can stay here tonight, and we’ll make the journey to Oxfordshire tomorrow.”

“Wait. There’s one more chance. We can still gain Papa’s permission properly.”

“How?”

“There’s to be a ball tomorrow night. The last before most of the ton leaves for Christmas.”

“At your house?”

“No. I’m only invited. But if you and the duke could attend . . .”

“I don’t know, dear. I wish I could say yes, but—” She hesitated. “The duke is reluctant to attend parties or balls. He rather despises them. And to appear at one without an invitation . . .”

“A newlywed duke and duchess? No one would turn you away.” The girl took Emma’s hand and squeezed. “Please, Emma. I’m begging you. If I run away, I might be able to hide this from Papa for a few weeks longer—but he’s bound to discover the truth. This is the only chance.”

“Then we must take it.” Emma steeled her resolve. She didn’t want to attend a ball. Ash would most certainly prefer a needle to the eye. But Davina needed this, and she couldn’t let the girl down. “You’d better go before you’re missed. I’ll call the carriage to take you home.”

Minutes later, Emma walked a tearful Davina down to the coach and bid her farewell with a tight hug.

After the footman closed the carriage door, Emma rapped on the window. “I almost forgot to ask,” she said loudly, as to be heard through the window glass. “Who is hosting this ball?”

Davina half-shouted in reply as the carriage rolled away.

Her answer destroyed Emma’s appetite.

Ash confronted Emma in the entrance hall, just as she closed the door behind her. “Who was that? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“There wasn’t time to explain.”

“There’s time now.” He followed Emma as she mounted the stairs.

“I’m sorry. There truly isn’t. I’ll need to pack my things, but that can wait until tomorrow. First I must come up with the gown.”

“The gown?” Ash was utterly lost. What the devil was she on about? “You need to slow down and tell me everything. From the beginning.”

“The girl in the parlor was Miss Davina Palmer. I used to stitch her gowns at the dressmaking shop. She’s young, she’s pregnant, and she’s absolutely terrified, with nowhere else to turn. I promised I’d help her. I have to help her. That’s why we’re going to a ball tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s properly tonight, I suppose.”

What?

Once they’d moved into her bedchamber, he shut the door behind them. “I fail to understand how our attendance at a ball is going to help a young lady who finds herself in a such a situation.”

“It’s quite simple. I’m going to invite Miss Palmer to visit me at Swanlea. However, she will need her father’s permission to accept the invitation. In order for that to happen, we need to make the acquaintance of her father. Therefore, we are going to a ball.”

Emma passed into her dressing room and began rifling through her wardrobe, choosing a pair of stockings and silver-heeled slippers, then bringing them back to the bed. “Drat. If only the red silk hadn’t been ruined in the rain. I’ll have to come up with something else, and quickly. Thank heavens I ordered you a new tailcoat and black trousers when I chose your wardrobe.”

Ash leaned his elbow atop the chest of drawers, exhausted. It was the middle of the night, after all. Perhaps he was dreaming all of this.

“I’m not attending the Palmers’ ball.” He added, “Neither are you.”

“It’s not the Palmers’ ball.” She paused. “It’s the Worthing family’s affair.”

Ash required several moments to recover his powers of speech. “The Worthing family?”

“Yes.”

She wanted to attend a ball at Annabelle Worthing’s house. Jesu Maria. Unthinkable.

She said, “Believe me, I’m not happy about it, either. Of course I’d rather it were anywhere else. But it isn’t, and this must be done.”

She’d gone mad. He blamed her delicate condition. Apparently pregnancy took a woman’s sense and launched it out the nearest window.

“Ash, please. I would never ask for myself. But Miss Palmer has no one else.”

“What of the child’s father? What of her own family?”

“She can’t confide in them.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The fact that she told me so. She may be a young woman, but she is a grown woman. She knows her own mind . . . even if she does not understand the precise workings of human breeding organs.”

“How would inviting her to Swanlea help?”

“She wants to give birth in secret and find a family to raise the child. If she does so in the country, she can return to London for the Season next June with no one the wiser.”

“No.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “No. Never mind the ball. You’re not going to make off with a pregnant young woman and embroil us both in a months-long deception. I will not permit it, and I will certainly not be a part of it.”

“Ash, please. If you truly—”

He held up a hand. “Stop right there. Do not play that game.”

“What game?

“The if-you-loved-me-you’d-do-as-I-ask game. Because I can volley it right back at you. If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask. If you loved me, you would trust my judgment. If you loved me, you’d give me back my draperies. It’s nothing but a weak attempt at blackmail, and if you’re going to sink that low, at least demand something that involves jewels or nakedness.”

She found a pair of elbow-length gloves and added them to the growing heap on the bed. “One of us will have to give. We can’t both have our way on this.”

“Then I get my way.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a man, and your husband, and a duke.”

Emma responded to that the way he suspected she would—by skewering him with an irritated look. However, at least she stopped careening about the room like a billiard ball.

She sank onto the edge of the bed. “I have to help her, Ash. You must understand why. That could have been me.”

“Yes, but it isn’t you.” He crossed to sit beside her. “Be honest. Are you doing this for Miss Palmer, or for yourself?”

“I’m doing it for Miss Palmer. And for myself. And for all young women who find themselves punished for no greater crime than following their hearts. Davina has only a few choices left to her, but those choices belong in her hands. Not her lover’s, not her father’s. Most definitely not yours.”

“That would be all well and good, and I would not argue with it—if you weren’t planning to use my house for this deception.”

“I’m not using your house. I’m going to use my house. The one you promised me from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a matter-of-fact look. “You told me I could go to Swanlea once I was pregnant. Well, I’m pregnant.”

Despite the early-morning darkness outside, for Ash the room was suddenly unbearably bright. Clocks ticked and the fire crackled, and the sounds were a clamor in his brain. He needed to shut them out. To shut everything out.

Oh, God.

Emma was absolutely correct. He had told her, in their first week of marriage, that she might go to Swanlea as soon as she was with child—and not before. And from that day on, she had worked quite diligently to make that pregnancy happen.

“So this isn’t a recent plan you’ve devised. You’ve been planning this from the start.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t fault me for having practical reasons for accepting your proposal, when you know very well you did, too. It was a marriage of convenience for us both, at first.” She rose from her bed and went to her dressing table.

He passed a hand over his face. “This explains everything. Why you were so keen to have Swanlea readied by Christmas. Why you peppered me with all your little endearments. You told me you were infatuated. Carnally attracted to my body, the freakish horror it is. God, how laughable. You must think me a fool.”

He was a fool. He should have known better than to believe any woman could see him that way.

Pacing the room back and forth, he made his voice light in imitation. “‘Take me to the theater. Come to Penny’s for tea. Let me dress you up in smart new attire. Oh, you’re so splendid and handsome.’”

“Ash, you are being absurd.”

“I let you call me bunnykins,” he growled. “Now that was absurd.”

“You think that was bad? Oh, I’m just getting started. You are such a wienerbrød.”

He sputtered. “That is the vilest thing I’ve ever heard. And I don’t even know what it means.”

“It’s an Austrian pastry.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s probably delicious, but if I had one right now, I would lob it at your head.”

“You are a clever one, aren’t you. All this time, you’ve been scheming. No wonder you were eager to spread your legs for me in every corner of the house. The faster you dispatched your duty to get pregnant, the sooner you’d make your escape. Isn’t that so?”

“It is not so!” Emma slammed her hairbrush onto her dressing table. “How dare you. How dare you imply that what we shared is tawdry and cheap. How could you even think that of me?” She fumed at a jumble of hairpins. “All this because I’ve asked you to take me to a ball.”

“If I wanted to attend balls, I would have married Annabelle and I’d be hosting one tonight. I married you expressly to avoid that ordeal.”

She wheeled on him with a glare that he richly deserved. “Lord, how I hate that woman. She made you feel like a monster, and ever since, you’ve devoted yourself to making it the truth. I can tell you a hundred times over how much I want you, how deeply I love you—and yet you still choose to believe her word over mine. She made you impossible to live with, and entirely too difficult to love.”

“Well,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to spare you any further difficulty.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I’m not certain I know you at all.”

Ash was well aware of the cutting edge in his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften it. He was wounded, reeling, and that familiar, detestable impulse overrode his thinking. That need to lash out at her—to render her too occupied with her own wounds to look closely at his.

It wasn’t working, though. It never had worked, not on her.

“You are afraid,” she said.

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are afraid of everything. Of being loved. Of loving. Of being a father to your own child. And you are starting a row with me because you’re terrified of attending a godforsaken ball. Thunder all you like, Ash. You’re not fooling me.”

“You’re not fooling me, either. None of this nonsense you’re planning has anything to do with Davina Palmer. It’s all about you. Don’t pretend otherwise. By telling her to run from her father, you think you can settle a score with your own.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking everywhere in the room but at one another.

“I’m sorry this all came as a surprise,” she said. “I should have told you about Davina. Not trusting you with the secret was my mistake. But I don’t believe I’m making a mistake in helping her.”

“Fine,” Ash said wearily. “Go to this ball. Lie to everyone. Take a vulnerable girl from her family and hide her in the country if you like. I won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go along.”

“I’ll go on my own if I must, but let’s not part in anger.”

“There’s no anger. Why would I be angry? You’re absolutely right. We had an agreement. You allow me to get you with child, and I give you a house.”

“I love you. You know that.”

Did he know that?

He heard her say the words, yes. But after the past quarter hour, he wasn’t certain he believed them anymore.

No, that wasn’t fair to her.

He wasn’t certain he’d ever believed them, or that he ever could.

“It’s late.” She approached him. “Let’s go back to bed. It will all seem more clear in the morning.”

He held her off with an outstretched hand. “I think it’s all clear to me now. I’ll send an express straightaway to Swanlea, directing the staff to prepare for your arrival. You’ll have the coach, of course. You may leave with Miss Palmer as soon as you wish. I’ll have Mary follow with the rest of your things.”

Ash knew he was about to go too far. Strike too hard, cut too deeply. If he were the man she needed, he would hold back—but he wasn’t a whole, healthy man any longer. A few parts of him were missing. Many others were twisted beyond recognition, both inside and out. He was too embittered to deserve her love, too misshapen to hold it.

And he was too damned ugly to stand at her side. In a ballroom, or anywhere.

This was the reason, he reminded himself, that he’d insisted on a temporary arrangement. This situation with her friend was a timely reminder. Their marriage was never supposed to last.

“Ash, don’t do this.”

He put his hand on the doorknob and prepared to leave. “As you say, our bargain is satisfied. You needn’t come back.”

You needn’t come back.

Emma stared at the closed door. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She’d been turned away like this before, and she recognized the feeling. As if her stomach had been tossed off the cliffs of Dover. Tied to a rock. Which was tied to an anvil.

But then, she had no one to blame but herself.

Her heart was a fool, and apparently she would never, ever learn.

Fortunately, she didn’t have time to stand about weeping. There was work to be done.

She needed a gown. Not just a gown, but the gown. Luxurious, elegant, impeccable. A gown that screamed not merely wealth, but refinement and exquisite taste. She needed to look like a duchess.

After years of using her skills to bring out the beauty in other women—and the occasional undeserving man—she must turn that eye on herself today. Take a hard look in the mirror. Stop focusing on faults that needed concealing, and look for the beauty that could be drawn out.

She had one day. And precious little to work with, save some yards of sapphire-blue velvet draperies and a few embellishments left over from making Davina’s pelisse. A handful of false pearls, a bit of ribbon. Her eye fell on the sparkling combs she’d worn to the theater. Perhaps she could pry the crystals off.

Right, then. The first thing she needed was a pattern. Easiest to cut the pieces from a garment that had previously been fitted to her measurements. She went to the closet, pulled out her one and only proper gown, and began to yank it apart at the seams.

It felt good.