by Tessa Dare
Alexandra chased after her own book, which had landed a few yards from the rest. After having retrieved it, however, she collided with a gentleman—and this time, both of their books scattered to the floor. She began stammering her apologies at once, even though the gentleman’s back was still turned. When he swung to face her, however—
She went silent.
They all did. None of them could speak.
The man standing before Alexandra must have been the most dangerously handsome gentleman in all of London. Even Emma, foolishly taken as she was with her own husband, could see it.
Well-formed features. Roguish green eyes. Brown hair that misbehaved just the right amount.
The gentleman bowed to Alexandra. “My deepest apologies.”
“N-not at all,” she stammered, blushing. “The fault was entirely mine.”
“Allow me.” He crouched at her feet and retrieved her book from the floor, handing it to her before he went about collecting his own.
Alexandra’s eyes went bright enough to attract moths in daytime.
Nicola paid no attention. She was busy stacking and restacking her books in different combinations, trying to find the sturdiest formation.
Penny’s gloved hand latched on to Emma’s wrist. “He’s flirting with her,” she whispered through unmoving lips.
“I know,” Emma whispered back. Although, to be fair, she suspected he was the sort of man who flirted with every woman he encountered.
“You seem to know something about books,” he said to Alexandra. “Perhaps you could be so good as to lend me your expertise.”
“Surely you don’t need my help.”
“I think I do. You see, I need to purchase some books for a pair of young girls, and I’ve absolutely no idea where to start. What do you think of these?” He showed her the collection he’d amassed, leaning close.
“Oh.” Every bit of Alexandra froze. Even her eyelashes. After several moments, she seemed to recall she was meant to examine his books. “They’re all fairy stories.”
“That seemed the logical place to begin for girls. Which ones do you recommend?”
“Er . . . I don’t know.”
“Well, which were your favorites?”
Alexandra still hadn’t blinked. “I . . . I couldn’t say I . . .”
Emma’s face burned with second-hand embarrassment. Poor Alex.
At length, Alexandra finished her sentence in a whisper. “. . . had any.”
“Well, then.” The gentleman didn’t miss a beat, but continued on as if Alexandra had said something fascinating. Or something at all. “I suppose that means I’ll just have to buy them all, doesn’t it? Don’t know why I didn’t think of it. Thank you, Miss . . .”
“Mount.” A long pause. “Batten. Mountbatten.”
“Miss Mountbatten, I am indebted to you for your kind assistance.” A dashing smile, a gallant bow, and he was gone.
Penny waited all of three seconds before pouncing on poor, flustered Alex. “Why didn’t you talk to him?”
“I didn’t know what to say. When I was a girl, I wanted to read about pirates. I never cared about fairy stories.”
“Well, let me tell you, a great many of them start just that way.” Penny cast a wistful look after the gentleman. “You might have at least asked his name. That could have been the beginning of a romance.”
“A tragic one,” said Nicola. “He’s no doubt a shameless rake.”
“Yes, let’s tell ourselves that,” Emma said.
“Oh, no!” Alex moaned, heedless of their romantic musings. “I can’t believe it. Look.” She held up the book in her hands for their view.
“A Compendium of Stories for Obedient Girls?” Emma read aloud. “Well that sounds dreadful.”
“It is dreadful. The gentleman must have confused my book for one of his. He’s stuck me with fairy stories, and he’s walked away with Messier’s Catalogue of Star Clusters and Nebulae. It could take me months to find another used copy. I can’t afford it new.”
“And that is why you ought to have asked his name,” Penny said.
Emma intervened. “Be gentle with her. Any one of us would have panicked. Including me, and I’m married to an intimidating fellow myself.”
An intimidating, unfeeling, insulting beast of a fellow, to put a finer point on it. She was still smarting after the way he’d rejected the wardrobe. Well, it was what she deserved for putting her heart into it. Someday she might learn to stop throwing that fragile organ under men’s feet.
To distract herself, she flipped through the Parisian fashion magazine in her hand. An idea flitted through her mind, and her fingers stilled halfway through the magazine. Perhaps there were other ways she could use her skills. Duchesses didn’t engage in trade, but charitable causes? Now that was a different matter. Perhaps she could help others like Miss Palmer. Women who, for one reason or another, found themselves in need of a fresh start.
Women who might appreciate her efforts, unlike a certain ungrateful duke.
“Wienerbrød.”
This non sequitur came from Nicola.
“Your pet names for the duke,” she said, leafing through a cookery book. “Add it to the list. It’s a Viennese pastry. Wienerbrød.”
Emma burst into laughter. Oh, how she’d needed that today. “Thank you, Nicola. That’s perfection.”
That pet name was so thoroughly absurd and humiliating, her husband just might deserve it.
The Strand was a crush of carts and carriages. By the time Emma made her way home from the bookshop, dusk had fallen. She unbuttoned her pelisse as she moved down the corridor, planning to flop onto the bed for a sleep before dinner. She’d been fatigued of late.
Upon entering her bedchamber, however, she stopped in place, surprised by a glimpse of scarlet peeking out from behind her bed hangings.
Setting aside her bonnet and gloves, she walked to the bed as a pilgrim approaches an altar. Her heart began to pound.
There, laid out across the quilted coverlet, was a gown of the finest material she’d ever touched. She fingered the edge of the fabric wonderingly. Ruby-red silk gauze layered over an ivory satin, conspiring to create a rich, shimmering blush. The cut was a daring Continental silhouette, with cap sleeves that settled just beneath the shoulder and a neckline positioned to skim the bosom. No spangles, no lace. The only adornments were tasteful, exquisitely embroidered flowers and vines decorating the hem, sleeves, and décolletage.
The gown resembled a rose abloom in the midst of a garden.
Once she drew her gaze from the gown, she noticed the rest of an ensemble lay nearby: heeled slippers with rosettes, flouncy tulle petticoats, satin evening gloves, an embroidered chemise, and a fashionable divorce corset. And it didn’t end there. Her dressing table was laden, too. Stockings, garters, jeweled combs for her hair . . .
“Isn’t it lovely, Your Grace? I’ve never seen finer.” Emma turned to see Mary, her lady’s maid, standing in the doorway holding a tray. “His Grace says you’re to be ready by eight o’clock. I took the liberty of bringing up your dinner. I thought we might need the extra time to do something special with your hair before you leave for the theater.”
Emma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He was taking her to the theater?
“The duke is taking dinner in his chambers, too. Mr. Khan is helping ready him for the evening.”
Having set down the tray, Mary bounced with excitement, rocking up to her toes and then down again. “It’s so wonderful, Your Grace. He hasn’t made such an outing since—”
“Since returning from the war. I know. And that’s been—”
“Nigh on two years,” Mary said. “It’s all your doing, Your Grace. He’s so taken with you. Just as we all hoped.”
Emma didn’t know about that. “He’s only taking me because I deviled him into it.”
“Nevertheless.” Her maid lifted the shimmering gown from the bed and, pinching it by the sleeves, held it up to Emma’s body. S
he swiveled Emma toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. “If the duke isn’t in love with you already, he surely will be by the end of the night.”
“Will you leave me for a moment?”
Mary looked confused, but she did as she was asked. “Certainly, Your Grace.”
Once she was alone, Emma stood staring into the looking glass.
She hadn’t worn an evening gown in six years. Not since that devastating night when she’d reached out for love and been dealt cruel disappointment in return. Her own father had called her a jezebel, a strumpet, and worse. Any temptress in a harlot-red dress, he’d said, was asking to be ill-used.
Emma hadn’t asked for anything of the sort. She’d sewn that gown herself, and she’d poured all her hopes into it. Not to sing a siren song or to invite lust. She wasn’t asking, Grope me behind the hedges.
See me, she’d been pleading. Admire me.
Love me.
A mistake, and she’d paid dearly for it. Again, and again, and again.
But now here she was. Against her better judgment and every resolution, she’d found herself craving all those same things from her husband. Understanding. Admiration. Affection.
Perhaps even love.
She regarded herself in the mirror and drew a deep, unsteady breath. If she put on this gown and went down to him, she would descend the stairs wearing her heart on the outside of her body. Nothing to guard it from being pierced, wounded, broken.
Torn apart.
She would be a fool to take that risk.
He had vowed to protect her, hadn’t he? However, she wasn’t certain any promise extended that far.
Tonight, Emma supposed she would find out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
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 ob
serve. 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.”
