The Duchess Deal

by Tessa Dare

  "Don't worry. I won't leave you." He put his hands on her arms and rubbed briskly. "Let's go inside. I'll make you a fire."

  He set aside his irritation. There was nothing more to be done about his traitorous house staff at the moment. Emma must be his concern for now. She was his wife, by Jupiter, and the least he could do was keep her safe and warm.

  He walked into the house, draping his topcoat over the staircase banister in the entry. She followed with caution, clinging to his side. When his foot fell on a creaky floorboard, she jumped.

  "Sorry," she muttered. "Suddenly this house doesn't seem as friendly as it did this afternoon."

  Just wait until night's properly fallen, he thought.

  There would be no moon tonight, and Swanlea was too isolated to catch any light from a neighbor's lamps or hearth. They would be two fleas swimming in a bottle of ink.

  "With any luck, there'll be a tinderbox in the parlor."

  Ash used the last fading glimmer of twilight to search the area near the hearth. Yes, there was the box--and it still held a bit of crumbling moss and a flint. Thank God.

  What he lacked, however, was wood.

  There was no chance of locating an ax at this hour, let alone finding and hacking down a small tree. He would be just as likely to chop off his own hand. However, he'd promised Emma a fire, and he'd be damned if he'd let her down.

  His gaze fell upon a solitary chair. He lifted it by two of its legs, reared back, and bashed it against the stone mantel. At the other end of the room, Emma jumped. The back of the chair dangled loose, but other than that, the thing remained intact. Curse his grandmother's appreciation for fine craftsmanship.

  He reared back for another swing. The second crack was enough to splinter one leg from the base. Another few good cracks, and he had a pile of flammable wood and a wicked pain shooting from his arm to his neck.

  "How are you able to do that?" she asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Swing with such force, despite the injured shoulder."

  He arranged the chair legs in the fireplace, then stuffed tinder in the cracks. "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.

  Crouching, he blew steadily on the ember until it caught and crackled into a flame. The lacquer helped the bits of chair catch quickly.

  "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 in the firelight before thick smoke began to billow from the fireplace. They backed away, coughing into their sleeves.

  Ash's eyes burned. With a rather unliterary curse, he kicked at the small fire, breaking it apart until a few glowing coals were all that remained. For a minute or two, all they could do was cough. Eventually, the smoke dissipated.

  "The flue must be clogged," he said. "Bots on it."

  "Bots?"

  "Horse worms." To her expression of disgust, he replied, "You asked."

  "I suppose I did. The chimneys all need a thorough sweeping, I'd imagine. We'll add it to the list. Tomorrow."

  No way to write it down tonight.

  He paced the room, his frustration boiling over. "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."

  "I'm sorry. It's not you I object to, of course. It's the principle."

  "Principles won't keep you warm tonight." Ash made his way to the entry and found his coat, then returned to drape it over her shoulders. "There. That's a start. Now . . . there was a settee around here somewhere."

  His shin found it. Ouch.

  They settled on opposite ends of the uncomfortable horsehair bench. The thing had so many lumps, Ash expected there'd be divots in his arse tomorrow morning. His stomach rumbled in complaint. "If they were going to strand us here, they might have at least packed us some dinner."

  "Please don't mention dinner," she said weakly.

  This was going to be a long, miserable night.

  She jerked with surprise. "What was that noise?"

  "What noise?"

  "That scratching noise." She shushed him. "Listen."

  He sat in silence, listening.

  "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."

  "Why?"

  "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 get the bots."

  "If you doubt me, feel free to go upstairs and see for yourself."

  "No, thank you."

  All was silent for several minutes, during which Ash felt rather smug.

  Then it was Ash's turn to jerk in surprise. "What's that noise?"

  "What noise?"

  "That . . . crinkling noise. It sounds like someone removing a paper wrapping."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "Perhaps it's the Mad Duchess."

  The crinkling sounds stopped. But other sounds took its place. Small, wet sounds. Like sucking and chewing.

  "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."

  He sat down.

  She touched his arm, felt his way down his shirtsleeve, and placed a small packet in his hand. "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.

  His wanderings through the London streets by night proved just how well children took to him. Screaming terror was the most common reaction, with mute horror following close behind. The Mad Duchess had nothing on the Monster Duke.

  He sucked on the sweet. "I 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 had worshipped his own father. 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't give his own son that bone-deep feeling of safety, it was better that he stay away.

  "No more chatter. Go to sleep."

  Within a few minutes, however, she did begin to chatter. This time, not with her lips and tongue--but with her teeth. Soon the entire settee began to shake. She was shivering like a struck tuning fork.

  "Emma?" He slid toward her side of the settee. She'd drawn her feet up under her skirts, hugging her knees to her chest.

  "S-s-sorry. It will stop in a m-minute."

  "It's not that cold," he said, as if he could reason her out of it.

  "I'm always c-cold. I can't help it."

  Yes, he recalled the five blankets.

  Ash took her in his arms, holding her tight to share his warmth with her. Good Lord. She was trembling violently from head to toe. This couldn't be a result of the weather. He laid his wrist to her brow. She didn't feel feverish.

  Only one explanation remained. She was frightened. His little wife, who didn't fear dukes or footpads, was scared out of her wits.

  "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.

  "Attempting" being the infuriating word in that sentence. With the injuries to his shoulder, he didn't think he could manage to carry her half that distance. Damn it, he despised feeling so useless.

  "I'm better now. Thank you."

  She attempted to slip out of his embrace, but Ash was having none of it. He cinched his good arm tight. At least he could do that much. "Sleep."

  It wasn't long before she obeyed. All that shivering had sapped the last of her energy, no doubt. Ash was left alone in the dark silence with his thoughts.

  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.

  Emma woke with a start.

  Where was she?

  Oh, yes. Tucked under her husband's arm. Bang in the middle of a disaster.

  When she thought of her pitiful trembling last night, she cringed. Of all the times for one of those episodes to strike. In the past year, she'd suffered only a few bouts of the violent shivering, and the last one had been several months past. She'd thought perhaps they'd finally gone away.

  Apparently not.

  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.

  Sliding out from under his arm, she made a few hasty efforts to repair her own appearance. She quickly unpinned her hair, combing it with her fingers, and pinched color back into her cheeks.

  When he stirred, she flopped down on the opposite side of the settee, laying her cheek atop her hands and pretending to be asleep. When she was certain he'd awoken enough to notice, she allowed her eyelashes to open with a gentle flutter. She rose to a sitting position, stretching her arms overhead in a gentle salute to the rosy dawn. Then she shook out her hair, letting it tumble about her shoulders in waves.

  She cast him a shy smile and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. "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.

  He scratched behind his ear like a flea-bitten dog and yawned loudly before reaching for his boot. "I'm dying for a piss."

  Emma blew out her breath. Fine. Sleeping Beauty and her prince they were not.

  In that case, she would stop pretending. "That was the worst night imaginable."

  He shoved one foot into its boot. "If that's the worst you can imagine, your imagination is lacking."

  "It's hyperbole," she said. "You know what I mean. It was terrible."

  "Perhaps. But we survived it, didn't we."

  He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet.

  "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."

  His gaze changed, the way it did in rare moment
s. Their icy blue melted to pools of deep, unspoken emotion. Compelling and dangerous. She was drawn to them. She could drown in them.

  "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."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Come in, come in. I'm so glad you're here." Emma handed Alexandra's rain-spattered cloak to the maid. "I can't believe you came in such a downpour."

  "I'm always punctual," Alexandra said, taming the rain-frizzled wisps of her black hair.

  "Yes, I suppose you would be."

  "I've brought the chronometer." She opened her valise on a nearby bench, withdrawing a brass instrument that looked like a giant's pocket watch. "I can assure you, the time is accurate to the second. I take it to Greenwich once a fortnight to be synchronized at the meridian, and once a year it's calibrated by--"

  "You don't need to sell me on your services, Alex. I have every confidence."

  Alexandra smiled. "Thank you."

  Emma drew her into the sitting room. "First, tea. You need something to warm you after coming in from that rain. Then we'll make a survey of the house and take an inventory of the timepieces."

  "You needn't do that. The housekeeper can take me around."

  "Believe me, it will be a useful exercise. There are wings of this place even I'm not familiar with yet."

  "Yes, but in the other fine houses, I only set one or two clocks, and then the butler--"

  Emma cut her off. "This is not one of the other fine houses. You alone will set each and every timepiece in the house. Weekly. And you will bill us at three times your usual rate."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "Very well, then. We'll multiply it by five." The maid brought in a tray with cups and a teapot. Emma waited until she'd left, then lifted the pot to pour. "I know--all too well--what it's like to be an unmarried young woman in London, working for a living at criminally low wages."

  Alexandra accepted the teacup and stared into it. "If you'd truly like to do me a favor . . ."

  "Anything."

  "I need a new walking dress. Something a bit smarter, for when I go calling on potential customers. Perhaps you'd be so good as to advise me on the style, or help me select the fabric?"