by Tessa Dare
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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Miss Worthing." Emma was so shocked at the intrusion, she curtsied deeply--before recalling that she was a duchess now, and Annabelle Worthing should properly curtsy to her.
"Are you enjoying your evening, Emma?" she asked.
"Very much so."
"It's so amusing, isn't it? I could never have guessed we would cross paths in such a circumstance."
"Nor I, Miss Worthing." Emma eyed the woman warily. "Forgive me, was there something you wanted?"
"Am I not permitted to greet an old friend?"
An old friend?
A man's formerly intended bride wouldn't wish to become friends with the man's new wife. Moreover, Emma knew this formerly intended bride wasn't precisely brimming with kindness and generosity.
"You must be quite dizzy with it, Emma. Having climbed so high, so quickly."
"If you're here because you believe me to be a schemer, or someone who took advantage of your broken engagement . . . I will assure you, you are mistaken. The duke proposed our match. His offer took me completely by surprise."
"Oh, I know that. But I suspect you don't know why he offered for you."
Emma was too surprised to deny it. She couldn't deny it. She'd insisted from the first that it made little sense for him to marry her.
"I know the reason. Everyone will. I don't like to say it, but you deserve to know, too. That's why I've come to tell you, as a friend." Annabelle moved closer, lowering her voice. "He has
married you to spite me."
"What?"
"Simple retribution. I'm sorry for it, but I know the man. We were betrothed for more than two years. He's furious about the broken engagement. So he married my seamstress to have a laugh at my expense. Has he shown you that yet? His cruel sense of humor? Ashbury's always had an ugly side, since long before his injury."
"I'm well aware that my husband"--Emma leaned on the word "husband," claiming what was now hers--"is imperfect. I'm also aware that he is honorable and brave. He incurred his wounds while defending England. If you could not appreciate the honor in his scars, he was fortunate to be rid of you. Our marriage is none of your concern."
"He has made your marriage my concern." A sharp edge entered Annabelle's voice. "Parading you before London society, humiliating me in full view of the ton. For your own sake, I advise you not to acquire any airs. You may have wed a duke, but every lady of the ton knows you as a seamstress who once knelt at their feet. They will never let you forget it."
"I don't care what they think."
"Yes, but you care about him. Don't you?"
Emma didn't answer.
Miss Worthing tsked. "You always seemed a clever girl. Surely you don't believe a duke would seek to marry a woman of your class for any honorable reason. Even if he did desire you, he could have easily made you his mistress."
"No, he could not have done. I would never have--"
As she looked out over the theater, the corner of Annabelle's lips curled in a humorless smile. "Gentlemen prefer common mistresses, I've heard. In bed. Girls like you do the things ladies won't."
How dare she.
"I will not stand here and be insulted. Nor will I hear the duke impugned in such a vile manner."
"You don't believe me?" Annabelle slid her arm about Emma's shoulders and turned, subtly pointing her fan toward the opposite side of the theater. "Do you see there? Just to the left, and one tier down? There's Mama."
Yes, there in the box opposite sat Mrs. Worthing, the family matriarch. Emma recognized the demanding harridan from Annabelle's many, many fittings in the shop.
"Lord Carrollton is kind enough to loan my family the use of his box. The second Thursday after a new play opens, we're always in attendance." She looked Emma in the eye. "Do you know what tonight is?"
Emma could hazard a guess. "Surely a coincidence."
"Oh, no. Ashbury knew I'd be here." Miss Worthing looked about the box. "Did he tell you this was how we met? He stared at me, the whole evening, from just this spot. Couldn't take his eyes off me for the entirety of the performance."
The champagne in Emma's stomach churned.
"I'd wager he chose this gown for you." She fingered Emma's sleeve. "Red as a cherry tart. He seated you right up front. Of course he did. All this effort would have been for nothing if I failed to notice."
His words to her earlier echoed in Emma's mind.
You must sit here, near the front. The world deserves to see you. I want you to be admired.
"Do you believe me now? On a night he knew my family would be in attendance, he bedecked you in a harlot-red gown and put you on garish display. His lowborn replacement bride. He's using you, Emma. To him, you are nothing but a means to an end."
Emma put a hand on the wall for support. The theater was spinning.
She didn't want to believe it. Any of it. She told herself not to doubt him.
But as Annabelle said, all the pieces were there. The sudden outing, the gown, the play. She'd never understood why he'd been so determined to marry her in the first place, making his offer after ten minutes in the library, when he knew nothing of her.
Well, he had known one thing about her. He'd known she sewed Annabelle's wedding gown.
Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.
Perhaps all the effort he'd gone to tonight hadn't been for her, but for another.
Suddenly, Emma didn't trust any of her own perceptions. She second-guessed every conversation, every moment. Everything she'd built with him, all the emotions she'd hoped he might come to share . . . Was it possible it had been nothing more than wounded pride and cruel intent?
She didn't care one whit what Annabelle Worthing thought of her, nor the other ladies of the ton. But if Ash . . .
She pressed her hands to her stomach.
Down on the stage, the fifth act was nearing its grisly climax. Players were dying right and left, staggering and moaning as they dropped to the boards. What poor performances, she thought. So unconvincing.
She was dying inside, and there was no staggering or moaning. Only bleak, hollow despair.
The fault was yours, Emma. You should have known better.
She had known better, and that was the most dispiriting part. The red silk flowing around her felt like mockery. Once again, she'd been a fool.
She had to leave. She had to leave at once, before he returned.
Someone pushed aside the drapery, entering the box. "What is going on here?"
Too late.
Ash was afire with anger.
He'd left behind a radiant, coquettish wife, likely aroused to the point where he could give her two orgasms in the carriage home alone, and he'd returned not a quarter hour later to find her backed into a corner, pale and trembling.
And the cause . . . oh, the cause was plain to see.
He swung his gaze on Annabelle. "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing but tell her the truth." Her eyes sparked with hurt and anger. "You bastard. You haven't done enough to me already? You had to bring around this slattern of a seamstress to humiliate me in front of all London?"
"You will not speak such words in her presence." He had to force the words through clenched teeth. "She is the Duchess of Ashbury. You'll address her with the honor that title confers."
"I will not curtsy to a girl who knelt at my feet, simply because she gets down on her knees for you."
Ash had never struck a woman, and he didn't intend to start. But he was tempted now, in ways he could never have conceived. Fury exploded within him like a barrage of cannon fire.
"If you were a man," he said, "you would be facing the end of my pistol tomorrow at dawn. As it is, I'm tempted to call out your brother to answer for your behavior."
"You want to call out my brother?" She laughed bitterly. "My brother wanted to challenge you back in April. You can thank me for talking him out of it. I convinced him there would be richer satisfaction in letting you live out the remainder of your miserable days. Twisted. Monstrous. Alone."
"I'm not alone," he said. "Not anymore. And that's what bothers you. Isn't it?"
"I can't imagine what you mean."
"Can't you? It's all becoming quite clear to me. You're humiliated, but not because of Emma's presence. You're ashamed for the ton to see me. Because once they do, everyone will understand the reason behind our broken engagement. They'll know precisely what a vain, shallow creature you are--and they will see that Emma is worth a hundred of you. Yes, Annabelle. I can imagine that would be humiliating."
Annabelle opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again.
Ash was certain the silence wouldn't last. He turned, eager to gather Emma and get the hell out of this theater.
But when he did, his wife was nowhere to be found. She must have slipped out. He'd been so occupied berating Annabelle, he hadn't even noticed.
With a muttered curse, Ash bolted down the corridor and raced down the staircase. He didn't see her in the entry, so he dashed out into the night. The rain had started, and that didn't help his cause.
He found the coach--no, they hadn't seen Her Grace--and then he ran up the steps in front of the theater, searching through the rain for any glimpse of red.
The play would end soon. Once the audience poured out into the streets, he would lose any hope of finding her in the crowd.
He picked a direction at random and charged down it, stopping at the corner to look in all directions. He pushed the rain from his face, impatient.
There.
There, down a narrow side lane--was that a bit of red?
He jogged in pursuit. "Emma! Emma!"
By the time he'd covered half the distance, she turned around. "Stop," she shouted. "Leave me be."
He slowed to a walk. For every step he took toward her, she made one in reverse.
"Can't we discuss this somewhere less wet?" he called to her.
"What is there to discuss?"
"Emma, don't play games. I know you're distraught."
"I'm fine, Duke. That's what you wanted me to call you, isn't it? Duke?"
"You're clearly not fine." He held up his hands in a truce. "Don't mind anything she said up there. Her ire wasn't aimed at you, it was aimed at me. Annabelle is . . . Annabelle. Still, you've every reason to be angry or overwrought."
She gave a defiant sniff. "There's nothing to be angry or overwrought about, Duke."
"Really, you can cease calling me that."
She wiped the droplets from her face. "Perhaps I will use Ash, after all. It's growing on me. So very flexible, you know. Horse's Ash . . . Jack-Ash . . . Ash-hole. "
Very well. He deserved that. And if he had been any less desperate to get her out of this rain, he probably would have laughed.
The rain became a downpour. Ash tried to get close enough to wrap her in his cloak, but she only retreated further, staying out of his reach.
"Emma."
She hugged herself tight. "It's my own fault. You never promised me anything. You specifically promised me nothing. We had a bargain. A cold, impersonal agreement of convenience. Somewhere along the way, I stupidly allowed myself to dream a little. To hope that . . . that there might be more."
Dream. Hope. More.
She was standing in the rain in a darkened alleyway, weeping and distraught. Ash should have felt remorseful, he supposed. Instead he swelled with joy.
Dream. Hope. More.
Those words gave him life. Three slender threads he could braid into a rope and cling to with everything he had.
"You weren't foolish. Or if you are a fool, I'm one, too."
"At least it finally makes sense. I always wondered why you chose me. Now I know. You married me to get back at her."
"No." He moved toward her again, and this time she allowed him to approach. "I'm telling you, that's all wrong."
"She refused you, and you wanted to humiliate her in return."
"She never refused me. I refused her."
She stared at him through the sheets of rain. "But you said . . . Everyone said--"
