The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp
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shirt—and flesh—like a burr. A yowling burr with teeth.
Ash was ready to plunge his arm, cat and all, into the fire—what were a few more burns, after all—but burning fur was a disgusting scent, and he was just decent enough to balk at the idea of murdering Emma’s pet before her very eyes.
No, he would take it out into the garden tomorrow and murder it there.
At the moment, however, he just needed the cursed thing off.
Leaving his groin unprotected, he reached around, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and shook both of his arms until he had it free. The little devil hit the ground running and disappeared into the shadows. Never to come back, if it knew what was good for it.
Ash checked the family heirlooms. All still present and apparently unscathed, but both bob and bits had pulled so far up into his body, there would be no coaxing them back out tonight. Not for all the tits in Covent Garden.
That was that. He would be taking another long, frustrated walk tonight.
“Are you bleeding?” Emma asked.
“Only in about twenty places.” He touched his shoulder, wincing. His fingers came away wet. “The fly-bitten measle.”
She fell back onto the bed with a pitiable sigh. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was even in the room.”
“Mark my words,” Ash said grimly. “Tomorrow night, he will not be.”
“Did you truly marry the Duke of Ashbury?” Davina Palmer laced her arm through Emma’s, drawing close enough to whisper as they strolled through the park. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . How did that happen?”
Emma laughed a bit. “I don’t mind at all. I’ve been asking myself the same question. Hourly.”
She drew Miss Palmer away from the crowded path. Too great a risk of being overheard. As they circled a pond flecked with ducks, Emma related a brief version of the tale. Miss Worthing’s gown. The duke’s pressing need for a wife. His strange proposal, now merely a week past, and their hasty wedding.
“As shocking as it was, I couldn’t refuse him.”
“Refuse a duke? Of course not. No woman in England would, I wager.”
One woman in England had done so. Social-climbing Miss Worthing, of all ladies, had declined Ashbury’s hand. The more Emma ruminated on it, the less sense it made.
But that wasn’t the question of the day.
“If only I had your good sense, Emma.” Davina’s voice quivered. “What an idiot I was to land in such a situation.”
“You were not an idiot.”
“I still don’t understand how it could have happened. I took every precaution against conceiving.”
Emma lowered her voice. “Do you mean the gentlemen withdrew, before he . . . finished the act?”
“No.”
“A sponge, then.”
“A sponge? What would I do with a sponge?”
“So he wore a French letter?”
Davina gave her a blank look. “What’s that?”
Emma was nonplussed. “Precisely what precautions did you take?”
“All the usual ones. After it was done, I jumped up and down for ten minutes. Sniffed pepper to make myself sneeze three times, and drank a full teacup of vinegar. I did everything right.”
Emma pressed her lips together. If this was Davina’s idea of contraception, perhaps the girl was just a little bit of an idiot. Nevertheless, she shouldn’t pay for one mistake for the rest of her life.
“The important thing is that you have a friend in me. To start, I’ve drawn up some patterns for your wardrobe, to conceal the fact that you’re increasing. I’ll have Fanny send word when they’re ready. Beyond that . . .” Emma took the girl’s arm, drawing her close as they walked. “The duke says I’m to have a house of my own in Oxfordshire. I’ll invite you for a nice long visit.” Assuming, of course, that Emma could travel there herself. “You can stay with me in the country until you’ve given birth.”
“Are you certain the duke won’t object?”
“He won’t even know. It’s a marriage of convenience. All he needs is an heir. Once I’m with child, he will want nothing to do with me.” Emma smiled. “We will be a pair, the two of us. Sitting with our swollen ankles propped on the tea table, gorging ourselves on sweetmeats and knitting tiny caps.”
“Oh, it sounds perfect. But what will happen afterward?”
“That will be your decision. But if you’re set on finding a family to take the child in, perhaps we might find one nearby. Then you could visit whenever you liked. Our children could play together.”
Davina clasped Emma’s wrist. “I can’t believe you would do this for me.”
“It’s no imposition. You can’t know how happy it makes me to help you this way.”
“Oh, but I shall need Papa’s permission first. That’s the only snag.”
“Surely he wouldn’t deny you the chance to visit a duchess.”
“Well . . .” Davina looked hesitant. “It’s merely that—”
“I’m not the usual sort of duchess,” Emma finished. And for that matter, her husband wasn’t the usual sort of duke. He hadn’t been seen publicly in years, and then he’d wed a seamstress.
“There will be a certain amount of curiosity,” Davina said.
Curiosity. What a charitable way of saying gossip.
Emma knew the unkind things ladies said about one another. In the dressmaking shop, they’d spoken in front of her as though she didn’t exist.
“But surely the duke will expose you to society,” Davina said. “He’ll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners.”
Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.
This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately—which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent—or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.
It all felt rather hopeless.
“What if your father won’t grant you permission?” she asked.
“I suppose I shall be forced to run away,” Davina said softly. “I’m the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I’m ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?”
“Yes. I can.”
Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she’d needed him most, he’d chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.
She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma’s own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman’s future.
No matter what it took, she would find a way.
And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice—or drag, if need be—her husband to her bed.
“Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?” Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma’s