The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp
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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.