The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp
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I know,” he said impatiently, turning the scarred side of his face to the room. “Faulty rocket at Waterloo. You have precisely three seconds to move past it. One. Two. Right. Now where is my wife?”
“I’m here.” Emma moved forward.
As she emerged from the crowd, however, a hand touched her wrist, holding her back.
Annabelle Worthing threaded her arm through Emma’s and escorted her to the center of the floor, where she curtsied to Ash. “Your Grace. You are most welcome.” To his obvious bewilderment, she raised an eyebrow. “No one steals all the attention at my own ball.”
It was the closest to an apology they would ever have from the woman, Emma supposed, but for the moment, it was enough.
As their hostess receded, she chided the dumbstruck orchestra. “Well? Play something. My father’s not paying you to sit about.”
The musicians recovered themselves and struck up a waltz.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ash said.
“No, don’t be. You’re just in time. Though it looks as though you fought through a riot to get here.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell of gin.”
“I’ll explain later.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “So where is this Mr. Palmer I need to see?”
“Comforting his weeping daughter as she tells him the truth. You were right. I shouldn’t have assumed he would treat her so cruelly. For now, we can help them best by offering some distraction.”
“Well.” He glanced about the ballroom. “I believe I’ve accomplished that.”
Indeed he had. No one in the room made any pretense at etiquette. They openly stared. They whispered without even bothering to hide it behind a fan or a glass of champagne.
Ash’s hand curled in a fist, and his forearm went rigid beneath her gloved hand. That was the only outward indication he gave of self-consciousness. But Emma knew—oh, how she knew—what a trial this was for him. How frightened he must be, deep in the most guarded chamber of his heart. And of course he would never admit it, never ask for reassurance, much less her help, and she would only make it worse by offering.
So Emma did what she could. She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. As they made the traditional circuit of the room, she met the eyes of every person they passed, giving an elegant, graceful nod.
They might look at the duke and see a pitiable wretch or a scarred war hero or even a horrifying monster. But when they looked at Emma, they would see nothing but a wife who was proud to be on his arm. And who loved him, beyond all earthly measure.
“Should we dance?” she asked, once they’d come full circle. “It does seem the thing to do at these, and I doubt we’ll be invited to another one soon.”
“Good exercise for the shoulder, I hear. I tried to get Khan to waltz once, but he was hopeless.”
She laughed as he took her in his arms and swung her into the dance. One by one, other couples joined in, twirling in orbits around them.
He looked her up and down. “God, look at that gown.”
“I know. It’s like I wrapped myself in old curtains and then the chandelier fell and shattered all over me.”
He squinted and peered at it. “I was going to say it looks you sailed through the dark night like an angel and came back to earth covered in stars.”
She blushed at the compliment. “I needed something fit for a duchess.”
“That,” he said, “is fit for a goddess. But I still think it will look better as a pool on the floor.”
“You are impossible.”
“I will not deny it.” After guiding her through at few turns, he added, “Did I ever tell you why I married you?”
“I believe you did. I seem to recall meeting all your requirements.”
“True. But I wasn’t entirely honest. You exceeded the requirements, in every way. You were not only healthy enough to bear children, but strong enough to bear with me. A gentleman’s daughter—but one with the courage to stand up for herself against the whole of society. You’re educated, yes, but also you’re witty and damnably clever.”
“Pretty,” she filled in. “You did give me that one compliment. You called me pretty.”
“Well, I lied. I don’t find you pretty. I find you the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and without.”
“There was one more, if I recall.” Oh, and Emma was curious to hear this. He was going to have to work hard to redeem that fifth one.
“Yes. The last reason is this: You’re here.”
Well. Interesting strategy, doubling down on the original insult. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“You’re here,” he repeated, taking her hand and drawing it against his chest, right above his pounding heartbeat. “In my heart. Somehow you crashed your way into it when I wasn’t looking. The same way you barged into my library, I suppose. But you’re here now, inside. Emma, you’re the very life of me.”
She could scarcely speak. “That was quite nicely said.”
“You think so?”
“Did you practice it on the way here?”
His chin pulled back in a gesture of offense. “No.”
“I wouldn’t think less of you for it.”
“Then yes, I did. But that doesn’t make it any less sincere.” He stroked his thumb down the space between her shoulder blades. “Can you possibly comprehend how much I love you?”
“I’m tempted to say yes. But I think I’d rather listen to you explain it some more.”
“It might take years.”
“I’m amenable to that. Of course, that means you’ll have to listen to all the reasons I love you.”
He grimaced. “Ugh.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve survived worse.”
“Yes. I suppose I have.” He smiled that slow, one-sided smile she’d come to adore.
And then, in front of everyone, he bent his head to give her a kiss.
“God’s liggens,” Ash grumbled when they finally reached his suite. “That was our last dinner party.”
“It was our first dinner party,” his wife pointed out.
“Precisely. One was enough. I thought they’d never go home.”
“It’s only ten o’clock. I thought our guests left rather early. We’d scarcely finished opening Christmas gifts.” She unloaded an armful of objects onto the bed. “I must say, Nicola’s is the most delicious.”
With that, Ash heartily agreed. He stole a bite of plum cake from the slice in Emma’s hand. “All her talk of science and precision is only a ruse, I tell you. That woman is a witch with an enchanted oven.” He plucked a mysterious knitted thing from the heap and dangled it from his thumb and forefinger. “What is this? Is it for the baby?”
“Perhaps. But who can know with Penny.” Emma took it from his hands and turned it this way and that. She counted the holes that one might surmise were meant for chubby infant arms and legs. “One, two, three, four . . .” She poked her finger through another round opening. “Five? Oh, Lord. I think she’s made us a jumper for the cat.”
“Good luck dressing