The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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Excellent question. Emma didn’t have the faintest idea what. Only that this was all happening so fast. Too fast. Her life had been set spinning, and she didn’t want to make it stop—but she needed some sort of handle to grasp.
“I . . . I insist on bringing a cat.”
He made a noise of unmitigated disgust. “A cat.”
“Yes, a cat. My cat.”
Emma, you idiot. You don’t even have a cat.
She would find one, she decided. If she meant to enter a marriage with no promise of affection and inhabit that vast, elegant house, she needed at least one ally. What better than a fuzzy, wide-eyed kitten?
“For a bride of convenience, you are proving to be a great deal of trouble.” He tucked her foot into the hackney, then leveled a finger at her before closing the door. “This cat of yours had better be well-behaved.”
The cat was the most foul, filthy, repulsive creature Ashbury had seen in his life, outside of the rare occasions when he regarded himself in a mirror. It was no more than a collection of bones encased in smudge-colored fur, and doubtless crawling with fleas.
His bride clutched the beast with both hands, holding it in front her like some sort of spinster bouquet.
Excellent. What was it they said? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something yowling.
Ash scowled at the thing.
The creature hissed in reply.
The dislike would seem to be mutual.
“Does it have a name?” he asked.
She looked up, as if startled by the question. “What?”
“A name. Does the cat have one?”
“Oh. Yes. Breeches. His name is Breeches.”
“Breeches?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” She showed no signs of releasing the thing. Instead, she looked about the hall. “Where are we reciting our vows? The library?”
“You can’t mean to hold that thing throughout the ceremony.”
“But if I put him down, I fear he’ll run off. Besides, he wants to be a witness. Don’t you, Breeches?” She turned the cat to face her and made a kissy face. “This is the Duke of Ashbury. Aren’t you pleased to meet him?” She took the creature’s paw and mimicked a wave of greeting in Ash’s direction. “He’s quite friendly.”
The cat’s claws made a vicious swipe through the air.
Right. That was it.
Ash reached out, wrested the animal from her grasp, and set it on the floor. The gray beast darted off at once.
“This house is enormous,” she objected. “He might be lost for days.”
“We can only hope.”
He tugged at the front of his waistcoat and turned to have a proper look at his bride. Of all that cat’s many offenses, its worst by far was obscuring his view of her. Thus far, he had seen her only two ways: first, wearing a gown made of leprous icicles, and second, wearing a modest shopgirl frock.
The morning dress she wore today was simple, but a welcome respite for his beauty-starved eyes. It was fashioned from wool in a rich, flattering shade of blue. The fit was perfect. He supposed that shouldn’t have been a surprise—she’d likely sewn it herself—but the frock embraced her in all the best places. The sleeves were long, and she’d added an edge of slender lace at the wrists. The merest hint of sweetness, like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar.
It was charming.
No, no. Charming? Had he just thought that word? He wasn’t charmed. He was never charmed. Bah.
He was ruttish, that was all. Eager to break an interminable stretch of celibacy. He admired her frock for one reason: because it would make such a satisfying heap on the floor.
What a shame he wouldn’t have the opportunity to see it that way. It would be dark when he visited her bed tonight.
Her rose-petal lips moved. Damn it, that meant he’d been staring at them. And now he hadn’t heard whatever it was she’d said.
“The curate is in the drawing room,” he said.
She hesitated.
He braced himself to hear, I can’t possibly do this, or What was I thinking? or I’d rather be hungry and homeless, thank you.
“Which way is the drawing room?”
With a relieved sigh, he turned and offered her his arm. “This way.”
Her steps were not precisely light, and he couldn’t fault her for it. She no doubt would have wished to marry for love, and he was about to steal that dream from her tiny, work-reddened fingers—replacing the charming, handsome groom of her dreams with an ill-tempered monster.
Guilt jabbed him in the ribs.
He had to ignore it. War had taught him two things. First, life was fleeting. Second, duty wasn’t. If he died without an heir, his toad of a cousin would carve up the lands, making every decision for his own expedience and enrichment. Ash would have failed the thousands who depended on him.
And if he failed them, he would not be the man his father raised. No prospect could be more gutting.
The irony of it hit him as they entered the drawing room.
He was the one marrying for love.
Just not hers.
It wasn’t precisely the wedding of Emma’s youthful imaginings. She’d seen herself having a church wedding, naturally, packed with friends, neighbors, relations. She’d dreamed of wearing pink ribbons and a crown of flowers in her hair. But then, she’d abandoned those girlish fancies years ago.
In the drawing room, there were no guests or flowers—only the curate, the butler, the housekeeper, and a frightful number of papers awaiting her signature. Emma riffled through the pile, intimidated. She supposed there was no better place to begin than the beginning.
She was only halfway through the second page before the duke’s patience expired.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Reading them?”
“Of course I’m reading them. I don’t sign anything I don’t read first. Do you?”
“That’s different. I might have something to lose.”
And Emma didn’t. That was the duke’s clear implication. In truth, it would be hard to argue the point. She’d already left the dressmaking shop, her garret, and most of her belongings behind.
He left her to her reading, retreating to pace in circles at the other end of the drawing room. Emma was visited by the strange suspicion he might be as nervous as she was.
No, that couldn’t be. More likely, he was eager to have it done.
“May I assist you, Miss Gladstone?” The murmured question came from nearby. “I know how weighty those stacks of paper can be.”
She looked up to find the butler standing near. She’d met him the other day. What was his name? Mr. Khan, she thought she recalled.
What she remembered with certainty was that she’d liked him at once. He had bronze skin, an Indian cadence to his speech, and silver hair with a part as arrow-straight as his posture. He’d treated her with kindness, even when she’d appeared on the doorstep with no card and no invitation. In fact, he’d seemed strangely