The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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told herself, but simply an occupational habit. Knowing fabric and thread was only part of a seamstress’s work. Key to success was understanding the body beneath the garments. How joints fit together; how muscles flexed and stretched. After years of practice, Emma only had to glance at a person to imagine them stripped of all clothing—and when regarding a person so finely formed by God and honed by exertion, the temptation proved difficult to resist.
But how did one say such a thing?
My apologies. I wasn’t staring out of horror. I was merely undressing you in my mind.
Oh, that would go brilliantly. Very duchesslike, that.
When the duke finished setting aside the equipment, he reached for his topcoat.
“We . . .” Emma forced herself to say it. “We could play. The two of us. You and I.”
He stared at her in disbelief.
He respects those who challenge him, she reminded herself. Although, at the moment, the piercing quality of his gaze didn’t strike her as admiration.
But Emma was in for the penny now. She may as well try for the pound.
“I adore badminton.” She attempted to twirl the racquet in a casual, sporty fashion. Instead she dropped it, and it bounced off her toe. She bit her lip, holding back a yelp of pain. “Whoops. How careless of me.”
She picked up the racquet with as much dignity as she could manage and limped to the other side of the ballroom, ducking under the net.
She gave him a game smile. “Shall we?”
“Very well. Let’s wager on it.”
“If you like. What is the forfeit?”
Now Emma’s interest was piqued. Weren’t the forfeits in these wagers typically naughty? A kiss, perhaps, or two minutes locked in the closet.
“When I win, you agree to leave me be. I’ve already conceded dinners, and further interruptions are unwelcome. I have a dukedom to manage.”
Well, and badminton to play, it would seem—which apparently outranked his wife in his leisure-time priorities.
“Fine,” she said, feeling testy. “But if I win, you agree to treat me with a modicum of respect.”
“Oh, come now. I already give you a modicum.”
“More than a modicum, then.” Emma considered. “How much is a modicum, anyway?”
“Somewhere between a soupçon and a whit, I imagine.”
“Then I want an ounce.”
“An ounce?”
“Two ounces. Actually, no. I should like a full pint of respect.”
He shook his head. “Now you’re just being greedy.”
“Greedy? I realize I may not be as captivating as a shuttlecock or a decanter of brandy, but I am your wife. The woman who is to be the mother of your child.”
After a pause, he said, “There’s no purpose in arguing the point. You’re not going to win.”
That’s what you think.
She might not win this silly game, but she was determined to triumph eventually. The battle began here and now.
He retrieved his racquet and a shuttlecock, took his position on the court, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the shuttlecock sailing over Emma’s head before she could even move.
“Well done,” she said. “One point to you.”
“That wasn’t even a serve. I was merely lobbing you the shuttlecock. First service should be the lady’s. There’s your modicum.”
“But of course. Thank you, darling.” With an awkward swipe of the racquet, she managed to send the shuttlecock flying . . . straight into the net.
This time, he was the one to stand still in the center of the court. “What did you call me?”
“I called you ‘darling.’ We discussed at dinner yesterday that I must call you something. I refuse to address you as Ashbury or Duke, and you didn’t like ‘dear husband’ or ‘sweeting’ or ‘heart.’” She motioned toward the shuttlecock lying on the floor. “I believe it’s your turn, darling.”
“I am no one’s darling.” He batted the shuttlecock with a fierce backhand swat.
To her surprise, Emma managed to scramble under the falling missile and return it. “I don’t know if you have a say in that.”
“I’m a duke. I have a say in everything.”
Another effortless return on his part; another ungainly, desperate swipe on hers. This time, she missed.
“Darling is in the eye of the beholder.” Emma was already a bit out of breath as she retrieved the dropped shuttlecock. “If I choose to make a darling of you, there is nothing you can do about it.”
“Of course there’s something I can do about it. I can have you sent to an institution for the feebleminded and insane.”
She shrugged. “If you say so, cherub.”
He leveled his racquet at her. “Let’s set something straight, the two of us. You seem to be plotting a campaign of kindness. No doubt with the aim of soothing my tortured soul. It would be a waste of time. My temperament was not created by injury; it will not be magically healed by sweetness or pet names. Am I making myself clear? Do not harbor any illusions that my scars transformed me into a jaded, ill-tempered wretch. I was always—and shall remain—a jaded, ill-tempered wretch.”
“Were you always this long-winded, too?”
He growled.
Emma’s next attempt at a serve skittered across the floor. No matter. She was enjoying this game anyway.
“Ashbury is my title. It is what I’ve been called since my father died. No one calls me anything else. I’ve told you this.”
“And as I told you, I am your wife. Being the only one who addresses you differently is rather the point.”
Speaking of points, Emma had lost count of how many points she was behind.
He sent a serve back toward her. Emma noticed a hitch in his swing. He winced ever so slightly. Perhaps the reason behind the thrice-weekly sport was not mere boredom, but restoring the use of an injured arm. If so, his wounds must extend beyond his visible scars.
She wondered how severe those wounds were. She wondered how much they still pained him.
Too much wondering. It wouldn’t all fit in her brain. Instead, it traveled down to her chest and tightened there.
She smiled. “Shall we continue, poppet?”
His glare in response could have shattered marble.
After a few minutes’ practice, Emma’s agility had improved. She could hold her side of a respectable volley.
“What about ‘precious’?” she suggested.
“No.”
“‘Angel’?”
“God, no.”
“‘Muffin’?”
In response to that, he hit the shuttlecock so hard, it sailed all the way to the back wall and thwacked one of his ancestors right in the powdered wig.
She cheered. “Well done, my precious angel muffin.”
“This stops,” he said. “Now.”
Ignoring his outburst, Emma retrieved the shuttlecock. She served, barely managing to scrape it over the net. “I warn you, I don’t give up.”