The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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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 him in it.”
She gave him a coy smile. “I think Khan appreciated your early Boxing Day gift.”
He went to the dressing table to remove his stickpin and undo his cuffs. “The man’s been going on and on about being owed a pension. I managed to get my revenge.”
“How is giving him a cottage at Swanlea a form of revenge?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He can’t get away from me now. He’ll be wishing he were a butler again when I send our son over for cricket lessons.”
“Oh, and there’s this one.” Emma sat on the bed. She lifted a hand-bound scrapbook into her lap and paged through it lovingly. “What a dear Alex was. I can’t imagine how much effort this must have taken, compiling all these headlines.”
Ash was a bit peevish. “Well, what about the effort I went to, generating them?”
His wife ignored him. And justly so.
Miss Mountbatten’s gift was secretly his favorite, too. She’d collected all the broadsheets and gossip papers with the Monster of Mayfair’s exploits splashed across them, then carefully cut and pasted them into a memento book. The closest thing to a biography he’d ever have, and considerably more interesting.
He turned away from the dressing table and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hope that scrapbook has an empty page or two.”
“It won’t need any.” She raised an eyebrow in warning. “The Monster of Mayfair will not make the papers, ever again.”
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
Ash reached into a drawer for the early copy he’d wrangled of tomorrow morning’s Prattler. Then he held it up for her, revealing the headline:
Duke Tells All.
She gasped. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, but I did.” He read aloud from the first paragraph. “‘The Duke of Ashbury reveals the tragic tale behind the Monster of Mayfair and professes his undying love for the seamstress-turned-duchess who healed his tortured soul.’” He flung the paper on the bed near her elbow. “Sensationalist rubbish, naturally.”
She covered her mouth with one hand and reached for the newspaper with the other. He watched her face as she scanned the page. Her eyes reddened and watered.
Ash didn’t make much of it. Along with feeling poorly in the mornings, she seemed to be on the brink of tears at any time of day.
She sniffed. “This is best gift I can imagine.”
“Is it? I suppose you don’t need the other, then.” He pulled the small box from his pocket and placed it on her lap. “I’ll let you have it anyway. You never did have a proper one.”
She stared at the box with weepy eyes.
“It’s a ring,” he said.
“I love it.”
“Emma, you haven’t opened it.”
“Yes, I know. I don’t have to. I love it already.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not. We won’t unwrap this child in my belly for months yet, and I already love him.”
“Or her,” he added.
Ash had taken to hoping for a “her.” A baby girl meant they would need to try at least one more time.
After a moment, he grew tired of waiting on her and opened the box himself, revealing the ring—a heart-shaped ruby set in a gold filigree band.
“Oh,” she sighed.
“Don’t weep,” he warned her. “It’s not even that big of a stone.”
Sitting down beside her, he removed the ring from the box and slid it on her third finger.
She held her hand away from her body and wiggled her fingers so the ring could catch the light. Then she hopped to her feet and ran to the dressing room. When he followed, he found her standing before the full-length mirror, admiring her reflection as she pressed her hand to her chest, then laid a finger to her cheek, then extended her hand as if offering Mirror-Emma an opportunity to bow over it for a kiss.
Ash chuckled at her little display of vanity. Then he looked into the mirror and regarded himself.
Other than the small one he used for shaving, he hadn’t viewed himself in a mirror for more than a year.
It actually wasn’t that bad.
Well, the scars looked bad. That wasn’t in question. But he’d grown used to that fact by now, and he felt a bit stupid for avoiding his own reflection all this time. It wasn’t as though he could change it.
He stepped forward, embracing her from behind and laying a hand on her stomach. “What if he’s afraid?”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of me.”
She leaned back against him. “Oh, my love. Don’t ever think it.”
“I had hoped—” He cleared his throat. “I had been thinking, if he’s raised with me from the beginning—in the country, where there aren’t so many people about . . . maybe he wouldn’t be quite so frightened.”
“He won’t be frightened at all.”
Ash wished he could share her certainty. He knew how small children reacted to the sight of him. How they cringed and clung to their mothers’ skirts. How they cried and screamed. How every time, it ripped his wounds open all over again. And how it would gut him to be beheld that way by his own son.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.
He didn’t speak again until he could keep his voice measured. “Even if he isn’t afraid, he’ll have friends. He’ll go to school. Once he’s old enough to know, he’ll be ashamed.”