The Duchess Deal

  Who could know when it came to her husband? Emma went to the door, ready to receive a fresh scolding about duchesses not stitching garments.

  She turned the latch. "Really, my stallion. I only came by to see my old fr--"

  When she opened the door, her heart stopped.

  A middle-aged man dressed in black stood in the entry, holding his wide-brimmed parson's hat in hand. "Emma, my child. It is you. I was told I'd find you here, and here you are."

  "Father?"

  Emma felt detached from her body, out of communication with her own mind. Her heart was in utter tumult. So many emotions and impulses warred inside her. Revenge was tempting. She could turn him out, as he'd once cast her into the night.

  Gloating also appealed. A small, petty part of her wanted to take him home and show him about the house until he was sick with envy for her newfound wealth, and then send him on his way with a fifty-pound donation to the church.

  And somewhere, beneath all this, she wanted to sit at his knee. She wanted to hear that she was loved, and still his little girl.

  Be careful, Emma.

  "Why are you here?" she asked quietly.

  "To see my daughter, naturally." He moved into the shop, and she closed the door behind him. "Look at you. Emma, my own dear girl, fully grown."

  "I'm Emma now, am I? Your own dear girl? When last we met, you had taken to calling me Jezebel."

  "That's why I've come." He bowed his head, looking down at the hat in his hands. "To tell you that I am most heartily sorry."

  Most heartily sorry?

  The words slipped over her. She couldn't grasp their meaning. Instead, Emma stared at the top of her father's head. He was balding there now. Down to just a few straggling hairs, slicked over a gleaming pate. How strange, to see him aged six years all at once. In her memory he'd remained intimidating and thunderously enraged. Now, here in the bustle of London, he looked rather pathetic and small.

  He kept his eyes downcast. "I should not have said such things. I should not have turned you out. I've come to confess my sins against you. And I pray that you will find it within your heart to grant me forgiveness."

  Emma's breathing hitched. After all these years, he'd come to her and admitted his wrongs. He'd apologized. This was something she had always thought she'd wanted. Not merely wanted, but needed to make her heart sit right in her chest.

  And yet . . . it wasn't working the way she'd hoped. Nothing in her chest felt easy or at peace. Her pulse was a gathering clamor, pounding in her head.

  "Over the years, I've thought of you often," he said. "Worried over you. Prayed."

  "I'm not certain I can believe that. If you found me this easily now, why not years ago? If you worried, why did you never send a letter, never ask whether I had enough to eat or coal to keep warm at night? You didn't care. You probably thought it my due penance."

  A chill went through her, and she started to shiver. She hugged herself, willing it to stop. She would not allow him to rule her that way.

  "That's not the case," he said. "I swear it."

  "What is it you want from me now? Money? Influence? Some sort of favor? You must have heard I've married."

  "No, not at all. It's as I told you. I came only to make amends."

  "Well, it seems very convenient timing."

  "I . . ." He fidgeted with the brim of his hat. "To be truthful, it was God. God spoke to me."

  God spoke to him? Emma couldn't believe what she was hearing.

  "That is to say, it wasn't precisely God who spoke to me." A queasy look came over his pale face. "I . . . I was visited by a fearsome messenger in the night. A demon."

  "Oh, truly," she said, dispassionate. Clearly in his advancing age he was going mad.

  "It was terrible, Emma. He appeared to me in my bedchamber, in the middle of the night. A demon from the very mouth of Hell. He told me that my days are numbered on this earth, and that I must make my peace with you or else face eternal hellfire."

  "So you're not here to make amends to me for my sake. You're here for your own interests." She shook her head. "You truly haven't changed."

  "Can it not be for the good of us both? I know--I have always known, long before this unholy visitation--that I treated you ill. The sin has weighed on me like a millstone all these years. I cannot rest easy until I know I have your forgiveness."

  She laughed bitterly. "You cannot rest easy. Perhaps you should try sleeping in the cold, as you forced me to do."

  "You can't mean to say you are withholding your forgiveness?"

  "I'm not sure. I don't feel any haste to grant it."

  "You cannot deny me this." He grew indignant. She knew that chastening tone so very well. "You are my daughter. Did I not clothe and feed you, raise you in the principles of charity for sixteen years?"

  "And did I not love you for every one of those years?" Her voice shook. "Every Sunday, I sat in that chapel, and I might have prayed to God, but it was your blessing I sought. It made no difference, did it? One mistake outweighed it all. It wasn't the lack of clothing or shelter or food that hurt me, Father. It wasn't even the rejection of my sweetheart. What tore me in two was seeing you for who you are. Knowing you were never the man I'd believed you to be. Not by half."

  "Emma, please. Do not judge so harshly. You must understand I was taken by surprise that night. Stunned. I scarcely knew what I was feeling, let alone doing."

  "You knew exactly what you were doing. And I know exactly how you felt. You were ashamed. Ashamed of me, and ashamed of what people would say if they knew. It was cowardice, pure and simple, that was your motive then. It is cowardice that brought you here tonight." She went to the door. "I would like you to leave."

  "No! No, you cannot do this to me." He fell to his knees before her. "You didn't see him, Emma. The demon. Oh, he was horrible. Fearsome to behold. His face . . . it was all twisted and burned, and he had--"

  "Wait." Emma's heartbeat stuttered. "You say his face was burned?"

  "Yes. Most wretchedly. From the brimstone, no doubt. But it wasn't only his face that was evil. He . . . he threatened me with hellfire and bureaucracy. He insulted my curtains. He called me the vilest of names."

  "Names such as what?"

  "Oh, I don't like to say."

  "Names such as what?"

  "I don't know, I . . . Something like m-mammering canker-blossom?"

  "Thank you, Father. I think you've given me a very clear image of this 'demon' you encountered."

  And that image looked a great deal like her husband.

  Mammering canker-blossom. Now that one was new. He must have been saving it.

  Her father rose to his feet. "I beg you. If you deny me forgiveness, you do not know how I will suffer. For the rest of my life, I will never be easy. Never at peace. Always fearing that each day will be my last."

  "I lived with that feeling for six years. Now it's your turn." She opened the door. "If it's forgiveness you want, you may come back and ask me again in another six years. Right now, you will leave. At once."

  "But--"

  She gave him a push between the shoulders and he stumbled through the open door. "Begone, you beetle-headed gudgeon."

  Oh, the look on his face. For as long as she lived, she would laugh whenever she recalled it.

  "Beetle-headed . . . ?" He huffed with offense, and his face turned purple with rage. "You will not speak to me that way, Emma Grace Gladstone."

  "Emma Grace Gladstone," she echoed. "No, Emma Grace Gladstone would not have dared to speak to you that way. But I'm Emma Grace Pembrooke now. The Duchess of Ashbury. And if you ever speak to me again, you will address me as Your Grace."

  She shut the door and locked it.

  And then she sank to the floor for a good long cry.

  The tears came, and she surrendered to them. There was no one to hear, and no one to see. She cried until her eyes were dry and her heart was empty. The foolishness of it all. She'd wasted so many years allowing the value he placed on
her to dictate the way she regarded herself.

  Emma fished a handkerchief from her pocket. She wiped her tears and blew her nose. She would not let her father hold her back. Not from trusting. Not from living. Not from loving.

  Not anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "You went to my father's house."

  Ash looked up from the ledger he'd been examining.

  Emma.

  She stood in front of his desk, staring down at him. Her eyes were red, as though she'd been crying. He set aside the ledger and rose to his feet.

  "You went to my father's house," she repeated. "In Hertfordshire."

  There seemed little sense in denying it. "Yes."

  "In the dead of night."

  "Yes."

  "You broke into the vicarage."

  He rubbed a hand over his uneven hair. "I climbed in through his bedroom window, actually."

  "And then you told him you were a demon from Hell."

  "To be fair, he didn't require a great deal of convincing."

  "You said you'd stop this. No more roaming about at night. You promised me."

  "I went to him before that. Weeks ago now, and . . . How do you know all this anyway?"

  "He came to see me. At the modiste's shop where I worked."

  Ash swore. The craven bastard.

  "He apologized," she went on. "Can you believe it? He knelt at my feet and begged for my forgiveness."

  "Well, I hope you didn't grant it."

  "Why?" Her stare was direct and unnerving. "Why should you care? Why did you go to him at all?"

  "Because he hurt you, Emma." He thumped the desk for emphasis. "The man cast you out, without feeling or remorse. He left you to shiver and starve and fend for yourself. He made you frightened of the cold, and so afraid of your own heart you settled for marrying a bitter jackass. He treated you as though you were worthless, and for that, he deserves to rot in the ground. It was only for your sake that I did not put him there myself. He hurt you, and I would not stand for it. And I won't apologize, either. Not now, not ever."

  "I see."

  Ash let quiet fill the room. It might be the last silence he'd enjoy for a while. Her demeanor was so restrained on the surface, he could only imagine her to be volcanically angry beneath. He drew a slow breath, steeling himself for the eruption.

  She walked around the desk in brisk strides, and Ash turned to face her. He wasn't going to hide.

  Then she grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him down, and kissed him for all he was worth. No. She kissed him for a great deal more than he was worth, by a factor of thousands.

  "Thank you," she whispered between fervent kisses. "Thank you. I've never had anyone stand up for me like that."

  Any measure of chivalry that placed Ash at its pinnacle was a sorry scale indeed. But he would take her kisses, and gladly. Gratefully. He would take any part of her she offered him. Body, mind, heart, soul.

  Bodies seemed to be the order of the moment, however. And as willing as he was to take hers, she seemed even more eager to get at his. As they kissed, she tugged at his coat sleeves, shaking them loose of his arms until the entire coat slipped to the floor. His waistcoat buttons were next.

  Once she had him undressed down to only his shirt, she pushed him into the armchair and tugged at his shirt, pulling it up to lift over his head.

  He kept his arms at his sides.

  "Surely you're not hesitating now?" she asked. "I thought we were past this."

  She was past it, perhaps, but it wasn't so easy for him. He tried to explain it. "I couldn't stand for you to look on me with pity. Or distaste."

  Emma gave him a soft look. "It's not pity or distaste that worries you. You're not afraid of rejection. You welcome it. But if you're seen for everything you are--the strengths and the flaws, the beauty and the scars--you might have to believe you're wanted. Loved. Really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly." She pressed her forehead to his. "And completely."

  Ash swallowed hard. She'd left him speechless. Entirely.

  "I know you're afraid," she whispered. "I know it because I'm scared, too. Terrified, really. Make love to me. Be brave with me." She grasped his shirt in both hands and pulled. "With nothing between us."

  "Emma, don't."

  "Why not?"

  He flailed for excuses. "It's--It's my favorite shirt."

  "Then I'll mend it later."

  She found the bit of stitching where the shirt's neckline converged, caught the fabric in her teeth, and tugged, biting a notch in the fabric. That accomplished, she took both sides in her hands and ripped the shirt straight down the center.

  Ash was amazed. And, if he was honest, fiercely aroused.

  She smiled. "A seamstress knows how to split fabric. And by now, you should know me. If you issue a command, I'll only do the reverse."

  He started to compose a good scolding in his mind. But then he decided . . . perhaps he could make her rebellious nature work to his benefit.

  "Very well," he said. "Don't lift your skirts and straddle me."

  Her eyes questioned him for a moment. Then understanding swept them, and a saucy smile curved her lips.

  She gathered her striped muslin skirt and petticoats in fistfuls, hiking them high enough to allow him an erotic glimpse of her calves before climbing atop his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, and letting that white, flouncy cloud of her petticoats fall around them both. He felt as though he'd been admitted to a temple of feminine secrets. Awed.

  God. He was hard already, primed to take her without a moment's delay. Slip loose the buttons of his trousers and thrust. That was all it would take. But he knew anticipation now would make the eventual satisfaction all the sweeter.

  However, he intended to torture her every bit as much as she tortured him. Know every part of her, just as she knew him.

  Love her. All of her. The way he yearned to be loved.

  He slid a hand down her back, finding the edge of the ribbon that cinched her bodice tight. With a slow, teasing tug, he pulled until the knot gave way. Her bodice fell slack, and her breathing quickened.

  "Don't," he said in a firm voice, "lower your bodice. And whatever you do, don't you dare lift your breasts and offer them to me."

  A blush blossomed on her cheeks, in a red deep as roses. He inhaled a lungful of her intoxicating fragrance. She slipped her arms out from her sleeves and wriggled her bosom free of her bodice and stays. Out they tumbled in all their glory. Full and round and dark pink at the tips.

  Biting her lip, she slid her hands beneath her breasts, lifting and plumping--and sweet heaven, rolling her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers until they were pert and begging for him.

  She offered them each to his mouth in turn, and he kissed and licked and suckled with abandon, drawing on her nipples with rough suction and nuzzling under the soft orbs to lick the sensitive flesh beneath. Each sigh and moan that fell from her lips shot straight down his spine and gathered in his cock. His erection pulsed against his falls, desperate for contact.

  He pulled away from her breasts. Gripping the armrests of the chair for control, he gave his next contrary command. "Don't put your hands under your skirt."

  If she was shy or surprised, her expression didn't reveal it.

  She placed one hand on the back of the chair and leaned forward on it, pressing her breasts closer to his face. Then she reached between them and slid her other hand up her thigh, taunting him.

  "Shall I touch myself?" she asked coyly.

  God yes, he thought.

  But he shook his head no.

  She gave him a smile as she worked her hand in naughty circles. He couldn't view her fingers like this, but just the suggestion of her pleasuring herself drove him wild.

  He wanted to see.

  He had to see.

  He released his grip on the armrests and shoved her skirts to her waist, revealing a view of paradise. Her delicate fingers, parting those dark curls and stroking the pink pet
als hidden within.

  His mouth went dry. Holding her skirts high with one hand, he grasped her tempting bottom in the other, tilting her hips to get a better view.

  "Don't push them inside," he said hoarsely. "You intractable woman, don't you dare."

  Two of her slender fingers disappeared inside her, buried in her soft heat to the first knuckle.

  "No deeper," he scraped out. "Not another inch."

  She purred with pleasure, disobeying him again, sinking down on her fingers as far as they would go.

  He thought he would explode. "Don't raise those fingers to my lips."

  At that, she hesitated.

  "I forbid it," he said, bringing forth his sternest, most aristocratic voice.

  She raised her hand palm-up, offering it to him.

  He gripped her wrist and drew her first and second fingers into his mouth, sucking them down to the webs between her fingers and lapping up every bit of her tart-sweet nectar. The rose-red blush on her cheeks became an erotic bloom of crimson across her throat and breasts.

  "Ash," she whispered. Her dark eyes were pleading.

  Teasing her this way was sublime, but even he had his limits.

  He reached between them, fumbling with the buttons of his trouser falls and freeing his cock. She moved closer, trapping his erection between his pelvis and hers, sliding over his shaft on the dewy sheen of her aroused sex. Grinding against him in tiny circles to heighten her bliss.

  He could have wept with the beauty of it.

  Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she wriggled until the tip of his cock fit just where it needed to be, sinking down on him with a breathy sigh. He grasped her by the hips, guiding her up and down his length. She removed his hands and pinned them to the armrests. She didn't need his guidance, apparently. She rode him in a lazy yet relentless rhythm.

  "Don't stop," he moaned.

  She stopped.

  He growled with frustration. "Don't don't stop."

  She began to move again, accelerating her pace.

  "You are incorrigible."

  "And I'm yours. Entirely yours. You won't be rid of me."

  God. The pleasure was keen, and he was tempted to surrender to it, arching his hips to pump her hard and fast until she came around him and he spent into her. But he forced himself to hold back.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  He wanted more than pleasure right now. She was giving so much of herself to him, freely and without reserve. In ways he'd never given himself to anyone--not before, not after. The courage within her small frame was profound, her generosity boundless. He felt like a coward in comparison.