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."
"I warn you, I am more stubborn by far."
"I left home at sixteen."
"Orphaned at eleven," he replied, sounding bored.
"I walked to London by myself. In the snow."
"I marched a regiment to Waterloo."
"I had to make a new life on my own. Begging for work. Stitching my fingers to nubs." She dashed across the ballroom, rescuing the shuttlecock just before it hit the floor. Her swing sent it rocketing upward, almost to the ceiling.
He stood beneath the bundle of cork and feathers, waiting on it to swirl back to earth. "A rocket exploded in my face. I spent months near death. The scars left me a living monster. I quit opium by sheer force of will. My intended bride turned from me in revulsion. I'm still here." He struck the shuttlecock, driving it into the parquet at her feet. "I win."
She put a hand to her side, struggling to breathe. "Very well. You win."
Emma felt chastened, and a bit ashamed. She'd been brave when she left home. People she held dear had turned from her, too. But the courage she'd been forced to summon couldn't match that of a soldier in battle. As for the duke's wounds, his scars . . . Vain and shallow as Annabelle Worthing might be, her rejection had heaped insult atop injury. The broken engagement must have deeply wounded his pride, if not his heart.
She bent to pick up the shuttlecock.
"Wait." He jogged toward her, ducking under the net. "This will never be a proper match. Your volley is passable, but your serve is a disaster. Give it here, I'll show you."
Casting his own racquet aside, he plucked the shuttlecock from the floor and came to stand behind her, closing his right hand over hers where she gripped the racquet, and reaching around her with the other arm to position the shuttlecock.
She was in his embrace.
However unbelievably, for a couple who'd been engaged for a week, wed a full day and a night, and come within inches of consummating their union . . . this was the first time he'd held her in his arms.
All at once, the ballroom became a glasshouse--one filled with a steamy, intimate heat that amplified every sound, every scent. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck, and she was deeply conscious of each wisp and strand of her hair that had tumbled free.
Mostly, though, she was aware of him. The wall of his chest against her back, and the strength of his arms around her. The soap and sandalwood scent she was coming to recognize. She stared at his hand. Last night, in the dark, those sure, confident fingers . . . they had been inside her.
"Hold it this way." He shifted her grip on the racquet handle. "Better."
A small vibration of joy went through her. Two curt syllables of praise from him, and her heart thrummed like a dragonfly's wings.
Don't, she bid it. Don't you dare.
Her heart didn't listen to her--but then, it never did.
Chapter Nine
This was the stupidest thing Ash had done in . . . at least twelve hours.
Between his walk last night and the sport this morning, he'd only just managed to push the thought of Emma from his mind. Now here he was again, right up against her, teetering on the edge of lust.
It wasn't only desire tearing through him, however. There was seething anger, too.
Who was the villain who'd hurt her?
Someone must have hurt her, to send her fleeing her home for London at the age of sixteen, alone and penniless. Ash wanted to hurt that someone back. With something sharp. And deadly. He was hardly an empathetic man, but he was offended indeed when someone dared to threaten anyone in his protection.
And Emma was now in his protection.
Hell, she was in his arms.
Standing this way, with the top of her head tucked under his chin, he felt like a battered, scuffed-up case made to hold something delicate and lovely.
He could also see straight down her frock.
"It's all in the timing," he said. "You can't release it and hit it at the same time. Wait a beat, then swing." He demonstrated, dropping the shuttlecock in front of her racquet, then guiding her arm to give it a sound thwack. "See?"
"I think so."
"Then give it a go."
He stepped back, giving her the space to attempt it for herself. She bit her lip, and her brow pinched with concentration. Then she released, waited, swung--and succeeded in an almost respectable serve. The thing got over the net, at least.
To watch her, though, one would think she'd claimed a ten-guinea prize. Ash wished he could feel as joyful about anything as she felt about hitting a shuttlecock. She bounced in triumph and turned to him with eyes lit up like . . . like a pleasure garden, or an opera house, or a royal ball, or some other place he would never, ever be able to take her. Damn it all.
"Well . . . ?" she prompted, clearly eager for praise.
He tilted his head, making her wait for it. "Not bad."
"Thank you." She gave him an impish smile. "That means a great deal coming from you, lambkin."
"Oh, now that is quite enough." He lunged for her.
She darted away with a shriek of laughter.
By ducking under the net, he headed off her escape. He caught her by the waist and swept her off her feet, tossing her over his good shoulder.
A mistake. The sudden motion sent pain screaming from his neck to hip. He had to pause, breathing through the fiery, wrenching ache.
"Are you well?" She added no absurd endearments to the question, and there was genuine concern in her voice.
"Fine," he said tightly.
He wasn't really fine, but sometimes the pain was worth it.
To distract himself, he entertained lewd fantasies. Ideas of laying her down on the settee, and tossing her petticoats to her ears. Or more depraved still, pressing her against the wall and trapping her there as he disappeared under her skirts. Anything to get her legs around him. Any part of him. Gripping his waist, wrapped over his hips, hooked over his shoulders . . . he wasn't particular.
As the pain dulled, he forced himself to set aside those imaginings. Oh, she would be his. But he must wait until nightfall, unwrap his Egyptian mummy from her ten blankets, and take her in apologetic silence.
He let her slide down his body, her soft curves dragging over him as she descended. The sweetest torture. She was breathing hard from the laughter and the chase, flushed with pink in all the best places.
As she looked at him, her smile faded. "You are in pain."
"No, I'm not."
She prodded his bad shoulder. He winced.
"It's nothing. Nothing to concern you, at any rate."
"I am your wife. If you're hurting, it concerns me."
Stop, he silently pleaded. Don't do that. Don't come any closer, don't ask about my wounds, don't prod at them. Don't care.
A better man would have been grateful for such sweet concern. And a part of him was grateful. A part of him wanted to fall at her feet and weep. But that bitter, scarred-over half of his soul couldn't stomach her pity. The devil in him would lash out at her in some unthinking, unforgivable way--until she was so busy licking her own wounds, she couldn't spare a thought for his.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked.
"Yes," he said sternly. "You can let me be."
See? She looked wounded already. For her own sake, and that of the son she would bear him, he had to push her away.
But he didn't know how.
Just then--miracle of miracles--Khan had a well-timed bout of usefulness.
The butler opened the ballroom doors and cleared his throat. "Your Grace, I hate to interrupt."
Ash stepped away from his wife, relieved. "Liar. You love to interrupt."
"Surprisingly enough for us both, this time I am being sincere. Your solicitor's secretary has arrived. I've shown him to the library." With a bow, Khan left the way he'd arrived.
Ash gestured toward the door.
"I should really--"
"Go manage your dukedom," Emma finished, smoothing her frock. "Yes, I know. Leaving you alone was my forfeit."
With a nod of agreement, he quit the room.
Just as well they'd been interrupted, he told himself. Fortunate, even. This marriage wasn't about games. Pleasure wasn't the goal. And any form of affection would be disastrous.
He would bed her for a few weeks. With luck, that would be sufficient to get her with child. He would have done his duty.
And then it would be over.
That evening's dinner was uneventful, and Emma was thankful for it. In fact, the meal was almost too short. She found herself with a surfeit of time to while away before he would visit her.
Mary came up to brush her hair and help her change out of her one and only evening dress. After she'd gone, Emma paced the bedchamber. She stared at the clock, willing it to tick faster. The idea of reading or stitching didn't appeal--she'd never be able to concentrate. Finally, she decided she might as well prepare the room, and herself. She extinguished the candles and climbed into bed.
As she tucked herself under the quilts and blankets, she admitted the truth.
She wasn't nervous.
She was impatient.
She wanted to feel his touch again, quite desperately. Not only his touch, but his tenderness. He might be snappish and aggravating during the day, but in the darkness last night, he'd seemed an entirely different man. Patient, respectful. Sensual.
This time, Emma resolved, she wouldn't ruin it. The sooner this reproduction effort was under way, the better for all concerned.
At last, a knock at the door.
He entered without waiting for her answer.
"Tonight, this will be all business," he announced. "In. Out. Done."
Possibly the least seductive words imaginable, but Emma was apparently a madwoman, because they excited her all the same.
He did not bank the fire completely, leaving a bit of warmth and a faint amber glow. With less stumbling than last time, he joined her on the bed. He found the edge of the quilts--she'd limited herself to two tonight--and flung them back in one motion before stretching his body alongside hers. She held her breath, waiting for the first brush of exquisite contact.
"Good God," he said. "You're naked."
Well, this wasn't off to the most promising start.
"Why would you be naked?"
Had she heard him correctly? Had he truly just asked why she would be naked? How could this even be a question?
"I didn't disrobe last night only because I thought you might want to undress me."
He was silent.
"Shall I undress you?" she asked.
"No." And then, with a tone of resignation, "Let's just get on with it."
Oh, now that was too much to be borne. She couldn't remain silent any longer.
She pushed up on her elbow. "What am I doing wrong? Surely your previous lovers were active participants in the act."
"Yes, but they were experienced. A few of them professionals. You're a wife. You're not supposed to enjoy this, you're supposed to lie there and endure it."
"So that's what you expect from me. A silent, listless partner."
"Yes."
"Very well," she said, disheartened. "I'll try."
His hand settled on her thigh, and he nudged her legs apart with a brusque motion.
Then he paused, keeping his hand utterly still.
When he resumed touching her, everything was different.
Despite his stated resolve to be quick, and his professed displeasure at finding her naked, he seemed to have changed his mind about making this a hasty, dispassionate encounter. In fact, his entire demeanor transformed. Once again, his brusque touch became a caress. As he explored her body, he made quiet, growly sounds of approval that thrilled her to her toes.
His palm covered her breast. Racked by pleasure, she bit her lip to stifle a soft cry of joy. He kneaded and stroked the soft flesh, switching from one breast to the other and back again. Her nipples puckered, begging for attention. The lazy, teasing back-and-forth of his thumb was the sharpest, sweetest pleasure--but it wasn't enough.
Her breath quickened. She wanted him to hurry, but he took his time. His palms skimmed along her every dip and curve, painting her body hot with desire.
Most arousing of all, he began to speak.
"How is it you're here?" he murmured. Not to her, but seemingly to himself. "How the devil did I manage it?" He wove his fingers into her hair and pulled away gently, letting the locks glide through his fingers. He exhaled on a single, stirring word. "Lovely."
She reached for him, longing to touch and explore in return. She placed her hands flat against his chest, skimming over the thin lawn of his shirt.
He stiffened. "Don't."
She let her hands fall to her sides. "I--I'm sorry, I--"
Emma didn't know what to say. That brief, stolen caress was burned into her palms. In one of her hands, she balanced a memory of strong, sleek muscle beneath ironed-flat linen. On her other palm, however, a different sensation lingered. The firm ridges of scar tissue, stretching and tugging across his chest like a fiendish spider's web.
"I'm sorry," she repeated.
He turned aside, and Emma despaired. Had she discouraged him from continuing? Again?
Instead, he reached for a small vial of some kind. She heard the sound of it being uncorked. An exotic scent wafted in her direction, and she glimpsed him pouring a few drops into his hand. Some sort of oil, perhaps?
Her guess about the substance was proven correct. His fingers slicked over her sex without friction, stroking up and down her intimate folds. The sensations were as impossible to catch as running water, and they made her just as wet.
By the time he settled between her thighs, she was desperate for him, awash with a deep, sweet ache that she somehow knew only he could satisfy. She knew what it was to bring about her own pleasure, but she'd never been able to fill that hollowness. Not on her own.
The rigid column of his manhood connected with her belly, sliding downward on the thin sheen of oil. The feeling of his steely hardness against her aroused sex . . . it nearly undid her, there and then. She whimpered with frustrated desire, rolling her hips to seek more contact.
He froze again.
"Don't stop," she begged, breathless. "Please. I'm fine. I promise. I'm very, very, very fine."
He hushed her. "Don't make a move."
"Why not?"
"Because we're not alone."
Chapter Ten
Ash found himself staring into a pair of firelit eyes, glittering at him from the corner of the room. The base of his spine tingled. His heartbeat went from a gallop to a standstill.
An intruder.
How the devil had someone slipped in?
Never mind, he told himself. That question could wait. The more pressing inquiry at hand was this: How was he going to kill the bastard? He mentally ran through the available weapons in the room. The fireplace poker would be most effective, but it was out of reach. The sash of his dressing gown could make a decent garrote, in a pinch.
If needed, he'd fight hand-to-hand. His only concern was keeping Emma safe.
He rolled to the side and came to his knees, putting his body between her and the threat. "You have three seconds to leave the way you came," he ordered. "Or I vow to you, I will snap your knavish neck."
The intruder struck first, leaping forward with a fiendish yowl.
Something that felt like a dozen razor-sharp barbs pierced straight through his nightshirt, digging into his shoulder and arm. He gave a stunned shout of pain.
Emma flung back the bedclothes. "Breeches! Breeches, no!"
The cat?
Claws. Teeth. Hissing.
The cat.
Ash stumbled from the bed and whirled in a backward circle, whipping his arm to shake off the beast, all while guarding his breeding organs with the other hand. He could afford to lose a lot of bits, b
ut not those.
From the bed, Emma shouted and pleaded with the hellish creature, to no avail. She heaved a pillow, which hit Ash in the face and did nothing to dislodge the demon she'd brought into his house. His next lashing attempt cleared the dressing table of anything that could break into tiny shards, as his bare feet quickly learned. He flung himself against the bedpost repeatedly, trying to startle the thing into letting go. Didn't work. The cat only clung to his shirt--and flesh--like a burr. A yowling burr with teeth.
Ash was ready to plunge his arm, cat and all, into the fire--what were a few more burns, after all--but burning fur was a disgusting scent, and he was just decent enough to balk at the idea of murdering Emma's pet before her very eyes.
No, he would take it out into the garden tomorrow and murder it there.
At the moment, however, he just needed the cursed thing off.
Leaving his groin unprotected, he reached around, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and shook both of his arms until he had it free. The little devil hit the ground running and disappeared into the shadows. Never to come back, if it knew what was good for it.
Ash checked the family heirlooms. All still present and apparently unscathed, but both bob and bits had pulled so far up into his body, there would be no coaxing them back out tonight. Not for all the tits in Covent Garden.
That was that. He would be taking another long, frustrated walk tonight.
"Are you bleeding?" Emma asked.
"Only in about twenty places." He touched his shoulder, wincing. His fingers came away wet. "The fly-bitten measle."
She fell back onto the bed with a pitiable sigh. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea he was even in the room."
"Mark my words," Ash said grimly. "Tomorrow night, he will not be."
"Did you truly marry the Duke of Ashbury?" Davina Palmer laced her arm through Emma's, drawing close enough to whisper as they strolled through the park. "If you don't mind me asking . . . How did that happen?"
Emma laughed a bit. "I don't mind at all. I've been asking myself the same question. Hourly."
She drew Miss Palmer away from the crowded path. Too great a risk of being overheard. As they circled a pond flecked with ducks, Emma related a brief version of the tale. Miss Worthing's gown. The duke's pressing need for a wife. His strange proposal, now merely a week past, and their hasty wedding.
"As shocking as it was, I couldn't refuse him."
"Refuse a duke? Of course not. No woman in England would, I wager."