One woman in England had done so. Social-climbing Miss Worthing, of all ladies, had declined Ashbury's hand. The more Emma ruminated on it, the less sense it made.
But that wasn't the question of the day.
"If only I had your good sense, Emma." Davina's voice quivered. "What an idiot I was to land in such a situation."
"You were not an idiot."
"I still don't understand how it could have happened. I took every precaution against conceiving."
Emma lowered her voice. "Do you mean the gentlemen withdrew, before he . . . finished the act?"
"No."
"A sponge, then."
"A sponge? What would I do with a sponge?"
"So he wore a French letter?"
Davina gave her a blank look. "What's that?"
Emma was nonplussed. "Precisely what precautions did you take?"
"All the usual ones. After it was done, I jumped up and down for ten minutes. Sniffed pepper to make myself sneeze three times, and drank a full teacup of vinegar. I did everything right."
Emma pressed her lips together. If this was Davina's idea of contraception, perhaps the girl was just a little bit of an idiot. Nevertheless, she shouldn't pay for one mistake for the rest of her life.
"The important thing is that you have a friend in me. To start, I've drawn up some patterns for your wardrobe, to conceal the fact that you're increasing. I'll have Fanny send word when they're ready. Beyond that . . ." Emma took the girl's arm, drawing her close as they walked. "The duke says I'm to have a house of my own in Oxfordshire. I'll invite you for a nice long visit." Assuming, of course, that Emma could travel there herself. "You can stay with me in the country until you've given birth."
"Are you certain the duke won't object?"
"He won't even know. It's a marriage of convenience. All he needs is an heir. Once I'm with child, he will want nothing to do with me." Emma smiled. "We will be a pair, the two of us. Sitting with our swollen ankles propped on the tea table, gorging ourselves on sweetmeats and knitting tiny caps."
"Oh, it sounds perfect. But what will happen afterward?"
"That will be your decision. But if you're set on finding a family to take the child in, perhaps we might find one nearby. Then you could visit whenever you liked. Our children could play together."
Davina clasped Emma's wrist. "I can't believe you would do this for me."
"It's no imposition. You can't know how happy it makes me to help you this way."
"Oh, but I shall need Papa's permission first. That's the only snag."
"Surely he wouldn't deny you the chance to visit a duchess."
"Well . . ." Davina looked hesitant. "It's merely that--"
"I'm not the usual sort of duchess," Emma finished. And for that matter, her husband wasn't the usual sort of duke. He hadn't been seen publicly in years, and then he'd wed a seamstress.
"There will be a certain amount of curiosity," Davina said.
Curiosity. What a charitable way of saying gossip.
Emma knew the unkind things ladies said about one another. In the dressmaking shop, they'd spoken in front of her as though she didn't exist.
"But surely the duke will expose you to society," Davina said. "He'll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners."
Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.
This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately--which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent--or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.
It all felt rather hopeless.
"What if your father won't grant you permission?" she asked.
"I suppose I shall be forced to run away," Davina said softly. "I'm the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I'm ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?"
"Yes. I can."
Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she'd needed him most, he'd chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.
She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma's own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman's future.
No matter what it took, she would find a way.
And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice--or drag, if need be--her husband to her bed.
"Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?" Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma's hair for dinner.
"No," Emma answered. "Not particularly."
"Oh, that's too bad."
"Why is it too bad?"
"Well, I was thinking . . . what if you tripped, and the duke had to catch you? That would surely encourage his affection. Or spill wine on your dress, and he would whip off his cravat to mop it up." Before Emma could respond, Mary perked with another idea. "Ooh, you might even turn your ankle. Then he would have to carry you. That would be romantic."
"I'm not going to turn my ankle."
"You don't think you could try? Even just a little stumble?"
"No."
"Never mind it. We'll think of something else. I was pondering, what if you went up to the attic . . . and then Mr. Khan sent the duke up to the attic . . . and then you and the duke were locked inside the attic, together. Accidentally."
"Mary. You need to abandon these ideas. The duke is not going to fall in love with me--not even in a locked attic. In fact, he's rather put out with me at the moment."
Or at least he was put out with her cat.
With a sigh, Mary put the last pin in Emma's hair. "There, now. Turn and let me have a look at you."
After looking Emma over, Mary reached forward and grasped the sleeves of her gown, slid them off her shoulders, and tugged the bodice down so far, it barely covered her areolae. "That's something, at least."
When Emma arrived in the dining room, the duke wasn't even there to angle for a glimpse of her areolae. She waited a quarter hour. Nothing.
He must truly be infuriated with her. Perhaps she wouldn't see him later tonight, either. At this rate, they would never accomplish procreation.
She prepared to return to her rooms, planning to ring the maid for a dinner tray and sink into bed with a novel. As she passed down the corridor, however, someone called to her in a low whisper.
"In here."
She turned, curious. The duke was in his library, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the empty, unlit fireplace.
"What are you doing?"
"Shh." He raised an open palm in her direction. "No sudden movements."
"All right." She drew out the words, kicking off her slippers and making her way into the room on stocking feet, sitting next to him on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her skirts and stared into the fireplace, too. "What are we looking at?" she whispered.
"Your cat. The little beast is hiding behind the grate. We've been waiting one another out."
Emma peered into the dark fireplace. Yes, she could just make out a set of green eyes gleaming back at her from the sooty recesses of the hearth.
"How long have you been here?" she whispered.
"What time is it now?"
"Half seven."
"Four hours, then."
"Four hours? And how long do you plan to stay like this?"
He set his jaw and glowered at the fireplace. "As long as it takes."
She noted an open trunk sitting on the opposite side of him. Two thick leather straps with buckles lay at the ready.
She gasped. "You're going to lock Breeches in a trunk?"
 
; "For the night, yes. Doors don't seem to contain the beast."
"With no food, no water?"
"I made air holes. And believe me, he's fortunate to get that much."
"But . . . why?"
"Is it not obvious?" For the first time since she'd entered the library, he slid a glance toward her. "Because I intend to impregnate you tonight, or make a valiant attempt at it. And this time, there will be no interruption."
He turned back to regarding the grate.
"Oh." Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping from her neck to her hairline. "Were you terribly hurt last night? Are you furious with me?"
"I don't know that I can ever forgive you," he said in a dry tone. "I'm going to have a scar."
She paused a moment, then laughed.
The corner of his mouth quirked with a smug little smile. He was pleased with himself for having provoked her to laughter. Emma was pleased, as well. When he wasn't using that sharp wit to slice her to ribbons, he had a rather charming sense of humor.
"I'll be back," she said, drawing to her feet.
A quarter hour later, she returned with a tray of sandwiches, two glasses, and an uncorked bottle of wine.
"Here." She offered him a roast beef sandwich. "To keep up your stamina."
He accepted it and took a large, manly bite.
"No progress?" She bit the corner from an egg-and-cress sandwich.
He shook his head. "Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?"
"Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?"
He reached for another sandwich. "For that, you can thank my father. The summer I was nine, my mother overheard me utter some foul words I'd learned at school. My father drew me aside and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an educated gentleman and he never wanted to hear me use such crude language again. He said, 'Blaspheme as you will, but at least use words from Shakespeare.' I'd read all the plays by the summer's end."
"Quite ingenious of him."
"He was a wise man. A good man. I may not be a wise or good man, but I at least possess a sense of duty. His legacy, and everything and everyone he protected, has fallen to me. I won't let that wither and die."
"And you still draw your curses from Shakespeare."
"I try, in speech at least, as a way to honor his memory. I cannot claim my thoughts are always so literary in their inspiration."
Emma let the quiet abide for a moment. "You must miss him a great deal. And to lose him so young. How did it--" She broke off the question. Perhaps she was delving too deep.
"A fever took them both. I was away at school."
"Oh, dear." She inched a bit closer. "That must have been terrible."
"I'm glad I wasn't there to see them ill. They'll always be strong in my memory that way. Likewise, I'm grateful they never had to see me after I was . . . you know. Like this."
She gathered his meaning, but she didn't believe he was sincere. Having a loving family around him would have made all the difference.
He downed a large swallow of wine, then glanced toward her. "What about your parents? You mentioned leaving home for London at a tender age. What was that about?"
She chewed a bite slowly. "The usual. Strict discipline. Youthful rebellion. Words exchanged that couldn't be taken back."
"That," he said, "was not an answer."
"Yes, it was. You asked a question. I replied. With words and everything."
"I gave you details. Ages, events . . . feelings. I cracked open my soul."
She gave him a disbelieving look.
"All right, fine. I don't have a soul. But the point remains. You can be more specific than that."
"It's a boring story, truly." Before he could object, she withdrew a clipped bit of newsprint from her pocket. "Now this is an interesting story. 'Cloaked Monster Menaces Mayfair.'"
He paused. "Sounds ridiculous."
"I thought it sounded exciting." She cleared her throat and read aloud. "'For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls--among them, three innocent boys--before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.'" She lowered the paper. "Well?"
"Sensationalist rubbish."
"I thought the writing was evocative." Emma folded the clipping leisurely and tucked it away. "Any ideas who this 'monster' might be?"
He was silent.
"It's quite a coincidence. Because we were in St. James Park last week. And you do happen to have a tall hat and black cloak. But of course you wouldn't go around terrorizing innocent boys."
He gave in with a huff. "Innocent boys, my eye. The brats knocked over a flower seller for her pennies. They deserved whatever they got."
She smiled. "Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano."
There was more to him than she'd suspected. More than anyone suspected, perhaps. Humor, patience, passion. She found it all distressingly attractive.
Come along then, Breeches.
At last, there was a stirring in the dark corner behind the grate.
"Hush now." He pinched the corner from a salmon sandwich and leaned forward, holding it out until it was close enough to provide an irresistible feline temptation. "Come on then, you odious, mewling bugbear," he crooned. "I have your dinner."
With a steady stream of low, deceptively tender insults, he drew the cat out from the fireplace. Emma remained absolutely still, so as not to startle the creature.
"That's it," he whispered, drawing his hand closer to his lap. Reeling the cat in like a fish on the line. At last, he allowed Breeches to catch the bait. The starving cat attacked the sandwich in ravenous bites. "There you are, then."
He had the little beast eating out of his hand.
Monster of Mayfair, indeed.
While Breeches ate from one hand, he reached out with the other--grabbing the cat by the scruff. He scooped the creature up, placed both cat and sandwich in the trunk, and latched it tight. Breeches didn't even make a complaint.
Then he stood and dusted his hands before offering Emma assistance in rising to her feet.
"Now," he said. "I am going to ring for a footman to clear this tray and place the cat under lock, key, bolt, and guard. Then I'm going to go upstairs, find a fresh shirt, and rinse the soot from my hands. In all, I estimate that will occupy three minutes." His intense eyes caught hers. "That's how much time you have."
"How much time to what?"
"To make ready. Before I come to your room and pin you flat against the bed."
"Oh."
He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. "Make haste, Emma. You're down to two and a half minutes now."
Emma swallowed hard.
Then she turned and ran.
Chapter Eleven
Emma didn't bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.
When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn't see any reason for darkness, but she didn't wish to waste time arguing.
Not tonight.
She'd barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.
No knock. No
greeting. He was true to his word.
He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.
Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.
"Don't bother," he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.
Very well, then.
She never would have guessed she'd find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He'd demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he'd stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.
She didn't want him to stop.
He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.
She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.
He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before she'd finished deciding if she had the right color of thread, he had her breasts bared and his hands fitted over them, kneading and stroking. Desire shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and he found them with his thumbs. As he rolled and pressed the sensitive peaks, she writhed under his expert teasing.
"You like this." Half smug statement, half question.
She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. "Yes."
"And this?"
He pinched her nipple, and she had to chase after her thoughts before she was able to reply. "Yes."
"Just making certain. Before I do this."
"Do what?"
He cupped one of her breasts and lifted it. She felt a cool swipe across her nipple.
He'd licked her.
She jolted with the keenness of the sensation. "I thought you had a rule," she gasped. "No kissing."
"This isn't kissing. It's licking." Another gliding caress--warm this time--swirling in terrible, wonderful circles. "And sucking." He pulled her nipple into his mouth, drawing on her with no mercy.
She cried out and bucked. She reached instinctively to grip his shoulders, remembering too late he didn't wish to be touched.
He sat up, caught her hands, and pushed them back against the mattress on either side of her head. "We discussed this."
"I know. I'm sorry, I forgot. I can't think when you touch me that way. Or when you touch me this way, for that matter."