shopgirl frock.
The morning dress she wore today was simple, but a welcome respite for his beauty-starved eyes. It was fashioned from wool in a rich, flattering shade of blue. The fit was perfect. He supposed that shouldn’t have been a surprise—she’d likely sewn it herself—but the frock embraced her in all the best places. The sleeves were long, and she’d added an edge of slender lace at the wrists. The merest hint of sweetness, like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar.
It was charming.
No, no. Charming? Had he just thought that word? He wasn’t charmed. He was never charmed. Bah.
He was ruttish, that was all. Eager to break an interminable stretch of celibacy. He admired her frock for one reason: because it would make such a satisfying heap on the floor.
What a shame he wouldn’t have the opportunity to see it that way. It would be dark when he visited her bed tonight.
Her rose-petal lips moved. Damn it, that meant he’d been staring at them. And now he hadn’t heard whatever it was she’d said.
“The curate is in the drawing room,” he said.
She hesitated.
He braced himself to hear, I can’t possibly do this, or What was I thinking? or I’d rather be hungry and homeless, thank you.
“Which way is the drawing room?”
With a relieved sigh, he turned and offered her his arm. “This way.”
Her steps were not precisely light, and he couldn’t fault her for it. She no doubt would have wished to marry for love, and he was about to steal that dream from her tiny, work-reddened fingers—replacing the charming, handsome groom of her dreams with an ill-tempered monster.
Guilt jabbed him in the ribs.
He had to ignore it. War had taught him two things. First, life was fleeting. Second, duty wasn’t. If he died without an heir, his toad of a cousin would carve up the lands, making every decision for his own expedience and enrichment. Ash would have failed the thousands who depended on him.
And if he failed them, he would not be the man his father raised. No prospect could be more gutting.
The irony of it hit him as they entered the drawing room.
He was the one marrying for love.
Just not hers.
It wasn’t precisely the wedding of Emma’s youthful imaginings. She’d seen herself having a church wedding, naturally, packed with friends, neighbors, relations. She’d dreamed of wearing pink ribbons and a crown of flowers in her hair. But then, she’d abandoned those girlish fancies years ago.
In the drawing room, there were no guests or flowers—only the curate, the butler, the housekeeper, and a frightful number of papers awaiting her signature. Emma riffled through the pile, intimidated. She supposed there was no better place to begin than the beginning.
She was only halfway through the second page before the duke’s patience expired.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Reading them?”
“Of course I’m reading them. I don’t sign anything I don’t read first. Do you?”
“That’s different. I might have something to lose.”
And Emma didn’t. That was the duke’s clear implication. In truth, it would be hard to argue the point. She’d already left the dressmaking shop, her garret, and most of her belongings behind.
He left her to her reading, retreating to pace in circles at the other end of the drawing room. Emma was visited by the strange suspicion he might be as nervous as she was.
No, that couldn’t be. More likely, he was eager to have it done.
“May I assist you, Miss Gladstone?” The murmured question came from nearby. “I know how weighty those stacks of paper can be.”
She looked up to find the butler standing near. She’d met him the other day. What was his name? Mr. Khan, she thought she recalled.
What she remembered with certainty was that she’d liked him at once. He had bronze skin, an Indian cadence to his speech, and silver hair with a part as arrow-straight as his posture. He’d treated her with kindness, even when she’d appeared on the doorstep with no card and no invitation. In fact, he’d seemed strangely delighted to see her.
“The duke isn’t always like this,” Khan confided, handing her the next set of papers.
“No?” Emma pounced on the kernel of hope.
“Usually, he’s a great deal worse.” With a glance over his shoulder, the butler exchanged one set of papers for another. “He’s been alone and is determined to remain that way. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he respects those who challenge him. I suspect that’s why you are here. He’s angry, resentful, bored, in more pain than he lets on—and you’ll either be the making of him, or he’ll be the ruin of you.”
She swallowed hard.
“If it helps,” he said, “the entire staff is pulling for the former.”
“It does help. I think.”
Whatever was required to “be the making” of a wounded duke, Emma was positive she lacked it. However, if Khan wanted to be in her corner, she wouldn’t complain. She needed to have one friend in the house, and it clearly wasn’t going to be her husband.
Nor that cat, wherever it was.
“What’s going on over there?” the man in question demanded.
“Nothing,” she called. “That is, I’m nearly finished.” To the butler, she whispered, “Do you have advice?”
“I suppose it’s too late to run.”
“Other than that.”
“Drink heavily? Someone in the house ought to, and I cannot.”
“Khan, stop standing about and make yourself useful. Fetch the family Bible.”
The butler straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The subtle wink he gave her in parting was one of beleaguered sympathy. We’re in this together now, it seemed to say.
She reached for the pen.
Once she’d finished signing all the contracts, the curate cleared his throat. “Are we ready to begin, Your Grace?”
“God, yes. Let’s get on with it.”
As she and the duke took their places side by side, Emma couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. His uninjured profile was to her. Decisive and compelling, with no trace of doubt on his features.
Then he suddenly turned his head, displaying his scars. Embarrassed at having been caught staring,
