her too far, too fast, and she shied from him . . . It all would have been for nothing. He would have no legitimate heir, and his father’s legacy would die with him.
Unthinkable. He would not allow that to happen.
Please.
It echoed through his mind again. A fresh shiver of arousal traveled the length of his spine.
He gave himself a mental shake.
She was not sighing in ecstasy, you clotpole.
That was only his desperate, lonely, sex-starved imagination, grasping at any phantom resembling affection.
He walked through the shuttered stalls of Shepherd Market, using his walking stick to push refuse out of his way and into the middens.
He prodded at a heap of rags.
The heap of rags stirred.
It unfolded, transforming into the figure of a young girl. No doubt she’d been left there to keep watch on the family stall by night.
“Whassat?” She drew herself up to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes, and turned to blink up at his face.
She blinked again.
And then she shrieked, loud and long enough to wake the dead.
“It’s all right,” Ash muttered. “I don’t wish to—”
She paused for a breath, then unleashed another high-pitched scream. Dogs nearby began to snarl and bark.
“Be still, child. I’m not going to—”
“Get away!” She kicked at his shin, shouting. “Get away! Leave me be!”
“I’m going.” He fished for what coins he had in his pocket, placed them beside the boarded-up stall, and made a hasty retreat. His heart was pounding.
See? he chided himself, once he was some distance down the lane.
Children screamed at the sight of him. Dogs howled as they would at a fiend.
No woman would be begging for him now. Not in bed, in the dark.
For that matter, not by day in the park.
Not on land, not at sea. She does not want you, Ashbury.
God, he was a blithering idiot.
Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. He halted in his paces, turning an ear toward the sound. From the same direction, he heard a wallop, followed by a coarse shout.
Ash frowned. Then he started into motion, following the sounds in brisk strides. Walking stick at the ready.
Whatever the trouble, it wasn’t his concern.
But it might prove a welcome distraction.
The next morning, Emma took herself to the morning room. It seemed the expected thing. When she entered the sun-washed space, her gaze skipped over the tasseled upholstery and vases of flowers and went straight to the humblest furnishing in the room: an escritoire.
Perfect.
She had letters to write.
She sat at the writing desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, unstoppered the ink, and dipped the quill.
Her first priority was sending a note to reassure Miss Palmer, but Emma wasn’t certain how to do so. A message delivered from Ashbury House would raise eyebrows. No one even knew a Duchess of Ashbury existed yet. It wouldn’t be wise to call at the Palmer residence, either. Emma was merely a seamstress in their eyes. Once word got about that the duke had married, perhaps, but for now . . .
Fanny. Yes. She would write a note and send it in care of Fanny, asking her pass it along when Miss Palmer returned to the shop.
That accomplished, Emma turned her attention to another letter.
One that was six years overdue.
Dear Father,
It has been much too long since we’ve spoken.
But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested it might be too soon.
Dear Father,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
She stared at the sentence. As many times as she’d wished him to suffer boils, she wasn’t certain that was accurate, either.
Emma crumpled the sheet of paper and tried once more. Apparently polite salutations weren’t going to serve.
Father,
Do you recall the last time we saw one another? If not, permit me to remind you. You cast me out into a storm, barred me from my home, and told me no respectable man would ever want me. Well, it is my cold pleasure to inform you now, sir—you were gravely mistaken. Someone wanted me after all, and that someone is a duke.
But then . . . once again, she doubted. Did the duke truly want her? They’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, no more. For him, bedding her was a means to an end.
Her thoughts returned to their disastrous attempt at consummation the previous night. Perfunctory as the act was intended to be, and all his “rules” notwithstanding, his caresses were tender, patient. His hands told an entirely different story than his gruff, cynical words, and she couldn’t help but respond.
She’d been alone so long, isolated and untouched.
Waiting.
He’d awakened her desires. And yet, the moment she’d surrendered to them . . . he’d stopped. As if he’d been shocked by her response, or even displeased with it.
Perhaps he didn’t want her, after all. Or more to the point, perhaps he didn’t want a freely passionate wife, and that would only affirm her father’s judgment.
No decent man will have you.
Devastating.
Yes, their relationship was a convenient agreement. Yes, she’d resolved to keep her reckless, foolish heart uninvolved. Still, she craved a bit of closeness. Though she’d scraped by on her own for years, she was starved for human connection. And now she’d tethered herself, for the remainder of her life, to a man unwilling to connect with anyone. She felt more alone than ever.
Don’t be maudlin, Emma. It was only one night. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected. Surely it would improve with time.
A flurry of odd noises saved her from wallowing in self-pity. Emma rose from the writing desk. The cat had probably found a divan or chaise to claw to shreds. That might be a blessing in disguise if he
