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, but 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.”
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
