don’t need a room,” he said, speaking around his own mouthful of sweetness. “This is your house.”
“Well yes, but . . . You’ll come for visits, I assume.”
“I don’t plan on it.”
Her silence was astonished. “Will you not wish to see your child?”
God love her. She didn’t understand. It didn’t matter if Ash wished to see his child. The child would not wish to see him.
His wanderings through the London streets by night proved just how well children took to him. Screaming terror was the most common reaction, with mute horror following close behind. The Mad Duchess had nothing on the Monster Duke.
He sucked on the sweet. “I will, of course, expect regular assurances of his well-being and education through correspondence.”
“Correspondence? You would raise your own son through the post?”
“I’ll be occupied. In London, and at the other estates. Besides, you’ve a surfeit of affection and bossiness. I don’t expect you’ll require my hand in his raising at all. My heir—”
“Your son.”
“—will be far better off in your keeping.”
“What if I don’t agree?” she asked. “What if I wish for him to know you? What if he wishes to not only know you, but love you, the way you loved your own father?”
Impossible.
Ash’s son could never admire him the way Ash had worshipped his own father. His father had been unfailingly wise, good-natured, and patient. Not ill-tempered and bitter, as Ash had become.
His father had been strong. Able to lift his son onto his shoulders without wincing.
His father had possessed a handsome, noble face. A face that had never failed to make Ash feel protected and secure. If Ash couldn’t give his own son that bone-deep feeling of safety, it was better that he stay away.
“No more chatter. Go to sleep.”
Within a few minutes, however, she did begin to chatter. This time, not with her lips and tongue—but with her teeth. Soon the entire settee began to shake. She was shivering like a struck tuning fork.
“Emma?” He slid toward her side of the settee. She’d drawn her feet up under her skirts, hugging her knees to her chest.
“S-s-sorry. It will stop in a m-minute.”
“It’s not that cold,” he said, as if he could reason her out of it.
“I’m always c-cold. I can’t help it.”
Yes, he recalled the five blankets.
Ash took her in his arms, holding her tight to share his warmth with her. Good Lord. She was trembling violently from head to toe. This couldn’t be a result of the weather. He laid his wrist to her brow. She didn’t feel feverish.
Only one explanation remained. She was frightened. His little wife, who didn’t fear dukes or footpads, was scared out of her wits.
“Is it the darkness?” he asked.
“N-no. It’s . . .” She clung to his waistcoat. “This just h-happens sometimes.”
He tightened his arms about her. “I’m here,” he murmured. “I’m here.”
He didn’t ask her any further questions, but he couldn’t help but think them. His gut told him this wasn’t just a quirk of her character. It had an origin. Something, or someone, had caused it.
Emma, Emma. What is it that happened to you?
And who can I throttle to make it better?
After several minutes, her shivering began to ease. So did the worry in Ash’s stomach. He’d been so concerned, he’d begun to consider attempting to carry her into the village for help.
“Attempting” being the infuriating word in that sentence. With the injuries to his shoulder, he didn’t think he could manage to carry her half that distance. Damn it, he despised feeling so useless.
“I’m better now. Thank you.”
She attempted to slip out of his embrace, but Ash was having none of it. He cinched his good arm tight. At least he could do that much. “Sleep.”
It wasn’t long before she obeyed. All that shivering had sapped the last of her energy, no doubt. Ash was left alone in the dark silence with his thoughts.
This excursion had gone all wrong. She was meant to be enthralled with the prospect of an idyllic country life without him, and he was supposed to remind himself of his original intentions. Marry her, impregnate her, tuck her away in the country, and reunite with his heir a dozen or so years down the line.
Instead, now she was tucked securely under his arm, and he didn’t want to let her go. To make it worse, he couldn’t stop sniffing her hair. It smelled like honeysuckle. He hated that he knew that.
He should have blamed Jonas, or the entirety of his staff. But in truth, this was his fault.
Like everything else in his life, it had backfired in spectacular fashion.
Emma woke with a start.
Where was she?
Oh, yes. Tucked under her husband’s arm. Bang in the middle of a disaster.
When she thought of her pitiful trembling last night, she cringed. Of all the times for one of those episodes to strike. In the past year, she’d suffered only a few bouts of the violent shivering, and the last one had been several months past. She’d thought perhaps they’d finally gone away.
Apparently not.
She turned her head stealthily and looked up at him. He was still asleep, thank goodness. His spare hand lay neatly on his chest. His legs were outstretched in an arrow-straight line, crossed at the ankles. The pose was very male, very military, and it made Emma acutely aware of her own ungainly sprawl of limbs. It wasn’t only his posture that made her self-conscious. Why was it that men woke up looking just as handsome as they had when falling asleep—if not more so? Ruffled hair, an attractive shadow of whiskers. It wasn’t fair.
Sliding out from under his arm, she made a few hasty efforts to repair her own appearance. She quickly unpinned her hair, combing it with her fingers, and pinched color back into her cheeks.
When he stirred, she flopped down on the opposite side of the settee, laying her cheek atop her hands and pretending to be asleep. When she was certain he’d awoken enough to notice, she allowed her eyelashes to open with a gentle flutter. She rose to a sitting position, stretching her arms overhead in a gentle salute to the rosy dawn. Then she shook out her hair, letting it tumble about her shoulders in waves.
She cast him a shy smile and tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Good
