that Emma was happy they’d been set upon by thieves. That had been terrifying, and she had no desire to ever experience it again. However, now, with the benefit of knowing they’d escaped unscathed, she could revisit the memory and feel a thrill at his instinctive move to guard her and the outraged precision with which he’d dispatched the two men.
No one had ever protected her that way.
Whatever attraction she’d felt toward him beforehand—and she had felt an attraction, no matter how unwillingly—was increased a hundredfold.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” she said. “It was all my fault. We would not have ended here in the park if—”
“If I’d paid the slightest attention. The fault was mine.” He led her out of the park without further conversation. At the nearest crossing, he hailed a hackney cab. “You’re going home. My carriage will come for you tomorrow. Have your things ready.”
The air vacated her lungs. “Wait. What are you saying?”
“From there, you’ll go to a hotel. Mivart’s, I think.”
Mivart’s. The finest, most luxurious hotel in Mayfair. Emma had visited it once, to hem a gown for a visiting Austrian baroness. She had never imagined she would stay in such a place.
“I’ll send for you once the solicitors have finished the contracts.” The duke opened the hackney’s door and stuffed Emma into it. “We’ll be married at Ashbury House.”
“But . . . but . . .”
He gave directions to the hackney driver, then moved to close the door and shut her inside. “On second thought, don’t pack your belongings. I’ll buy you new. I’ve no use for moldy potatoes.”
She thrust her boot into the door opening before he could close it. “Wait.”
He stared at her. “What?”
Excellent question. Emma didn’t have the faintest idea what. Only that this was all happening so fast. Too fast. Her life had been set spinning, and she didn’t want to make it stop—but she needed some sort of handle to grasp.
“I . . . I insist on bringing a cat.”
He made a noise of unmitigated disgust. “A cat.”
“Yes, a cat. My cat.”
Emma, you idiot. You don’t even have a cat.
She would find one, she decided. If she meant to enter a marriage with no promise of affection and inhabit that vast, elegant house, she needed at least one ally. What better than a fuzzy, wide-eyed kitten?
“For a bride of convenience, you are proving to be a great deal of trouble.” He tucked her foot into the hackney, then leveled a finger at her before closing the door. “This cat of yours had better be well-behaved.”
The cat was the most foul, filthy, repulsive creature Ashbury had seen in his life, outside of the rare occasions when he regarded himself in a mirror. It was no more than a collection of bones encased in smudge-colored fur, and doubtless crawling with fleas.
His bride clutched the beast with both hands, holding it in front her like some sort of spinster bouquet.
Excellent. What was it they said? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something yowling.
Ash scowled at the thing.
The creature hissed in reply.
The dislike would seem to be mutual.
“Does it have a name?” he asked.
She looked up, as if startled by the question. “What?”
“A name. Does the cat have one?”
“Oh. Yes. Breeches. His name is Breeches.”
“Breeches?”
“Isn’t that what I said?” She showed no signs of releasing the thing. Instead, she looked about the hall. “Where are we reciting our vows? The library?”
“You can’t mean to hold that thing throughout the ceremony.”
“But if I put him down, I fear he’ll run off. Besides, he wants to be a witness. Don’t you, Breeches?” She turned the cat to face her and made a kissy face. “This is the Duke of Ashbury. Aren’t you pleased to meet him?” She took the creature’s paw and mimicked a wave of greeting in Ash’s direction. “He’s quite friendly.”
The cat’s claws made a vicious swipe through the air.
Right. That was it.
Ash reached out, wrested the animal from her grasp, and set it on the floor. The gray beast darted off at once.
“This house is enormous,” she objected. “He might be lost for days.”
“We can only hope.”
He tugged at the front of his waistcoat and turned to have a proper look at his bride. Of all that cat’s many offenses, its worst by far was obscuring his view of her. Thus far, he had seen her only two ways: first, wearing a gown made of leprous icicles, and second, wearing a modest 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
