distract herself, she wandered to a corner of the antechamber, where a Holland cloth had been draped over some tall, narrow furnishing. Could it be another clock, out of use? If so, Emma hoped it needed repair. She could pay Alex a frightful sum for mending it.
However, when she pulled the cloth aside, she did not discover a clock behind it.
She found a mirror.
A full-length looking glass in a gilt oval frame, cracked to pieces. A spiderweb of splinters radiated from the center. Each shard reflected at a different angle, piecing her image into a patchwork Emma.
She touched her fingertips to the center of the shattered web. It looked as if someone—a strong, tall someone—had driven his fist into the glass.
A lump rose in her throat.
Alexandra tugged at her elbow. “Emma, someone’s coming.”
Oh, no.
Someone was coming. Worse by far, she knew who it must be. Steps that heavy could only belong to one person in this house.
The duke.
“We should move on anyhow,” Alexandra said.
Emma whirled in place, desperate. If they left the suite now, they would confront him in the corridor—and he would be suspicious of her intent. Displeased, or even furious.
A door creaked. He’d entered through the antechamber.
Emma grabbed Alexandra by the wrist and tugged her to the other side of the room. Together, they dove behind a settee.
“Why are we hiding?” Alexandra whispered. “It’s your house. Your husband.”
“I know.” Emma fluttered her hands. “But I panicked.”
“I suppose we’re stuck now. Let’s hope he doesn’t mean to stay.”
Emma put a finger to her lips for silence as the duke’s footsteps moved into the bedchamber. The room fell almost silent. When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she peeked around the corner of the settee. His back was to her, and he—
God have mercy. He was disrobing.
She slunk back to the other side of the settee and quietly thunked her head against the upholstery.
Why, why, why? Why now, why here?
Well, she supposed “here” was the logical place to disrobe, it being his bedchamber. But that answer did nothing to assuage her rueful, silent bemoaning of the entire situation. She had never felt so stupid.
“What is it?” Alexandra whispered.
Frantic, Emma made every hand signal she knew to indicate the need for absolute silence. She probably invented a few new ones, as well.
Remain calm, she told herself. Most likely he’d only come up to exchange his coat, or retrieve his watch or some other small item. Otherwise, wouldn’t he ring for his valet?
After waiting through twenty heartbeats—which likely added up to four seconds on Alexandra’s chronometer—she peeked again.
Oh, Lord. He’d tossed aside the coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and—as she watched—tugged his shirt free of his breeches and pulled it over his head.
Her pulse stopped—and then began again as a low, painful throb.
Dear heavens.
The left side of him was muscled and sculpted and Roman-godlike and all the other descriptors a woman could muster to signal attractiveness and sheer, raw lust. That ridge between his flank and his hip alone . . . the way his trousers rode it, dipping to reveal an enticing glimpse of taut, firm backside.
Emma wished she could claim she was riveted to that sight. All the places where he was strong and perfect. She wished her gaze had never wandered to the wounded side of him and stubbornly stuck there.
But it had.
And now she couldn’t look away.
The injuries he wore on his face were only the beginning. His torso bore a long, angry swath of scars that snaked from his neck, down the right side of his shoulder and chest, and then blazed around his ribs to end at the small of his back.
As he splashed water over his face and neck, the rivulets followed a tortuous path downward. His flesh was raised and twisting, as gnarled as the bark of ancient tree. Warring scars tugged at each other with aggressive fingers. And then there were a few bits of him that were simply . . . missing. Depressions that deepened into hollows, where fire had carved him away to sinew and bone.
What a miracle that he’d survived at all. Then again, he was excessively ill-tempered and intractable. No doubt he’d simply refused to follow when death beckoned. That would be so like him.
Oh, you stubborn, brave, impossible man. Curse you for being more attractive than ever.
Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her. She was seized by the urge to run to him, but she didn’t know what she’d do when got there. Kiss him, hold him, grope him, weep over him . . . ? She’d probably make a fool of herself doing all four at once. It was for the best, she supposed, that she was forced to remain behind this settee until he left the room.
A clattering noise startled her out of her skin.
Alexandra’s carnet—and its metal case—had tumbled to the floor. Sorry, she mouthed.
“Who’s there?” The duke grabbed his razor from the washstand and whirled around.
Emma cringed. There was nothing else to be done.
“It’s me.” She popped up from behind the settee, giving him a smile and a jolly wave. “Just me. Only me. Definitely no one else.”
He stared at her with an expression that blended anger and disbelief. “Emma?”
She gave Alexandra a soft kick before coming out from behind the settee and approaching her husband. “I . . . I thought you were downstairs. In the ballroom.”
“I was downstairs. Then I came upstairs.”
“Yes, of course.”
Behind him, Alexandra crawled out from behind the settee and began to scurry across the bedchamber carpet on all fours.
If Emma didn’t keep his attention focused on her, he would see Alexandra, and this already uncomfortable scene would enter . . . well, not quite the ninth circle of Hell, but Dante’s lesser known invention: the sixth octagon of awkward.
She asked breezily, “More badminton this afternoon?”
“Fencing.”
“Oh, yes. Fencing.” She touched her ear. That would explain the clanging, wouldn’t it.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Alexandra’s farewell salute from the other side
