condition. Apparently pregnancy took a woman’s sense and launched it out the nearest window.
“Ash, please. I would never ask for myself. But Miss Palmer has no one else.”
“What of the child’s father? What of her own family?”
“She can’t confide in them.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“The fact that she told me so. She may be a young woman, but she is a grown woman. She knows her own mind . . . even if she does not understand the precise workings of human breeding organs.”
“How would inviting her to Swanlea help?”
“She wants to give birth in secret and find a family to raise the child. If she does so in the country, she can return to London for the Season next June with no one the wiser.”
“No.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “No. Never mind the ball. You’re not going to make off with a pregnant young woman and embroil us both in a months-long deception. I will not permit it, and I will certainly not be a part of it.”
“Ash, please. If you truly—”
He held up a hand. “Stop right there. Do not play that game.”
“What game?
“The if-you-loved-me-you’d-do-as-I-ask game. Because I can volley it right back at you. If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask. If you loved me, you would trust my judgment. If you loved me, you’d give me back my draperies. It’s nothing but a weak attempt at blackmail, and if you’re going to sink that low, at least demand something that involves jewels or nakedness.”
She found a pair of elbow-length gloves and added them to the growing heap on the bed. “One of us will have to give. We can’t both have our way on this.”
“Then I get my way.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a man, and your husband, and a duke.”
Emma responded to that the way he suspected she would—by skewering him with an irritated look. However, at least she stopped careening about the room like a billiard ball.
She sank onto the edge of the bed. “I have to help her, Ash. You must understand why. That could have been me.”
“Yes, but it isn’t you.” He crossed to sit beside her. “Be honest. Are you doing this for Miss Palmer, or for yourself?”
“I’m doing it for Miss Palmer. And for myself. And for all young women who find themselves punished for no greater crime than following their hearts. Davina has only a few choices left to her, but those choices belong in her hands. Not her lover’s, not her father’s. Most definitely not yours.”
“That would be all well and good, and I would not argue with it—if you weren’t planning to use my house for this deception.”
“I’m not using your house. I’m going to use my house. The one you promised me from the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
She gave him a matter-of-fact look. “You told me I could go to Swanlea once I was pregnant. Well, I’m pregnant.”
Despite the early-morning darkness outside, for Ash the room was suddenly unbearably bright. Clocks ticked and the fire crackled, and the sounds were a clamor in his brain. He needed to shut them out. To shut everything out.
Oh, God.
Emma was absolutely correct. He had told her, in their first week of marriage, that she might go to Swanlea as soon as she was with child—and not before. And from that day on, she had worked quite diligently to make that pregnancy happen.
“So this isn’t a recent plan you’ve devised. You’ve been planning this from the start.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t fault me for having practical reasons for accepting your proposal, when you know very well you did, too. It was a marriage of convenience for us both, at first.” She rose from her bed and went to her dressing table.
He passed a hand over his face. “This explains everything. Why you were so keen to have Swanlea readied by Christmas. Why you peppered me with all your little endearments. You told me you were infatuated. Carnally attracted to my body, the freakish horror it is. God, how laughable. You must think me a fool.”
He was a fool. He should have known better than to believe any woman could see him that way.
Pacing the room back and forth, he made his voice light in imitation. “‘Take me to the theater. Come to Penny’s for tea. Let me dress you up in smart new attire. Oh, you’re so splendid and handsome.’”
“Ash, you are being absurd.”
“I let you call me bunnykins,” he growled. “Now that was absurd.”
“You think that was bad? Oh, I’m just getting started. You are such a wienerbrød.”
He sputtered. “That is the vilest thing I’ve ever heard. And I don’t even know what it means.”
“It’s an Austrian pastry.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s probably delicious, but if I had one right now, I would lob it at your head.”
“You are a clever one, aren’t you. All this time, you’ve been scheming. No wonder you were eager to spread your legs for me in every corner of the house. The faster you dispatched your duty to get pregnant, the sooner you’d make your escape. Isn’t that so?”
“It is not so!” Emma slammed her hairbrush onto her dressing table. “How dare you. How dare you imply that what we shared is tawdry and cheap. How could you even think that of me?” She fumed at a jumble of hairpins. “All this because I’ve asked you to take me to a ball.”
“If I wanted to attend balls, I would have married Annabelle and I’d be hosting one tonight. I married you expressly to avoid that ordeal.”
She wheeled on him with a glare that he richly deserved. “Lord, how I hate that woman. She made you feel like a monster, and ever since, you’ve devoted yourself to making it the truth. I can tell you a hundred times over how much I want you, how deeply I love you—and yet you still choose to believe her word over mine. She made you impossible to live with, and entirely too difficult to love.”
“Well,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to spare you any further difficulty.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I’m not certain I know you at all.”
Ash was well aware of the cutting edge in his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften it. He was wounded, reeling, and that familiar, detestable impulse overrode his thinking. That need to lash out at her—to render her too occupied with her own wounds to look closely at his.
It wasn’t working, though. It never had worked,
