blinked at the manly dot in the distance. She needed a spyglass. Or a speaking trumpet. Both, preferably. Conversation would be impossible without them.
A servant snapped open a linen napkin with a flourish, laying it across her lap. Wine was poured into her glass. Another footman appeared with a tureen of soup, which he ladled into a shallow bowl before her. Asparagus, she thought.
“The soup smells divine,” she said.
In the distance, she saw the duke motion to a footman. “You heard her. Pour Her Grace some more wine.”
Emma let her spoon fall into her bowl. This was ridiculous.
She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, gathering the bowl in one hand and her wineglass in the other. The servants looked to one another, panicked, as she walked the full length of the dining table and set her food at his end. She chose the corner facing his unscarred side, to lessen the awkwardness.
He looked annoyed.
She didn’t care.
He broke the silence. “Really?”
“Yes, really. We had a bargain. I admit you to my bed; you appear at the dinner table. And we engage in conversation.”
He took a draught of wine. “If you insist. I suppose we can converse as normal English people do. We’ll talk about the weather, or the latest horse race, or the weather, or the price of tea, and oh, did we happen to discuss the weather?”
“Shall we talk about life in the country?”
“That will serve. The upper classes always talk about the country when in Town, and the Town when in the country.”
“You mentioned that I would have my own house.”
“Yes, it’s called Swanlea. Situated in Oxfordshire. Not a grand house, but comfortable enough. The village is a few miles distant. No one’s been in residence for years, but I’ll have it opened for you.”
“It sounds enchanting. I’d love to go for a visit. Would it be ready by Christmas?”
Christmas seemed her best chance. It was only some nine weeks away. That would put Miss Palmer at nearly six months pregnant—but with luck and clever dressmaking, she might be able to conceal her condition that long. If Emma could have her settled in Oxfordshire by the new year, this just might work.
“The house will be ready by Christmas,” he said. “However, I doubt you’ll be ready by Christmas.”
“What do you mean?”
He waved for the servants to remove the soup. “You won’t be going anywhere until you are confirmed to be with child.”
What?
Emma choked on her wine.
The servants brought in the fish course, forcing her to hold her tongue.
The moment they had some measure of privacy, she leaned forward. “Do you mean to hold me captive in this house?”
“No. I mean to hold you to our bargain. Considering that the purpose of this marriage is procreation, I cannot allow you to reside elsewhere until that goal is achieved. Or at least well under way.”
She searched her brain for a reasonable excuse. “But I’ve been yearning for Christmases in the country. Roasted chestnuts and sleigh rides and caroling.” That much was no falsehood. Passing the holiday alone in a drafty garret had been lowering indeed. “I don’t see why I couldn’t visit for a week.”
He speared a bite of fish. “I know how these things go. A week becomes a fortnight, and then a fortnight becomes a month. Before I know it, you’ve run off to some seaside hamlet to hide for a year or two.”
“If you believe I’d do that, you don’t know me very well.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you believe you won’t be tempted, you don’t know me at all.”
Emma stared at her plate. This was an unforeseen complication. Helping Miss Palmer was one of the reasons she’d agreed to this marriage. Not the only reason, of course—but an important one. At the least, Emma needed to take the young woman to the country and see her settled, even if the duke insisted she return to London afterward. Now she learned he wouldn’t permit any travel whatsoever. Not unless she was pregnant first.
She supposed it was possible she could be with child by Christmas, if she conceived soon. Very, very soon. And if she didn’t . . . Well, she would just have to change his mind, she decided. He couldn’t deny her a brief holiday once she gained his trust.
He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said.
Wonderful.
“Your Gra—” She broke off mid-syllable, frowning. “What do I call you now? Not Your Grace, surely.”
“Ashbury. Or Duke, if you must be more familiar.”
Heavens. Being addressed as Duke counted as familiar?
“I’m your wife. Surely that means I’ve earned the privilege of calling you something more friendly. What did they call you when you were younger, before you inherited? You weren’t Ashbury then.”
“I was addressed by my courtesy title.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“The Marquess of Richmond. A title which will become my heir’s. Soon, with any luck. You may as well save it for him.”
She supposed he was right. “What about your family name?”
“Pembrooke? Never used it.”
Emma wasn’t inclined to use it, either. Too stuffy, and it didn’t precisely trip off the tongue. “Your Christian name, then.”
“George. It was my father’s name, and his father’s name before that, and the name of every third gentleman in England, it would seem.”
“It’s my father’s name, too.” She shuddered. “So that’s out. We’ll have to find something else.”
“There is nothing else. There’s Ashbury, or Duke. Choose one.”
Emma thought on it for a moment. “No, dear husband, I don’t believe I shall.”
He dropped his fork and glowered at her.
She smiled.
He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said. But he respects those who challenge him.
If respect was what the duke had to offer, respect was what she must earn. Emma could put up a challenge. She hoped her husband was up to the task of meeting it.
She reached for a nearby bowl. “Would you like more sauce, sweeting?”
His fingers strangled the stem of his wineglass.
