an Indian cadence to his speech, and silver hair with a part as arrow-straight as his posture. He’d treated her with kindness, even when she’d appeared on the doorstep with no card and no invitation. In fact, he’d seemed strangely delighted to see her.
“The duke isn’t always like this,” Khan confided, handing her the next set of papers.
“No?” Emma pounced on the kernel of hope.
“Usually, he’s a great deal worse.” With a glance over his shoulder, the butler exchanged one set of papers for another. “He’s been alone and is determined to remain that way. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he respects those who challenge him. I suspect that’s why you are here. He’s angry, resentful, bored, in more pain than he lets on—and you’ll either be the making of him, or he’ll be the ruin of you.”
She swallowed hard.
“If it helps,” he said, “the entire staff is pulling for the former.”
“It does help. I think.”
Whatever was required to “be the making” of a wounded duke, Emma was positive she lacked it. However, if Khan wanted to be in her corner, she wouldn’t complain. She needed to have one friend in the house, and it clearly wasn’t going to be her husband.
Nor that cat, wherever it was.
“What’s going on over there?” the man in question demanded.
“Nothing,” she called. “That is, I’m nearly finished.” To the butler, she whispered, “Do you have advice?”
“I suppose it’s too late to run.”
“Other than that.”
“Drink heavily? Someone in the house ought to, and I cannot.”
“Khan, stop standing about and make yourself useful. Fetch the family Bible.”
The butler straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The subtle wink he gave her in parting was one of beleaguered sympathy. We’re in this together now, it seemed to say.
She reached for the pen.
Once she’d finished signing all the contracts, the curate cleared his throat. “Are we ready to begin, Your Grace?”
“God, yes. Let’s get on with it.”
As she and the duke took their places side by side, Emma couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. His uninjured profile was to her. Decisive and compelling, with no trace of doubt on his features.
Then he suddenly turned his head, displaying his scars. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, she looked away—and instantly knew in her stomach that looking away was the wrong thing to do.
Well done, Emma. Just capital. That won’t offend him at all.
As they recited their vows, the duke clasped her hand to slide a plain gold band on her finger. His grip was firm and unsentimental, as if he were asserting a claim. The two servants signed as witnesses, and then they and the curate departed.
They found themselves alone, the three of them. Emma, the duke, and a thick, uncomfortable silence.
He clapped his hands. “Well, that’s done.”
“I suppose it is.”
“I’ll have the maid bring some refreshment to your suite. You’ll want to rest.”
As he turned to leave, Emma put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
He turned back. “What.”
The word wasn’t a question, but a scolding.
She steadied her nerves. “I want to have dinner.”
“Of course you will have dinner. Do you think I mean to starve you? That would hardly suit my purposes of siring a healthy child.”
“I didn’t mean that I merely wish to be fed. I’d like the two of us to dine together. Not only tonight, but every evening. Proper dinners, with multiple courses. And conversation.”
From his expression, one would think she’d suggested nightly abdominal surgery. Performed with a knitting needle and a spoon.
“Why would you want that?”
“There must be something more than bedding between us. We must come to know one another, at least a little bit. Otherwise, I’ll feel too much like a . . .”
“A broodmare. Yes, I recall.” He looked to the side, sighed, and then looked back at her. “Very well, we will dine together. However, let’s have a few matters settled right now. This is a marriage of convenience.”
“That’s what we agreed.”
“There will be no affection involved. In fact, every precaution will be taken against it.”
“I’m surprised you believe we’ll need any precautions.”
“Only one act is required on your part. You must permit me to visit your bed. I’m well aware of my distasteful appearance. You need not fear any crude or lascivious attentions from my quarter. All encounters will be as dignified as possible. No lights, no kissing. And of course, once you are pregnant with my heir, we will be done.”
At this, Emma was stunned. No kissing? No lights? On account of his “distasteful appearance”?
The pain implied in that litany tugged at her emotions. Annabelle Worthing’s rejection must have been a cruel blow. Even if he’d formed the idea that his scars were intolerably repulsive . . . Emma was his wife now. She refused to underscore it. She knew how it felt to be an outcast.
He turned to walk away. Once again, she stopped him.
“One more thing. I want you to kiss me.”
She was mortified by the way she’d blurted it out, but it was done—and now she must not back down. If she ceded to him on this, she would never regain what little ground she held.
“Have you been paying attention? I only just now stipulated there would be no kissing.”
“You said kissing in bed,” she pointed out. “This isn’t bed. I promise, I’ll only ask the once.”
He passed a hand over his face. “Dinner. Kisses. This is what I get for wedding a vicar’s daughter from the country. Girlish notions about romance.”
“Believe me, being a vicar’s daughter from the country did nothing to fill me with notions of romance.”
Strumpet. Harlot. Jezebel.
The cruel words whispered from the shadowy corners of her memory. She tamped them down, as she’d learned to do over the years. Perhaps someday she would learn how to banish them.
“I can do without
