leaves the house, never has visitors. Never asks Cook for anything but the simplest of dishes. The staff is as lonely and bored as the duke is, and atop it we’re in the service of a master whose moods run from black to the darkest gray. We are—all of us—counting on you.” She took Emma’s hands and squeezed them. “You’re our only hope. The duke’s only hope, too, I daresay.”
Oh, heavens. That was . . . intimidating. Emma had no idea how to reply. She was struggling to retain a few scraps of optimism for her own future, plus a thread of hope for Miss Palmer’s. Now she had a score of servants depending on her to rescue them, too?
“I have every faith in you, Your Grace.” Mary beamed again and opened the door to a lavish suite. “Now this is your private sitting room. The bath is just through that door. To the other side you’ll find your bedchamber, and beyond that, the dressing room. Shall I leave you for a bit to settle in? You’ve only to ring for me when you’re ready to dress for dinner. I have so many ideas for your hair.” With a little wave and a hop, she disappeared.
Emma wasn’t eager to be left alone. This sitting room alone was larger than the garret she’d lived in for the past three years. It must take bushels of coal to heat. If she wouldn’t have felt so foolish, she would have cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted her name—just to see if it echoed back.
As she wandered through the other rooms, her gaze skipped from one luxurious furnishing to the next. She didn’t know how she’d ever dare to use them.
In the bedchamber, everything was laid out and waiting. The small assortment of belongings she’d brought with her, and many luxuries she hadn’t. Fresh flowers, no doubt from a hothouse. On the dressing table, she found a silver hairbrush and hand mirror. The bed was covered with new linens, freshly pressed.
Oh, Lord. The bed.
She couldn’t think about that just now.
Her one and only frock remotely fit for a formal dinner had been pressed and hung in readiness. She hoped it wouldn’t be obvious that it was merely a years-old bit of rescued silk she’d used to practice new styles. The waistline had been lowered and lifted countless times. The hem had been flounced and unflounced again. Ribbon trim had been exchanged for lace, then beading. It was hardly a proper gown, but it was what she had.
She took a folded quilt from the edge of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before sitting on the hearthrug, drawing her knees to her chest, and curling into herself like a bug.
She wasn’t a seamstress any longer. She was a wife, a duchess.
And she was terrified.
At eight o’clock, Emma found herself seated at one end of a mile-long table. She could scarcely make out the opposite end of it. The white linen surface seemed to disappear into the horizon. A few bits of crystal and silver twinkled like far-off stars.
The duke entered, nodded in her direction, and then began a prolonged, unhurried stroll to the far end of the dining room. It took him a full minute. There, he waited for a footman to draw out his chair, and then he sat.
Emma 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.
