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. She could practically hear the grapes calling for help. She hoped that was a good sign.
“If you don’t cease that nonsense,” he said, “you will regret it.”
“Is that so, my heart?”
He plunked one forearm on the table and turned to face her. Piercing blue eyes, striking scars, and all. “Yes.”
Despite all her intentions to challenge him unabashed, Emma found herself, inconveniently, just a little bit abashed. Perhaps she should talk of the weather.
She was saved, however, from starting a discussion about the autumn chill.
A flash of silver fur darted from the side of the room. Breeches leapt onto the table, sank his teeth into the steamed trout, and absconded with it before either of them could say a word.
“That’s it.” The duke threw his linen napkin on his plate. “Dinner is over.”
Ash cinched his dressing gown and tied the sash. Then he undid it and tried again. He’d made such a tight knot on his first attempt, he’d impeded his ability to breathe.
He was damnably anxious. Emma wouldn’t be the only inexperienced one tonight. He was hardly a virgin himself—but he’d never bedded a virgin before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from her quarter. Would she be merely timid, or outright terrified? How much pain was he likely to cause?
He supposed there was one comfort he could offer her. Considering how long it had been for him, the whole matter ought to be over within minutes. If not seconds.
He padded down the corridor on bare feet. When he arrived at her bedchamber, he gave a knock of warning before opening the door a few inches.
“I assume you’re ready,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He entered, extinguishing his candle soon after. She had a few tapers of her own burning, and he went about the room snuffing them in turn. When he’d banked the fire to a dim red glow, he turned to join her on the bed.
On his first step forward, he bashed his knee on the edge of . . . something. A table? The leg of a chair?
The bedclothes rustled. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said tersely.
“You know, a bit of light might be a good idea.”
“No. It would not be a good idea.”
“I’ve seen your scars already.”
“Not like this.” And not all of them. The scars on his face were merely the prologue to an epic tale of deformity.
She might be able to stomach his appearance from across the room or in a darkened carriage, even at the dinner table. But within the intimacy of the marriage bed? Unclothed, in the light? Not a chance. The point been made painfully clear the first—and last—time he’d allowed a woman to view him that way.
The memory remained as sharp and painful as a poison-tipped arrow.
How could I bear to lie with . . . with that?
How, indeed.
Ash had no wish to relive that moment, and not merely to preserve his pride. This was a matter of saving his bloodline. He couldn’t afford to frighten Emma off. When it came to bedding, she was already timid about the enterprise. He couldn’t risk giving her any further reason to demur. A man was only allowed one wife. If she didn’t give him an heir, that would mean the end of his line. At least the end of the decent side of it—the one without irredeemable prats.
“I’m over here,” she said. “This way.”
He followed the sound of her voice, stumbling a bit over some carpet fringe, but otherwise arriving at the edge of the bed in one piece. After tugging at the sash of his dressing gown, he undid the knot and slipped free of the garment, setting it aside.
He settled his weight
