overdue.
Dear Father,
It has been much too long since we’ve spoken.
But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested it might be too soon.
Dear Father,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
She stared at the sentence. As many times as she’d wished him to suffer boils, she wasn’t certain that was accurate, either.
Emma crumpled the sheet of paper and tried once more. Apparently polite salutations weren’t going to serve.
Father,
Do you recall the last time we saw one another? If not, permit me to remind you. You cast me out into a storm, barred me from my home, and told me no respectable man would ever want me. Well, it is my cold pleasure to inform you now, sir—you were gravely mistaken. Someone wanted me after all, and that someone is a duke.
But then . . . once again, she doubted. Did the duke truly want her? They’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, no more. For him, bedding her was a means to an end.
Her thoughts returned to their disastrous attempt at consummation the previous night. Perfunctory as the act was intended to be, and all his “rules” notwithstanding, his caresses were tender, patient. His hands told an entirely different story than his gruff, cynical words, and she couldn’t help but respond.
She’d been alone so long, isolated and untouched.
Waiting.
He’d awakened her desires. And yet, the moment she’d surrendered to them . . . he’d stopped. As if he’d been shocked by her response, or even displeased with it.
Perhaps he didn’t want her, after all. Or more to the point, perhaps he didn’t want a freely passionate wife, and that would only affirm her father’s judgment.
No decent man will have you.
Devastating.
Yes, their relationship was a convenient agreement. Yes, she’d resolved to keep her reckless, foolish heart uninvolved. Still, she craved a bit of closeness. Though she’d scraped by on her own for years, she was starved for human connection. And now she’d tethered herself, for the remainder of her life, to a man unwilling to connect with anyone. She felt more alone than ever.
Don’t be maudlin, Emma. It was only one night. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected. Surely it would improve with time.
A flurry of odd noises saved her from wallowing in self-pity. Emma rose from the writing desk. The cat had probably found a divan or chaise to claw to shreds. That might be a blessing in disguise if he had. Replacing the upholstery would give her a project to undertake.
As she followed the sounds, however, they sounded less and less likely to be feline. Soft thwacking and muffled grunting emanated from behind a set of imposing double doors.
She approached in soft footsteps and placed her ear to the door.
“Really, Khan.” The duke’s voice. “Try to muster a bit of effort.”
“I am attempting to do so, Your Grace.”
“Then muster harder. It’s your turn to receive.”
Emma pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside. She discovered a grand, open space, floored with inlaid parquet and bordered by walls hung with life-sized portraits. Capping off the opulence, elaborate scrollwork and chandeliers decorated the ceiling.
And across the middle of this majestic ballroom was strung a sort of crude netting. Two men—the duke and his butler—faced off on either side of it.
The duke swung a racquet, sending a plumed cork sailing over the net.
Khan, having caught sight of Emma, paid it no notice—with the result that the shuttlecock bounced directly off his forehead.
“Oh, come on.” The duke shook his racquet in accusation. “I all but sealed and posted you that one.”
Khan ignored his employer, opting to bow in Emma’s direction instead. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The duke whipped around, still holding his racquet at a threatening angle. He swept a glance over her. “You.”
Be still her heart. What a salutation.
She moved into the room. “I thought you were joking about the badminton.”
“I wasn’t.”
“So I see.”
After a pause, he waved her toward the doors. “Well? You must have things to do. Take breakfast. Confer with the housekeeper, now that you’re mistress of the place. Do something ridiculous with your hair.”
“I’ve accomplished the first and second, and I will politely decline the third. I’m out of occupations at the moment.”
“Wonderful,” Khan interjected, striding toward her. “You can take over this one.” He pressed his racquet into Emma’s hand. Before making for the door, he mouthed two words. Save. Me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the duke demanded.
The butler turned in the doorway. “I’m not certain, Your Grace. Perhaps I’ll do something ridiculous with my hair.”
He bowed, closed the double doors, and was gone.
The duke bellowed after him. “I’ll dock your wages for this, you milk-livered cullion.”
In the ensuing quiet, Emma regarded the racquet in her hand. “Khan doesn’t seem to enjoy badminton.”
“He enjoys steady employment. We have sport three times a week. A man needs to keep up his stamina somehow.”
Stamina. Yes. Just looking at the duke, it was plain to see that he’d been an active man, long before his injury. Those shoulders and thighs could not have developed overnight. As he bent to retrieve the shuttlecock, she admired the tight contour of his backside. That didn’t come from idleness, either.
He stood, and she quickly averted her gaze.
Drat.
Again, she’d been caught staring. Again, he would misinterpret it entirely.
It wasn’t her fault, Emma told herself, but simply an occupational habit. Knowing fabric and thread was only part of a seamstress’s work. Key to success was understanding the body beneath the garments. How joints fit together; how muscles flexed and stretched. After years of practice, Emma only had to glance at a person to imagine them stripped of all clothing—and when regarding a person so finely formed by God and honed by exertion, the temptation proved difficult to resist.
But how did one say such a thing?
My apologies. I wasn’t
