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 a jeweled ring, or guests, or a fine gown,” she said. “I’m only asking for this one tiny gesture, to make it all feel a bit less . . . cold. More like an actual wedding.”
“It was an actual wedding. The vows are perfectly legal and binding. A wedding does not require a kiss.”
“I think my wedding requires one.” Her voice gathered strength. “A woman only gets one of these ceremonies, and as hasty and contractual as it’s all been thus far, I’d appreciate one small gesture that makes me feel like something other than chattel.”
She watched closely for his reaction. His reaction was to refuse to react at all. He was expressionless—both sides of him. The whole, and the scarred. Perhaps he was uncertain of himself. Then again, perhaps he was uninterested in her. Either thought made her throat tighten.
“I could do the kissing, if you prefer,” she offered. “It needn’t be a long kiss. You only have to stand there.”
She stretched up on her toes.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “The bride does not kiss the duke.”
Oh, Lord. This could not possibly be any more humiliating.
“The duke,” he continued, “kisses the bride. It’s an entirely different thing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Close your eyes.”
Emma closed her eyes. Her heart drummed in her chest as the waiting stretched longer . . .
And longer still.
She was a fool. He was laughing at her. He’d changed his mind. About the kiss. About her. About everything.
She was on the verge of opening her eyes, slinking from the room, and constructing a fortification of pillows, novels, and kittens in which to hide for the remainder of her life, when—
His hands cupped her face. Rough, possessive. And just when she was certain she’d combust from the cruel suspense of it all, his lips touched hers.
Something inside her came apart.
That hidden pocket of yearning that she’d sewn up tight years ago—his kiss ripped it open at the seams. A flood of emotion poured forth, overwhelming her. A surge of passion and desire and . . .
And something else. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge, much less name. She’d pore over it later, no doubt. Her mind wouldn’t allow her to let it alone. But as long as his lips touched hers, she could delay that dreaded reckoning.
If only this kiss could last forever.
Get it over with, Ash told himself. Touch lips, hold for a count of three—no, two—and be done with the business altogether. Foolish to humor her, perhaps, but a perfunctory kiss seemed the fastest way to end the conversation.
What the kiss ended up being, however, was the fastest way to unravel him completely.
Softness. Warmth. The tastes of sweet and tart and cool. Parts of him went weak, and others were well on the way to rock-hard. She played on so many of his senses, he couldn’t sort them out. The kiss unfurled tendrils of madness in his brain, strangling his ability to think, to regain control . . .
To count.
How long had his lips been on hers? It might have been two beats, or three, or a thousand. He didn’t care anymore.
Her cheeks flushed beneath his palms, and he thought surely that heat must signal distress or embarrassment. But she didn’t pull away. She leaned closer, pressing her hand against his coat. Not only against his coat, but against the scars beneath it, and straight through to all the pain and bitterness beneath that. The sensation spiraled through him like a whirlwind in a desert, catching bone-dry dust and tossing it up to the sky.
Everything was wrong. Everything was right. Everything was possible.
He lifted his mouth from hers, but he couldn’t wrench his gaze from her face. Long seconds passed before she opened her eyes, as though she were savoring the sensations. Stamping a memory. As though she’d enjoyed it.
He was a wretched fool for ever indulging her with this kiss. He’d neglected to consider that one kiss made a man want another.
And another.
And yet another still, each more passionate than the last.
He would have her later, in bed and often. But he wouldn’t have her like that again. He wouldn’t taste the fresh sweetness lingering where her lips had met his. The taste of beginnings, anticipation, and the hope of more.
He released her and stepped back.
She swayed on her feet, finding her balance. “Thank you.”
It was entirely my pleasure, he thought. And I shall never forgive you for it.
He said, “Dinner’s at eight.”
When Emma left the drawing room, she found the assembled servants of Ashbury House waiting in the entrance hall. Khan introduced each servant by position and name. Emma felt certain she would recall none of them. There were simply too many. Housekeeper, cook, upstairs maids, downstairs maids, scullery maids, footmen, coachman, grooms.
“Mary will serve as your lady’s maid.” He indicated an eager, smiling young woman in a crisp black uniform. “Mary, show the duchess to her suite.”
“Yes, Mr. Khan.” Mary bounced with enthusiasm. “Please do come this way, Your Grace.” Once they were out of others’ hearing, she chattered all the way up the stairs. “I’m so glad you’ve come. We all are.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, bewildered.
Surely an experienced lady’s maid would be insulted to find herself in service to a duchess who had been, until a quarter hour ago, a seamstress. Wouldn’t she?
Apparently not.
“Never hesitate to call upon us. We are here to serve you in any way.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Kind?” Mary asked. “Not at all, Your Grace. It’s clear at a glance that you’re a vast improvement over that horrid Miss Worthing. Once the duke falls in love with you, everything’s going to be so much better.”
“Wait.” Emma halted in the corridor. “Once the duke falls in love with me?”
“Yes, of course.”
