The Duchess Deal by Tessa Dare

  He made a small bow, then waited until the ladies were settled before taking his seat. Penny began pouring cups of tea.

  Miss Teague and Miss Mountbatten sat in silence, stealing looks at Ash, then glancing toward each other, and then looking down at their laps. He was accustomed to being the object of curiosity. The strangest thing, however, was that they seemed to be wearing slight, knowing smiles all the while.

  A white cat came slinking around the leg of his armchair and leapt into his lap.

  Ash removed it, setting the beast on the floor.

  It promptly jumped back up, settling into his lap.

  "That's always the way with cats," Penny said. "They're drawn to the person who wants nothing to do with them. And Bianca is a particularly naughty one. Torments Hubert no end."

  "I don't recall a Hubert in your family," Ash said. "Is he a servant?"

  "Heavens, no." Penny laughed as she passed him a cup of tea. "Hubert's an otter."

  Of course he was.

  His hostess offered him a tray of triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. "Sham sandwich?"

  "I'd like a ham sandwich very much, thank you." Ash took one eagerly, stuffing a large bite into his mouth. The more chewing he could manage, the less speaking he needed to do.

  "No, no. It's a sham sandwich," Penny said. "Vegetables mashed and pressed into a loaf, then sliced like a ham. Turnip and potato, mostly, with cloves and a few beets for color. Quite nourishing, and every bit as delicious."

  Oh, God.

  Ash choked on his bite. He strove manfully to conceal a grimace as he washed the mess down with a gulp of tea.

  "Lady Penny is a vegetarian," Miss Teague said.

  "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  "She doesn't eat meat," Emma said.

  He paused. "I still don't understand."

  "Here, try the cakes." Miss Mountbatten passed them to Emma. "Nicola baked them."

  Ash took one, eyeing it with suspicion. It appeared innocent enough. "I thought Emma said you were a scientist, Miss Teague."

  "Baking is science," she answered. "Success is all in the precision."

  Ash took a bite, and found the cake to be precisely delicious. A great improvement over the sham.

  "Well," Penny announced brightly. "We all have tea and refreshments, and now we must have conversation. What shall we discuss?"

  "If only there were a current event occupying all London's attention." Miss Teague's speech had a stilted tone.

  Almost a practiced tone.

  "Oh!" Miss Mountbatten perked. "What news do you hear of the Monster of Mayfair?"

  Ash put down his teacup. He turned his head to regard his wife.

  Emma stared into her cup with great interest, as though the tea leaves were performing an underwater ballet.

  Penny turned to him. "What is your opinion, Ash?"

  "Dastardly fellow, to be sure," Ash said. "Dangerous. Vile. Reprehensible."

  "I have a suspicion he's misunderstood," Miss Mountbatten said.

  The salon was quiet--that was, until Miss Mountbatten nudged Miss Teague's knee.

  "Oh! Oh, yes. This part is mine, isn't it?" Miss Teague cleared her throat. "You may be correct, Alexandra."

  "I've just recalled that I happen to have some of the recent broadsheets." Penny turned to the table behind her and retrieved a stack of newsprint.

  The truth was undeniable now. Ash had been lured into the spiders' web, and now he found himself at the center of delicately woven conspiracy.

  A sham sandwich, indeed. One that sat on a tray of lies.

  Penny leafed through the broadsheets. "Oh, look! 'Thousand-Pound Donation to War Widows Fund Credited to Monster of Mayfair.'" She turned over another. "'Monster of Mayfair Turns Cruel Taskmaster Out of Workhouse. London's Downtrodden Cheer.'"

  She picked up the next sheet and, instead of reading it, turned it face-out to display the headline.

  Ash grabbed the broadsheet from her hand and regarded it with horror. "'Monster of Mayfair Saves Puppies from Burning Storehouse'?"

  This . . . this was an outrage.

  Widows. Downtrodden.

  Puppies.

  Someone was chipping away at the legend he'd so carefully constructed. He took the stack of broadsheets and leafed through them, skimming the stories themselves. A pattern of suspiciously similar phrases began to emerge.

  This paper has it on the highest authority . . .

  An anonymous source of great repute . . .

  "The pups wouldn't cease licking him in gratitude," a lady of Quality reports . . .

  So. Emma and her friends hadn't merely collected these stories. They'd concocted them, the little coven of witches.

  "It's just as we suspected." Miss Mountbatten grinned. "The so-called monster is merely misunderstood."

  "If you want to know my opinion . . ." Emma began.

  "I don't," he muttered.

  "I don't think he's a monster at all," she finished. "In fact, I heard that he stopped by a foundling home with great sacks of sweets, and that they mobbed him with hugs and kisses. I suspect that will be in the broadsheets tomorrow."

  "I suspect," he said through a tight smile, "there will be a story of a duchess and her three accomplices jailed for slander."

  After a brief pause, the four ladies broke into simultaneous laughter.

  Penny offered him the odious tray of edible deceit. "Do take another sandwich, Ash. Or was it lambkin?"

  "It's starshine, I believe," Miss Mountbatten said.

  "No, no," Miss Teague said. "I could have been certain it was hot cross bun."

  As they all slipped into giggling again, Ash accepted the sandwich and arrowed a look at his wife.

  Emma sipped her tea, casting him a coy smile over the cup's rim.

  Just you wait, he thought, taking a resentful bite of vegetable falsehood. Just you wait until we get home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As it happened, Ash had no opportunity to hold his wife to account for her perfidy. The moment they passed through the door of her suite, she closed the door behind them and pinned him to it, drawing him down by the neck for an enthusiastic kiss.

  "Thank you," she said. "You were wonderful."

  "It was nothing."

  And truly, it hadn't been much of an imposition. Once all their merciless teasing was out of the way, he'd even enjoyed himself.

  "I can't believe you ate two of those dreadful sandwiches."

  Correction: He'd enjoyed himself--save for that.

  But he would eat "sham" twice a day without complaint, if it meant coming home to this. Emma's hands--and even better, her lips--were all over him.

  She tugged his cravat loose and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He did his part to assist, shaking off his topcoat and tossing it . . . somewhere. He didn't bother to look.

  Emma slithered down his body, then sank to her knees before him. She undid his trousers, pushing them down his thighs. His erection sprang free, all but begging for her attention. With one hand, she lifted the hem of his shirt, pushing the excess flat against his abdomen. She took his shaft in the other, rubbing her thumb up and down the underside.

  She licked her lips and bent forward.

  "Wait," he choked out.

  She paused.

  Why? Why had he said that?

  "It's not kissing," she said with a coy arch of her eyebrow. "It's licking. And sucking. Won't you like it?"

  "That's . . . not in question," he said firmly. Firmly in many senses of the word. "But we're supposed to be procreating. I can't make your mouth pregnant. Strictly speaking, this is outside our agreement."

  "So what will you do?" She looked up at him, amused. "Bring a suit in Chancery? Your Honor, my wife dared to unclothe me. She proceeded to caress my person, with both hands and lips, against our sworn agreement to the contrary."

  "Emma, you . . ."

  "And then"--she gave a theatrical gasp--"the disobedient wench did place her mouth on my engorged staff." r />
  She gave him a slow, exploratory lick.

  "Jesus."

  She backed off, lifting an eyebrow. "My, my. Such blasphemy. Is that in Shakespeare?"

  He gritted his teeth. "Second Henry the IV, act two, scene two."

  "Really? Interesting." She brushed a light, feathery kiss to the very tip of his cock.

  God. Ash's hands clenched to fists at his sides. He couldn't take much more of this.

  When she bent toward him again, her lips pursed for another teasing kiss, he grasped her by the hair. "Enough."

  "Enough."

  Emma gasped as he twisted his hand in her hair. His grip tugged on a thousand nerve endings at once.

  "Enough," he growled again.

  She understood his meaning.

  Enough talking. Enough teasing. She was meant to get on with it.

  Whatever "it" entailed.

  Emma wasn't precisely certain what she'd started, but she would have rather died than ask. The basic idea seemed self-evident, even if the subtleties of technique were beyond her experience. Judging by her own responses to his lovemaking, it was hard to go wrong where licking was involved.

  Casting her eyes upward to gauge his reaction, she traced tentative circles about the tip of his staff with her tongue. Beneath her hand, his abdominal muscles became washboard ridges. He arched his hips, nudging at her lips with the broad head of his erection. She took her cue from the inarticulate plea, taking him into her mouth.

  He moaned, slumping back against the door. "Yes. Just like that."

  She loved the taste of him, musky and male, and the feel of him--stroking against her palm with silky softness, and filling her grip with need that was impatient and hard. She loved the way his breathing changed, and the deep, ragged sound she pulled from his chest as she took him deeper.

  Most of all, she loved the power. He was helpless with desire, exposed to her, pleading and vulnerable. At her mercy. Triumph sang through her body with his every gasp and groan.

  She glanced up and found him looking down at her, his eyes glazed with desire and his teeth gritted. Since he seemed to enjoy watching, she used her free hand to push aside her fichu and offer him a view of her breasts. Feeling naughty, she trailed a fingertip along the exposed curves, dipping into her cleavage.

  "God. God." His thighs tensed, and she abandoned coyness in favor of a brisk rhythm. She knew he had to be close to his peak. "Emma, I--"

  He pulled his cock free of her lips. Putting his grip over hers, he worked her hand up and down in a furious rhythm. His breath came harsh and rough until at last he found release.

  In the aftermath, he fell back against the door, gasping for breath. Emma used her discarded fichu to clean her bosom. He reached down to cup her chin in his hand, tilting her face gently so that she looked up at him.

  "For that," he said, "I would have eaten a hundred of those sandwiches."

  She smiled.

  He helped her to her feet, then yanked up his own trousers. Together they stumbled to the bed.

  "That was . . . indescribable."

  "It was my pleasure." And that was the truth. She felt quite satisfied with herself and empowered to an unprecedented degree. She rolled onto her belly and propped herself up on her elbows. "So we've been to tea. Where shall we go next? It's your turn to choose."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "There must be so many things you miss doing. Not necessarily with me. Driving in the park with the top of the barouche folded down. Going around to the clubs. You could take boxing lessons at Gentleman Jackson's and stop making poor Khan serve as your sparring partner." She arched an eyebrow. "So long as brothels and opera dancers are not on the list."

  "Please." He flung his forearm over his eyes. "The way you keep after me, I haven't the stamina."

  "Good. Now about the next outing."

  "There won't be one. I told you this afternoon that it would be the first and last time we went visiting."

  "We could have a dinner party here, if you prefer. I have a friend from the dressmaking shop, Miss Davina Palmer. I think her father would enjoy making your acquaintance." She held her breath, waiting on his response.

  He lowered his forearm and regarded her with seriousness. "Just what is it you're angling to do?"

  The suspicion in his eyes unnerved her.

  "I . . . I hate to see you living in seclusion, that's all. Once I go to Swanlea, I can't abide thinking of you sitting in the house, all alone."

  Needles of guilt pricked at her palms. Of course, that wasn't her only reason. She did have an ulterior motive--to help Davina. But she meant what she'd told him, as well. It pained her to think of him being alone.

  It pained her to think of leaving him. It pained her to think of going to Swanlea and raising their child without him being a part of their lives.

  She didn't like their bargain anymore, and she was running out of time to renegotiate.

  A few afternoons later, Ash was hard at work in the library, just hitting his stride in a fiery, scathing letter to his architect, when Khan entered.

  Terrible timing, as usual.

  Ash didn't look up from his letter. "What now?"

  "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a rather large delivery has arrived for the duchess. Where shall I direct them to leave the boxes?"

  "A delivery?" Ash lifted his head. "A delivery of what?"

  "I believe it's a wardrobe. Shall I have them take the packages upstairs?"

  Ash laid aside his pen. "No. No, take them to the drawing room."

  A wardrobe.

  Thank God for small miracles. His wife had finally found enthusiasm for the act of ordering new attire, despite her earlier objections. If there was one consolation he could offer her in this marriage, it was luxury.

  After sealing his letter, he proceeded to the drawing room, hoping to observe Emma's delight as she opened the boxes. Perhaps she'd even give him a little promenade of her gowns and bonnets. And if she pressed him into service assisting with the buttons and hooks, so much the better.

  When he entered the room, she was already wearing something breathtaking: a look of radiant joy.

  "It's the new wardrobe," she said, her excitement plain.

  "So I gather." He directed the servants to leave them alone.

  She unknotted the twine on the first box and sifted through the tissue. He caught a glimpse of expensive ivory silk damask. A promising start.

  However, it wasn't a gown she drew out.

  It was a waistcoat.

  "Oh," she sighed. "It's perfect." She turned to him. "What do you think?"

  "You'll have to forgive me," he said, after a careful silence. "I have been out of social circulation for some time. Apparently ladies' fashions have undergone some upheaval that's escaped my notice."

  She laughed. "It's not for me, turtledove. It's for you." She brought the waistcoat to him and held it against his chest. "Hm. I may need to take in the shoulders a bit, but that's easily done."

  He couldn't summon any response.

  She cast aside the top of another box, this time unwrapping a hunter-green wool topcoat. Again, she made a noise of satisfaction. "Here. Humor me and slip this on."

  He looked around at the dozens of parcels. "Don't say these are all for me."

  "You told me to order a wardrobe." She gave him a cheeky smile. "You didn't specify for whom. And I told you I'd remember your measurements." She tugged at his coat sleeve. "Come along, then. Off with the old and on with the new. I want to see how well the tailors did with it."

  Numb, he shook his arms free of the old topcoat and slipped his arms into the sleeves of the new one.

  She walked behind him, smoothing the wool down his back. "I've been dying to see you in something fit for a duke. Everything you have is frayed, hopelessly past the current style, or both."

  She completed her circle, stopping toe to toe with him and pulling his lapels straight with a crisp snap. "There, now. Move your arms a bit. How does it feel
?"

  He stretched his arms out to either side. "Better, strangely."

  "I told the tailor to leave extra room in the shoulders." She opened one lapel to display the lining. "The facing is silk where it counts, of course. But the sleeves have a removable lining of cotton flannel. Able to be laundered, and less likely to cause irritation. Shirts are the softest lawn I could find. And the cravats have a muslin collar inside them, so they won't need starch where it touches your skin."

  He marveled at how much thought she'd put into this. Naturally, this had been her line of employment for many years--suggesting and crafting the garments that best suited an individual. But that was work.

  This . . . this was a gift.

  Her hands skimmed from his shoulders to the cuffs, and she looked him over. "I knew the green would suit you. You look so handsome."

  By his soul. He volleyed between overwhelming emotion and distaste for an obvious lie.

  "See for yourself." She went to the standing mirror and turned it to face him.

  He didn't need to look in the mirror. He knew exactly what he'd see. A scarred and powder-burned horror that appeared laughable when contrasted with a fine new coat.

  It was, he had to admit, a splendid coat. It fit him to perfection, and from this vantage, he could imagine himself a younger man, sitting in the club or accepting a glass of brandy after a day of autumn sport. Back in the "before" of his life.

  "Well . . . ?" she prompted. She looked pleased with herself and eager for praise.

  "It's a finely made coat," he said.

  "But do you like it?"

  I like it very much. But most of all, I like you--a great deal more than I ought--and even if it's too late for me to save myself, I'm not going to give you false hope.

  He swung his arms. "Well, it does offer more flexibility in the arms. You know, for punching orphans and sacrificing lambs to Satan."

  She returned to the boxes, stacking them with brisk, irritated motions. "Does it give you some sort of cruel satisfaction, always belittling my work? I know it doesn't impress you, but it's my chief talent. I'd have made career of it, if not for--" She cut off the statement.

  "If not for what?"

  "Never mind."

  "I will pay mind when and where I wish, thank you. If not for what?"

  "If not for you."

  He blinked at her. "What could I have to do with it? What, you would have opened your own shop with your two pounds, three shillings?"

  "I planned to become an independent dressmaker, but I needed a way to attract my own customers. A gown that showed my best handiwork, on display at one of the largest social events of the Season."