“I may as well finish what I came up here for. Or else all of this effort will have been for nothing.”
“Oh, do go ahead,” he said in a bored tone. “It’s not as though I have anything else to do. I’m only amusing myself overseeing estates all over the country. Making improvements to the land. Looking out for the welfare of thousands of tenants.”
“I won’t be but a minute.”
“Fine.” He tilted his head. “But as a penalty, know that I’ll be looking up your skirts the entire time.”
He couldn’t see all that much, unfortunately—just a pair of slim legs disappearing into a cloud of petticoats—but the sight stirred him all the same. Her stockings were knitted of plain, pale wool. Demure, innocent. Unspeakably arousing.
“There,” she declared.
A waterfall of blue velvet rushed to the floor. The room flooded with sunlight.
Ash caught the ghost of his reflection in the windowpane. What a picture. Emma, descending from the heavens above him on a cloud of muslin, and him, the monster lurking beneath.
When she neared the last rung, he placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her. He extended his fingers as far as they would stretch, claiming as much of her as he could.
All too soon, her slippers met the floor.
He took a few steps in retreat before she turned around. There was too much light, and she was too close. He didn’t wish to startle her.
She brushed the dust from her hands. “Oh, that’s so much better.”
“No, it’s not. I can’t imagine what you have against draperies.”
“To begin, this house is a cave. We can’t live in the dark.”
“I like the dark.”
“It’s not good to work and read in dim lighting. You’ll go blind.”
“Hah. If frigging myself raw in adolescence and having a rocket explode in my face haven’t accomplished that . . . Doubtful.”
“Well, I’m not doubtful. I’ve seen it. It’s what happens to seamstresses after too many years of fine stitching by weak light. Even I can’t read for more than an hour at a time, and it’s only been six years.”
What an inconveniently affecting statement. It made him want to roll her into a ball and hold her in both hands forever, so that nothing could wound or frighten her ever again.
“Anyhow, these are lovely fabric.” She reached for the edge of the fallen drape. “This velvet could be put to better use.”
“No.” He put his foot down, literally. With his boot, he pinned the river of blue velvet to the floor. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
“Forbid what? You can’t even know what I have in mind.”
“Yes. I do. You have the ridiculous idea that you’ll make a gown out of draperies. And I forbid it.”
She stammered and flushed. “I . . .”
“You,” he interjected, “are a duchess. You shop for your gowns. You ask servants to climb ladders. And that is the end of any argument.”
This wife he’d acquired was far too enamored of economy. She’d come by the habit out of necessity, he supposed. Ash could understand that—even admire it, to a degree. He didn’t like waste, either. However, she was under his care now. There would be no “making do” or scrimping for the mother of his heir.
She certainly wouldn’t be caught wearing draperies.
“Tomorrow, you’ll order a full wardrobe. I’ll see that you have lines of credit at all the best shops in Bond Street.”
“Madame Bissette’s is the best dressmaking shop in Town, and the only one I could fathom entering without crumpling into a ball of fraudulence. But how could I return to the shop as a customer, mere weeks after leaving her employ?”
“That would be the best part. Think of the envy you’ll inspire. The vindication after being undervalued.”
“No doubt other women might enjoy gloating. But I wouldn’t. Madame gave me a post, and she taught me a great deal. And the other girls in the shop were my friends. I don’t want to embarrass them. Besides, paying a modiste to make me a wardrobe would be a waste. I have nothing if not time. I know the latest fashions. I’ve made gowns for many a fine lady.”
“Yes,” he said tightly. “I’m well aware of that.”
She cringed. “Of course you’re aware of it. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up Miss Worthing. I know how it must pain you to—”
“What pains me is the thought of my wife going about clad in draperies. You will not sew your own wardrobe.” He tugged on his end of the velvet.
She tugged back. “Aren’t ladies encouraged to do needlework?”
“That’s different.” He yanked with both hands, pulling her off balance. She stumbled toward him a step. “Fine ladies make useless things, like wretched pillows, and samplers no one wants, and disturbing seat covers for the commode. They don’t use their skills to perform common labor.”
“This isn’t common labor. I enjoy it, when it isn’t a twenty-hour-a-day task. There’s a creativity to it. I never had any talent for music or painting, but”—she clutched her end of the velvet and leaned back, putting her full weight into resisting him—“I’m good at this.”
With a flick of his wrist, he wrapped the fabric around his left forearm, just as he’d do with the reins when driving a team. And then he braced his legs, flexed his arm, and gave a full-strength pull.
She came reeling toward him. He caught her in his arms.
His brain promptly went to porridge. Their little tug-o’-wills suited her. The exertion made her cheeks pink, and her labored breathing did delicious things for her breasts. Ash had to admit, she would look lovely in a dress of that sapphire velvet.
Nevertheless, it was out of the question. Emma would not sacrifice the pleasure of reading in favor of sewing her own gowns. He’d allow her to go about naked before he consented to such a thing.
Damn. Now he was picturing her naked.
“Listen to me. I know very well you can stitch a gown. You could be the best dressmaker in England, and I still wouldn’t permit this.” He reached for her hand and turned it palm side up, like a fortune-teller. With meaningful intent, he brushed his thumb over the calluses on her fingertips, lingering over each proof of her labor. “There’ll be no more of these now.”
She was quiet for a moment. “That’s shockingly caring of you.”
“It’s not caring.”
“Then how would you describe it?”
“As . . . something else.” Anything else. Imagining her naked was only natural. Protecting her was his duty. Caring was much too dangerous. “I don’t know. I’m not a dictionary.”
She gave him a chastening yet affectionate look. A wifely look. “No, you aren’t. You are very much a man.”
His heart kicked and thrashed like an unbroken colt in a stable.
A man, she said. Not a title. Not a fortune. Not a twisted monster formed of scars. She couldn’t know how those two simple words affected him.
She looked down at her hand, cradled in his. Then she turned it over, so that their palms pressed together and their fingers interlaced in a tight clasp.
Sunlight