“Ash, you are being absurd.”
“I let you call me bunnykins,” he growled. “Now that was absurd.”
“You think that was bad? Oh, I’m just getting started. You are such a wienerbrød.”
He sputtered. “That is the vilest thing I’ve ever heard. And I don’t even know what it means.”
“It’s an Austrian pastry.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s probably delicious, but if I had one right now, I would lob it at your head.”
“You are a clever one, aren’t you. All this time, you’ve been scheming. No wonder you were eager to spread your legs for me in every corner of the house. The faster you dispatched your duty to get pregnant, the sooner you’d make your escape. Isn’t that so?”
“It is not so!” Emma slammed her hairbrush onto her dressing table. “How dare you. How dare you imply that what we shared is tawdry and cheap. How could you even think that of me?” She fumed at a jumble of hairpins. “All this because I’ve asked you to take me to a ball.”
“If I wanted to attend balls, I would have married Annabelle and I’d be hosting one tonight. I married you expressly to avoid that ordeal.”
She wheeled on him with a glare that he richly deserved. “Lord, how I hate that woman. She made you feel like a monster, and ever since, you’ve devoted yourself to making it the truth. I can tell you a hundred times over how much I want you, how deeply I love you—and yet you still choose to believe her word over mine. She made you impossible to live with, and entirely too difficult to love.”
“Well,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to spare you any further difficulty.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“I’m not certain I know you at all.”
Ash was well aware of the cutting edge in his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften it. He was wounded, reeling, and that familiar, detestable impulse overrode his thinking. That need to lash out at her—to render her too occupied with her own wounds to look closely at his.
It wasn’t working, though. It never had worked, not on her.
“You are afraid,” she said.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You are afraid of everything. Of being loved. Of loving. Of being a father to your own child. And you are starting a row with me because you’re terrified of attending a godforsaken ball. Thunder all you like, Ash. You’re not fooling me.”
“You’re not fooling me, either. None of this nonsense you’re planning has anything to do with Davina Palmer. It’s all about you. Don’t pretend otherwise. By telling her to run from her father, you think you can settle a score with your own.”
They stood in silence for a moment, looking everywhere in the room but at one another.
“I’m sorry this all came as a surprise,” she said. “I should have told you about Davina. Not trusting you with the secret was my mistake. But I don’t believe I’m making a mistake in helping her.”
“Fine,” Ash said wearily. “Go to this ball. Lie to everyone. Take a vulnerable girl from her family and hide her in the country if you like. I won’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if I’ll go along.”
“I’ll go on my own if I must, but let’s not part in anger.”
“There’s no anger. Why would I be angry? You’re absolutely right. We had an agreement. You allow me to get you with child, and I give you a house.”
“I love you. You know that.”
Did he know that?
He heard her say the words, yes. But after the past quarter hour, he wasn’t certain he believed them anymore.
No, that wasn’t fair to her.
He wasn’t certain he’d ever believed them, or that he ever could.
“It’s late.” She approached him. “Let’s go back to bed. It will all seem more clear in the morning.”
He held her off with an outstretched hand. “I think it’s all clear to me now. I’ll send an express straightaway to Swanlea, directing the staff to prepare for your arrival. You’ll have the coach, of course. You may leave with Miss Palmer as soon as you wish. I’ll have Mary follow with the rest of your things.”
Ash knew he was about to go too far. Strike too hard, cut too deeply. If he were the man she needed, he would hold back—but he wasn’t a whole, healthy man any longer. A few parts of him were missing. Many others were twisted beyond recognition, both inside and out. He was too embittered to deserve her love, too misshapen to hold it.
And he was too damned ugly to stand at her side. In a ballroom, or anywhere.
This was the reason, he reminded himself, that he’d insisted on a temporary arrangement. This situation with her friend was a timely reminder. Their marriage was never supposed to last.
“Ash, don’t do this.”
He put his hand on the doorknob and prepared to leave. “As you say, our bargain is satisfied. You needn’t come back.”
You needn’t come back.
Emma stared at the closed door. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She’d been turned away like this before, and she recognized the feeling. As if her stomach had been tossed off the cliffs of Dover. Tied to a rock. Which was tied to an anvil.
But then, she had no one to blame but herself.
Her heart was a fool, and apparently she would never, ever learn.
Fortunately, she didn’t have time to stand about weeping. There was work to be done.
She needed a gown. Not just a gown, but the gown. Luxurious, elegant, impeccable. A gown that screamed not merely wealth, but refinement and exquisite taste. She needed to look like a duchess.
After years of using her skills to bring out the beauty in other women—and the occasional undeserving man—she must turn that eye on herself today. Take a hard look in the mirror. Stop focusing on faults that needed concealing, and look for the beauty that could be drawn out.
She had one day. And precious little to work with, save some yards of sapphire-blue velvet draperies and a few embellishments left over from making Davina’s pelisse. A handful of false pearls, a bit of ribbon. Her eye fell on the sparkling combs she’d worn to the theater. Perhaps she could pry the crystals off.
Right, then. The first thing she needed was a pattern. Easiest to cut the pieces from a garment that had previously been fitted to her measurements. She went to the closet, pulled out her one and only proper gown, and began to yank it apart at the seams.
It felt good.
Ash needed an outlet for his emotions, and badminton was not going to do. Not tonight. He was still confused, still angry. Mostly, he was annoyed with himself.
Emma had left the house six minutes ago, and already he missed her like hell.
He’d stubbornly refused to watch her depart for the evening, much less bid her farewell. Too perilous.
However, he was suffering anyway. No matter where he went in the house, he couldn’t escape the misery. The cat followed him around, blaming him in plaintive yowls. In every room, she’d tugged the draperies down to admit the light. The symbolism of it was trite and syrupy, and it all made him want to throw