“But surely the duke will expose you to society,” Davina said. “He’ll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners.”
Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.
This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately—which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent—or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.
It all felt rather hopeless.
“What if your father won’t grant you permission?” she asked.
“I suppose I shall be forced to run away,” Davina said softly. “I’m the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I’m ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?”
“Yes. I can.”
Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she’d needed him most, he’d chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.
She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma’s own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman’s future.
No matter what it took, she would find a way.
And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice—or drag, if need be—her husband to her bed.
“Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?” Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma’s hair for dinner.
“No,” Emma answered. “Not particularly.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Why is it too bad?”
“Well, I was thinking . . . what if you tripped, and the duke had to catch you? That would surely encourage his affection. Or spill wine on your dress, and he would whip off his cravat to mop it up.” Before Emma could respond, Mary perked with another idea. “Ooh, you might even turn your ankle. Then he would have to carry you. That would be romantic.”
“I’m not going to turn my ankle.”
“You don’t think you could try? Even just a little stumble?”
“No.”
“Never mind it. We’ll think of something else. I was pondering, what if you went up to the attic . . . and then Mr. Khan sent the duke up to the attic . . . and then you and the duke were locked inside the attic, together. Accidentally.”
“Mary. You need to abandon these ideas. The duke is not going to fall in love with me—not even in a locked attic. In fact, he’s rather put out with me at the moment.”
Or at least he was put out with her cat.
With a sigh, Mary put the last pin in Emma’s hair. “There, now. Turn and let me have a look at you.”
After looking Emma over, Mary reached forward and grasped the sleeves of her gown, slid them off her shoulders, and tugged the bodice down so far, it barely covered her areolae. “That’s something, at least.”
When Emma arrived in the dining room, the duke wasn’t even there to angle for a glimpse of her areolae. She waited a quarter hour. Nothing.
He must truly be infuriated with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t see him later tonight, either. At this rate, they would never accomplish procreation.
She prepared to return to her rooms, planning to ring the maid for a dinner tray and sink into bed with a novel. As she passed down the corridor, however, someone called to her in a low whisper.
“In here.”
She turned, curious. The duke was in his library, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the empty, unlit fireplace.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh.” He raised an open palm in her direction. “No sudden movements.”
“All right.” She drew out the words, kicking off her slippers and making her way into the room on stocking feet, sitting next to him on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her skirts and stared into the fireplace, too. “What are we looking at?” she whispered.
“Your cat. The little beast is hiding behind the grate. We’ve been waiting one another out.”
Emma peered into the dark fireplace. Yes, she could just make out a set of green eyes gleaming back at her from the sooty recesses of the hearth.
“How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“What time is it now?”
“Half seven.”
“Four hours, then.”
“Four hours? And how long do you plan to stay like this?”
He set his jaw and glowered at the fireplace. “As long as it takes.”
She noted an open trunk sitting on the opposite side of him. Two thick leather straps with buckles lay at the ready.
She gasped. “You’re going to lock Breeches in a trunk?”
“For the night, yes. Doors don’t seem to contain the beast.”
“With no food, no water?”
“I made air holes. And believe me, he’s fortunate to get that much.”
“But . . . why?”
“Is it not obvious?” For the first time since she’d entered the library, he slid a glance toward her. “Because I intend to impregnate you tonight, or make a valiant attempt at it. And this time, there will be no interruption.”
He turned back to regarding the grate.
“Oh.” Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping from her neck to her hairline. “Were you terribly hurt last night? Are you furious with me?”
“I don’t know that I can ever forgive you,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m going to have a scar.”
She paused a moment, then laughed.
The corner of his mouth quirked with a smug little smile. He was pleased with himself for having provoked her to laughter. Emma was pleased, as well. When he wasn’t using that sharp wit to slice her to ribbons, he had a rather charming sense of humor.
“I’ll be back,” she said, drawing to her feet.
A quarter hour later, she returned with a tray of sandwiches, two glasses, and an uncorked bottle of wine.
“Here.” She offered him a roast beef sandwich. “To keep up your stamina.”
He accepted it and took a large, manly bite.
“No progress?” She bit the corner from an egg-and-cress sandwich.
He shook his head. “Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?”
“Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?”
He reached for another sandwich. “For that, you can thank my father. The summer I was nine, my mother overheard me utter some foul words I’d learned at school. My father drew me aside and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an educated gentleman and he never wanted to hear me use such crude language again. He said, ‘Blaspheme as you will, but at least use words from Shakespeare.’ I’d read all the plays by the summer’s end.”
“Quite