Words were beyond him after that. He squeezed her plump little bottom in both hands and took her hard and fast, relentless in his race to the peak.
And then he came. He came hard, spending into her with fierce joy. His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm. The climax seemed to go on and on, approaching forever. And yet it wasn’t nearly enough.
He collapsed on the bed beside her, weakened and emptied. If he’d known taking a wife would be like this, he would have married ages ago.
Of course, marrying ages ago would have meant taking a different wife. He wasn’t certain wives like this one abounded.
He turned his head to face her in the dark. “Where on earth did you come from?”
She was silent for a long moment. “Hertfordshire.”
He laughed, without restraint or apology.
“You really must give me something to call you,” she said. “If we go on like this, I’m going to need a name to cry out, and I don’t think you want it to be honeybee.”
“Just try it, blossom.” He sat up in bed. “But if you insist on something else, just use Ash. It’s what my friends call me.” Or called me, when I still had friends.
He reached for his trousers.
“You don’t mean to leave me,” she said. “After that?”
Her obvious satisfaction swelled his pride, but staying the night was out of the question. He was not going to allow her to wake up beside him in the full light of day, mere inches from his mangled face, let alone the wreckage that remained of his neck, chest, shoulder.
Not now, not yet. Perhaps not ever.
She’d think she’d woken from a nightmare. She’d shrink from him. Run from the room. Worse had happened before. Unless she was pregnant with his child, he could not take that risk. And once she was pregnant, they were done.
The sooner that happened, the better.
He left her room on wobbly legs, then sank against the door.
Please be fertile, or you’ll be the death of me.
Walking through the streets that night was a novel experience.
Forget stalking and prowling down the darkened alleyways. Tonight, Ash was all but skipping. Gamboling.
He didn’t encounter any enraging specimens of human refuse.
He was no longer sexually frustrated to the point of irascibility.
He felt almost . . . human again.
He even strolled across an open square.
“Say!” someone called. “You’re the Monster of Mayfair!”
And with that, Ash’s lightened mood popped like a balloon. So much for feeling human.
A gangly figure jogged across the green to him. Ash pushed back the brim of his hat, revealing his face, and scowled. That always worked on the children.
For it was, in fact, a school-aged boy who’d approached him. One who’d clearly learned to curse this past Michaelmas term at school.
“I’ll be damned.” The boy whistled low. “You truly are as fearsome and ugly as the papers said.”
“Oh, really. And do they say anything about this?” Ash brandished his walking stick. “Now go home. Your nursemaid will be missing you.”
He turned and kept walking. The lad followed.
“I saw you over by Marylebone Mews,” the boy called out. As if they were two old chums holding a conversation at the club. “You thrashed that gin-soused cur. The one who was beating his wife, remember?”
Yes, of course Ash remembered. It was only two days past.
“That was bloody brilliant.” By now the youth was scampering alongside him. “Just capital. And I heard about the footpads in St. James’s, too. All of London has.”
Ash released a long, slow breath. He refused to be baited. The more thoroughly you ignore him, the faster he’ll go away, he told himself. Like a canker sore.
“So where are we off to tonight?” the boy asked.
We?
Now that was too much.
Ash halted in the center of the empty square. “Just what is it you want?”
The boy scratched his ear and shrugged. “To see you thrash someone new. Give some fellow what’s coming to him.”
“Well, then.” Ash lifted his walking stick and gave the lad a shove with the blunt end, sending him arse-first into the shrubbery. “There you have it.”
Several days later, Emma stood before a terraced house faced with white stone and corniced windows, having made the journey across Bloom Square. As short a distance as it was, she seemed to have dropped her bravery somewhere along the way.
She knew she must not indulge her nerves. She needed to start moving in society, and asking the duke to squire her about Town would be a waste of breath. If Davina wanted permission to visit her at Swanlea, Emma must form acquaintances with ladies of impeccable breeding and genteel accomplishment—not as their seamstress, but as their equal. Today was an important first step.
She looked down at the invitation and read it again.
To the new Duchess of Ashbury—
Warmest welcome to Bloom Square! Every Thursday my friends come around for tea. We’d be most delighted if you would join us.
Lady Penelope Campion
P.S. I should warn you: We’re different from other ladies.
That last line gave Emma hope—and the courage to knock.
“You came!” A young woman with fair hair and rosy cheeks pulled her into the entrance hall. She’d scarcely closed the door before kissing Emma on the cheek in greeting. “I’m Penny.”
“Penny?”
“Oh, yes. I should have said. I’m properly called Penelope, but the name is rather a mouthful, don’t you think?”
Emma was amazed. This was Lady Penelope Campion? She opened her own door and greeted perfect strangers with kisses on the cheek? Apparently her note of invitation hadn’t been an exaggeration: She truly wasn’t like other ladies.
Emma curtsied, probably more deeply than a duchess would—but the habit was ingrained in her. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise. The others are dying to meet you.”
Lady Penelope took Emma by the wrist and drew her into a parlor. The room was a jumble of unquestionably fine furnishings that seemed to have seen better days.
“This is Miss Teague,” she said, swiveling Emma toward a ginger-haired young woman dusted with freckles . . . and a fine white powder that looked like flour. “Nicola lives on the southern side of the square.”
“The unfashionable side,” Nicola said.
“The exciting side,” Lady Penny corrected. “The one with all the scandalous artists and mad scientists.”
“My father was one of the latter, Your Grace.”
“Don’t listen to her. She’s one of the latter, too.”
“Thank you, Penny,” Nicola said. “I think.”
“And