“I’m married to an unchecked vigilante?”
“No. Well, maybe. But also—it means people are making up their own Monster of Mayfair stories just to share in the notoriety. It means I’m a legend.”
Emma shook her head. She strained the herbs through a cheesecloth, twisting them into a bundle.
“This”—he riffled the papers—“is stupendous.”
“It’s not. It’s truly not.”
“Oh, look. This one has an illustration.” He turned his twisted profile to her and held up the paper’s engraved portrait of “The Monster Himself.” “What do you say? I think they made my nose a trifle long, but otherwise it’s a surprisingly accurate likeness.”
She slammed the empty pot on the table. “It is not an accurate likeness, but it is a perfect illustration of the problem. You’re only letting people see one side of you. If only you’d give them a chance to see past your scars—”
“People can’t see past the scars. In an alley, a market . . . anywhere. They suck up all the attention in the room, and I’m just the drain it’s circling.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
His jaw clenched. “I’ll make you a bargain. I won’t pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won’t pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face.”
Her demeanor softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Won’t you give it a chance?” She skirted the table, coming to stand before him. “One outing, that’s all I ask. A single afternoon with normal people. Well, I suppose they’re not precisely normal people. But they aren’t footpads, at least.”
He frowned. “What are you on about?”
“Come to tea with my friends Thursday next. That’s what I’m on about.”
He began to object. “I’m n—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. Her fingertips were scented with herbs and honey. Intoxicating. How was he supposed to stay irritated when she smelled so lickable?
“Lady Penelope Campion’s house. It’s just across the square. That shouldn’t be any great trial.” She lifted an eyebrow in teasing fashion. “That is, unless you’re afraid of a few harmless spinsters.”
Ash couldn’t recall the last time he’d crossed the square to the Campion residence. He’d been a boy, surely no older than ten. Lady Penelope had been much too young to be a proper playmate for him, not to mention she possessed the unsalvageable flaw of being a girl. But he’d been forced to make the effort once a summer anyhow. Her single saving grace, as far as he’d been concerned, was that she always seemed to be hiding a grubby creature or two in her closet or under the bed.
He had a distant memory of piglets. And a newt, perhaps?
Emma rang the bell.
“I’m doing this once,” he muttered, staring at the door. “And that’s the end of it.”
“I understand,” she said.
“And only because my parents thought highly of the family.”
“Of course.”
“They would want me to look in on Lady Penelope now that she’s living alone.”
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be so anxious. They’ll adore you.”
The door opened. His guts clenched.
“Lady Penelope. A pleasure.”
Ash reached for Penelope’s hand, intending to bow over it, but she only laughed. Instead, she placed her ungloved hands on his shoulders and pulled him down for a hug. As if it were nothing.
“Come in, come in.” Penelope threaded her arm in his and led them inside. “And you must call me Penny. We’re old friends. I’ve seen you in your nightshirt. You don’t expect me to use ‘Your Grace,’ I hope.”
“Ashbury will suffice.”
“Ash,” Emma said. “He goes by Ash among friends. At home, it’s pumpkin.”
He sent her a look.
She smiled in return.
“Ash it is,” Penny said, patting his arm.
The house looked much the way he remembered. Same paintings on the walls, same furnishings . . . only now they were covered in a great deal more fur.
He braced himself as they rounded the corner into the salon.
However, he met with no outbursts of shock or cries of horror. It would seem the other guests had been well prepared for his appearance—which was a relief in some ways and rather lowering in others. He could just picture Emma telling them over tea: Now don’t be alarmed, but my husband is a hideous monstrosity.
Penny made the unnecessary introductions. Surely the other two women knew who he was, and Emma had told him a bit about them.
Miss Teague had the frazzled ginger hair and smelled of something burned. Miss Mountbatten was the small, dark-haired one who . . . who was dressed in a stylish, flattering walking dress in a peacock-blue damask that strongly reminded Ash of his music room draperies.
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.”