The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp
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 gilded the wisps of hair framing her face. Her dark eyes were wide, sincere. Unafraid. So lovely. Her gaze met his and held it, never straying to his patchy hair or his twisted cheek.
The moment was glorious.
And wonderful.
And accompanied by soaring orchestral music.
And exceedingly, unforgivably imbecilic of him to allow. This sort of thing could not happen. This kind of closeness was too great of a risk.
Ash cleared his throat. “This, uh . . . This thing we’re doing is probably a bad idea.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Precautions.” Her hand slipped from his. “I’ll order a wardrobe tomorrow.”
He stepped away. “You’ll order a wardrobe later in the week. Tomorrow we’re taking an outing.”
“An outing? To where?”
“Swanlea. Your future house.” Before she could grow too excited, he held up a hand. “Not to stay. Just for the afternoon, so you can make a list of what needs to be done.”
They had an agreement, and for the good of them both, he needed to remember and adhere to it.
“Be ready tomorrow. We’ll leave at dawn.”
“Oh.”
As she alighted from the carriage, Emma’s lungs relaxed with the most silly, sentimental sigh. She even pressed both hands to her chest. “Oh, it’s lovely.”
Before her stood a perfect dream of a house. It featured a façade of solid brick, studded with enough windows to give the appearance of an open, friendly abode. A shallow pool in front of the house reflected the rows of gracious elms on either side. Unlike Ashbury House—designed to impress at best, and at worst, intimidate—Swanlea was not too grand, not too humble. It looked like a home.
“It’s on the small side,” the duke said. “Only twelve rooms.”
She slid a look at him. Only?
The coachman, Jonas, flicked the reins. The team pulled the carriage away.
“Where is he going?” she asked.
“To the market town to change horses. If we’re going to make the journey back this evening, we need a fresh team.” He opened the door with the key and waved her over the threshold. “The house has been closed for some time. Twenty years.”
“So I see.”
In fact, the place was nearly empty. Only a few furnishings remained—scattered chairs here and there, a few chests and cupboards. The wall coverings were peeled in places, and the plaster ceilings were cracked. It charmed her, all the same. Weathered floorboards creaked beneath her feet, telling stories of children chasing one another up and down the stairs, and exuberant hunting dogs jumping to greet their beloved masters. The kitchen worktable had been scored by generations upon generations of knives—some cleaving game birds, others trimming pastry. Sunlight streamed through the uncovered windows.
Emma had the notion that the house was happy to see her.
Delighted to make your acquaintance, too.
“Have a look around,” he said. “Make a list of the furnishings you’ll need purchased, colors for the decor, any changes or modernizations you’d want. There are a great many repairs to be undertaken. The gardens no doubt need attention. There’s an older couple who live on the property as groundskeepers. I’ll have them hire maids and laborers to begin the work.”
“Surely that’s not necessary. I adore the house as it is, and at most it would need a staff of two or three. Putting you to that needless expense would seem wasteful.”
“Think like a duchess, Emma. Cleaning, furnishing, and repairing the home will give employment to dozens of people, many of them in dire need. It’s not wasteful. It’s patronage.”
“Yes, of course.” She bit her lip. “I hadn’t seen it that way.”
Here was the man’s single indisputable virtue. He was always thinking of the people who depended on him. He would not have married Emma otherwise. It was for their good that he wanted to quickly produce an heir.
I warned you, she wanted to say. I warned you I wouldn’t make a proper duchess. You should have married a lady, not a seamstress with the thinnest claim to gentility.
But she was the duchess now. She’d undertaken the role, and she must do her best to fulfill it.
“Very well,” she said. “If it’s work they need, it’s work we shall give them.” She took out a notebook and licked the tip of her pencil. “I’ll start a list.”
The next few hours flew by as Emma traveled from room to room. She gave each chamber a purpose. Bedchamber, maid’s chamber, morning room. Nursery. She scribbled lists of furnishings, requests for new paint and wall coverings, all the while noting any crack or dent needing repair. Modernizing the baths and kitchen—that would keep more than a few men employed. She walked the grounds next, listing trees in want of pruning and noting patches of brush by the stream that were overgrown. The pond likely required stocking. The kitchen garden was in need of a complete replanting. And while she was dreaming up work . . . why not put in an orchard?
When she was finished, she looked about for her husband. He wasn’t in the house. Eventually she found him at the edge of the stream that ran through the property. He’d removed his topcoat and held it by two fingers, slung casually over his shoulder.
“There you are, bunnykins. I’ve been searching everywhere.” She slapped the notebook into his hand. “Enough to employ half of Oxfordshire, I think.”
He tucked the notebook into his waistcoat pocket without comment.