“The Marquess of Richmond. A title which will become my heir’s. Soon, with any luck. You may as well save it for him.”
She supposed he was right. “What about your family name?”
“Pembrooke? Never used it.”
Emma wasn’t inclined to use it, either. Too stuffy, and it didn’t precisely trip off the tongue. “Your Christian name, then.”
“George. It was my father’s name, and his father’s name before that, and the name of every third gentleman in England, it would seem.”
“It’s my father’s name, too.” She shuddered. “So that’s out. We’ll have to find something else.”
“There is nothing else. There’s Ashbury, or Duke. Choose one.”
Emma thought on it for a moment. “No, dear husband, I don’t believe I shall.”
He dropped his fork and glowered at her.
She smiled.
He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said. But he respects those who challenge him.
If respect was what the duke had to offer, respect was what she must earn. Emma could put up a challenge. She hoped her husband was up to the task of meeting it.
She reached for a nearby bowl. “Would you like more sauce, sweeting?”
His fingers strangled the stem of his wineglass. She could practically hear the grapes calling for help. She hoped that was a good sign.
“If you don’t cease that nonsense,” he said, “you will regret it.”
“Is that so, my heart?”
He plunked one forearm on the table and turned to face her. Piercing blue eyes, striking scars, and all. “Yes.”
Despite all her intentions to challenge him unabashed, Emma found herself, inconveniently, just a little bit abashed. Perhaps she should talk of the weather.
She was saved, however, from starting a discussion about the autumn chill.
A flash of silver fur darted from the side of the room. Breeches leapt onto the table, sank his teeth into the steamed trout, and absconded with it before either of them could say a word.
“That’s it.” The duke threw his linen napkin on his plate. “Dinner is over.”
Chapter Seven
Ash cinched his dressing gown and tied the sash. Then he undid it and tried again. He’d made such a tight knot on his first attempt, he’d impeded his ability to breathe.
He was damnably anxious. Emma wouldn’t be the only inexperienced one tonight. He was hardly a virgin himself—but he’d never bedded a virgin before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from her quarter. Would she be merely timid, or outright terrified? How much pain was he likely to cause?
He supposed there was one comfort he could offer her. Considering how long it had been for him, the whole matter ought to be over within minutes. If not seconds.
He padded down the corridor on bare feet. When he arrived at her bedchamber, he gave a knock of warning before opening the door a few inches.
“I assume you’re ready,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He entered, extinguishing his candle soon after. She had a few tapers of her own burning, and he went about the room snuffing them in turn. When he’d banked the fire to a dim red glow, he turned to join her on the bed.
On his first step forward, he bashed his knee on the edge of . . . something. A table? The leg of a chair?
The bedclothes rustled. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he said tersely.
“You know, a bit of light might be a good idea.”
“No. It would not be a good idea.”
“I’ve seen your scars already.”
“Not like this.” And not all of them. The scars on his face were merely the prologue to an epic tale of deformity.
She might be able to stomach his appearance from across the room or in a darkened carriage, even at the dinner table. But within the intimacy of the marriage bed? Unclothed, in the light? Not a chance. The point been made painfully clear the first—and last—time he’d allowed a woman to view him that way.
The memory remained as sharp and painful as a poison-tipped arrow.
How could I bear to lie with . . . with that?
How, indeed.
Ash had no wish to relive that moment, and not merely to preserve his pride. This was a matter of saving his bloodline. He couldn’t afford to frighten Emma off. When it came to bedding, she was already timid about the enterprise. He couldn’t risk giving her any further reason to demur. A man was only allowed one wife. If she didn’t give him an heir, that would mean the end of his line. At least the end of the decent side of it—the one without irredeemable prats.
“I’m over here,” she said. “This way.”
He followed the sound of her voice, stumbling a bit over some carpet fringe, but otherwise arriving at the edge of the bed in one piece. After tugging at the sash of his dressing gown, he undid the knot and slipped free of the garment, setting it aside.
He settled his weight toward the foot of the mattress and reached out to grasp—well, whatever part of her he could grasp. This would be a tricky business, deflowering a virgin bride in near-total darkness. Perhaps he ought to have strategized more in advance.
It was too late now. Ash felt around the quilted coverlet until his hand landed on what seemed to be a foot. An encouraging sign. He followed upward, sketching the shape of a leg.
Hm. Her calf was a bit stouter than he’d been expecting. But then, perhaps she was one of those women formed more amply below the waist than above it. It made no difference to him. The female body came in all shapes and sizes, and he’d never seen any reason to complain about the variety.
His hand swept over the familiar knob of a knee, and then up the slope of what must be a thigh. Now he was getting somewhere. A tightness gathered in his loins.
Ash stretched out beside her on the bed, the better to aid his explorations. He tried to murmur something soothing as he skimmed over the prominence of her hip and further upward, until he located the edge of the coverlet. But truthfully, his voice didn’t lend itself to calm tones at the moment. Years’ worth of pent-up lust coursed through his body. His cock swelled and stiffened against the bedding. By the time he grasped the hem of the coverlet and began to draw it downward, his body was ready. Very, very ready.
He peeled the quilted satin downward and prepared to lay his palm on what he expected would be the linen of her night rail, and some part of her warm body beneath. It was like playing darts blindfolded. There was little way of knowing on which target his touch would land. He would have been satisfied with a shoulder or her belly, he supposed, but by God, he was hoping for a breast. Fate owed him a stroke of luck.
He braced himself for that pleasant jolt of first contact.
No jolt occurred. Instead of her shift and tempting body, his hand connected with . . . a wool blanket? Well, then. It would seem he had another layer to remove.
He drew the blanket downward and made another attempt. This time, his hand connected with a thickly padded quilt. Good God, she was layered like an onion. No wonder her leg had felt thick enough to support a small tree.
“How many of these are there?” he asked, trying to locate the edge of the quilt.
“Only five or so,” she answered.
“Five?” He flung back the quilt, not bothering with patience any longer. “Are you attempting to deter me? Exhaust me before I even get to the act?”
“I was cold. And then you banked the fire.”
“I think you’re playing me a trick. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling these away and find there’s nothing beneath them but a pair of pincushions and a broomstick.”
“You’re down to the last one, I swear it. Let me.”
Fabric shifted beside him, and beneath it, her body wiggled in a way that was pure torture. He was desperate to be between her legs, inside her. He had a vision of her beneath him, naked. Her legs locked around his waist, and her back arched in pleasure.
Abandon that fantasy, he told himself. It wasn’t going to be that way. Not tonight, not ever.
“I’m ready,” she whispered.
His cock throbbed at the husky sound of her voice.
Thank God.
When he reached for her this time, he found what he’d been seeking. Her. Emma. His bride. His hand did not land on a breast, he realized with some disappointment, but her waist instead.