She slunk back to the other side of the settee and quietly thunked her head against the upholstery.
Why, why, why? Why now, why here?
Well, she supposed “here” was the logical place to disrobe, it being his bedchamber. But that answer did nothing to assuage her rueful, silent bemoaning of the entire situation. She had never felt so stupid.
“What is it?” Alexandra whispered.
Frantic, Emma made every hand signal she knew to indicate the need for absolute silence. She probably invented a few new ones, as well.
Remain calm, she told herself. Most likely he’d only come up to exchange his coat, or retrieve his watch or some other small item. Otherwise, wouldn’t he ring for his valet?
After waiting through twenty heartbeats—which likely added up to four seconds on Alexandra’s chronometer—she peeked again.
Oh, Lord. He’d tossed aside the coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and—as she watched—tugged his shirt free of his breeches and pulled it over his head.
Her pulse stopped—and then began again as a low, painful throb.
Dear heavens.
The left side of him was muscled and sculpted and Roman-godlike and all the other descriptors a woman could muster to signal attractiveness and sheer, raw lust. That ridge between his flank and his hip alone . . . the way his trousers rode it, dipping to reveal an enticing glimpse of taut, firm backside.
Emma wished she could claim she was riveted to that sight. All the places where he was strong and perfect. She wished her gaze had never wandered to the wounded side of him and stubbornly stuck there.
But it had.
And now she couldn’t look away.
The injuries he wore on his face were only the beginning. His torso bore a long, angry swath of scars that snaked from his neck, down the right side of his shoulder and chest, and then blazed around his ribs to end at the small of his back.
As he splashed water over his face and neck, the rivulets followed a tortuous path downward. His flesh was raised and twisting, as gnarled as the bark of ancient tree. Warring scars tugged at each other with aggressive fingers. And then there were a few bits of him that were simply . . . missing. Depressions that deepened into hollows, where fire had carved him away to sinew and bone.
What a miracle that he’d survived at all. Then again, he was excessively ill-tempered and intractable. No doubt he’d simply refused to follow when death beckoned. That would be so like him.
Oh, you stubborn, brave, impossible man. Curse you for being more attractive than ever.
Conflicting emotions overwhelmed her. She was seized by the urge to run to him, but she didn’t know what she’d do when got there. Kiss him, hold him, grope him, weep over him . . . ? She’d probably make a fool of herself doing all four at once. It was for the best, she supposed, that she was forced to remain behind this settee until he left the room.
A clattering noise startled her out of her skin.
Alexandra’s carnet—and its metal case—had tumbled to the floor. Sorry, she mouthed.
“Who’s there?” The duke grabbed his razor from the washstand and whirled around.
Emma cringed. There was nothing else to be done.
“It’s me.” She popped up from behind the settee, giving him a smile and a jolly wave. “Just me. Only me. Definitely no one else.”
He stared at her with an expression that blended anger and disbelief. “Emma?”
She gave Alexandra a soft kick before coming out from behind the settee and approaching her husband. “I . . . I thought you were downstairs. In the ballroom.”
“I was downstairs. Then I came upstairs.”
“Yes, of course.”
Behind him, Alexandra crawled out from behind the settee and began to scurry across the bedchamber carpet on all fours.
If Emma didn’t keep his attention focused on her, he would see Alexandra, and this already uncomfortable scene would enter . . . well, not quite the ninth circle of Hell, but Dante’s lesser known invention: the sixth octagon of awkward.
She asked breezily, “More badminton this afternoon?”
“Fencing.”
“Oh, yes. Fencing.” She touched her ear. That would explain the clanging, wouldn’t it.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Alexandra’s farewell salute from the other side of the door. She exhaled with relief.
“My turn to ask the questions,” he said. “What the devil do you mean, coming in here to spy on me?”
“Before I continue, could you . . . put aside the blade?”
He looked surprised that he was still holding the thing. He folded the razor closed and tossed it on the washstand, where it landed with a bang. “Now explain what you were doing crouched behind my settee.”
She set her chin with confidence, having thought of the perfect excuse. “I was looking for the cat.”
“The cat.”
“Yes. The cat.”
“You mean that cat?” He nodded at the settee she’d been hiding behind.
She turned. Breeches was curled up on the cushioned seat, asleep.
When had that happened?
As if he knew himself to be the subject of conversation, the cat lifted his head, stretched his long legs, and gave her an inquisitive, innocent look.
Not since she’d been sixteen years old had Emma felt so thoroughly betrayed.
You furry little beast. I found you starving in the streets, took you in from the cold, and this is how you repay me?
“Enough,” her husband said. “Just admit that you came to gawk at me. To invade my privacy against my wishes and satisfy your curiosity.”
“No.” She shook her head in vehement denial. “No, I would never.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he thundered.
She swallowed hard.
He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. “Well, take what you wanted. Have a good, long look. And then get out.”
Once he’d finished his display, Emma locked her gaze on his, careful not to let it stray. “I didn’t come here to spy on you. I swear it. Though I won’t deny that once I was here, I couldn’t help but stare.”
“Of course you stared. Who wouldn’t? There are freak shows in the Tower of London that you’d have to pay a sixpence to see, and they aren’t nearly this grotesque.”
“Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “Do you really have such a low opinion of me?”
“I have an understanding of human nature.” He thumped a fist to his chest. “I want you to own the truth. This is hardly the first time I’ve caught you staring, even if it is the most intimate intrusion yet. Do you dare deny it?”
“No. I can’t.”
He advanced on her. “You came here—hid behind my settee—to indulge your morbid fascination.”
She shook her head.
“Admit it.”
“I can’t admit it! It isn’t true. I . . .” Her voice wavered. “I do stare at you, yes. But it’s not because I find you grotesque. It certainly isn’t morbid fascination.”
“Then what, pray tell, could it be?”
Her heart pounded in her chest. Did she dare admit the truth? “Infatuation.”
“Infatu—” He retreated a pace and stared at her. As if she’d sprouted horns. And then sprouted pansies and teacakes from the horns.
Emma didn’t know what to do or say. She’d already done and said too much.
Without another word, she ran from the room.
Chapter Sixteen
That evening’s dinner was uncharacteristically free of Emma’s usual teasing and relentless chatter. Ash could only suppose his wife was ashamed of herself, and well she should be. He wished he could stop caring—about her intrusion, about her lies.
And about the way she wasn’t taking any food or wine whatsoever.
“You’re not eating your soup,” he finally said. “It’s putting me off mine.”
“I . . . Never mind.” With a dutiful grimness, she took a tiny spoonful of soup.
He rolled his eyes. “Spit it out then.”
She froze, spoon poised in midair.
“Not the soup. Whatever it is you mean to say.”
She put down her spoon. “We need to talk about this afternoon. About the fact that I’m infatuated with you.”