“There must be so many things you miss doing. Not necessarily with me. Driving in the park with the top of the barouche folded down. Going around to the clubs. You could take boxing lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s and stop making poor Khan serve as your sparring partner.” She arched an eyebrow. “So long as brothels and opera dancers are not on the list.”
“Please.” He flung his forearm over his eyes. “The way you keep after me, I haven’t the stamina.”
“Good. Now about the next outing.”
“There won’t be one. I told you this afternoon that it would be the first and last time we went visiting.”
“We could have a dinner party here, if you prefer. I have a friend from the dressmaking shop, Miss Davina Palmer. I think her father would enjoy making your acquaintance.” She held her breath, waiting on his response.
He lowered his forearm and regarded her with seriousness. “Just what is it you’re angling to do?”
The suspicion in his eyes unnerved her.
“I . . . I hate to see you living in seclusion, that’s all. Once I go to Swanlea, I can’t abide thinking of you sitting in the house, all alone.”
Needles of guilt pricked at her palms. Of course, that wasn’t her only reason. She did have an ulterior motive—to help Davina. But she meant what she’d told him, as well. It pained her to think of him being alone.
It pained her to think of leaving him. It pained her to think of going to Swanlea and raising their child without him being a part of their lives.
She didn’t like their bargain anymore, and she was running out of time to renegotiate.
A few afternoons later, Ash was hard at work in the library, just hitting his stride in a fiery, scathing letter to his architect, when Khan entered.
Terrible timing, as usual.
Ash didn’t look up from his letter. “What now?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a rather large delivery has arrived for the duchess. Where shall I direct them to leave the boxes?”
“A delivery?” Ash lifted his head. “A delivery of what?”
“I believe it’s a wardrobe. Shall I have them take the packages upstairs?”
Ash laid aside his pen. “No. No, take them to the drawing room.”
A wardrobe.
Thank God for small miracles. His wife had finally found enthusiasm for the act of ordering new attire, despite her earlier objections. If there was one consolation he could offer her in this marriage, it was luxury.
After sealing his letter, he proceeded to the drawing room, hoping to observe Emma’s delight as she opened the boxes. Perhaps she’d even give him a little promenade of her gowns and bonnets. And if she pressed him into service assisting with the buttons and hooks, so much the better.
When he entered the room, she was already wearing something breathtaking: a look of radiant joy.
“It’s the new wardrobe,” she said, her excitement plain.
“So I gather.” He directed the servants to leave them alone.
She unknotted the twine on the first box and sifted through the tissue. He caught a glimpse of expensive ivory silk damask. A promising start.
However, it wasn’t a gown she drew out.
It was a waistcoat.
“Oh,” she sighed. “It’s perfect.” She turned to him. “What do you think?”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, after a careful silence. “I have been out of social circulation for some time. Apparently ladies’ fashions have undergone some upheaval that’s escaped my notice.”
She laughed. “It’s not for me, turtledove. It’s for you.” She brought the waistcoat to him and held it against his chest. “Hm. I may need to take in the shoulders a bit, but that’s easily done.”
He couldn’t summon any response.
She cast aside the top of another box, this time unwrapping a hunter-green wool topcoat. Again, she made a noise of satisfaction. “Here. Humor me and slip this on.”
He looked around at the dozens of parcels. “Don’t say these are all for me.”
“You told me to order a wardrobe.” She gave him a cheeky smile. “You didn’t specify for whom. And I told you I’d remember your measurements.” She tugged at his coat sleeve. “Come along, then. Off with the old and on with the new. I want to see how well the tailors did with it.”
Numb, he shook his arms free of the old topcoat and slipped his arms into the sleeves of the new one.
She walked behind him, smoothing the wool down his back. “I’ve been dying to see you in something fit for a duke. Everything you have is frayed, hopelessly past the current style, or both.”
She completed her circle, stopping toe to toe with him and pulling his lapels straight with a crisp snap. “There, now. Move your arms a bit. How does it feel?”
He stretched his arms out to either side. “Better, strangely.”
“I told the tailor to leave extra room in the shoulders.” She opened one lapel to display the lining. “The facing is silk where it counts, of course. But the sleeves have a removable lining of cotton flannel. Able to be laundered, and less likely to cause irritation. Shirts are the softest lawn I could find. And the cravats have a muslin collar inside them, so they won’t need starch where it touches your skin.”
He marveled at how much thought she’d put into this. Naturally, this had been her line of employment for many years—suggesting and crafting the garments that best suited an individual. But that was work.
This . . . this was a gift.
Her hands skimmed from his shoulders to the cuffs, and she looked him over. “I knew the green would suit you. You look so handsome.”
By his soul. He volleyed between overwhelming emotion and distaste for an obvious lie.
“See for yourself.” She went to the standing mirror and turned it to face him.
He didn’t need to look in the mirror. He knew exactly what he’d see. A scarred and powder-burned horror that appeared laughable when contrasted with a fine new coat.
It was, he had to admit, a splendid coat. It fit him to perfection, and from this vantage, he could imagine himself a younger man, sitting in the club or accepting a glass of brandy after a day of autumn sport. Back in the “before” of his life.
“Well . . . ?” she prompted. She looked pleased with herself and eager for praise.
“It’s a finely made coat,” he said.
“But do you like it?”
I like it very much. But most of all, I like you—a great deal more than I ought—and even if it’s too late for me to save myself, I’m not going to give you false hope.
He swung his arms. “Well, it does offer more flexibility in the arms. You know, for punching orphans and sacrificing lambs to Satan.”
She returned to the boxes, stacking them with brisk, irritated motions. “Does it give you some sort of cruel satisfaction, always belittling my work? I know it doesn’t impress you, but it’s my chief talent. I’d have made career of it, if not for—” She cut off the statement.
“If not for what?”
“Never mind.”
“I will pay mind when and where I wish, thank you. If not for what?”
“If not for you.”
He blinked at her. “What could I have to do with it? What, you would have opened your own shop with your two pounds, three shillings?”
“I planned to become an independent dressmaker, but I needed a way to attract my own customers. A gown that showed my best handiwork, on display at one of the largest social events of the Season.”
“Annabelle’s wedding gown.”
“The snow-beast pelt splattered with unicorn vomit. Yes.”
He gestured expansively. “Well, I’m so sorry I interfered with your plans for a lifetime of degrading labor and gave you a life of wealth and privilege instead.”
She pushed her hair back with her wrist. “Of course I wouldn’t trade one for the other. I’m not stupid. And I’m grateful for all you’ve given me. It’s only . . . this is all I have to offer you, and you insist on insulting it.”
“So what would you have me do?”