“No! No, you cannot do this to me.” He fell to his knees before her. “You didn’t see him, Emma. The demon. Oh, he was horrible. Fearsome to behold. His face . . . it was all twisted and burned, and he had—”
“Wait.” Emma’s heartbeat stuttered. “You say his face was burned?”
“Yes. Most wretchedly. From the brimstone, no doubt. But it wasn’t only his face that was evil. He . . . he threatened me with hellfire and bureaucracy. He insulted my curtains. He called me the vilest of names.”
“Names such as what?”
“Oh, I don’t like to say.”
“Names such as what?”
“I don’t know, I . . . Something like m-mammering canker-blossom?”
“Thank you, Father. I think you’ve given me a very clear image of this ‘demon’ you encountered.”
And that image looked a great deal like her husband.
Mammering canker-blossom. Now that one was new. He must have been saving it.
Her father rose to his feet. “I beg you. If you deny me forgiveness, you do not know how I will suffer. For the rest of my life, I will never be easy. Never at peace. Always fearing that each day will be my last.”
“I lived with that feeling for six years. Now it’s your turn.” She opened the door. “If it’s forgiveness you want, you may come back and ask me again in another six years. Right now, you will leave. At once.”
“But—”
She gave him a push between the shoulders and he stumbled through the open door. “Begone, you beetle-headed gudgeon.”
Oh, the look on his face. For as long as she lived, she would laugh whenever she recalled it.
“Beetle-headed . . . ?” He huffed with offense, and his face turned purple with rage. “You will not speak to me that way, Emma Grace Gladstone.”
“Emma Grace Gladstone,” she echoed. “No, Emma Grace Gladstone would not have dared to speak to you that way. But I’m Emma Grace Pembrooke now. The Duchess of Ashbury. And if you ever speak to me again, you will address me as Your Grace.”
She shut the door and locked it.
And then she sank to the floor for a good long cry.
The tears came, and she surrendered to them. There was no one to hear, and no one to see. She cried until her eyes were dry and her heart was empty. The foolishness of it all. She’d wasted so many years allowing the value he placed on her to dictate the way she regarded herself.
Emma fished a handkerchief from her pocket. She wiped her tears and blew her nose. She would not let her father hold her back. Not from trusting. Not from living. Not from loving.
Not anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You went to my father’s house.”
Ash looked up from the ledger he’d been examining.
Emma.
She stood in front of his desk, staring down at him. Her eyes were red, as though she’d been crying. He set aside the ledger and rose to his feet.
“You went to my father’s house,” she repeated. “In Hertfordshire.”
There seemed little sense in denying it. “Yes.”
“In the dead of night.”
“Yes.”
“You broke into the vicarage.”
He rubbed a hand over his uneven hair. “I climbed in through his bedroom window, actually.”
“And then you told him you were a demon from Hell.”
“To be fair, he didn’t require a great deal of convincing.”
“You said you’d stop this. No more roaming about at night. You promised me.”
“I went to him before that. Weeks ago now, and . . . How do you know all this anyway?”
“He came to see me. At the modiste’s shop where I worked.”
Ash swore. The craven bastard.
“He apologized,” she went on. “Can you believe it? He knelt at my feet and begged for my forgiveness.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t grant it.”
“Why?” Her stare was direct and unnerving. “Why should you care? Why did you go to him at all?”
“Because he hurt you, Emma.” He thumped the desk for emphasis. “The man cast you out, without feeling or remorse. He left you to shiver and starve and fend for yourself. He made you frightened of the cold, and so afraid of your own heart you settled for marrying a bitter jackass. He treated you as though you were worthless, and for that, he deserves to rot in the ground. It was only for your sake that I did not put him there myself. He hurt you, and I would not stand for it. And I won’t apologize, either. Not now, not ever.”
“I see.”
Ash let quiet fill the room. It might be the last silence he’d enjoy for a while. Her demeanor was so restrained on the surface, he could only imagine her to be volcanically angry beneath. He drew a slow breath, steeling himself for the eruption.
She walked around the desk in brisk strides, and Ash turned to face her. He wasn’t going to hide.
Then she grabbed him by the lapels, pulled him down, and kissed him for all he was worth. No. She kissed him for a great deal more than he was worth, by a factor of thousands.
“Thank you,” she whispered between fervent kisses. “Thank you. I’ve never had anyone stand up for me like that.”
Any measure of chivalry that placed Ash at its pinnacle was a sorry scale indeed. But he would take her kisses, and gladly. Gratefully. He would take any part of her she offered him. Body, mind, heart, soul.
Bodies seemed to be the order of the moment, however. And as willing as he was to take hers, she seemed even more eager to get at his. As they kissed, she tugged at his coat sleeves, shaking them loose of his arms until the entire coat slipped to the floor. His waistcoat buttons were next.
Once she had him undressed down to only his shirt, she pushed him into the armchair and tugged at his shirt, pulling it up to lift over his head.
He kept his arms at his sides.
“Surely you’re not hesitating now?” she asked. “I thought we were past this.”
She was past it, perhaps, but it wasn’t so easy for him. He tried to explain it. “I couldn’t stand for you to look on me with pity. Or distaste.”
Emma gave him a soft look. “It’s not pity or distaste that worries you. You’re not afraid of rejection. You welcome it. But if you’re seen for everything you are—the strengths and the flaws, the beauty and the scars—you might have to believe you’re wanted. Loved. Really, truly, honestly, earnestly, properly.” She pressed her forehead to his. “And completely.”
Ash swallowed hard. She’d left him speechless. Entirely.
“I know you’re afraid,” she whispered. “I know it because I’m scared, too. Terrified, really. Make love to me. Be brave with me.” She grasped his shirt in both hands and pulled. “With nothing between us.”
“Emma, don’t.”
“Why not?”
He flailed for excuses. “It’s—It’s my favorite shirt.”
“Then I’ll mend it later.”
She found the bit of stitching where the shirt’s neckline converged, caught the fabric in her teeth, and tugged, biting a notch in the fabric. That accomplished, she took both sides in her hands and ripped the shirt straight down the center.
Ash was amazed. And, if he was honest, fiercely aroused.
She smiled. “A seamstress knows how to split fabric. And by now, you should know me. If you issue a command, I’ll only do the reverse.”
He started to compose a good scolding in his mind. But then he decided . . . perhaps he could make her rebellious nature work to his benefit.
“Very well,” he said. “Don’t lift your skirts and straddle me.”
Her eyes questioned him for a moment. Then understanding swept them, and a saucy smile curved her lips.
She gathered her striped muslin skirt and petticoats in fistfuls, hiking them high enough to allow him an erotic glimpse of her calves before climbing atop his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, and letting that white, flouncy cloud of her petticoats fall around them both. He felt as though he’d been admitted to a temple of feminine secrets. Awed.
God. He was hard already, primed to take her without a moment’s delay. Slip loose the buttons of his trousers and thrust. That was all it would take. But he knew anticipation now would make the eventual satisfaction all the sweeter.