“Emma.” After the requisite curtsey, Davina kissed her cheek. “I’m so delighted to see you. Please, let me introduce my father. May I present Mr. William Palmer. Papa, this is Emma Pembrooke, the Duchess of Ashbury. My friend.”
Emma held out her hand, and Mr. Palmer bowed over it. “I am honored, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Palmer. What a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve enjoyed Davina’s friendship so very much.”
Mr. Palmer beamed at his daughter. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she? Better than her breeding, I daresay. I’ve done my best for her, and she’s done me proud.”
Davina looked away, uncomfortable.
Emma tilted her head and smiled in coquettish fashion. “I must warn you—I intend to steal her away. With your permission, of course, and only for a time. I mean to winter at the duke’s country house in Oxfordshire, and I’d adore it if Davina joined me.”
“Oh, do let me go, Papa.” Davina clung to her father’s arm. “There’s so little amusement in Town past Christmas. Mayfair will be positively dreary. And I believe the bracing country air could be beneficial for my health.” She gave a dry, unconvincing cough.
Emma smiled and took Davina’s arm. “I would love to have her, Mr. Palmer.”
Mr. Palmer appeared to be searching himself for diplomacy. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m honored you would invite my Davina, to be sure. But you must admit this is all rather hasty. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making the duke’s acquaintance.”
Emma waved a gloved hand. “Oh, Ashbury indulges me in whatever I like. He won’t even be there. The Oxfordshire residence is for my particular use.” She lowered her voice. “May I confide in you, Mr. Palmer?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I’m in a delicate way. For the next several months, I shall be confined to one house, in one small Oxfordshire neighborhood. It’s all very wholesome and safe, but I would be so glad to have Davina with me for company. You’d be doing me such a favor.”
“Well, perhaps you and the duke would be so good as to as to join us for dinner, so we can discuss it.”
“I would love nothing more,” Emma replied regretfully. “But I’m afraid that’s not possible. I depart the day after next.”
“So soon?” Mr. Palmer cast a worried glance at his daughter. “Perhaps next year would be better, my dear.”
“Papa,” Davina murmured. “Stop being so protective. Emma is a duchess.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied fondly. “But you are my daughter. No amount of pleading will convince me to cease caring for you.”
Davina looked at her father with adoration in her eyes—and then she burst into tears, right there in the middle of the ballroom. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Papa. Emma has been a true friend, but I can’t allow her to lie for me any longer.”
“My dear, what is this about?”
She buried her head in her father’s shoulder, sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I wanted to tell you so very much.”
Oh, heavens. The truth struck Emma square in the chest.
She’d been wrong. All wrong.
Mr. Palmer adored his daughter. Wholly and unreservedly. If he knew the truth, he would not blame Davina. He would worry over her, wonder what he might have done to keep her from harm. And he would give up everything—all the status he’d worked so hard to attain—to keep his daughter safe.
Davina hadn’t hidden the truth because she feared her father, but because she loved him. She didn’t want him to feel he’d failed her, or to make any noble sacrifice.
It was all plain now, clear as glass, and Emma felt so dim. The possibility of selfless, unwavering affection between father and daughter had never entered her mind. How could it? She’d never known it herself.
Davina sniffed. “You’ll be so disappointed in me, Papa, and I cannot bear it.”
“Never, darling. Whatever is troubling you, it can’t divide us.”
While patting his daughter’s shoulders, Mr. Palmer sent Emma a questioning look. Emma didn’t know how to answer it. Davina’s secret was hers alone to tell, and the ballroom was hardly the place. If this scene didn’t relocate to a more private setting, Davina would draw speculation. All eyes in the ballroom were fixed on their little group.
Until, suddenly, they weren’t.
The rumors and whispers that had been passing around the ballroom like a salt cellar at a dinner table—they ceased. All of them, all at once. No one looked at Emma or Davina now. Every head in the ballroom had turned to face the entrance, and when Emma followed their gaze, she knew instantly why.
Ash.
He stood in the entrance—and oh, what an entrance he’d made. No hat, no gloves. His topcoat was nowhere to be found. His waistcoat hung open, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost down to his navel.
To Emma, he’d never looked more wonderful. Her heart was in her throat.
For the first time since his injuries, he had emerged in an open, well-lit setting among his social equals. Not as the Monster of Mayfair, but as the Duke of Ashbury. Scarred. Striking. And despite the fact that he was only half dressed, still splendid. He was every inch the duke.
And every inch of him was hers.
Ash looked at the majordomo. The majordomo stared and stuttered. After a few moments of waiting, Ash rolled his eyes. He spread his hands for the crowd and announced himself. “His Grace, the Duke of Ashbury.”
No one moved.
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently, turning the scarred side of his face to the room. “Faulty rocket at Waterloo. You have precisely three seconds to move past it. One. Two. Right. Now where is my wife?”
“I’m here.” Emma moved forward.
As she emerged from the crowd, however, a hand touched her wrist, holding her back.
Annabelle Worthing threaded her arm through Emma’s and escorted her to the center of the floor, where she curtsied to Ash. “Your Grace. You are most welcome.” To his obvious bewilderment, she raised an eyebrow. “No one steals all the attention at my own ball.”
It was the closest to an apology they would ever have from the woman, Emma supposed, but for the moment, it was enough.
As their hostess receded, she chided the dumbstruck orchestra. “Well? Play something. My father’s not paying you to sit about.”
The musicians recovered themselves and struck up a waltz.
“Sorry I’m late,” Ash said.
“No, don’t be. You’re just in time. Though it looks as though you fought through a riot to get here.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell of gin.”
“I’ll explain later.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “So where is this Mr. Palmer I need to see?”
“Comforting his weeping daughter as she tells him the truth. You were right. I shouldn’t have assumed he would treat her so cruelly. For now, we can help them best by offering some distraction.”
“Well.” He glanced about the ballroom. “I believe I’ve accomplished that.”
Indeed he had. No one in the room made any pretense at etiquette. They openly stared. They whispered without even bothering to hide it behind a fan or a glass of champagne.
Ash’s hand curled in a fist, and his forearm went rigid beneath her gloved hand. That was the only outward indication he gave of self-consciousness. But Emma knew—oh, how she knew—what a trial this was for him. How frightened he must be, deep in the most guarded chamber of his heart. And of course he would never admit it, never ask for reassurance, much less her help, and she would only make it worse by offering.
So Emma did what she could. She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. As they made the traditional circuit of the room, she met the eyes of every person they passed, giving an elegant, graceful nod.
They might look at the duke and see a pitiable wretch or a scarred war hero or even a horrifying monster. But when they looked at Emma, they would see nothing but a wife who was proud to be on his arm. And who loved him, beyond all earthly measure.
“Should we dance?” she asked, once they’d come full circle. “It does seem the thing to do at these, and I doubt we’ll be invited to another one soon.”