The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(27)

“How long have you been here?” she whispered.

“What time is it now?”

“Half seven.”

“Four hours, then.”

“Four hours? And how long do you plan to stay like this?”

He set his jaw and glowered at the fireplace. “As long as it takes.”

She noted an open trunk sitting on the opposite side of him. Two thick leather straps with buckles lay at the ready.

She gasped. “You’re going to lock Breeches in a trunk?”

“For the night, yes. Doors don’t seem to contain the beast.”

“With no food, no water?”

“I made air holes. And believe me, he’s fortunate to get that much.”

“But . . . why?”

“Is it not obvious?” For the first time since she’d entered the library, he slid a glance toward her. “Because I intend to impregnate you tonight, or make a valiant attempt at it. And this time, there will be no interruption.”

He turned back to regarding the grate.

“Oh.” Emma bit her lip, trying to ignore the hot flush creeping from her neck to her hairline. “Were you terribly hurt last night? Are you furious with me?”

“I don’t know that I can ever forgive you,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m going to have a scar.”

She paused a moment, then laughed.

The corner of his mouth quirked with a smug little smile. He was pleased with himself for having provoked her to laughter. Emma was pleased, as well. When he wasn’t using that sharp wit to slice her to ribbons, he had a rather charming sense of humor.

“I’ll be back,” she said, drawing to her feet.

A quarter hour later, she returned with a tray of sandwiches, two glasses, and an uncorked bottle of wine.

“Here.” She offered him a roast beef sandwich. “To keep up your stamina.”

He accepted it and took a large, manly bite.

“No progress?” She bit the corner from an egg-and-cress sandwich.

He shook his head. “Where did you acquire this pestilent, mewling jackanapes?”

“Where did you acquire the habit of cursing with such imagination?”

He reached for another sandwich. “For that, you can thank my father. The summer I was nine, my mother overheard me utter some foul words I’d learned at school. My father drew me aside and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an educated gentleman and he never wanted to hear me use such crude language again. He said, ‘Blaspheme as you will, but at least use words from Shakespeare.’ I’d read all the plays by the summer’s end.”

“Quite ingenious of him.”

“He was a wise man. A good man. I may not be a wise or good man, but I at least possess a sense of duty. His legacy, and everything and everyone he protected, has fallen to me. I won’t let that wither and die.”

“And you still draw your curses from Shakespeare.”

“I try, in speech at least, as a way to honor his memory. I cannot claim my thoughts are always so literary in their inspiration.”

Emma let the quiet abide for a moment. “You must miss him a great deal. And to lose him so young. How did it—” She broke off the question. Perhaps she was delving too deep.

“A fever took them both. I was away at school.”

“Oh, dear.” She inched a bit closer. “That must have been terrible.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there to see them ill. They’ll always be strong in my memory that way. Likewise, I’m grateful they never had to see me after I was . . . you know. Like this.”

She gathered his meaning, but she didn’t believe he was sincere. Having a loving family around him would have made all the difference.

He downed a large swallow of wine, then glanced toward her. “What about your parents? You mentioned leaving home for London at a tender age. What was that about?”

She chewed a bite slowly. “The usual. Strict discipline. Youthful rebellion. Words exchanged that couldn’t be taken back.”

“That,” he said, “was not an answer.”

“Yes, it was. You asked a question. I replied. With words and everything.”

“I gave you details. Ages, events . . . feelings. I cracked open my soul.”

She gave him a disbelieving look.

“All right, fine. I don’t have a soul. But the point remains. You can be more specific than that.”

“It’s a boring story, truly.” Before he could object, she withdrew a clipped bit of newsprint from her pocket. “Now this is an interesting story. ‘Cloaked Monster Menaces Mayfair.’”

He paused. “Sounds ridiculous.”

“I thought it sounded exciting.” She cleared her throat and read aloud. “‘For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls—among them, three innocent boys—before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.’” She lowered the paper. “Well?”