The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(42)

“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.”

Ash shot a glance at the footmen. Go. Away.

They went.

He returned his attention to his addlebrained wife. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because you keep asking! Because I must tell someone, and I don’t know how to tell anyone else.” She studied her soup. “I’m infatuated with you, however unwillingly. It’s a problem.”

“It would be a problem,” he said, “if it weren’t a product of your imagination.”

“I’m not imagining things.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’re nearing your monthly courses. I hear women become seething maelstroms of irrational emotion at that time.”

“Well, now I’m seething.” She gave him an irritated look. “You are such a man. And I’m stupidly attracted to you despite it. Perhaps even for it. Yes, I am certain it’s infatuation. I’ve felt it before.”

Now Ash was the one who became a maelstrom of irrational emotion. That emotion being jealous anger. “Toward whom?”

“Why should it matter?”

“Because,” he said, “I like to know the names of the people I despise. I keep them in a little book and pore over it from time to time, whilst sipping brandy and indulging in throaty, ominous laughter.”

“It was a young man back home, ages ago. Surely you know the feeling of infatuation. Everyone does. It’s not merely physical admiration. Your mind fixes on a person, and it’s as though you float through the days, singing a song that only has one word, thinking of nothing but the next time you’ll see them again.”

“And you claim to be feeling this way. Float-ish. Singsong-ish. About me.”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“That’s absurd.”

“I know, but I can’t seem to stop it. I have an unfortunate habit of looking for the best in people, and it makes me blind to their flaws.”