The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(64)

She didn’t care one whit what Annabelle Worthing thought of her, nor the other ladies of the ton. But if Ash . . .

She pressed her hands to her stomach.

Down on the stage, the fifth act was nearing its grisly climax. Players were dying right and left, staggering and moaning as they dropped to the boards. What poor performances, she thought. So unconvincing.

She was dying inside, and there was no staggering or moaning. Only bleak, hollow despair.

The fault was yours, Emma. You should have known better.

She had known better, and that was the most dispiriting part. The red silk flowing around her felt like mockery. Once again, she’d been a fool.

She had to leave. She had to leave at once, before he returned.

Someone pushed aside the drapery, entering the box. “What is going on here?”

Too late.



Ash was afire with anger.

He’d left behind a radiant, coquettish wife, likely aroused to the point where he could give her two orgasms in the carriage home alone, and he’d returned not a quarter hour later to find her backed into a corner, pale and trembling.

And the cause . . . oh, the cause was plain to see.

He swung his gaze on Annabelle. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing but tell her the truth.” Her eyes sparked with hurt and anger. “You bastard. You haven’t done enough to me already? You had to bring around this slattern of a seamstress to humiliate me in front of all London?”

“You will not speak such words in her presence.” He had to force the words through clenched teeth. “She is the Duchess of Ashbury. You’ll address her with the honor that title confers.”

“I will not curtsy to a girl who knelt at my feet, simply because she gets down on her knees for you.”

Ash had never struck a woman, and he didn’t intend to start. But he was tempted now, in ways he could never have conceived. Fury exploded within him like a barrage of cannon fire.

“If you were a man,” he said, “you would be facing the end of my pistol tomorrow at dawn. As it is, I’m tempted to call out your brother to answer for your behavior.”

“You want to call out my brother?” She laughed bitterly. “My brother wanted to challenge you back in April. You can thank me for talking him out of it. I convinced him there would be richer satisfaction in letting you live out the remainder of your miserable days. Twisted. Monstrous. Alone.”

“I’m not alone,” he said. “Not anymore. And that’s what bothers you. Isn’t it?”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Can’t you? It’s all becoming quite clear to me. You’re humiliated, but not because of Emma’s presence. You’re ashamed for the ton to see me. Because once they do, everyone will understand the reason behind our broken engagement. They’ll know precisely what a vain, shallow creature you are—and they will see that Emma is worth a hundred of you. Yes, Annabelle. I can imagine that would be humiliating.”

Annabelle opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again.

Ash was certain the silence wouldn’t last. He turned, eager to gather Emma and get the hell out of this theater.

But when he did, his wife was nowhere to be found. She must have slipped out. He’d been so occupied berating Annabelle, he hadn’t even noticed.

With a muttered curse, Ash bolted down the corridor and raced down the staircase. He didn’t see her in the entry, so he dashed out into the night. The rain had started, and that didn’t help his cause.

He found the coach—no, they hadn’t seen Her Grace—and then he ran up the steps in front of the theater, searching through the rain for any glimpse of red.

The play would end soon. Once the audience poured out into the streets, he would lose any hope of finding her in the crowd.

He picked a direction at random and charged down it, stopping at the corner to look in all directions. He pushed the rain from his face, impatient.

There.

There, down a narrow side lane—was that a bit of red?

He jogged in pursuit. “Emma! Emma!”

By the time he’d covered half the distance, she turned around. “Stop,” she shouted. “Leave me be.”

He slowed to a walk. For every step he took toward her, she made one in reverse.

“Can’t we discuss this somewhere less wet?” he called to her.

“What is there to discuss?”

“Emma, don’t play games. I know you’re distraught.”

“I’m fine, Duke. That’s what you wanted me to call you, isn’t it? Duke?”

“You’re clearly not fine.” He held up his hands in a truce. “Don’t mind anything she said up there. Her ire wasn’t aimed at you, it was aimed at me. Annabelle is . . . Annabelle. Still, you’ve every reason to be angry or overwrought.”

She gave a defiant sniff. “There’s nothing to be angry or overwrought about, Duke.”

“Really, you can cease calling me that.”

She wiped the droplets from her face. “Perhaps I will use Ash, after all. It’s growing on me. So very flexible, you know. Horse’s Ash . . . Jack-Ash . . . Ash-hole. ”

Very well. He deserved that. And if he had been any less desperate to get her out of this rain, he probably would have laughed.