The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(77)

“Let’s move on from the menstruation habits of the upper classes, please. What I’m saying is, you should have mentioned this to me before now.”

She turned aside. “It was too early to be certain.”

“You missed your courses. You’re vomiting. You swooned after the theater. And, now that I think about it, your recent appetites have been variable in more ways than one. Be honest, Emma. You must have suspected this for weeks.”

“Perhaps.”

He caught her elbow and turned her to face him. “Then why would you hide it from me?”

“Because of our bargain! You said from the start, once I’m with child, it would be over, and . . .” Her voice faltered. “And I didn’t want it to be over.”

“Oh, Emma. Who is the darling idiot now?” He placed his hands on either side of her face. “It isn’t over. It could never be over. I’d sooner die than let you go.”

“Then I want to be with you. Live with you. Wake in the same bed every morning, dine together every evening. Bicker and make love and . . . play badminton if you truly insist. Raise our children together.”

He tensed, just as she’d feared he would. “I’m not good with children.”

“That’s not true. What about Trevor?”

“Trevor is abnormal. Highly abnormal.” He jabbed a finger in his own chest. “You know I’m impatient. Irritable. Demanding.”

She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Also caring. Loyal. Protective.” When he didn’t reply, she tried again. “So you’re imperfect. Who isn’t? Being imperfect is better than being distant.”

He folded her in an embrace, tucking her head protectively under his chin, but Emma didn’t feel entirely comforted.

“I would never abandon you. You know that. I will provide for every—”

“Providing is not enough. Children shouldn’t be strangers from their fathers. No matter what they are told, or what reasons they are given—they will always fear, deep down, that it’s their fault. I know you wouldn’t want to hurt your child that way.”

“Emma . . .”

“You had a wonderful, loving father. You lost him to illness far too soon, but you never doubted that he loved you. I spent the entirety of my childhood wondering what I’d done wrong. Asking myself, how had I failed? Why couldn’t I earn his love?”

He clutched her tight and murmured soothing words.

“And when I couldn’t win my father’s affection, I tried chasing after it elsewhere. From the most inadvisable sources. Like a squire’s son who was already promised to another.”

“Like a hulking, misanthropic monster of a duke.”

“That’s not what I meant. I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”

“I wish we’d met years ago.”

“Oh, yes. Back when you had your choice of any lady in England?” She laughed softly. “You would never have looked at me.”

“I want to contradict that. But I was excessively stupid then. You may be right.”

“I’m right about a great many things. And I’m telling you this: Our child needs his father in his life. Not just occasionally, and not through the post.”

She pulled back and looked up at him. Worry etched his face. He doubted himself. And when a strong man doubted himself, it meant something. Ash wouldn’t undertake any endeavor—especially not one so important as this—if he wasn’t certain he could do it, and do it well.

Emma couldn’t solve this with words or kisses. He would have to work through it himself.

“There’s plenty of time,” she whispered. “It’s not as though the babe will be born tomorrow. By my counting, you have seven months to grow accustomed to the idea.”

“You say a father shouldn’t be distant. But I’m not good at letting anyone close.” He set his jaw. “I don’t know that seven months could be enough.”

She tried not to sound disheartened. “I’ll admit, you do have a very thick skull. But I have my ways of getting through it.”

Or she would have her ways, she vowed.

Just as soon as she thought of some.



Emma had never been one for late-night eating. But then, she’d never been pregnant before.

It was well past midnight. She was just emerging from the pantry into the kitchen—a plate heaped with cold roast beef in one hand, a crock of blackberry preserves in the other, and a buttered roll clenched between her teeth—when a sinister figure appeared in her path. The looming black silhouette stood between her and the lamp she’d left on the table.

Emma screamed.

That was to say, she screamed through a buttered roll. The sound that came out was less of a proper shriek and more akin to Mraarrrmghhffff! The crock of preserves crashed to the floor. In her panic, she flung the contents of the plate at her attacker.

“Your Grace, it’s me.”

“Mmmmf?” She turned her head and spat out the roll. “Khan?”

“Yes.” He peeled a slice of beef from his neck.

“I’m so sorry. You startled me.”

He crouched at her feet and began to gather pieces of broken crockery. “Quite understandable. I should have dodged.”