The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(85)

“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.”