The Duchess Deal (Girl Meets Duke #1)(26)

“It’s no imposition. You can’t know how happy it makes me to help you this way.”

“Oh, but I shall need Papa’s permission first. That’s the only snag.”

“Surely he wouldn’t deny you the chance to visit a duchess.”

“Well . . .” Davina looked hesitant. “It’s merely that—”

“I’m not the usual sort of duchess,” Emma finished. And for that matter, her husband wasn’t the usual sort of duke. He hadn’t been seen publicly in years, and then he’d wed a seamstress.

“There will be a certain amount of curiosity,” Davina said.

Curiosity. What a charitable way of saying gossip.

Emma knew the unkind things ladies said about one another. In the dressmaking shop, they’d spoken in front of her as though she didn’t exist.

“But surely the duke will expose you to society,” Davina said. “He’ll have to introduce you at court. From there, simply ask him to take you to balls and the opera and dinners.”

Hah. To be sure, Emma could simply ask him. And he would simply say no.

This plan of hers was becoming more and more complicated. In order to help Davina she must either get pregnant immediately—which fate and felines were conspiring to prevent—or convince the duke to allow her a holiday despite it. Meanwhile, she must make herself a respectable duchess in the eyes of the ton, so that Mr. Palmer would allow his daughter to join her.

It all felt rather hopeless.

“What if your father won’t grant you permission?” she asked.

“I suppose I shall be forced to run away,” Davina said softly. “I’m the only child, and Papa wants me to marry a well-placed gentleman who can take over his business affairs. If I’m ruined, his plans will be ruined, too. Can you understand?”

“Yes. I can.”

Emma understood perfectly. She, too, had adored her father. But when she’d needed him most, he’d chosen to protect appearances rather than protecting her.

She refused to let the poor girl face this alone. Though Emma’s own situation had been different, it had felt no less dire. She still carried the cruel reminders: Some were visible, while others lurked deep inside. There was no way to erase the pain in her past, but she had a chance to save this young woman’s future.

No matter what it took, she would find a way.

And her best strategy, at the moment, was to go home and entice—or drag, if need be—her husband to her bed.



“Your Grace, would you describe yourself as clumsy?” Mary asked the question as she arranged Emma’s hair for dinner.

“No,” Emma answered. “Not particularly.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“Why is it too bad?”

“Well, I was thinking . . . what if you tripped, and the duke had to catch you? That would surely encourage his affection. Or spill wine on your dress, and he would whip off his cravat to mop it up.” Before Emma could respond, Mary perked with another idea. “Ooh, you might even turn your ankle. Then he would have to carry you. That would be romantic.”

“I’m not going to turn my ankle.”

“You don’t think you could try? Even just a little stumble?”

“No.”

“Never mind it. We’ll think of something else. I was pondering, what if you went up to the attic . . . and then Mr. Khan sent the duke up to the attic . . . and then you and the duke were locked inside the attic, together. Accidentally.”

“Mary. You need to abandon these ideas. The duke is not going to fall in love with me—not even in a locked attic. In fact, he’s rather put out with me at the moment.”

Or at least he was put out with her cat.

With a sigh, Mary put the last pin in Emma’s hair. “There, now. Turn and let me have a look at you.”

After looking Emma over, Mary reached forward and grasped the sleeves of her gown, slid them off her shoulders, and tugged the bodice down so far, it barely covered her areolae. “That’s something, at least.”

When Emma arrived in the dining room, the duke wasn’t even there to angle for a glimpse of her areolae. She waited a quarter hour. Nothing.

He must truly be infuriated with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t see him later tonight, either. At this rate, they would never accomplish procreation.

She prepared to return to her rooms, planning to ring the maid for a dinner tray and sink into bed with a novel. As she passed down the corridor, however, someone called to her in a low whisper.

“In here.”

She turned, curious. The duke was in his library, barefoot and sitting cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the empty, unlit fireplace.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh.” He raised an open palm in her direction. “No sudden movements.”

“All right.” She drew out the words, kicking off her slippers and making her way into the room on stocking feet, sitting next to him on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her skirts and stared into the fireplace, too. “What are we looking at?” she whispered.

“Your cat. The little beast is hiding behind the grate. We’ve been waiting one another out.”

Emma peered into the dark fireplace. Yes, she could just make out a set of green eyes gleaming back at her from the sooty recesses of the hearth.