she’d finished signing all the contracts, the curate cleared his throat. “Are we ready to begin, Your Grace?”
“God, yes. Let’s get on with it.”
As she and the duke took their places side by side, Emma couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. His uninjured profile was to her. Decisive and compelling, with no trace of doubt on his features.
Then he suddenly turned his head, displaying his scars. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, she looked away—and instantly knew in her stomach that looking away was the wrong thing to do.
Well done, Emma. Just capital. That won’t offend him at all.
As they recited their vows, the duke clasped her hand to slide a plain gold band on her finger. His grip was firm and unsentimental, as if he were asserting a claim. The two servants signed as witnesses, and then they and the curate departed.
They found themselves alone, the three of them. Emma, the duke, and a thick, uncomfortable silence.
He clapped his hands. “Well, that’s done.”
“I suppose it is.”
“I’ll have the maid bring some refreshment to your suite. You’ll want to rest.”
As he turned to leave, Emma put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
He turned back. “What.”
The word wasn’t a question, but a scolding.
She steadied her nerves. “I want to have dinner.”
“Of course you will have dinner. Do you think I mean to starve you? That would hardly suit my purposes of siring a healthy child.”
“I didn’t mean that I merely wish to be fed. I’d like the two of us to dine together. Not only tonight, but every evening. Proper dinners, with multiple courses. And conversation.”
From his expression, one would think she’d suggested nightly abdominal surgery. Performed with a knitting needle and a spoon.
“Why would you want that?”
“There must be something more than bedding between us. We must come to know one another, at least a little bit. Otherwise, I’ll feel too much like a . . .”
“A broodmare. Yes, I recall.” He looked to the side, sighed, and then looked back at her. “Very well, we will dine together. However, let’s have a few matters settled right now. This is a marriage of convenience.”
“That’s what we agreed.”
“There will be no affection involved. In fact, every precaution will be taken against it.”
“I’m surprised you believe we’ll need any precautions.”
“Only one act is required on your part. You must permit me to visit your bed. I’m well aware of my distasteful appearance. You need not fear any crude or lascivious attentions from my quarter. All encounters will be as dignified as possible. No lights, no kissing. And of course, once you are pregnant with my heir, we will be done.”
At this, Emma was stunned. No kissing? No lights? On account of his “distasteful appearance”?
The pain implied in that litany tugged at her emotions. Annabelle Worthing’s rejection must have been a cruel blow. Even if he’d formed the idea that his scars were intolerably repulsive . . . Emma was his wife now. She refused to underscore it. She knew how it felt to be an outcast.
He turned to walk away. Once again, she stopped him.
“One more thing. I want you to kiss me.”
She was mortified by the way she’d blurted it out, but it was done—and now she must not back down. If she ceded to him on this, she would never regain what little ground she held.
“Have you been paying attention? I only just now stipulated there would be no kissing.”
“You said kissing in bed,” she pointed out. “This isn’t bed. I promise, I’ll only ask the once.”
He passed a hand over his face. “Dinner. Kisses. This is what I get for wedding a vicar’s daughter from the country. Girlish notions about romance.”
“Believe me, being a vicar’s daughter from the country did nothing to fill me with notions of romance.”
Strumpet. Harlot. Jezebel.
The cruel words whispered from the shadowy corners of her memory. She tamped them down, as she’d learned to do over the years. Perhaps someday she would learn how to banish them.
“I can do without a jeweled ring, or guests, or a fine gown,” she said. “I’m only asking for this one tiny gesture, to make it all feel a bit less . . . cold. More like an actual wedding.”
“It was an actual wedding. The vows are perfectly legal and binding. A wedding does not require a kiss.”
“I think my wedding requires one.” Her voice gathered strength. “A woman only gets one of these ceremonies, and as hasty and contractual as it’s all been thus far, I’d appreciate one small gesture that makes me feel like something other than chattel.”
She watched closely for his reaction. His reaction was to refuse to react at all. He was expressionless—both sides of him. The whole, and the scarred. Perhaps he was uncertain of himself. Then again, perhaps he was uninterested in her. Either thought made her throat tighten.
“I could do the kissing, if you prefer,” she offered. “It needn’t be a long kiss. You only have to stand there.”
She stretched up on her toes.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “The bride does not kiss the duke.”
Oh, Lord. This could not possibly be any more humiliating.
“The duke,” he continued, “kisses the bride. It’s an entirely different thing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Close your eyes.”
Emma closed her eyes. Her heart drummed in her chest as the waiting stretched longer . . .
And longer still.
She was a fool. He was laughing at her. He’d changed his mind. About the kiss. About her. About everything.
She was on the verge of opening her eyes, slinking from the room, and constructing a fortification of pillows, novels, and kittens in which to hide for the remainder of her life, when—
His hands cupped her face. Rough, possessive. And just when she was certain she’d combust from the cruel suspense of it all, his lips touched hers.
Something inside her came apart.
That hidden pocket of yearning that she’d sewn up tight years ago—his kiss ripped it open at the seams. A flood of emotion poured forth, overwhelming her. A surge of passion and desire and . . .
And something else. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge, much less name. She’d pore over it later, no doubt. Her mind wouldn’t allow her to let it alone. But as long as his lips touched hers, she could delay that dreaded reckoning.
If only this kiss could last forever.
Get it over with, Ash told himself. Touch lips, hold for a count of three—no, two—and be done with the business altogether. Foolish to humor her, perhaps, but a perfunctory kiss seemed the fastest way to end the conversation.
What the kiss ended up being, however, was the fastest way to unravel him completely.
Softness. Warmth. The tastes of sweet and tart