intimate heat that amplified every sound, every scent. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck, and she was deeply conscious of each wisp and strand of her hair that had tumbled free.
Mostly, though, she was aware of him. The wall of his chest against her back, and the strength of his arms around her. The soap and sandalwood scent she was coming to recognize. She stared at his hand. Last night, in the dark, those sure, confident fingers . . . they had been inside her.
“Hold it this way.” He shifted her grip on the racquet handle. “Better.”
A small vibration of joy went through her. Two curt syllables of praise from him, and her heart thrummed like a dragonfly’s wings.
Don’t, she bid it. Don’t you dare.
Her heart didn’t listen to her—but then, it never did.
This was the stupidest thing Ash had done in . . . at least twelve hours.
Between his walk last night and the sport this morning, he’d only just managed to push the thought of Emma from his mind. Now here he was again, right up against her, teetering on the edge of lust.
It wasn’t only desire tearing through him, however. There was seething anger, too.
Who was the villain who’d hurt her?
Someone must have hurt her, to send her fleeing her home for London at the age of sixteen, alone and penniless. Ash wanted to hurt that someone back. With something sharp. And deadly. He was hardly an empathetic man, but he was offended indeed when someone dared to threaten anyone in his protection.
And Emma was now in his protection.
Hell, she was in his arms.
Standing this way, with the top of her head tucked under his chin, he felt like a battered, scuffed-up case made to hold something delicate and lovely.
He could also see straight down her frock.
“It’s all in the timing,” he said. “You can’t release it and hit it at the same time. Wait a beat, then swing.” He demonstrated, dropping the shuttlecock in front of her racquet, then guiding her arm to give it a sound thwack. “See?”
“I think so.”
“Then give it a go.”
He stepped back, giving her the space to attempt it for herself. She bit her lip, and her brow pinched with concentration. Then she released, waited, swung—and succeeded in an almost respectable serve. The thing got over the net, at least.
To watch her, though, one would think she’d claimed a ten-guinea prize. Ash wished he could feel as joyful about anything as she felt about hitting a shuttlecock. She bounced in triumph and turned to him with eyes lit up like . . . like a pleasure garden, or an opera house, or a royal ball, or some other place he would never, ever be able to take her. Damn it all.
“Well . . . ?” she prompted, clearly eager for praise.
He tilted his head, making her wait for it. “Not bad.”
“Thank you.” She gave him an impish smile. “That means a great deal coming from you, lambkin.”
“Oh, now that is quite enough.” He lunged for her.
She darted away with a shriek of laughter.
By ducking under the net, he headed off her escape. He caught her by the waist and swept her off her feet, tossing her over his good shoulder.
A mistake. The sudden motion sent pain screaming from his neck to hip. He had to pause, breathing through the fiery, wrenching ache.
“Are you well?” She added no absurd endearments to the question, and there was genuine concern in her voice.
“Fine,” he said tightly.
He wasn’t really fine, but sometimes the pain was worth it.
To distract himself, he entertained lewd fantasies. Ideas of laying her down on the settee, and tossing her petticoats to her ears. Or more depraved still, pressing her against the wall and trapping her there as he disappeared under her skirts. Anything to get her legs around him. Any part of him. Gripping his waist, wrapped over his hips, hooked over his shoulders . . . he wasn’t particular.
As the pain dulled, he forced himself to set aside those imaginings. Oh, she would be his. But he must wait until nightfall, unwrap his Egyptian mummy from her ten blankets, and take her in apologetic silence.
He let her slide down his body, her soft curves dragging over him as she descended. The sweetest torture. She was breathing hard from the laughter and the chase, flushed with pink in all the best places.
As she looked at him, her smile faded. “You are in pain.”
“No, I’m not.”
She prodded his bad shoulder. He winced.
“It’s nothing. Nothing to concern you, at any rate.”
“I am your wife. If you’re hurting, it concerns me.”
Stop, he silently pleaded. Don’t do that. Don’t come any closer, don’t ask about my wounds, don’t prod at them. Don’t care.
A better man would have been grateful for such sweet concern. And a part of him was grateful. A part of him wanted to fall at her feet and weep. But that bitter, scarred-over half of his soul couldn’t stomach her pity. The devil in him would lash out at her in some unthinking, unforgivable way—until she was so busy licking her own wounds, she couldn’t spare a thought for his.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said sternly. “You can let me be.”
See? She looked wounded already. For her own sake, and that of the son she would bear him, he had to push her away.
But he didn’t know how.
Just then—miracle of miracles—Khan had a well-timed bout of usefulness.
The butler opened the ballroom doors and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I hate to interrupt.”
Ash stepped away from his wife, relieved. “Liar. You love to interrupt.”
“Surprisingly enough for us both, this time I am being sincere. Your solicitor’s secretary has arrived. I’ve shown him to the library.” With a bow, Khan left the way he’d arrived.
Ash gestured toward the door. “I should really—”
“Go manage your dukedom,” Emma finished, smoothing her frock. “Yes, I know. Leaving you alone was my forfeit.”
With a nod of agreement, he quit the room.
Just as well they’d been interrupted, he told himself. Fortunate, even. This marriage wasn’t about games. Pleasure wasn’t the goal. And any form of affection would be disastrous.
He would bed her for a few weeks. With luck, that would be sufficient to get her with child. He would have done his duty.
And then it would be over.
That evening’s dinner was uneventful, and Emma was thankful for it. In fact, the meal was almost too short. She found herself with a surfeit of time to while away before he would visit her.
Mary came up to brush her hair and help her change out of her one and only evening dress. After she’d gone, Emma paced the bedchamber. She stared at the clock, willing it to tick faster. The idea of reading or stitching didn’t appeal—she’d never be able to concentrate. Finally, she decided she might as well prepare the room, and herself. She extinguished the candles and climbed into bed.
As she tucked herself under the quilts and blankets,