is horrid. Amateurish in the worst way.”
“Really? I can have them?”
“The Monster of Mayfair title, too, if you wish.” He lifted his arm, and a hackney cab drew to a stop at the corner. “You’ve completed your apprenticeship.”
The boy placed the hat on his head. “Bloody brilliant, this is.”
“That’s another thing.” Ash pointed at Trevor as he hastened in backward steps toward the hackney. “You’re going to be a gentleman. Don’t curse like a common lout. If you must blaspheme, do so in educated fashion.” He opened the hack’s door and climbed in. “Take your oaths from Shakespeare.”
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashbury.”
As Emma stood at entrance of the Worthing House ballroom, all the guests hushed and angled for a look at her. She recognized several ladies who patronized Madame Bissette’s dressmaking shop.
From the center of them, Annabelle Worthing sent her a dagger-sharp glare.
Emma swallowed hard. Heaven help me.
No. That wasn’t necessary, she decided. It was not heaven that would help her now. She’d learned that lesson long ago.
Most times, a girl needed to rescue herself.
This evening would be one of those times.
Once, she’d walked to London alone in the bitter heart of winter. She’d refused to succumb to despair or starvation. She’d found work and made a new life for herself in Town. She would swallow every needle in Madame Bissette’s shop before she allowed Annabelle Worthing to best her.
Tonight, Emma would be her own fairy godmother, her own dashing prince. Even her own knight in shining armor—or rather, her own lady in a sparkling gown.
She could do this.
As she entered the ballroom, Emma held her head high. She wasn’t here to make friends with them. She was here to save the friend she already had.
Speaking of Davina, the young woman came forward at once. Emma rushed to meet her. Gossip moved in a wave, making its way through the ballroom. She needed to have this settled before the rumors could reach Mr. Palmer.
“Emma.” After the requisite curtsey, Davina kissed her cheek. “I’m so delighted to see you. Please, let me introduce my father. May I present Mr. William Palmer. Papa, this is Emma Pembrooke, the Duchess of Ashbury. My friend.”
Emma held out her hand, and Mr. Palmer bowed over it. “I am honored, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Palmer. What a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve enjoyed Davina’s friendship so very much.”
Mr. Palmer beamed at his daughter. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she? Better than her breeding, I daresay. I’ve done my best for her, and she’s done me proud.”
Davina looked away, uncomfortable.
Emma tilted her head and smiled in coquettish fashion. “I must warn you—I intend to steal her away. With your permission, of course, and only for a time. I mean to winter at the duke’s country house in Oxfordshire, and I’d adore it if Davina joined me.”
“Oh, do let me go, Papa.” Davina clung to her father’s arm. “There’s so little amusement in Town past Christmas. Mayfair will be positively dreary. And I believe the bracing country air could be beneficial for my health.” She gave a dry, unconvincing cough.
Emma smiled and took Davina’s arm. “I would love to have her, Mr. Palmer.”
Mr. Palmer appeared to be searching himself for diplomacy. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m honored you would invite my Davina, to be sure. But you must admit this is all rather hasty. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making the duke’s acquaintance.”
Emma waved a gloved hand. “Oh, Ashbury indulges me in whatever I like. He won’t even be there. The Oxfordshire residence is for my particular use.” She lowered her voice. “May I confide in you, Mr. Palmer?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I’m in a delicate way. For the next several months, I shall be confined to one house, in one small Oxfordshire neighborhood. It’s all very wholesome and safe, but I would be so glad to have Davina with me for company. You’d be doing me such a favor.”
“Well, perhaps you and the duke would be so good as to as to join us for dinner, so we can discuss it.”
“I would love nothing more,” Emma replied regretfully. “But I’m afraid that’s not possible. I depart the day after next.”
“So soon?” Mr. Palmer cast a worried glance at his daughter. “Perhaps next year would be better, my dear.”
“Papa,” Davina murmured. “Stop being so protective. Emma is a duchess.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied fondly. “But you are my daughter. No amount of pleading will convince me to cease caring for you.”
Davina looked at her father with adoration in her eyes—and then she burst into tears, right there in the middle of the ballroom. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Papa. Emma has been a true friend, but I can’t allow her to lie for me any longer.”
“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.