The Historical Collection 2018: The Duchess Deal / From Duke Till Dawn / His Sinful Touch / His Wicked Charm

Khan wasn’t in the library. Nor the billiard room, ballroom, sitting room, drawing room, or music room. Though Ash wasn’t certain why he’d even checked the last. It had been established quite painfully last summer that the man couldn’t hold a tune.

Eventually, Ash found him in the kitchen.

The pungent fragrance of herbs came from a pot boiling on the hob. Khan sat on a chair, holding a compress to his eye, while Emma cooed and fussed over him.

Look at her, the picture of tender domestic care. She’d make an excellent mother. He’d suspected as much from the first, but it was reassuring to see with his own eyes. His heir would need a steady, loving presence in his life, and it wasn’t going to be Ash.

She looked up and noticed him, and her concerned eyes narrowed to knife-blade slits. “You.”

“What?”

“You know very well what.” She waved at Khan. “Look at him. His eye’s all blackened and swollen. I know you’re responsible.”

Oh, she would make a fine disciplinarian, too. Her censure almost made Ash feel guilty, and he never felt ashamed of his actions. Only his appearance.

“It was only a bit of sparring. And the injury was his fault.”

“His fault? I suppose he punched himself in the eye.”

“We were practicing a new combination. Khan was supposed to weave and dodge.” He turned to his butler. “Go on, tell her. You were supposed to dodge.”

“I was supposed to dodge,” Khan mumbled from behind the compress.

“See?” As his coolly silent wife went to the stove, Ash continued, “Anyhow, I need him back. He has work to do.”

Khan set aside the compress and drew to his feet. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your kind attention.”

“But your poultice,” she said. “It’s nearly ready.”

“Perhaps Your Grace would be so good as to save it for later.” He bowed to Emma, then turned to Ash. “I will wait in the library.”

After the butler had quit the room, Emma banged about the kitchen in silent censure.

“It’s a bruise,” Ash said. “One derived from manly activity. I’m telling you, he loves it.”

“He was weeping,” she returned.

He spread his hands. “Tears of joy.”

She sighed.

“Yes, I’m demanding. Yes, I’m inconsiderate. Yes, I’m remorseless. Anything else I should admit to being while I’m here?”

She retrieved a broadsheet from the table and held it up for his view. It was emblazoned with the headline “Monster of Mayfair Strikes Again.”

Ash reached for it. “I hadn’t seen that one. That’s brilliant. I’ve top billing, too.”

“There are several.”

He paged through the stack she offered.

“Monster of Mayfair Assaults Local Lad.”

“Monster of Mayfair Terrorizes Three in St. James Street.”

“Monster of Mayfair Abducts Lambs from Butcher. Dark Rituals Suspected.”

“Hah. The ‘local lad’ was twenty if he was a day, and he richly deserved it. There were four in St. James Street. Foxed dandies chatting up a lady of the evening on their way home from Boodle’s. I didn’t like their disrespectful attitude. This last . . . I didn’t even do this last. Lambs, my eye.” He chuckled. “Do you know what this means?”

“I’m married to an unchecked vigilante?”

“No. Well, maybe. But also—it means people are making up their own Monster of Mayfair stories just to share in the notoriety. It means I’m a legend.”

Emma shook her head. She strained the herbs through a cheesecloth, twisting them into a bundle.

“This”—he riffled the papers—“is stupendous.”

“It’s not. It’s truly not.”

“Oh, look. This one has an illustration.” He turned his twisted profile to her and held up the paper’s engraved portrait of “The Monster Himself.” “What do you say? I think they made my nose a trifle long, but otherwise it’s a surprisingly accurate likeness.”

She slammed the empty pot on the table. “It is not an accurate likeness, but it is a perfect illustration of the problem. You’re only letting people see one side of you. If only you’d give them a chance to see past your scars—”

“People can’t see past the scars. In an alley, a market . . . anywhere. They suck up all the attention in the room, and I’m just the drain it’s circling.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

His jaw clenched. “I’ll make you a bargain. I won’t pretend I know how it feels when strange men stare at your tits, and you won’t pretend you know how it feels when people stare at my face.”

Her demeanor softened. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t presume.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“Won’t you give it a chance?” She skirted the table, coming to stand before him. “One outing, that’s all I ask. A single afternoon with normal people. Well, I suppose they’re not precisely normal people. But they aren’t footpads, at least.”

He frowned. “What are you on about?”

“Come to tea with my friends Thursday next. That’s what I’m on about.”

He began to object. “I’m n—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips, shushing him. Her fingertips were scented with herbs and honey. Intoxicating. How was he supposed to stay irritated when she smelled so lickable?

“Lady Penelope Campion’s house. It’s just across the square. That shouldn’t be any great trial.” She lifted an eyebrow in teasing fashion. “That is, unless you’re afraid of a few harmless spinsters.”

Ash couldn’t recall the last time he’d crossed the square to the Campion residence. He’d been a boy, surely no older than ten. Lady Penelope had been much too young to be a proper playmate for him, not to mention she possessed the unsalvageable flaw of being a girl. But he’d been forced to make the effort once a summer anyhow. Her single saving grace, as far as he’d been concerned, was that she always seemed to be hiding a grubby creature or two in her closet or under the bed.

He had a distant memory of piglets. And a newt, perhaps?