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

“Or there’s this way. You’ve been”—pause, eyebrow lift—“menaced.” The boy cocked his head. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Ash said tightly, “you should take them both and—”

“Alternate between them,” Emma interrupted. “They’re both excellent. Quite memorable.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Trevor bowed over her hand and kissed it. “Until we meet again.”

With a flourish of black cape, he was gone.

Finally, she allowed herself to laugh. “What an extraordinary young man.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Emma cinched the scratchy wool blanket about her shoulders. “I need a better costume. And a name of my own. Oh, how about the Needle? I can prick ruffians with a long, sharp sword.”

“Don’t start.”

He cracked the door open, and together they listened until they heard Trevor reach the public room and bellow: “I am the Monster of Mayfair! To behold my face is to know despair!”

Ash closed his eyes and muttered something unkind.

“It’s not bad,” Emma protested. “It even rhymes.”

He pulled the fencing mask over his face. “Let’s just go.”

Chapter Twenty-Six (#ulink_574aa322-8043-5e22-944d-0d2503a4c31f)

Thankfully, they made their way back to Ashbury House with a minimum of further indignities. After a few vague explanations to the worried staff, a hot breakfast, and hotter baths, the two of them tumbled atop Ash’s bed and slept the day away.

Emma woke to late afternoon, and to her husband pushing a wheeled table toward the bed. It was laden with covered dishes and baskets of bread, cheeses, fruits. Her stomach rumbled.

“What’s this?” She rubbed her eyes. “Dinner in bed?”

“It’s perfect.” He reached for a wedge of cheese. “I promised you dinner every night. You promised me bed. We both hold our ends of the bargain at once.”

“How very efficient.”

“Really, I don’t know how the idea escaped me until now.”

Emma nibbled at an apple tart. “I’ve been thinking, dumpling.”

He flopped back on the bed and groaned. “Em-ma.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to call you Ash. It’s just not who you are. Ash is the dead, cold remnants after a fire. The parts that get swept away and discarded. You’re not Ash to me. You’re alive and blazing and more than a little dangerous. You always keep me warm.” Lest he grow too panicked at the praise, she decided to lighten her tone. “Besides, it’s too amusing to devil you.”

“Amusing for you, perhaps.”

“Let’s have a compromise. When we’re in the company of others, I will call you Ash or Ashbury. When we’re alone, you’ll allow me my little pet names.”

“Fine. But you must confine yourself to an agreed upon list. No more rainbows and buttercups.”

“I suppose I can do that.”

He considered. “Here are the ones I’ll allow. ‘My stallion,’ ‘my buck,’ and . . . ‘my colossus of man-flesh.’”

She laughed in his face at that last. “Let’s keep to the traditional endearments, shall we? Such as ‘my dear’?”

“That’s acceptable.”

“‘Darling’?”

He made a face of disgust. “If you must.”

She chewed on the pastry, trying to gather courage. “How do you feel about ‘my love’?”

He stared deeply into her eyes, as though questioning her sincerity. However, she knew it wasn’t what lay within her that mattered—it was whether he’d allow himself to believe the words.

The familiar shields overtook his expression, closing the door on possibility. “‘My stallion’ it is.”

Emma was disappointed, but she decided not to press the matter. Perhaps it was all too much for one day.

She looked about for a diversion. Her eye fell on a fresh stack of papers beside the dinner tray.

She’d made a habit of asking the servants to collect broadsheets daily. By this point, Ash was supporting half the printers in London. Probably a few paper mills, as well. The Monster of Mayfair was the best thing to happen to British journalism since Waterloo.

She seized on the change of subject, gathering the papers and bringing them back to the bed. “Let’s see what they’re saying about you today. There’s certain to be something about last night’s adventure.” As she skimmed the first broadsheet, however, her anticipation of humor turned to horror. “Oh, no. Oh, Ash. This is bad.”

“What is it now? Have I rescued a girl from drowning in the Serpentine?”

“No. You’ve abducted a woman in red, forced an innkeeper to let you hide her, and she was never seen again. Foul play is suspected.” She passed him the paper, then positioned herself behind his shoulder and reached over to jab her finger at the paper. “The Crown has issued a hue and cry for the Monster of Mayfair.” She poked again, rattling the newsprint. “The Crown. Every able-bodied man in London is obliged to help capture you on sight.”

“Yes. I see.”

“They’ve even offered a reward. Twenty pounds. That’s a year’s earnings for a laborer.”

“Yes. I know.”

“‘Wanted on suspicions of trespassing, assault, theft of property, kidnapping, and murder.’ Murder!”

“I am able to read, thank you.” He was infuriatingly calm. “I’m a bit disappointed witchcraft and insurance fraud aren’t on the list.”

“How can you even joke about this?”

“Trust me, there’s no call to be agitated.” He dug into a portion of game pie. “Even the worst possible scenario is a mere inconvenience.”

“Being brought up on charges of murder would be a mere inconvenience?”

“I didn’t commit any murders, Emma.”