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

Had it truly been only a matter of months since she’d burst into his library? Little could he have known that a vicar’s daughter in a hideous white gown would be the ruin of all his plans. The undoing of him, as well. What had she done to him? What was he going to do with her?

Love her, that was what.

Love her, and protect her, and do anything she asked of him and more.

Perhaps he hadn’t accomplished any feats of extraordinary valor at Waterloo. But he would do grim, bloody battle for her, and for the child she carried, and for any other children God saw fit to give them.

He made a silent vow to her—and to himself—that he would never hide the scars again. The entirety of his wretched past had led to this moment, and to deny them would be to deny her. Others might view the scars as his ruin. Ash knew the truth. They were his making.

And Emma was his salvation.

He turned her around so that they both faced the mirror. “Well, if this is a portrait you’d be willing to hang in the stairwell . . .”

“Proudly. And it’s going in the drawing room. Right over the mantel.”

“It will have to be a large painting to fit us all.”

“All?”

“You, me, and our ten children.”

Her eyes went wide in the mirror. “Ten?”

“Very well. You, me, and our elev—”

A furry lump of gray uncurled from an open hatbox, stretched, and walked over to rub against Ash’s leg, emitting a sound like the rumbling of carriage wheels over cobblestones.

He amended his statement once more. “You, me, our eleven children, and a cat.”

“This is becoming a very crowded portrait.”

“Good,” he said.

And, to his own surprise, he meant it.

Good.

Then he caught her hand and turned it over, peering at her fingertips. “Have you been stitching?”

“Goodness, the way you say that. As if it’s embezzling or smuggling.” She pulled her hand away. “As a matter of fact I have been stitching. I’ve been working on your Christmas present.”

“What could that possibly be? You already have me full up on waistcoats and trousers and every other possible garment.”

“Oh, this present isn’t a waistcoat, nor any other article for your wardrobe. It’s mine to wear.” From the back of the closet shelves, she withdrew a small bundle. “Be forewarned, if you dare compare it to unicorn vomit . . .”

“I will not.” He held up one hand in an oath. “On my honor.”

“Very well, then.” She held two of the tiniest straps he’d ever seen to her own shoulders, and let the remainder of the bundle unroll, all the way down toward her toes.

Ash was speechless.

Black silk—and not much of it. Black lace—even less. A few spangles here and there—the perfect amount.

Emma Grace Pembrooke, I love you.

“Well?” She cocked one hip in a saucy pose. “Do you like it?”

“I can’t tell,” he said. “You’d better put it on.”

Epilogue (#ulink_c67bc1bb-243e-5abf-83ad-30e47dd604c1)

“Now, Richmond. Be a good little boy while I’m gone. Don’t give your godfather any trouble.” Emma tickled the babe’s pudgy chin.

“Don’t waste your breath,” her husband muttered. “He’s not going to behave himself. He’s my son, after all.”

Khan smiled down at the infant in his arms and spoke in a baby-friendly baritone. “The little marquess could pass the entire afternoon squalling and soiling his clout, and he’d still be easier to handle than his father.”

“That sounds about right.” Emma smiled, turning to her husband. “Well, my darling. What shall we do with our afternoon?”

“What indeed.”

They strolled away from Khan’s cottage, back toward the house. The late summer’s afternoon was drowsy and humid, and Swanlea was abuzz with bees and dragonflies.

“You likely have some estate business that needs your attention,” she said. “I have a few letters I should write.”

He said in a bored tone, “Oh, truly?”

No, not truly.

A rare leisure afternoon free of the exhausting demands of parenting? Just the two of them, alone? They both knew exactly how they were going to spend that time.

It felt like they’d waited ages. Ash preferred they keep the baby close at night, and Emma was glad to agree. But it did take a toll on one’s sleep, and the few bouts of lovemaking they’d managed had been, by necessity, hasty and furtive.

“How fast do you think we can get back to the house?” she murmured.

“We don’t need to get back to the house.”

His grip tightened over her hand, and he led her off the green. They found a secluded patch of grass within the wood, and then it was a storm of kissing and touching and a great deal of disrobing. Emma tugged at his coat sleeves and unbuttoned his falls. He helped her free of her petticoats and stays.

Once he had her down to her chemise, he slipped a hand inside to cup her breast. Two deep moans mingled in their kiss—one his, one hers. Her breasts were emptied from nursing, but still sensitive. Her heart was tender as well, wrung by loving pangs.

The more buttons he slipped free, the more uneasy she grew. She put her hands over his. “Just leave the shift?”

He seemed to read her thoughts. “Really, Emma. Don’t be absurd.”

“My body’s changed. You’re not the only one with some vanity.”

“I’m not even going to dignify this with conversation.”