The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

there,” she said, “is the injustice of the world in a nutshell.”

      He ignored her statement. “On reflection, I prefer ‘stallion.’”

      “Never mind the horses!” She made a strangled noise of frustration. “It’s absurd to even suggest we could marry. We scarcely know each other. And what little we do know of each other, we don’t like.”

      “I’m not aware of the courtship customs back in your quaint little inbred village, but at my level of society, wedlock is a matter of two concerns: childbearing and finances. What I’m offering is a marriage of convenience. You’re living in poverty, and I”—he laid his hand to his chest—“have a great deal of money. I need an heir, and you”—he waved toward her with a flourish—“have the capacity to bear one. There’s no need to like each other. As soon as a child is conceived we’ll go separate ways.”

      “Separate ways?”

      “You’d have your own house in the country. I’ll have no further need of you then.”

      When they turned onto a busier lane, he tugged down the brim of his hat and turned up the collar of his coat. Night was falling, but the moon was bright. He obviously didn’t want to draw attention. Sympathy breezed into Emma’s heart like an unwelcome visitor.

      “You’re assuming,” she continued, “that your theoretical child would be male. What if you fathered a girl? Or five of them?”

      He shrugged. “You’re the vicar’s daughter. Pray for a boy.”

      “You are terrible.”

      “Since we are on the subject of personal failings, you are irrational. You’re allowing pride to cloud your common sense. Spare yourself the effort of argument and skip to the inevitable conclusion.”

      “I conclude that this conversation is madness. I don’t understand why you keep speaking as though you’d marry me.”

      “I don’t understand why you keep speaking as though I won’t.”

      “You are a duke. I am a seamstress. What else is there to be said?”

      He held up one hand and counted off on his fingers. “You are a healthy woman of childbearing age. You are a gentleman’s daughter. You are educated. You’re passably pretty—not that it’s a concern for me, but a child should have at least one nonhideous parent.” He was down to his last finger. “And you’re here. All my requirements are met. You’ll do.”

      Emma stared at him in disbelief. That was, perhaps, the most unfeeling proposal she could imagine. The man was cynical, insensitive, condescending, rude.

      And she was definitely going to marry him.

      Against all logic, and contrary to everything she knew of society, he appeared to be making her an earnest proposal of marriage. She would be the greatest ninny in England to refuse.

      Seamstresses didn’t have many long-term prospects. The years of detailed needlework caused their eyes to fail and fingers to stiffen. Emma knew that her best chance—perhaps her only chance—at security was to marry. She would be a fool to refuse any duke, even if he were a bedridden septuagenarian with poor hygiene.

      This particular duke was none of those things. Despite his many, many faults, Ashbury was strong, in the prime of life, and he smelled divine. He offered her security, at least one child to dote upon . . .

      And a house.

      A quiet house of her own in the country. Precisely the thing that would allow her to help Miss Palmer, at a time when the poor girl had no one else.

      The duke slowed to a halt. “By the Holy Rood. This isn’t right.”

      Drat. That would teach her to dream, even for a second. He’d come to his senses after all. This was the moment where he sent her away, and she ended an old woman on the docks, darning sailors’ shirts for ha’pennies and muttering about how she might have been a duchess.

      “We’re in the middle of St. James Park,” he said.

      “Are we?” She took in their surroundings. Autumn-browned grass. The half-bare branches of trees. “I suppose we are. What’s a Holy Rood?”

      “The cross of Christ. And you call yourself a vicar’s daughter? You father would be appalled.”

      “Believe me, that wouldn’t be a new development.”

      “Just where is it you live, anyway?”

      “In an attic garret, two doors down from the shop.”

      “So we’re here because . . .”

      She bit her lip. “I was hoping to lose you. But I’ve since changed my mind.”

      “Damned right you have.” With gruff impatience, he drew her to his side, steering her with a hand to the small of her back. “Do you know what kind of scum lurks in St. James Park by night?”

      “Not really.”

      “Pray you do not have occasion find out.”

      “It’s barely nightfall yet. I’m certain we’ll be—”

      She didn’t have a chance to complete the thought. A pair of men emerged from the shadows, almost as though the duke had hired them precisely to prove his point.

      And from the looks on their faces, the men were expecting to be paid.

Chapter Four

      Ash hated always being right.

      He positioned himself between the men and Emma, keeping one hand on her back and clutching his walking stick with the other. “Well?” he goaded. “Get to it, already. Tell me what it is you want, so that I can tell you to get stuffed, and we can all carry on with our lives. I’ve a full schedule this evening.”

      “Toss over the purse, guv. Watches and rings, too.”

      “Get stuffed. There, now. See how easy that was?” He slid his arm around Emma’s shoulders. “We’ll be going.”

      The second man held up a knife. “Hold there. I wouldn’t try anything clever.”

      “I should hope you wouldn’t,” Ash replied dryly. “You’d no doubt injure yourself in the attempt.”

      The man with the knife feinted, jabbing it in the direction of Ash’s ribs. “Shut it. And give up your coins and baubles, unless you fancy bleedin’ to death in front o’ your bit of skirt.”

      His bit of skirt?

      “Not to worry, miss.” The first man chuckled, winding a length of rope around one of his hands and pulling it tight with the other. “We’ll be glad to take you off the gentleman’s ’ands.”

      A savage growl rose in Ash’s throat. “Like the devil you will.” Brandishing his walking stick like a sword, he sliced the air in a wide arc, forcing the footpads back. “Touch her and you will pay with your lives, you diseased, maggoty curs.”

      He’d gone beyond anger, sailed straight past rage, and crashed into a place of primal fury, where blood ran in colors he hadn’t known to exist.

      The blade glinted in the gathering dark. Its owner lunged, but Ash stepped to the side, pushing Emma back with his free arm. With a vicious strike, he sent the blackguard to his knees. The knife tumbled into the grass.

      Whirling around, he raised his walking stick again, preparing to deal the other cutpurse a backhand blow, hard enough to crush bone.

      Before he could swing, a gust of wind dislodged his hat.

      In unison, the thieves recoiled.

      “Sweet Jesus,”