The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

      Her breaking voice pierced through his haze of lust.

       Please.

      Ash removed his hand at once. Struggling to catch his breath, he pushed himself up on one elbow, then rose to a sitting position. “Sorry.”

      He fumbled for his dressing gown, and then thrust his arms through the sleeves. By the fact that the thing barely covered his arse when he stood, he deduced that he’d put it on upside-down.

      “It’s fine,” she said. “Truly. We can continue.”

      “No. I’ve pressed you too far, too quickly.” He thought about attempting to retrieve his candle, then abandoned the idea. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could find his way to the door.

      “But—”

      “It will wait for tomorrow.”

      He opened the door, went through it, and closed it behind him. He paused, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. But when he started to leave, he felt something tugging him back.

      Damn it. He’d shut a fold of his dressing gown in the door.

      He thunked his head against the doorjamb. Did marriage make utter fools of all men? Or was it just him?

      He turned the doorknob again.

      “Did you change your mind?” she asked.

      “No,” he replied, defensive. “I came back to tell you that I hadn’t.”

      “Oh.”

      “So you needn’t worry I’ll be returning tonight. Aside from this time, of course.”

      He shut the door on her reply, but it followed him into the corridor.

      “If you say so.”

      Ash took all his unsatisfied lust and carried it out-of-doors, into the night. He’d considered giving himself some manual relief. However, the idea of spending his wedding night with his own hand was too pathetic to contemplate.

      Walking it off was the only respectable option.

      He stuck to the narrower lanes and the alleyways behind the mews, keeping the collar of his cloak upturned and his hat pulled down over his brow.

      Eventually, he out-walked the aching tension in his groin. Yet there was something else he couldn’t seem to shake.

      Please, she’d whispered.

       Please.

      The word had shocked him. He’d pulled away at once, uncertain whether she’d uttered it in pleasure or pain. Her breathless voice almost suggested the former—but that was too absurd to contemplate.

      First, she was a virgin. Second, she was a vicar’s daughter. Third, she was a virgin vicar’s daughter. And fourth, he was the scarred, ill-tempered—if fantastically wealthy—wretch who’d strong-armed her into in a marriage of convenience with no courtship whatsoever.

      He must have hurt her, or scared her, or—most lowering to contemplate—repulsed her.

      At best, he’d merely pressed her beyond her comfort for the first night.

      Ash kicked at stones as he walked. Until he kicked something rotted and soft. Ugh. He didn’t know what it was, but he was not stopping to investigate. He switched to poking at obstacles with his walking stick.

      He would have to revise his plan, he decided. Take the bedding slowly, even if the waiting was torture. If he pushed her too far, too fast, and she shied from him . . . It all would have been for nothing. He would have no legitimate heir, and his father’s legacy would die with him.

      Unthinkable. He would not allow that to happen.

       Please.

      It echoed through his mind again. A fresh shiver of arousal traveled the length of his spine.

      He gave himself a mental shake.

      She was not sighing in ecstasy, you clotpole.

      That was only his desperate, lonely, sex-starved imagination, grasping at any phantom resembling affection.

      He walked through the shuttered stalls of Shepherd Market, using his walking stick to push refuse out of his way and into the middens.

      He prodded at a heap of rags.

      The heap of rags stirred.

      It unfolded, transforming into the figure of a young girl. No doubt she’d been left there to keep watch on the family stall by night.

      “Whassat?” She drew herself up to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes, and turned to blink up at his face.

      She blinked again.

      And then she shrieked, loud and long enough to wake the dead.

      “It’s all right,” Ash muttered. “I don’t wish to—”

      She paused for a breath, then unleashed another high-pitched scream. Dogs nearby began to snarl and bark.

      “Be still, child. I’m not going to—”

      “Get away!” She kicked at his shin, shouting. “Get away! Leave me be!”

      “I’m going.” He fished for what coins he had in his pocket, placed them beside the boarded-up stall, and made a hasty retreat. His heart was pounding.

      See? he chided himself, once he was some distance down the lane.

      Children screamed at the sight of him. Dogs howled as they would at a fiend.

      No woman would be begging for him now. Not in bed, in the dark.

      For that matter, not by day in the park.

      Not on land, not at sea. She does not want you, Ashbury.

      God, he was a blithering idiot.

      Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. He halted in his paces, turning an ear toward the sound. From the same direction, he heard a wallop, followed by a coarse shout.

      Ash frowned. Then he started into motion, following the sounds in brisk strides. Walking stick at the ready.

      Whatever the trouble, it wasn’t his concern.

      But it might prove a welcome distraction.

Chapter Eight

      The next morning, Emma took herself to the morning room. It seemed the expected thing. When she entered the sun-washed space, her gaze skipped over the tasseled upholstery and vases of flowers and went straight to the humblest furnishing in the room: an escritoire.

      Perfect.

      She had letters to write.

      She sat at the writing desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, unstoppered the ink, and dipped the quill.

      Her first priority was sending a note to reassure Miss Palmer, but Emma wasn’t certain how to do so. A message delivered from Ashbury House would raise eyebrows. No one even knew a Duchess of Ashbury existed yet. It wouldn’t be wise to call at the Palmer residence, either. Emma was merely a seamstress in their eyes. Once word got about that the duke had married, perhaps, but for now . . .

      Fanny. Yes. She would write a note and send it in care of Fanny, asking her pass it along when Miss Palmer returned to the shop.

      That accomplished, Emma turned her attention to another letter.

      One that was six years overdue.

      Dear Father,

      It has been much too long since we’ve spoken.

      But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested