The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

I fancied myself to be wildly in love with him. There was a ball at his sister’s house, and he asked her to invite me. Said it would be a special evening for us both.”

      “I can guess the sort of ‘special evening’ he had in mind.”

      She looked over his shoulder, her gaze unfocused. “I made myself a new gown for the occasion. Rose-red silk with gold ribbon at the sleeves and waist. I spent hours fussing with curling papers and tongs to make my ringlets just right. Fool that I was, I thought he meant to propose. And even when he tugged at my bodice and reached up my skirt, I still thought he meant to propose—afterward. I thought he was carried away with passion, that was all. It felt dizzyingly romantic.”

      She skipped over the details of the encounter. “We were caught together, which was humiliating enough. Then he refused to marry me—which was devastating. Apparently there’d been some family understanding that he would wed a distant cousin.”

      “To the Devil with any cousin. Someone should have brought the knave up to scratch.”

      “There was no one to try it. I hadn’t any brothers to defend my honor, and my father . . . My father didn’t even attempt to force his hand. He blamed me for everything. What treatment did I expect, he asked, going about in a harlot-red dress. He called me a strumpet, a jezebel, said he didn’t blame the young man for refusing. He told me no decent man would ever want me, and that I was to leave his house at once and not bother coming back.”

      Even six years later, the pain felt as fresh as if it were yesterday. She’d known society would judge her harshly for her mistake, but her own father . . . ? Giles had disappointed and misused her, but Father was the man who’d broken her heart.

      This was why she had to help Davina Palmer. She would never allow another young woman to face that sort of rejection and abandonment. Not if she could help it.

      She swallowed back the bitter lump in her throat. “It was winter and snowing. I hadn’t much money. So I walked to London.”

      “And you arrived with nine toes.”

      She nodded.

      “And every so often, you still shiver.”

      She nodded again.

      He was silent for several moments, and when he spoke his voice was low and stern. “Emma, you should have told me this.”

Chapter Eighteen

       You should have told me this.

      Emma’s heartbeat faltered. Guilt moved through her like a cold wind. She reached for one of the quilts. “You didn’t ask about my virtue. But you’re right, I should have told you anyway.”

      Not every man would condemn her for such an indiscretion, perhaps—but a titled gentleman would have genuine, understandable concern. Laws of primogeniture and all. If he was angry with her, she couldn’t blame him.

      Perhaps her father was right, and he’d believe he’d been sold a bill of damaged goods.

      “It was ages ago,” she assured him. “And I didn’t conceive, thank heaven. You needn’t worry. Your bloodline is secure.”

      He cursed. “Really, Emma. That thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

      “Then . . . what thoughts are crossing it?”

      “A great many.” He rolled onto his back and folded his hands behind his head. “Primarily, I’m debating how best to kill both this squire’s son and your father. A pistol would be the most efficient method perhaps, but will it be too quick to be satisfying? And I’m wondering if I’ll have time to off both of them in one night, or if I’ll be forced to stop over in some miserable inn.”

      She couldn’t help but laugh a little.

      “I’m not joking,” he said.

      “Of course you are. You’re the Monster of Mayfair, not the Murderer.”

      “You are my wife. Some villain took advantage of you.”

      “I wasn’t your wife then, and he didn’t take advantage. I made my own choice. It may have been a poor choice, but it was mine. Besides, even if you desired to kill him, the war beat you to it.”

      He cursed under his breath. “There’s still your father. He treated you abominably. Pestilent codpiece.”

      Emma had to hide her face, lest he see how close she was to tears. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that perhaps her father had been right. That it was her fault—not entirely, but in part. Perhaps she had been a shameless hussy for seeking passion and love. At the least, she’d been a fool.

      For that reason, she’d long resolved to keep emotions out of any relationship. However, it was growing more and more difficult to keep that resolution—not merely by the day, but by the hour. She was feeling too much tenderness toward the man currently plotting murder at her side. No matter that he deflected any suggestion of decency with a jaded, biting humor and had determined to convince the world of his monstrous nature.

      Emma knew the truth. He wasn’t a saint, and he wasn’t easy to live with. But he did possess a heart—a large and loyal one—and some part of it was now committed to defending her. How could she fail to be moved?

      “Come.” He tucked her beneath a heap of bed linens. “Will four quilts do tonight? Or should I fetch another?”

      “Four quilts are fine, thank you. Can you . . . I’m feeling a bit fragile right now. It would mean a great deal if you’d hold me. You know, with your arms.”

      Brilliant, Emma. As if he might have tried to hold her with his knees or eyelids without those instructions.

      After a brief hesitation, he slid beneath the four quilts and draped his arm about her shoulders. He was growing very good at these things. Just as she had in the dark at Swanlea, she felt secure and protected. Safe.

      She’d almost drifted into a warm, comforted sleep—

      When he slipped from the bed and left the room.

      It was well after midnight when Ash reached the village.

      He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the borders of the sleepy hamlet, then roped it to a tree branch beside a stream. The gelding deserved a rest, along with water and a graze. And for his part, Ash needed to make a stealthy approach.

      It proved easy enough to find the right house—the smug cottage sitting next to the church. Just looking at it made him furious. The white boxes beneath the windows, stuffed with innocent red and pink geraniums. Botanical lies, every last one.

      He found a place where a stone fence bordered the house and used it to hoist himself up on the ledge, just below the largest window. The one that looked out on the church.

      He was prepared to put a wrapped fist through the window, but he found it was unnecessary. Apparently no one latched their windows in a goodly little village like this.

      He lifted the window sash, then thrust his lantern through the opening. Bending himself nearly double, he managed to work one leg through, and then the other. Not the most graceful of entrances, but then—suaveness wasn’t his purpose tonight.

      “Who are you?” An old man shot up in bed and pressed his back to the headboard. “What are you?”

      “What do you think?” Ashbury raised his lantern to the gnarled, scarred side of his face and took pleasure in the vicar’s anguished whimper. “A demon come to drag you to Hell, you miserable wretch.”

      “To Hell? M-me?”

      “Yes, you. You crusty botch of nature. You poisonous bunch-backed toad. Sitting in this weaselly little house full to reeking with betrayal and . . .” He waved at the nearest shelf.