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.

But had been too long? Really? Her difficulty in penning this letter suggested it might be too soon.

She stared at the sentence. As many times as she’d wished him to suffer boils, she wasn’t certain that was accurate, either.

Emma crumpled the sheet of paper and tried once more. Apparently polite salutations weren’t going to serve.

But then . . . once again, she doubted. Did the duke truly want her? They’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, no more. For him, bedding her was a means to an end.

Her thoughts returned to their disastrous attempt at consummation the previous night. Perfunctory as the act was intended to be, and all his “rules” notwithstanding, his caresses were tender, patient. His hands told an entirely different story than his gruff, cynical words, and she couldn’t help but respond.

She’d been alone so long, isolated and untouched.

Waiting.

He’d awakened her desires. And yet, the moment she’d surrendered to them . . . he’d stopped. As if he’d been shocked by her response, or even displeased with it.

Perhaps he didn’t want her, after all. Or more to the point, perhaps he didn’t want a freely passionate wife, and that would only affirm her father’s judgment.

No decent man will have you.

Devastating.

Yes, their relationship was a convenient agreement. Yes, she’d resolved to keep her reckless, foolish heart uninvolved. Still, she craved a bit of closeness. Though she’d scraped by on her own for years, she was starved for human connection. And now she’d tethered herself, for the remainder of her life, to a man unwilling to connect with anyone. She felt more alone than ever.

Don’t be maudlin, Emma. It was only one night. A bit of awkwardness was to be expected. Surely it would improve with time.

A flurry of odd noises saved her from wallowing in self-pity. Emma rose from the writing desk. The cat had probably found a divan or chaise to claw to shreds. That might be a blessing in disguise if he had. Replacing the upholstery would give her a project to undertake.

As she followed the sounds, however, they sounded less and less likely to be feline. Soft thwacking and muffled grunting emanated from behind a set of imposing double doors.

She approached in soft footsteps and placed her ear to the door.

“Really, Khan.” The duke’s voice. “Try to muster a bit of effort.”

“I am attempting to do so, Your Grace.”

“Then muster harder. It’s your turn to receive.”

Emma pushed the door open a few inches and peered inside. She discovered a grand, open space, floored with inlaid parquet and bordered by walls hung with life-sized portraits. Capping off the opulence, elaborate scrollwork and chandeliers decorated the ceiling.

And across the middle of this majestic ballroom was strung a sort of crude netting. Two men—the duke and his butler—faced off on either side of it.

The duke swung a racquet, sending a plumed cork sailing over the net.

Khan, having caught sight of Emma, paid it no notice—with the result that the shuttlecock bounced directly off his forehead.

“Oh, come on.” The duke shook his racquet in accusation. “I all but sealed and posted you that one.”

Khan ignored his employer, opting to bow in Emma’s direction instead. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

The duke whipped around, still holding his racquet at a threatening angle. He swept a glance over her. “You.”

Be still her heart. What a salutation.

She moved into the room. “I thought you were joking about the badminton.”

“I wasn’t.”

“So I see.”

After a pause, he waved her toward the doors. “Well? You must have things to do. Take breakfast. Confer with the housekeeper, now that you’re mistress of the place. Do something ridiculous with your hair.”

“I’ve accomplished the first and second, and I will politely decline the third. I’m out of occupations at the moment.”

“Wonderful,” Khan interjected, striding toward her. “You can take over this one.” He pressed his racquet into Emma’s hand. Before making for the door, he mouthed two words. Save. Me.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the duke demanded.

The butler turned in the doorway. “I’m not certain, Your Grace. Perhaps I’ll do something ridiculous with my hair.”

He bowed, closed the double doors, and was gone.

The duke bellowed after him. “I’ll dock your wages for this, you milk-livered cullion.”

In the ensuing quiet, Emma regarded the racquet in her hand. “Khan doesn’t seem to enjoy badminton.”

“He enjoys steady employment. We have sport three times a week. A man needs to keep up his stamina somehow.”

Stamina. Yes. Just looking at the duke, it was plain to see that he’d been an active man, long before his injury. Those shoulders and thighs could not have developed overnight. As he bent to retrieve the shuttlecock, she admired the tight contour of his backside. That didn’t come from idleness, either.

He stood, and she quickly averted her gaze.

Drat.

Again, she’d been caught staring. Again, he would misinterpret it entirely.

It wasn’t her fault, Emma told herself, but simply an occupational habit. Knowing fabric and thread was only part of a seamstress’s work. Key to success was understanding the body beneath the garments. How joints fit together; how muscles flexed and stretched. After years of practice, Emma only had to glance at a person to imagine them stripped of all clothing—and when regarding a person so finely formed by God and honed by exertion, the temptation proved difficult to resist.

But how did one say such a thing?

My apologies. I wasn’t staring out of horror. I was merely undressing you in my mind.

Oh, that would go brilliantly. Very duchesslike, that.

When the duke finished setting aside the equipment, he reached for his topcoat.

“We . . .” Emma forced herself to say it. “We could play. The two of us. You and I.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

He respects those who challenge him, she reminded herself. Although, at the moment, the piercing quality of his gaze didn’t strike her as admiration.

But Emma was in for the penny now. She may as well try for the pound.

“I adore badminton.” She attempted to twirl the racquet in a casual, sporty fashion. Instead she dropped it, and it bounced off her toe. She bit her lip, holding back a yelp of pain. “Whoops. How careless of me.”

She picked up the racquet with as much dignity as she could manage and limped to the other side of the ballroom, ducking under the net.

She gave him a game smile. “Shall we?”

“Very well. Let’s wager on it.”

“If you like. What is the forfeit?”

Now Emma’s interest was piqued. Weren’t the forfeits in these wagers typically naughty? A kiss, perhaps, or two minutes locked in the closet.

“When I win, you agree to leave me be. I’ve already conceded dinners, and further interruptions are unwelcome. I have a dukedom to manage.”

Well, and badminton to play, it would seem—which apparently outranked his wife in his leisure-time priorities.

“Fine,” she said, feeling testy. “But if I win, you agree to treat me with a modicum of respect.”

“Oh, come now. I already give you a modicum.”

“More than a modicum, then.” Emma considered. “How much is a modicum, anyway?”

“Somewhere between a soupçon and a whit, I imagine.”

“Then I want an ounce.”

“An ounce?”

“Two ounces. Actually, no. I should like a full pint of respect.”

He shook his head. “Now you’re just being greedy.”

“Greedy? I realize I may not be as captivating as a shuttlecock or a decanter of brandy, but I am your wife. The woman who is to be the mother of your child.”

After a pause, he said, “There’s no purpose in arguing the point. You’re not going to win.”

That’s what you think.

She might not win this silly game, but she was determined to triumph eventually. The battle began here and now.

He retrieved his racquet and a shuttlecock, took his position on the court, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent the shuttlecock sailing over Emma’s head before she could even move.

“Well done,” she said. “One point to you.”

“That wasn’t even a serve. I was merely lobbing you the shuttlecock. First service should be the lady’s. There’s your modicum.”

“But of course. Thank you, darling.” With an awkward swipe of the racquet, she managed to send the shuttlecock flying . . . straight into the net.

This time, he was the one to stand still in the center of the court. “What did you call me?”

“I called you ‘darling.’ We discussed at dinner yesterday that I must call you something. I refuse to address you as Ashbury or Duke, and you didn’t like ‘dear husband’ or ‘sweeting’ or ‘heart.’” She motioned toward the shuttlecock lying on the floor. “I believe it’s your turn, darling.”

“I am no one’s darling.” He batted the shuttlecock with a fierce backhand swat.

To her surprise, Emma managed to scramble under the falling missile and return it. “I don’t know if you have a say in that.”

“I’m a duke. I have a say in everything.”

Another effortless return on his part; another ungainly, desperate swipe on hers. This time, she missed.

“Darling is in the eye of the beholder.” Emma was already a bit out of breath as she retrieved the dropped shuttlecock. “If I choose to make a darling of you, there is nothing you can do about it.”

“Of course there’s something I can do about it. I can have you sent to an institution for the feebleminded and insane.”

She shrugged. “If you say so, cherub.”

He leveled his racquet at her. “Let’s set something straight, the two of us. You seem to be plotting a campaign of kindness. No doubt with the aim of soothing my tortured soul. It would be a waste of time. My temperament was not created by injury; it will not be magically healed by sweetness or pet names. Am I making myself clear? Do not harbor any illusions that my scars transformed me into a jaded, ill-tempered wretch. I was always—and shall remain—a jaded, ill-tempered wretch.”

“Were you always this long-winded, too?”

He growled.

Emma’s next attempt at a serve skittered across the floor. No matter. She was enjoying this game anyway.

“Ashbury is my title. It is what I’ve been called since my father died. No one calls me anything else. I’ve told you this.”

“And as I told you, I am your wife. Being the only one who addresses you differently is rather the point.”

Speaking of points, Emma had lost count of how many points she was behind.

He sent a serve back toward her. Emma noticed a hitch in his swing. He winced ever so slightly. Perhaps the reason behind the thrice-weekly sport was not mere boredom, but restoring the use of an injured arm. If so, his wounds must extend beyond his visible scars.

She wondered how severe those wounds were. She wondered how much they still pained him.

Too much wondering. It wouldn’t all fit in her brain. Instead, it traveled down to her chest and tightened there.

She smiled. “Shall we continue, poppet?”

His glare in response could have shattered marble.

After a few minutes’ practice, Emma’s agility had improved. She could hold her side of a respectable volley.

“What about ‘precious’?” she suggested.

“No.”

“‘Angel’?”

“God, no.”

“‘Muffin’?”

In response to that, he hit the shuttlecock so hard, it sailed all the way to the back wall and thwacked one of his ancestors right in the powdered wig.

She cheered. “Well done, my precious angel muffin.”

“This stops,” he said. “Now.”

Ignoring his outburst, Emma retrieved the shuttlecock. She served, barely managing to scrape it over the net. “I warn you, I don’t give up.”

“I warn you, I am more stubborn by far.”

“I left home at sixteen.”

“Orphaned at eleven,” he replied, sounding bored.

“I walked to London by myself. In the snow.”

“I marched a regiment to Waterloo.”

“I had to make a new life on my own. Begging for work. Stitching my fingers to nubs.” She dashed across the ballroom, rescuing the shuttlecock just before it hit the floor. Her swing sent it rocketing upward, almost to the ceiling.

He stood beneath the bundle of cork and feathers, waiting on it to swirl back to earth. “A rocket exploded in my face. I spent months near death. The scars left me a living monster. I quit opium by sheer force of will. My intended bride turned from me in revulsion. I’m still here.” He struck the shuttlecock, driving it into the parquet at her feet. “I win.”

She put a hand to her side, struggling to breathe. “Very well. You win.”

Emma felt chastened, and a bit ashamed. She’d been brave when she left home. People she held dear had turned from her, too. But the courage she’d been forced to summon couldn’t match that of a soldier in battle. As for the duke’s wounds, his scars . . . Vain and shallow as Annabelle Worthing might be, her rejection had heaped insult atop injury. The broken engagement must have deeply wounded his pride, if not his heart.

She bent to pick up the shuttlecock.

“Wait.” He jogged toward her, ducking under the net. “This will never be a proper match. Your volley is passable, but your serve is a disaster. Give it here, I’ll show you.”

Casting his own racquet aside, he plucked the shuttlecock from the floor and came to stand behind her, closing his right hand over hers where she gripped the racquet, and reaching around her with the other arm to position the shuttlecock.

She was in his embrace.

However unbelievably, for a couple who’d been engaged for a week, wed a full day and a night, and come within inches of consummating their union . . . this was the first time he’d held her in his arms.

All at once, the ballroom became a glasshouse—one filled with a steamy, intimate heat that amplified every sound, every scent. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck, and she was deeply conscious of each wisp and strand of her hair that had tumbled free.

Mostly, though, she was aware of him. The wall of his chest against her back, and the strength of his arms around her. The soap and sandalwood scent she was coming to recognize. She stared at his hand. Last night, in the dark, those sure, confident fingers . . . they had been inside her.

“Hold it this way.” He shifted her grip on the racquet handle. “Better.”

A small vibration of joy went through her. Two curt syllables of praise from him, and her heart thrummed like a dragonfly’s wings.

Don’t, she bid it. Don’t you dare.

Her heart didn’t listen to her—but then, it never did.