Ash paced the jail cell, muttering to himself. All the words he’d held back for years, every curse his father had forbidden him to utter . . . he’d been saving them for this occasion. Now was the time.

“Shite. Bugger. Bloody hell. Christ.”

His drunken cellmate watched him from the corner, following him back and forth with glassy eyes. “Oi. Mind yer language, will ye?”

“Mind your own affairs.” He kicked at the wall of the cell. “Fuck.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This was a disaster.

He went to the door of the cell and shouted for the guards. “You, there. Release me at once. I’m the Duke of Ashbury.”

The guards laughed among themselves.

“Hear that, boys?” one said. “We’ve a duke among us! The very Monster of Mayfair, what’s been terrorizing women and children for months—a duke. Fancy that.”

“I’m not a monster,” Ash protested. “I . . . I’m merely misunderstood. Look at the most recent broadsheets. I gave a fortune to war widows, lavished candy on orphans.”

“Don’t credit any of it, m’self,” another guard said.

The first agreed. “False news, if you ask me. Never can trust newspapers.”

Ash groaned. If you don’t trust the newspapers, why am I here?

“Puppies!” he called in a burst of recollection. “I saved puppies from a burning building.”

“To be sure, ye did. And then drank their blood, most likely.”

After another few circuits of the cell, Ash decided to try a different approach. “This is kidnapping. Kidnapping a peer is a capital offense. If you don’t release me, you’ll hang for it.”

The guards scoffed at him. “There’s a reward. We’ll be twenty pounds the richer, is what we’ll be.”

With a soft whimper, Ash let his forehead rest on the bars. And then banged his head against them, repeatedly. “It’s useless. They’ll never believe me.”

His soused cellmate belched, then slurred, “I believe ye, Yer Grace.”

“A lot of good that does.” He rested his back against the wall. “You heard the wild stories they’re telling. Apparently my legend has overcome the truth.”

“Mayhap that’s summat you should have considered earlier.”

“Thank you for the sage advice.”

Emma was right. He’d let this monster business go on far too long, and now he was paying for it. He ought to have come forward weeks ago. It was absurd to think he could remain in the shadows forever.

Emma deserved better. Every minute that passed was another minute he wasn’t there for her when she needed him. One more minute closer to losing her completely. He wanted to punch a hole through the walls.

Money spoke louder than violence. The guards had already relieved him of any small items of value. Coins, stickpin, pocket watch.

He went to the bars and rattled them. “You there!” he shouted. “Release me, and you may have the clothes from my back. My boots are from Hoby. Eight pounds, I paid for them.”

He wrestled out of his topcoat and dangled it through the bars. “My coat! Finest tailoring. It’s worth—” He paused. What was it worth? He couldn’t have guessed. It was priceless to him. Emma had chosen it.

Nevertheless, he would sell it, and gladly. She was more precious by far.

“The waistcoat’s silk. Take my shirt, as well.” He jerked his cravat free and began to unbutton the front. “These are nacre buttons, worth a shilling each.”

He would strip down to his skin if that’s what it took, then run naked through the streets of London and make certain the Worthings’ Christmas ball was one the ton would never forget. Pride was worthless to him now.

He rattled the bars again.

His cellmate gave a phlegmy cough. “How much fer the socks?”

Ash became aware of shuffling and conversation down at the guards’ post. He went to the bars and listened. He couldn’t make out the words, but he recognized the sound of discussion in low voices.

One of the voices was feminine.

His heart leapt. Who could it be?

Emma?

Was it too much to hope that she’d come for him, having forgiven his stupidity and worthlessness?

“It’s not yer lady,” his gin-scented companion said.

The toothless drunkard was right. It was too much to hope.

Footsteps made their way down the corridor. A great many of them.

Lady Penelope Campion rushed to the cell and grabbed hold of the bars. “First and foremost, let me set your mind at ease. The cat is fine. He’s at my house, enjoying a nice mackerel.”

“My goodness, Penny.” Alexandra Mountbatten caught up to her friend. “He’s not concerned for the cat.”

In actuality, Ash had been just a little bit worried about the cat. But the imprisonment and Emma’s imminent humiliation weighed more heavily on his mind.

Nicola joined them outside the cell. “We had a plan to engineer your escape. Alex was going to synchronize our timepieces, and I’d bake a cake with a sleeping powder and give it to the guards.”

“I was meant to bring the goat,” Penny said. “As a diversion, you know.”

Miss Mountbatten lifted her eyebrows and gave Ash a do-you-see-what-I-suffer look. “And then we decided to pool our money and opt for the sensible solution: bribery.”

“Yes, that was probably for the best,” Ash said.

The guard came down the corridor. He gave Ash a smug look as he turned the key in the lock and set him free. “Don’t think this means you’re free. There’s a hue and cry, y’know. You’ll be back afore dawn, I reckon.”

Ash could deal with that later. As long as he had the next few hours, that was all that mattered.

Before leaving, he tossed his topcoat to the drunkard. “Here. Do something about that cough.”

Once they emerged into the fresh air of the night, he thanked his three saviors. “I’m indebted to you all. You are good friends to Emma.”

“Don’t be silly, Ash,” Miss Teague said. “We’re friends to you, as well.”

Ash considered this. Her statement warmed him in ways that he didn’t have time to sort through at the moment.

Penny pressed a few coins into his hand, and Ash looked about for a hackney. “How did you even know I was here?”

“Well, first the cat appeared in my garden,” Penny explained. “Then I took him to Khan, who said you’d left—but when we went back to the mews, the horses and carriage were still there. Then a boy in black fencing garb emerged out of nowhere, searching for you.”

Trevor stepped forward. “Heard the Monster had been captured. You know I always keep my ear to the ground.”

“He’s quite the extraordinary young man,” Alexandra Mountbatten said.

“Yes,” Ash said. “So the ladies keep telling me.”

“Take these.” Trevor slung a knapsack from his shoulder to the ground and opened it, drawing forth a black cape and tall hat. “After that morning at the inn, I never had a chance to return them.”

“I don’t need them,” Ash said. “In fact, I think you should keep them. That disguise of yours is horrid. Amateurish in the worst way.”

“Really? I can have them?”

“The Monster of Mayfair title, too, if you wish.” He lifted his arm, and a hackney cab drew to a stop at the corner. “You’ve completed your apprenticeship.”

The boy placed the hat on his head. “Bloody brilliant, this is.”

“That’s another thing.” Ash pointed at Trevor as he hastened in backward steps toward the hackney. “You’re going to be a gentleman. Don’t curse like a common lout. If you must blaspheme, do so in educated fashion.” He opened the hack’s door and climbed in. “Take your oaths from Shakespeare.”

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashbury.”

As Emma stood at entrance of the Worthing House ballroom, all the guests hushed and angled for a look at her. She recognized several ladies who patronized Madame Bissette’s dressmaking shop.

From the center of them, Annabelle Worthing sent her a dagger-sharp glare.

Emma swallowed hard. Heaven help me.

No. That wasn’t necessary, she decided. It was not heaven that would help her now. She’d learned that lesson long ago.

Most times, a girl needed to rescue herself.

This evening would be one of those times.

Once, she’d walked to London alone in the bitter heart of winter. She’d refused to succumb to despair or starvation. She’d found work and made a new life for herself in Town. She would swallow every needle in Madame Bissette’s shop before she allowed Annabelle Worthing to best her.

Tonight, Emma would be her own fairy godmother, her own dashing prince. Even her own knight in shining armor—or rather, her own lady in a sparkling gown.

She could do this.

As she entered the ballroom, Emma held her head high. She wasn’t here to make friends with them. She was here to save the friend she already had.

Speaking of Davina, the young woman came forward at once. Emma rushed to meet her. Gossip moved in a wave, making its way through the ballroom. She needed to have this settled before the rumors could reach Mr. Palmer.

“Emma.” After the requisite curtsey, Davina kissed her cheek. “I’m so delighted to see you. Please, let me introduce my father. May I present Mr. William Palmer. Papa, this is Emma Pembrooke, the Duchess of Ashbury. My friend.”

Emma held out her hand, and Mr. Palmer bowed over it. “I am honored, Your Grace.”

“Mr. Palmer. What a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve enjoyed Davina’s friendship so very much.”

Mr. Palmer beamed at his daughter. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she? Better than her breeding, I daresay. I’ve done my best for her, and she’s done me proud.”

Davina looked away, uncomfortable.

Emma tilted her head and smiled in coquettish fashion. “I must warn you—I intend to steal her away. With your permission, of course, and only for a time. I mean to winter at the duke’s country house in Oxfordshire, and I’d adore it if Davina joined me.”

“Oh, do let me go, Papa.” Davina clung to her father’s arm. “There’s so little amusement in Town past Christmas. Mayfair will be positively dreary. And I believe the bracing country air could be beneficial for my health.” She gave a dry, unconvincing cough.

Emma smiled and took Davina’s arm. “I would love to have her, Mr. Palmer.”

Mr. Palmer appeared to be searching himself for diplomacy. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I’m honored you would invite my Davina, to be sure. But you must admit this is all rather hasty. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making the duke’s acquaintance.”

Emma waved a gloved hand. “Oh, Ashbury indulges me in whatever I like. He won’t even be there. The Oxfordshire residence is for my particular use.” She lowered her voice. “May I confide in you, Mr. Palmer?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m in a delicate way. For the next several months, I shall be confined to one house, in one small Oxfordshire neighborhood. It’s all very wholesome and safe, but I would be so glad to have Davina with me for company. You’d be doing me such a favor.”

“Well, perhaps you and the duke would be so good as to as to join us for dinner, so we can discuss it.”

“I would love nothing more,” Emma replied regretfully. “But I’m afraid that’s not possible. I depart the day after next.”

“So soon?” Mr. Palmer cast a worried glance at his daughter. “Perhaps next year would be better, my dear.”

“Papa,” Davina murmured. “Stop being so protective. Emma is a duchess.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied fondly. “But you are my daughter. No amount of pleading will convince me to cease caring for you.”

Davina looked at her father with adoration in her eyes—and then she burst into tears, right there in the middle of the ballroom. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Papa. Emma has been a true friend, but I can’t allow her to lie for me any longer.”

“My dear, what is this about?”

She buried her head in her father’s shoulder, sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how. I wanted to tell you so very much.”

Oh, heavens. The truth struck Emma square in the chest.

She’d been wrong. All wrong.

Mr. Palmer adored his daughter. Wholly and unreservedly. If he knew the truth, he would not blame Davina. He would worry over her, wonder what he might have done to keep her from harm. And he would give up everything—all the status he’d worked so hard to attain—to keep his daughter safe.

Davina hadn’t hidden the truth because she feared her father, but because she loved him. She didn’t want him to feel he’d failed her, or to make any noble sacrifice.

It was all plain now, clear as glass, and Emma felt so dim. The possibility of selfless, unwavering affection between father and daughter had never entered her mind. How could it? She’d never known it herself.

Davina sniffed. “You’ll be so disappointed in me, Papa, and I cannot bear it.”

“Never, darling. Whatever is troubling you, it can’t divide us.”

While patting his daughter’s shoulders, Mr. Palmer sent Emma a questioning look. Emma didn’t know how to answer it. Davina’s secret was hers alone to tell, and the ballroom was hardly the place. If this scene didn’t relocate to a more private setting, Davina would draw speculation. All eyes in the ballroom were fixed on their little group.

Until, suddenly, they weren’t.

The rumors and whispers that had been passing around the ballroom like a salt cellar at a dinner table—they ceased. All of them, all at once. No one looked at Emma or Davina now. Every head in the ballroom had turned to face the entrance, and when Emma followed their gaze, she knew instantly why.

Ash.

He stood in the entrance—and oh, what an entrance he’d made. No hat, no gloves. His topcoat was nowhere to be found. His waistcoat hung open, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost down to his navel.

To Emma, he’d never looked more wonderful. Her heart was in her throat.

For the first time since his injuries, he had emerged in an open, well-lit setting among his social equals. Not as the Monster of Mayfair, but as the Duke of Ashbury. Scarred. Striking. And despite the fact that he was only half dressed, still splendid. He was every inch the duke.

And every inch of him was hers.

Ash looked at the majordomo. The majordomo stared and stuttered. After a few moments of waiting, Ash rolled his eyes. He spread his hands for the crowd and announced himself. “His Grace, the Duke of Ashbury.”

No one moved.

“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently, turning the scarred side of his face to the room. “Faulty rocket at Waterloo. You have precisely three seconds to move past it. One. Two. Right. Now where is my wife?”

“I’m here.” Emma moved forward.

As she emerged from the crowd, however, a hand touched her wrist, holding her back.

Annabelle Worthing threaded her arm through Emma’s and escorted her to the center of the floor, where she curtsied to Ash. “Your Grace. You are most welcome.” To his obvious bewilderment, she raised an eyebrow. “No one steals all the attention at my own ball.”

It was the closest to an apology they would ever have from the woman, Emma supposed, but for the moment, it was enough.

As their hostess receded, she chided the dumbstruck orchestra. “Well? Play something. My father’s not paying you to sit about.”

The musicians recovered themselves and struck up a waltz.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ash said.

“No, don’t be. You’re just in time. Though it looks as though you fought through a riot to get here.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell of gin.”

“I’ll explain later.” He offered his arm, and she took it. “So where is this Mr. Palmer I need to see?”

“Comforting his weeping daughter as she tells him the truth. You were right. I shouldn’t have assumed he would treat her so cruelly. For now, we can help them best by offering some distraction.”

“Well.” He glanced about the ballroom. “I believe I’ve accomplished that.”

Indeed he had. No one in the room made any pretense at etiquette. They openly stared. They whispered without even bothering to hide it behind a fan or a glass of champagne.

Ash’s hand curled in a fist, and his forearm went rigid beneath her gloved hand. That was the only outward indication he gave of self-consciousness. But Emma knew—oh, how she knew—what a trial this was for him. How frightened he must be, deep in the most guarded chamber of his heart. And of course he would never admit it, never ask for reassurance, much less her help, and she would only make it worse by offering.

So Emma did what she could. She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. As they made the traditional circuit of the room, she met the eyes of every person they passed, giving an elegant, graceful nod.

They might look at the duke and see a pitiable wretch or a scarred war hero or even a horrifying monster. But when they looked at Emma, they would see nothing but a wife who was proud to be on his arm. And who loved him, beyond all earthly measure.

“Should we dance?” she asked, once they’d come full circle. “It does seem the thing to do at these, and I doubt we’ll be invited to another one soon.”

“Good exercise for the shoulder, I hear. I tried to get Khan to waltz once, but he was hopeless.”

She laughed as he took her in his arms and swung her into the dance. One by one, other couples joined in, twirling in orbits around them.

He looked her up and down. “God, look at that gown.”

“I know. It’s like I wrapped myself in old curtains and then the chandelier fell and shattered all over me.”

He squinted and peered at it. “I was going to say it looks you sailed through the dark night like an angel and came back to earth covered in stars.”

She blushed at the compliment. “I needed something fit for a duchess.”

“That,” he said, “is fit for a goddess. But I still think it will look better as a pool on the floor.”

“You are impossible.”

“I will not deny it.” After guiding her through at few turns, he added, “Did I ever tell you why I married you?”

“I believe you did. I seem to recall meeting all your requirements.”

“True. But I wasn’t entirely honest. You exceeded the requirements, in every way. You were not only healthy enough to bear children, but strong enough to bear with me. A gentleman’s daughter—but one with the courage to stand up for herself against the whole of society. You’re educated, yes, but also you’re witty and damnably clever.”

“Pretty,” she filled in. “You did give me that one compliment. You called me pretty.”

“Well, I lied. I don’t find you pretty. I find you the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and without.”

“There was one more, if I recall.” Oh, and Emma was curious to hear this. He was going to have to work hard to redeem that fifth one.

“Yes. The last reason is this: You’re here.”

Well. Interesting strategy, doubling down on the original insult. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“You’re here,” he repeated, taking her hand and drawing it against his chest, right above his pounding heartbeat. “In my heart. Somehow you crashed your way into it when I wasn’t looking. The same way you barged into my library, I suppose. But you’re here now, inside. Emma, you’re the very life of me.”

She could scarcely speak. “That was quite nicely said.”

“You think so?”

“Did you practice it on the way here?”

His chin pulled back in a gesture of offense. “No.”

“I wouldn’t think less of you for it.”

“Then yes, I did. But that doesn’t make it any less sincere.” He stroked his thumb down the space between her shoulder blades. “Can you possibly comprehend how much I love you?”

“I’m tempted to say yes. But I think I’d rather listen to you explain it some more.”

“It might take years.”

“I’m amenable to that. Of course, that means you’ll have to listen to all the reasons I love you.”

He grimaced. “Ugh.”

“Don’t worry. You’ve survived worse.”

“Yes. I suppose I have.” He smiled that slow, one-sided smile she’d come to adore.

And then, in front of everyone, he bent his head to give her a kiss.