The cat was the most foul, filthy, repulsive creature Ashbury had seen in his life, outside of the rare occasions when he regarded himself in a mirror. It was no more than a collection of bones encased in smudge-colored fur, and doubtless crawling with fleas.

His bride clutched the beast with both hands, holding it in front her like some sort of spinster bouquet.

Excellent. What was it they said? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something yowling.

Ash scowled at the thing.

The creature hissed in reply.

The dislike would seem to be mutual.

“Does it have a name?” he asked.

She looked up, as if startled by the question. “What?”

“A name. Does the cat have one?”

“Oh. Yes. Breeches. His name is Breeches.”

“Breeches?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” She showed no signs of releasing the thing. Instead, she looked about the hall. “Where are we reciting our vows? The library?”

“You can’t mean to hold that thing throughout the ceremony.”

“But if I put him down, I fear he’ll run off. Besides, he wants to be a witness. Don’t you, Breeches?” She turned the cat to face her and made a kissy face. “This is the Duke of Ashbury. Aren’t you pleased to meet him?” She took the creature’s paw and mimicked a wave of greeting in Ash’s direction. “He’s quite friendly.”

The cat’s claws made a vicious swipe through the air.

Right. That was it.

Ash reached out, wrested the animal from her grasp, and set it on the floor. The gray beast darted off at once.

“This house is enormous,” she objected. “He might be lost for days.”

“We can only hope.”

He tugged at the front of his waistcoat and turned to have a proper look at his bride. Of all that cat’s many offenses, its worst by far was obscuring his view of her. Thus far, he had seen her only two ways: first, wearing a gown made of leprous icicles, and second, wearing a modest shopgirl frock.

The morning dress she wore today was simple, but a welcome respite for his beauty-starved eyes. It was fashioned from wool in a rich, flattering shade of blue. The fit was perfect. He supposed that shouldn’t have been a surprise—she’d likely sewn it herself—but the frock embraced her in all the best places. The sleeves were long, and she’d added an edge of slender lace at the wrists. The merest hint of sweetness, like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar.

It was charming.

No, no. Charming? Had he just thought that word? He wasn’t charmed. He was never charmed. Bah.

He was ruttish, that was all. Eager to break an interminable stretch of celibacy. He admired her frock for one reason: because it would make such a satisfying heap on the floor.

What a shame he wouldn’t have the opportunity to see it that way. It would be dark when he visited her bed tonight.

Her rose-petal lips moved. Damn it, that meant he’d been staring at them. And now he hadn’t heard whatever it was she’d said.

“The curate is in the drawing room,” he said.

She hesitated.

He braced himself to hear, I can’t possibly do this, or What was I thinking? or I’d rather be hungry and homeless, thank you.

“Which way is the drawing room?”

With a relieved sigh, he turned and offered her his arm. “This way.”

Her steps were not precisely light, and he couldn’t fault her for it. She no doubt would have wished to marry for love, and he was about to steal that dream from her tiny, work-reddened fingers—replacing the charming, handsome groom of her dreams with an ill-tempered monster.

Guilt jabbed him in the ribs.

He had to ignore it. War had taught him two things. First, life was fleeting. Second, duty wasn’t. If he died without an heir, his toad of a cousin would carve up the lands, making every decision for his own expedience and enrichment. Ash would have failed the thousands who depended on him.

And if he failed them, he would not be the man his father raised. No prospect could be more gutting.

The irony of it hit him as they entered the drawing room.

He was the one marrying for love.

Just not hers.

It wasn’t precisely the wedding of Emma’s youthful imaginings. She’d seen herself having a church wedding, naturally, packed with friends, neighbors, relations. She’d dreamed of wearing pink ribbons and a crown of flowers in her hair. But then, she’d abandoned those girlish fancies years ago.

In the drawing room, there were no guests or flowers—only the curate, the butler, the housekeeper, and a frightful number of papers awaiting her signature. Emma riffled through the pile, intimidated. She supposed there was no better place to begin than the beginning.

She was only halfway through the second page before the duke’s patience expired.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Reading them?”

“Of course I’m reading them. I don’t sign anything I don’t read first. Do you?”

“That’s different. I might have something to lose.”

And Emma didn’t. That was the duke’s clear implication. In truth, it would be hard to argue the point. She’d already left the dressmaking shop, her garret, and most of her belongings behind.

He left her to her reading, retreating to pace in circles at the other end of the drawing room. Emma was visited by the strange suspicion he might be as nervous as she was.

No, that couldn’t be. More likely, he was eager to have it done.

“May I assist you, Miss Gladstone?” The murmured question came from nearby. “I know how weighty those stacks of paper can be.”

She looked up to find the butler standing near. She’d met him the other day. What was his name? Mr. Khan, she thought she recalled.

What she remembered with certainty was that she’d liked him at once. He had bronze skin, an Indian cadence to his speech, and silver hair with a part as arrow-straight as his posture. He’d treated her with kindness, even when she’d appeared on the doorstep with no card and no invitation. In fact, he’d seemed strangely delighted to see her.

“The duke isn’t always like this,” Khan confided, handing her the next set of papers.

“No?” Emma pounced on the kernel of hope.

“Usually, he’s a great deal worse.” With a glance over his shoulder, the butler exchanged one set of papers for another. “He’s been alone and is determined to remain that way. He doesn’t trust anyone, but he respects those who challenge him. I suspect that’s why you are here. He’s angry, resentful, bored, in more pain than he lets on—and you’ll either be the making of him, or he’ll be the ruin of you.”

She swallowed hard.

“If it helps,” he said, “the entire staff is pulling for the former.”

“It does help. I think.”

Whatever was required to “be the making” of a wounded duke, Emma was positive she lacked it. However, if Khan wanted to be in her corner, she wouldn’t complain. She needed to have one friend in the house, and it clearly wasn’t going to be her husband.

Nor that cat, wherever it was.

“What’s going on over there?” the man in question demanded.

“Nothing,” she called. “That is, I’m nearly finished.” To the butler, she whispered, “Do you have advice?”

“I suppose it’s too late to run.”

“Other than that.”

“Drink heavily? Someone in the house ought to, and I cannot.”

“Khan, stop standing about and make yourself useful. Fetch the family Bible.”

The butler straightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The subtle wink he gave her in parting was one of beleaguered sympathy. We’re in this together now, it seemed to say.

She reached for the pen.

Once she’d finished signing all the contracts, the curate cleared his throat. “Are we ready to begin, Your Grace?”

“God, yes. Let’s get on with it.”

As she and the duke took their places side by side, Emma couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. His uninjured profile was to her. Decisive and compelling, with no trace of doubt on his features.

Then he suddenly turned his head, displaying his scars. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, she looked away—and instantly knew in her stomach that looking away was the wrong thing to do.

Well done, Emma. Just capital. That won’t offend him at all.

As they recited their vows, the duke clasped her hand to slide a plain gold band on her finger. His grip was firm and unsentimental, as if he were asserting a claim. The two servants signed as witnesses, and then they and the curate departed.

They found themselves alone, the three of them. Emma, the duke, and a thick, uncomfortable silence.

He clapped his hands. “Well, that’s done.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I’ll have the maid bring some refreshment to your suite. You’ll want to rest.”

As he turned to leave, Emma put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

He turned back. “What.”

The word wasn’t a question, but a scolding.

She steadied her nerves. “I want to have dinner.”

“Of course you will have dinner. Do you think I mean to starve you? That would hardly suit my purposes of siring a healthy child.”

“I didn’t mean that I merely wish to be fed. I’d like the two of us to dine together. Not only tonight, but every evening. Proper dinners, with multiple courses. And conversation.”

From his expression, one would think she’d suggested nightly abdominal surgery. Performed with a knitting needle and a spoon.

“Why would you want that?”

“There must be something more than bedding between us. We must come to know one another, at least a little bit. Otherwise, I’ll feel too much like a . . .”

“A broodmare. Yes, I recall.” He looked to the side, sighed, and then looked back at her. “Very well, we will dine together. However, let’s have a few matters settled right now. This is a marriage of convenience.”

“That’s what we agreed.”

“There will be no affection involved. In fact, every precaution will be taken against it.”

“I’m surprised you believe we’ll need any precautions.”

“Only one act is required on your part. You must permit me to visit your bed. I’m well aware of my distasteful appearance. You need not fear any crude or lascivious attentions from my quarter. All encounters will be as dignified as possible. No lights, no kissing. And of course, once you are pregnant with my heir, we will be done.”

At this, Emma was stunned. No kissing? No lights? On account of his “distasteful appearance”?

The pain implied in that litany tugged at her emotions. Annabelle Worthing’s rejection must have been a cruel blow. Even if he’d formed the idea that his scars were intolerably repulsive . . . Emma was his wife now. She refused to underscore it. She knew how it felt to be an outcast.

He turned to walk away. Once again, she stopped him.

“One more thing. I want you to kiss me.”

She was mortified by the way she’d blurted it out, but it was done—and now she must not back down. If she ceded to him on this, she would never regain what little ground she held.

“Have you been paying attention? I only just now stipulated there would be no kissing.”

“You said kissing in bed,” she pointed out. “This isn’t bed. I promise, I’ll only ask the once.”

He passed a hand over his face. “Dinner. Kisses. This is what I get for wedding a vicar’s daughter from the country. Girlish notions about romance.”

“Believe me, being a vicar’s daughter from the country did nothing to fill me with notions of romance.”

Strumpet. Harlot. Jezebel.

The cruel words whispered from the shadowy corners of her memory. She tamped them down, as she’d learned to do over the years. Perhaps someday she would learn how to banish them.

“I can do without a jeweled ring, or guests, or a fine gown,” she said. “I’m only asking for this one tiny gesture, to make it all feel a bit less . . . cold. More like an actual wedding.”

“It was an actual wedding. The vows are perfectly legal and binding. A wedding does not require a kiss.”

“I think my wedding requires one.” Her voice gathered strength. “A woman only gets one of these ceremonies, and as hasty and contractual as it’s all been thus far, I’d appreciate one small gesture that makes me feel like something other than chattel.”

She watched closely for his reaction. His reaction was to refuse to react at all. He was expressionless—both sides of him. The whole, and the scarred. Perhaps he was uncertain of himself. Then again, perhaps he was uninterested in her. Either thought made her throat tighten.

“I could do the kissing, if you prefer,” she offered. “It needn’t be a long kiss. You only have to stand there.”

She stretched up on her toes.

He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down. “The bride does not kiss the duke.”

Oh, Lord. This could not possibly be any more humiliating.

“The duke,” he continued, “kisses the bride. It’s an entirely different thing.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Close your eyes.”

Emma closed her eyes. Her heart drummed in her chest as the waiting stretched longer . . .

And longer still.

She was a fool. He was laughing at her. He’d changed his mind. About the kiss. About her. About everything.

She was on the verge of opening her eyes, slinking from the room, and constructing a fortification of pillows, novels, and kittens in which to hide for the remainder of her life, when—

His hands cupped her face. Rough, possessive. And just when she was certain she’d combust from the cruel suspense of it all, his lips touched hers.

Something inside her came apart.

That hidden pocket of yearning that she’d sewn up tight years ago—his kiss ripped it open at the seams. A flood of emotion poured forth, overwhelming her. A surge of passion and desire and . . .

And something else. Something she didn’t want to acknowledge, much less name. She’d pore over it later, no doubt. Her mind wouldn’t allow her to let it alone. But as long as his lips touched hers, she could delay that dreaded reckoning.

If only this kiss could last forever.