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the weather?”

      “Shall we talk about life in the country?”

      “That will serve. The upper classes always talk about the country when in Town, and the Town when in the country.”

      “You mentioned that I would have my own house.”

      “Yes, it’s called Swanlea. Situated in Oxfordshire. Not a grand house, but comfortable enough. The village is a few miles distant. No one’s been in residence for years, but I’ll have it opened for you.”

      “It sounds enchanting. I’d love to go for a visit. Would it be ready by Christmas?”

      Christmas seemed her best chance. It was only some nine weeks away. That would put Miss Palmer at nearly six months pregnant—but with luck and clever dressmaking, she might be able to conceal her condition that long. If Emma could have her settled in Oxfordshire by the new year, this just might work.

      “The house will be ready by Christmas,” he said. “However, I doubt you’ll be ready by Christmas.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He waved for the servants to remove the soup. “You won’t be going anywhere until you are confirmed to be with child.”

       What?

      Emma choked on her wine.

      The servants brought in the fish course, forcing her to hold her tongue.

      The moment they had some measure of privacy, she leaned forward. “Do you mean to hold me captive in this house?”

      “No. I mean to hold you to our bargain. Considering that the purpose of this marriage is procreation, I cannot allow you to reside elsewhere until that goal is achieved. Or at least well under way.”

      She searched her brain for a reasonable excuse. “But I’ve been yearning for Christmases in the country. Roasted chestnuts and sleigh rides and caroling.” That much was no falsehood. Passing the holiday alone in a drafty garret had been lowering indeed. “I don’t see why I couldn’t visit for a week.”

      He speared a bite of fish. “I know how these things go. A week becomes a fortnight, and then a fortnight becomes a month. Before I know it, you’ve run off to some seaside hamlet to hide for a year or two.”

      “If you believe I’d do that, you don’t know me very well.”

      He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you believe you won’t be tempted, you don’t know me at all.”

      Emma stared at her plate. This was an unforeseen complication. Helping Miss Palmer was one of the reasons she’d agreed to this marriage. Not the only reason, of course—but an important one. At the least, Emma needed to take the young woman to the country and see her settled, even if the duke insisted she return to London afterward. Now she learned he wouldn’t permit any travel whatsoever. Not unless she was pregnant first.

      She supposed it was possible she could be with child by Christmas, if she conceived soon. Very, very soon. And if she didn’t . . . Well, she would just have to change his mind, she decided. He couldn’t deny her a brief holiday once she gained his trust.

      He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said.

      Wonderful.

      “Your Gra—” She broke off mid-syllable, frowning. “What do I call you now? Not Your Grace, surely.”

      “Ashbury. Or Duke, if you must be more familiar.”

      Heavens. Being addressed as Duke counted as familiar?

      “I’m your wife. Surely that means I’ve earned the privilege of calling you something more friendly. What did they call you when you were younger, before you inherited? You weren’t Ashbury then.”

      “I was addressed by my courtesy title.”

      “Which was . . . ?”

      “The Marquess of Richmond. A title which will become my heir’s. Soon, with any luck. You may as well save it for him.”

      She supposed he was right. “What about your family name?”

      “Pembrooke? Never used it.”

      Emma wasn’t inclined to use it, either. Too stuffy, and it didn’t precisely trip off the tongue. “Your Christian name, then.”

      “George. It was my father’s name, and his father’s name before that, and the name of every third gentleman in England, it would seem.”

      “It’s my father’s name, too.” She shuddered. “So that’s out. We’ll have to find something else.”

      “There is nothing else. There’s Ashbury, or Duke. Choose one.”

      Emma thought on it for a moment. “No, dear husband, I don’t believe I shall.”

      He dropped his fork and glowered at her.

      She smiled.

      He doesn’t trust anyone, Khan had said. But he respects those who challenge him.

      If respect was what the duke had to offer, respect was what she must earn. Emma could put up a challenge. She hoped her husband was up to the task of meeting it.

      She reached for a nearby bowl. “Would you like more sauce, sweeting?”

      His fingers strangled the stem of his wineglass. She could practically hear the grapes calling for help. She hoped that was a good sign.

      “If you don’t cease that nonsense,” he said, “you will regret it.”

      “Is that so, my heart?”

      He plunked one forearm on the table and turned to face her. Piercing blue eyes, striking scars, and all. “Yes.”

      Despite all her intentions to challenge him unabashed, Emma found herself, inconveniently, just a little bit abashed. Perhaps she should talk of the weather.

      She was saved, however, from starting a discussion about the autumn chill.

      A flash of silver fur darted from the side of the room. Breeches leapt onto the table, sank his teeth into the steamed trout, and absconded with it before either of them could say a word.

      “That’s it.” The duke threw his linen napkin on his plate. “Dinner is over.”

Chapter Seven

      Ash cinched his dressing gown and tied the sash. Then he undid it and tried again. He’d made such a tight knot on his first attempt, he’d impeded his ability to breathe.

      He was damnably anxious. Emma wouldn’t be the only inexperienced one tonight. He was hardly a virgin himself—but he’d never bedded a virgin before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from her quarter. Would she be merely timid, or outright terrified? How much pain was he likely to cause?

      He supposed there was one comfort he could offer her. Considering how long it had been for him, the whole matter ought to be over within minutes. If not seconds.

      He padded down the corridor on bare feet. When he arrived at her bedchamber, he gave a knock of warning before opening the door a few inches.

      “I assume you’re ready,” he said.

      “Yes.”

      “Good.”

      He entered, extinguishing his candle soon after. She had a few tapers of her own burning, and he went about the room snuffing them in turn. When he’d banked the fire to a dim red glow, he turned to join her on the bed.

      On his first step forward, he bashed his knee on the edge of . . . something. A table? The leg of a chair?

      The bedclothes rustled. “Are you all right?”

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