Page 45 of Dukes Do It Better
“Right then. Do you happen to know how he got here? Or should we leave him on the ground for the watch to find?”
Her finger trembled when she pointed. “The blue curricle over there with the grays. That’s his, I think.”
Mal shot her a smile. “Go ahead inside. I gave the staff the night off, so we’re alone. I’ll meet you in the house. You didn’t want to attract notice, but this big lout might have done exactly that.”
Mal didn’t waver under the load of Roxbury’s limp body as he hauled him toward the rig. When the black door closed behind her, Emma took a moment to collapse against it and take a few breaths. The soaring ceiling of Mal’s foyer made her smile. Such a lovely little house. Even if she hadn’t met a single member of the staff yet. He assured her they existed, albeit currently in a confused state.
Apparently, there’d been a fuss among the servants when they discovered they’d be serving a duke, only to find out he’d rather pay them to go away after half their usual schedule. When he’d shared the story with her, she’d laughed. No one knew what to do with the new Duke of Trenton. Not even the new Duke of Trenton himself.
The banister on the staircase was a lovely curved wood thing, polished to a high shine, topped by an overly large newel carved into a lion’s head. Upon leaving the house after her first visit, Emma had named the lion Wilbur. Removing her cloak and gloves, she draped the outerwear over the handrail and patted Wilbur on the head. A fanciful gesture, but it made her smile despite her swirling thoughts.
Mal hadn’t appeared concerned about Roxbury, but with Devon’s accusations in the air between them, she couldn’t ignore them. Yet some secrets weren’t hers to tell, like Phee’s years of impersonating her brother. In the museum, she’d determined to share more of herself. These secrets had never been on the list of topics she’d planned to discuss, but thanks to Roxbury’s loose tongue, she would probably have to. Letting Mal believe she had stolen and hidden a man’s child was unconscionable, even if the truth was twisted in the details.
The door opened and closed behind her. “He came to when we got to the rig. He’ll be fine. Can’t take a hit to save his life, but his skull is thick. I hope he’ll leave you alone after this.”
Emma nodded, clenching her fingers together in a knotted fist at her waist, while her heart pounded. “Adam knew. About the pregnancy, I mean. When I went to Roxbury, he turned me away. Said horrible things and refused to marry me. Adam—” her voice cracked, and she forced a calming breath. “Adam knew. He helped me. Saved me from myself in a lot of ways.”
Mal’s expression was unbearably sweet as she half lied, half confessed. Patient, accepting, and lacking judgment of any kind.
Guilt soured the nerves in her belly. He was being wonderful about this information, and yet she wasn’t telling the whole story.
He held out a hand. “Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps a soothing herbal tea? The cook harvested fresh mint and chamomile this morning. I know it was chamomile only because I tried to help and put the flowers in a vase, and she laughed at me.” Emma giggled, and he shrugged good-naturedly. “The servants are getting used to my oddities. I put a kettle on before you arrived, but it may have boiled out by now. Let’s go check.”
They walked through the snug house hand in hand toward the kitchen. Emma’s shoulders relaxed when they entered the warm room. It smelled of home—yeast, a trace of sugar, and the mellow tang of herbs. While Mal busied himself with the kettle, she ran a finger over the wood work counter.
“Would you mind if we spent some time down here? Instead of upstairs, I mean,” she asked. As soon as she said the words, Emma wished she could call them back. After all, she was here for sex. That was the whole purpose of her visit. Yet Roxbury’s appearance had rattled her. Being followed across London was disturbing enough, but now Roxbury knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that not only were she and Mal involved, but where he lived. The possibilities of what he could do with such knowledge made her uneasy.
Then Mal’s reply stopped her unease. “I want to spend time with you, Em. You aren’t required to do anything when you visit. Sex isn’t an obligation. It’s you and your time I want.”
The smile she gave him felt shaky on her lips, but honest. “Would your cook mind if I made something?”
Mal poured water into two cups and brought them to the wood plank table the servants used. “I would love it if you baked. If Cook has a problem with it, I’ll handle her.”
A flour-dusted apron hung on a hook, and Emma donned it, scanning the room. Butter and lard went into the icebox. Flour, salt, a cone of sugar, and some spices joined two apples and a sack of dried fruit. Emma glanced over, and Mal blew on the top of his drink, sipped, then kept watching her. A warmth crept over her face, and she knew her cheeks were pink. Alton watched her in the kitchen all the time, but it never felt like this.
“Do you have brandy? Or even whisky?” she asked. He rose and retrieved a bottle from the shelf.
“Fancy a nip?” he asked.
“Not exactly.” Emma poured a measure into an earthenware bowl and threw the dried fruit in to soak. At the last minute, she tipped the bottle to her lips and winked at him as she took a swig. The burn of it traveled down her throat, and she welcomed the momentary shock of alcohol on her tongue.
Mal took a drink as well, then returned the bottle to the shelf.
The soothing, familiar motions of her hands on the dough calmed her as much as the brandy. Mashing the chilled lard and butter into the flour with tiny snapping flicks of her fingertips was practically instinctual at this point. While the pastry chilled, she sat and sipped the mug of herbal tea Mal had made for her.
“Did you love him?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere.
Emma didn’t glance up from her mug. “I thought I did. But then, I was a headstrong young woman, determined to ignore all thoughts of consequences. I think it was the thrill of it. Clandestine rendezvous, sneaking away from watchful eyes. I felt so very adult and mature, and free.”
“I think I understand.”
“Do you?” she asked, finally looking at him.
“I ran away to sea when I was supposed to be going to Eton. The family coach stopped on the way to the school, and I bolted for the harbor. My family was going to be in England for only a short time. Long enough to leave me behind. So I made my own choice. Maybe I wanted them to raise a fuss and give chase. But a big part of it was needing freedom from the double standards they kept between George and me. He was attending Eton as well, and it was clear the Trenton name and reputation rested on his shoulders. I was not the spare to his heir, but disposable. The night before they put us in the coach, Mother told me not to make George look bad, because she wouldn’t be around to bring me home. Even leaving for school, all that mattered was George. So, I left him and them behind.”
“Did they? Come after you, I mean,” she asked.
“Not exactly. I left while George slept. There was a ruckus when our parents discovered I’d enlisted, but no action beyond their histrionics over me changing the plan. George went to school and they moved on. There was business in Moscow, I believe. After that, Father kept his nose in the Admiralty’s business and interfered with my career. I sometimes wonder if he did it as punishment for running away.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth.
