Page 46 of Dukes Do It Better
There was nothing to say to that. Not really. Emma squeezed his hand, then rose to roll out the crust. His gaze was a weight on her, but not unwelcome as she fit the crust into a small tin, stoked the fire in the stove, then set to work on the filling.
“Do you regret running away? Many men forge lifelong friendships at Eton.” A paring knife sliced through the apples quickly, making neat slivers of sweet and tart filling. She set some aside and added the rest to the bowl with the brandy-soaked fruit.
“It was the right choice for me,” Mal said. “Mother and I have never been close. George was her favorite, and I always knew that. With him gone, it’s been messy. Mother didn’t write to tell me he passed. Instead, she contacted the Admiralty and had me brought home. Used leverage of some kind, and now I’m dealing with the impact of that. Maybe our relationship would have been different if I’d stayed. I don’t know.”
“Parents are complicated. Being a parent is complicated,” she said.
He sighed, then took a sip of his tea. “I enjoy seeing you like this.”
“In a kitchen?” she asked, half-teasing.
“Relaxed,” he corrected.
A flutter near her heart warned that her emotions were extending deeper than superficial. They weren’t even lustful. Emma wasn’t sure what to do with them, so she did the next best thing. She grated sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg over the fruit, then added a dash of lemon zest, and poured it into the pastry shell. With the reserved apple slices, she created a spiraling curve on top that one might think looked like a rose. Maybe. If you squinted.
“Good enough,” she muttered, and placed it in the oven.
While their dessert baked, she crossed to where Mal sat with his mug. Resting her bum against the table by his elbow, she leaned forward and placed a kiss on the top of his head.
“What was that for?” he asked lightly.
“Just because I could,” she answered, then leaned down for a proper kiss. Mint lingered on his tongue from the tea, and the scent of baking crust in the air soothed the last vestiges of tension. Sucking his bottom lip fully, she gently raked her teeth over the plump flesh and welcomed his soft moan. “Thank you for tonight. This is nice. Not how I expected the evening to go, but nice.” She tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear and studied him.
Heavy brows, sun-darkened skin, with pale streaks at the corners of his eyes from squinting at the horizon. Deep brown hair with enough wave to it to be unruly. Mal didn’t move when she untied his queue so she could run her fingers through his hair.
“Why did you drop the honorific when you left London?” he asked.
Her hands froze, tangled in his long strands. “At the time, we were trying to avoid notice in the village and planned to stay away from London long enough to muddle the amount of time between our marriage and Alton’s birth.” Which was the god’s honest truth. Another piece of honesty fell from her lips before she could catch it. “And I think, after Devon, I didn’t feel like a lady. An aristocratic name carries expectations. I’d failed to live up to those expectations. Spectacularly so.”
Mal took one of her hands from his hair and kissed her palm. “I understand all too well.”
* * *
He should have told her. Sitting in the kitchen, relaxed and sharing truths, Malachi should have told her to wait for a moment, then gone upstairs and retrieved her journal from his drawer.
But she’d been shaky at first from dealing with Roxbury, and then watching her take over the kitchen had been one of the most comforting, intriguing, oddly arousing experiences of his life.
The competence and surety in the way she moved in the room caught his attention first. Food came together under her hands as if for her, creating something delicious was an instinctive task, something she took joy in without having to dedicate much thought to it. More than anything, it was the way the manners and practiced gentility fell away like masks set aside, leaving only Emma, in her element. She was so beautiful, it stole his breath, his good intentions—and his courage. If he gave her the journal now, this night of confessions and pastry would end. And he wanted a little more time with this unguarded version of her.
A smear of flour dusted her cheek, and honey-blond curls turned to a darker treacle color as they stuck to her hairline from the heat of the stove. He could watch her all night. In fact, he wanted to. And not just tonight. He wanted Emma like this—creative and relaxed, and near him—tomorrow. And the next day, and the next.
As she rose to pull the tin from the oven, the sway of her hips caught his attention. Her movements held his gaze in a way that made it hard to look away. It was possible she was even more unguardedly herself tonight than she’d been two nights before when she came apart in his arms and cried his name in bed. This intimacy of sharing thoughts late at night fit so comfortably over them, he didn’t want to spoil it. He didn’t want it to end.
A suspicion awoke within him that he needed more than Emma in his bed for the short term. Especially when he craved more nights like this one, which had nothing to do with sex.
“Damn, this is delicious,” he said around a mouthful of the best thing he’d ever tasted.
She sent him a quick smile and speared a bite on her fork, directly from the tin. No plates for them, which somehow made it taste better.
A knock at the kitchen door interrupted their peaceful late-night snack.
“Expecting someone?” Emma asked.
Malachi rose to answer the door. A footman in the emerald-green Trenton livery appeared taken aback by the duke himself answering the kitchen door, but he recovered quickly. “For you, Your Grace,” he said, handing over a folded piece of paper.
A frown creased the bridge between his eyebrows as he read the short note. “Before you go, please notify the mews we will be leaving immediately.” The footman tipped his hat and took his leave. Malachi glanced back at Emma. “My mother demands my presence, claiming an emergency. I’m terribly sorry, but it appears I need to cut the evening short.”
She got up from the table and carried their pie tin and forks to the washing area. “If you’ll get our cups and bring them over, I’ll wash up.”
