Page 85 of Dukes Do It Better
He shrugged. “It will grow back. I need to look respectable for the court-martial.”
Sadness tugged at the bubble of joy she’d been floating on all morning. “I’m so sorry your career will end this way.”
“Me too. I’d rather not think about it right now. Today is a day for happiness and planning a wedding with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He winked over his shoulder as he opened his trunk of clothing.
Watching him dress was a pleasure. Such a big body, wild with ink—and now watercolors—being confined in the trappings of respectability fascinated her.
He tucked in his shirt and then bent to grab his boots. “Will Mrs. Shephard mind if I come to the table in my shirtsleeves?”
She laughed. “Our house is terribly casual. Especially at breakfast. I’m just wearing my wrapper.”
He eyed her up and down. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you, Em?”
She raised a brow and smirked as she stood. “Not a blessed thing. Come along, Your Grace. Wouldn’t want your food to get cold.”
“Bloody hell, woman.”
Emma laughed as she skipped down the stairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself a cup of coffee and greeted Mrs. Shephard.
Absolutely nothing could ruin this perfect day.
So, when someone rang the bell at the front door, Emma said, “I’ll get it,” and carried her cup of coffee down the hall.
The contented smile she thought impenetrable fell from her face when she opened the door.
Once upon a time, she’d expected to see Devon Roxbury on the day she planned her wedding. But that was in a different chapter of her life story.
It was only a minor comfort that he looked as unhappy to see her now.
Her first impulse was to close the door on him, but he jammed a boot in the doorway before she could do so.
“I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t think he was this deranged.” Roxbury looked like he hadn’t slept all night, with dark circles amplifying his wild expression.
White appeared at Emma’s knuckles where she gripped the door. “Devon, what have you done?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A— likes adventure tales lately, and seeing those stories through his eyes has been enlightening. They’re so very black and white at this age. Wrong and right, with nothing shady in between. I wonder sometimes how old he will be when he realizes people are rarely the hero or villain we believe them to be. Even ourselves.
—Journal entry, January 8, 1824
Now talk.” Emma sat at the table, fighting against the trained guilt response at leaving her guest standing. She’d called up the stairs for Mal, and now Roxbury stood in the kitchen looking a little lost, facing people who clearly didn’t like him.
Devon opened his mouth and shut it repeatedly, like a fish on a riverbank.
“Let’s begin with the notes. The threats,” Mal suggested. A thunderous expression clouded the happiness from his eyes, as he stood beside her with his arms crossed.
“He wrote those. He paid me for information on your friends and family.” Roxbury’s gaze darted away from Emma to where Alton peeked around the corner into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Shephard, would you please take Alton out to Polly and Charles? Perhaps they could gather flowers for the dining table,” Emma said.
The cook hustled out of the room, and they could hear her shooing Alton toward the door with false cheer.
“I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Stay close enough to pass along inside details while getting back into your good graces. But you didn’t cooperate,” Devon said.
“Imagine that,” Mal drawled.
“I need an heiress, otherwise I’ll be left with no choice but to flee to the Continent. The duns are closing in. You already had my child. I thought if I could manage to spend time with you, you’d fall in love with me again. But you were determined to hold me at arm’s length.” He offered a pathetic shrug that was neither adequate explanation nor apology.
