Tessa Dare the Duchess Deal Read Online Free
Dedication
I grew up a PK ("preacher's kid"). Emma, the heroine of this book, is a vicar'due south girl. I want to make clear that Emma's male parent is nothing like my ain. My father was--and is--loving, patient, supportive, and understanding.
Thanks, Dad. This book's for you.
Please don't read chapters 7, 9, 11, 17, 19, 21, or 28.
Contents
Embrace
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Half-dozen
Chapter 7
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Affiliate Thirteen
Chapter Xiv
Chapter Fifteen
Affiliate Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Xix
Affiliate Twenty
Chapter Xx-Ane
Chapter 20-Two
Affiliate Twenty-Iii
Affiliate 20-4
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Xx-Six
Chapter Twenty-7
Chapter Xx-8
Affiliate Twenty-Ix
Affiliate Thirty
Chapter 30-One
Chapter Thirty-2
Epilogue
Author's Notation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Besides by Tessa Cartel
Copyright
Near the Publisher
Chapter One
Emma Gladstone had learned a few hard lessons past the age of 2-and-twenty.
Charming princes weren't always what they seemed. Shining armor went out of fashion with the Crusades. And if fairy godmothers existed, hers was running several years late.
Most of the time, a daughter needed to rescue herself.
This afternoon was one of those times.
Ashbury House loomed earlier her, taking up one full side of the stylish Mayfair square. Elegant. Enormous.
Terrifying.
She swallowed difficult. She could do this. Once, she'd walked to London lone in the bitter center of winter. She'd refused to succumb to despair or starvation. She'd found work and made a new life for herself in Town. Now, half dozen years later on, she'd swallow every needle in Madame Bissette'due south dressmaking store earlier she'd become crawling back to her father.
Compared to all that, what was knocking on the door of a duke?
Why, nothing. Nothing at all. All she had to do was square her shoulders, charge through the wrought-iron gates, march upward those granite steps--really, there were only a hundred or so--and ring the bong on that immense, richly carved door.
Adept afternoon. I'm Miss Emma Gladstone. I'1000 here to run into the mysterious, reclusive Knuckles of Ashbury. No, we aren't acquainted. No, I don't accept a calling menu. I don't take annihilation, actually. I may non even have a habitation tomorrow if y'all don't let me in.
Oh, good heavens. This would never piece of work.
With a whimper, she turned away from the gate and circled the square for the tenth time, shaking out her blank arms under her cloak.
She had to try.
Emma stopped her pacing, faced the gate, and drew a deep breath. She airtight her ears to the frantic pounding of her heart.
The hour was growing late. No ane was coming to her aid. At that place could be no further hesitation, no turning back.
Set. Steady.
Go.
From his library desk-bound, Ashbury heard an unfamiliar ringing sound. Could it be a doorbell?
In that location it came again.
Information technology was a doorbell.
Worse, it was his doorbell.
Damned gossips. He hadn't even been in Town but a few weeks. He'd forgotten how London rumors traveled faster than bullets. He didn't accept the time or patience for busybodies. Whoever it was, Khan would transport them away.
He dipped his quill and continued the alphabetic character to his feckless solicitors.
I don't know what the devil you've been doing for the past year, only the state of my affairs is deplorable. Sack the Yorkshire land steward direct. Tell the architect I wish to come across the plans for the new mill, and I wish to see them yesterday. And there'southward i other matter that requires immediate attention.
Ash hesitated, quill poised in midair. He couldn't believe he was really going to commit the words to paper. But much equally he dreaded it, information technology must be done. He wrote:
I need a married woman.
He supposed he ought to country his requirements: a adult female of childbearing age and respectable lineage, in urgent need of coin, willing to share a bed with a scarred horror of a man.
In short, someone desperate.
God, how depressing. Meliorate to leave it at that i line.
I need a married woman.
Khan appeared in the doorway. "Your Grace, I regret the interruption, but in that location'due south a young woman to see you. She's wearing a wedding gown."
Ash looked at the butler. He looked down at the words he'd just written. Then he looked at the butler again.
"Well, that's uncanny." Mayhap his solicitors weren't as useless every bit he thought. He dropped his pen and propped one kicking on the desk-bound, reclining into the shadows. "By all means, show her in."
A young woman in white strode into the room.
His boot slipped from the desk. He reeled backward and collided with the wall, near falling off his chair. A page of papers tumbled from a nearby shelf, drifting to the floor like snowflakes.
He was blinded.
Non past her beauty--though he supposed she might exist cute. It wasn't possible to judge. Her gown was an heart-stabbing monstrosity of pearls, lace, brilliants, and beads.
Good Lord. He wasn't accustomed to being in the aforementioned room with something even more repulsive than his ain advent.
He propped his correct elbow on the arm of his chair and raised his fingertips to his forehead, concealing the scars on his face. For once, he wasn't protecting a servant's sensibilities or even his ain pride. He was shielding himself from . . . from that.
"I'm pitiful to impose on you lot this way, Your Grace," the young woman said, keeping her gaze fixed on some chevron of the Persian carpet.
"I should hope you lot are."
"But you meet, I am quite desperate."
"Then I gather."
"I need to be paid for my labor, and I need to be paid at once."
Ash paused. "Your . . . your labor."
"I'm a seamstress. I stitched this"--she swept her hands down the silk eyesore--"for Miss Worthing."
For Miss Worthing.
Ah, this began to make sense. The white satin atrocity had been meant for Ash's formerly intended helpmate. That, he could believe. Annabelle Worthing had always had dreadful taste--both in gowns and in prospective husbands.
"When your date ended, she never sent for the gown. She'd purchased the silk and lace and such, but she never paid for the labor. And that meant I went unpaid. I tried calling at her dwelling, with no success. My letters to yous both went unanswered. I idea that if I appeared similar this"--she spread the skirts of the white gown--"I would exist incommunicable to ignore."
"You were correct on that score." Even the good side of his confront twisted. "Skillful Lord, it'south as though a draper's shop exploded and you were the first prey."
"Miss Worthing wanted something fit for a duchess."
"That gown," he said, "is fit for a earthy-firm chandelier."
"Well, your intended had . . . extravagant preferences."
He leaned frontward in his chair. "I can't even take the whole matter in. It looks like unicorn vomit. Or the pelt of some snowfall beast rumored to menace the Himalayas."
She
tilted her gaze to the ceiling and gave a despairing sigh.
"What?" he said. "Don't tell me you similar it."
"It doesn't matter whether it suits my tastes, Your Grace. I take pride in my handiwork regardless, and this gown occupied months of it."
Now that the daze of her revolting attire had worn off, Ash turned his attention to the young woman who'd been devoured past it.
She was a cracking comeback on the gown.
Complexion: cream. Lips: rose petals. Lashes: sable.
Backbone: steel.
"This embroidery solitary . . . I worked for a week to arrive perfect." She skimmed a touch along the gown's neckline.
Ash followed the path her fingertips traced. He couldn't see embroidery. He was a man; he saw breasts. Slight, enticing breasts squeezed by that tortured bodice. He enjoyed them nigh as much equally he enjoyed the air of determination pushing them high.
He pulled his gaze upwardly, taking in her slender neck and upswept compensation of anecdote-dark-brown hair. She wore it in the sort of prim, restrained coiffure that made a man's fingers itch to pull the pins loose, one by one.
Take hold of yourself, Ashbury.
She couldn't perhaps be as pretty every bit she seemed. No dubiousness she benefited by dissimilarity with the revolting gown. And he'd been living in solitude for some time. There was that, too.
"Your Grace," she said, "my coal bin is empty, the larder's downwardly to a few moldy potatoes, and my quarterly hire comes due today. The landlord has threatened to turn me out if I don't pay the full amount. I demand to collect my wages. Nearly urgently." She held out her hand. "Two pounds, three shillings, if you lot please."
Ash crossed his arms over his breast and stared at her. "Miss . . . ?"
"Gladstone. Emma Gladstone."
"Miss Gladstone, you lot don't seem to understand how this whole intruding-on-a-duke's-solitude business works. You should be intimidated, if not terrified. Nevertheless at that place'southward an appalling lack of mitt-wringing in your demeanor, and no trembling any. Are you lot certain you lot're merely a seamstress?"
She lifted her easily, palms facing out for his view. Healed cuts and calluses showed on her fingertips. Persuasive evidence, Ash had to admit. Still he remained unconvinced.
"Well, y'all tin can't take been born to poverty. You're far also self-possessed, and yous appear to have all your teeth. I suppose you were orphaned at a tender age, in some especially gruesome way."
"No, Your Grace."
"Are yous being blackmailed?"
"No." She drew out the word.
"Supporting a passel of abased children, whilst existence blackmailed?"
"No."
He snapped his fingers. "I have it. Your male parent is a scapegrace. In debtor'south prison. Or spending the rent coin on gin and whores."
"My father is a vicar. In Hertfordshire."
Ash frowned. That was nonsensical. Vicars were gentlemen. "How does a gentleman's daughter discover herself working her fingers to nubs as a seamstress?"
At concluding, he saw a wink of uncertainty in her demeanor. She touched the spot behind her earlobe. "Sometimes life takes an unexpected turn."
"Now that is a grave understatement."
Fortune was a heartless witch in perpetual apprehension of her monthly courses. And didn't Ash know information technology.
He swiveled in his chair and reached for a lockbox behind the desk.
"I am sorry." Her vocalization softened. "The broken engagement must take been a blow. Miss Worthing seemed a lovely young adult female."
He counted money into his hand. "If you spent whatever time with her, you know that isn't the case."
"Perhaps it's for the best that y'all didn't marry her, and so."
"Yep, it was excellent foresight that I destroyed my face before the wedding. What bad luck it would have been if I'd waited until afterward."
"Destroyed? If Your Grace will forgive me saying it, information technology can't be that bad."
He snapped the lockbox closed. "Annabelle Worthing was desperate to marry a man with a title and a fortune. I am a duke and ungodly wealthy. She withal left me. It'south that bad."
He stood and turned his ruined side to her, offer her a full, unobstructed view. His desk was in the most shadowy corner of the room--and purposely and then. The room's heavy velvet drapes kept out much of the sunlight. But scars equally dramatic as the ones he wore? Nothing but consummate darkness could obscure them. What bits of mankind had escaped the flames had only been ravaged further--first, past the surgeon's knife and then, for hellish weeks after, past fever and suppuration. From his temple to his hip, the right side of his torso was a raging battle of cicatrices and powder burns.
Miss Gladstone went repose. To her credit, she didn't swoon or vomit or run screaming from the room--a pleasant modify from his usual reception.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"War. Next question."
After a moment, she said quietly, "May I accept my money, please?"
He extended a paw, offer her the money.
She reached for it.
He airtight his hand around the coins. "Once y'all give me the gown."
"What?"
"If I pay you for your piece of work, it's only off-white that I get the gown."
"For what purpose?"
He shrugged. "I haven't decided. I could donate it to a home for pensioned opera dancers. Sink it to the bottom of the Thames for the eels to enjoy. Hang it over the front door to ward off evil spirits. There are and then many choices."
"I . . . Your Grace, I tin can have it delivered tomorrow. But I must take the money today."
He tsked. "That would be a loan, Miss Gladstone. I'm not in the money-lending business."
"Yous desire the gown now?"
"Only if you want the money now."
Her dark eyes fixed on him, accusing him of sheer villainy.
He shrugged. Guilty as charged.
This was the peculiar hell of being disfigured by sheer chance on the battlefield. In that location was no one to blame, no revenge to be taken. Just a lingering bitterness that tempted him to lash out at anything almost. Oh, he wasn't violent--not unless someone really, truly deserved it. With almost, he merely took perverse pleasure in being a pain in the arse.
If he was going to look similar a monster, he might besides enjoy the function.
Unfortunately, this seamstress refused to play the trembling mouse. Cypher he said rattled her in the least, and if she hadn't fled in terror nevertheless, she likely never would.
Expert for her.
He prepared to manus over the money, bidding her--and that gown--a grateful adieu.
Before he could practise and so, she exhaled decisively. "Fine."
Her hands went to the side of the gown. She began to release a row of hooks hidden in the bodice seam. Ane past i by one. As the bodice went slack, her squeezed breasts relaxed to their natural fullness. The sleeve vicious off her shoulder, revealing the tissue-thin textile of her shift.
A wisp of nighttime hair tumbled gratis, kissing her collarbone.
Jesu Maria.
"Terminate."
She froze and looked up. "Stop?"
He cursed silently. Don't ask me twice. "Terminate."
Ash could scarcely believe he'd managed the decency to say it once. He'd been on the verge of a private show for the price of 2 pounds, three. Significantly higher than the going rate, but a bargain when the girl was this pretty.
Not to mention, she was a vicar's daughter. He'd ever dreamed of debauching a vicar's daughter. Actually, what man hadn't? However, he was not quite then diabolical as to accomplish information technology through extortion.
A idea occurred to him. Maybe--just maybe--he could yet manage that fantasy, through different, somewhat less fiendish, means. He regarded Emma Gladstone from a fresh bending, thinking of that list of requirements in his interrupted letter.
She was young and good for you. She was educated. She came from gentry, and she was willing to disrobe in front of him.
Almost importantly, she was desperate.
She'd do.
In fact, she'd practise very well indeed.
"Here is your choice, Miss Gladstone. I can pay y'all t
he two pounds, iii shillings."
He placed the stack of coins on the desk. She stared at them hungrily.
"Or," he said, "I tin can make you a duchess."
Chapter Two
A duchess?
Well. Emma was grateful for i thing. At least at present she had an excuse to stare at him.
Ever since the duke had revealed the extent of his scars, she'd been trying not to stare at him. Then she'd started worrying that it would be fifty-fifty more than rude to avoid looking at him. As a result, her gaze had been volleying from his face, to the carpet, to the coins on the desk. Information technology was all a bit dizzying.
Now she had an unassailable excuse to openly gawk.
The contrast was extreme. The injured side of his confront drew her attending first, of course. Its appearance was tortured and angry, with webs of scar tissue twisting past his ear and above his natural hairline. What was more cruel--his scarred flesh stood in unavoidable contrast with his untouched contour. In that location, he was handsome in the brash, uncompromising fashion of gentlemen who believed themselves invincible.
Emma didn't find his appearance frightful, though she could not deny it was startling. No, she decided, "startling" wasn't the correct word.
Hit.
He was striking.
As though a bolt of lightning had split through his body, dividing him in two, and the energy however crackled around him. Emma sensed it from across the room. Gooseflesh rippled upwards her artillery.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I must have misheard."
"I said I will brand yous a duchess."
"Surely . . . surely you don't hateful through marriage."
"No, I intend to employ my vast influence in the House of Lords to overturn the laws of primogeniture, then persuade the Prince Regent to create a new title and duchy. That accomplished, I volition convince him to name a vicar's daughter from Hertfordshire a duchess in her ain right. Of form I hateful through spousal relationship, Miss Gladstone."
She gave a strained laugh. Laughter seemed the just possible response. He had to be joking. "You can't be asking me to marry yous."
He sighed with annoyance. "I am a duke. I'm not asking yous to marry me. I am offering to ally you. It's a dissimilar affair entirely."
She opened her mouth, only to shut it again.
"I demand an heir," he said. "That is the thrust of the matter."
Her concentration snagged on that word, and the blunt, forceful style he said it.
Thrust.
"If I died tomorrow, everything would go to my cousin. He is an irredeemable prat. I didn't get to the Continent, fight to preserve England from tyranny, and survive this"--he gestured at his confront--"but to come home and spotter my tenants' lives crumble to ruins. And that means those laws of primogeniture--since I don't intend to overturn them--require me to marry and sire a son."
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