Page 59 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke

“In order that I might accurately measure you for your dress,” Damien pointed out.

“That was theonlythought in your head at that moment?” Emma furrowed her brows, frustrated with her own confusion and Damien's iron exterior.

“Of course not!” he snapped, passion breaking through his barrier at last, “I am not made of stone.”

“You do an excellent impersonation at times.”

“I am simply saying that I am not a ravisher of women. I take no pleasure in having power over you and will have no power other than expecting you to behave in a certain way in public,” Damien said.

That brought back memories of the dream in which he had taken the role of a Sultan and Emma had been one of his harem. That recollection made her blush, not entirely out of shame. The idea of being helpless before Damien's unshackled desire made her head spin. Suddenly, the carriage wasveryhot, and Damien wasveryclose.

“Good,” Emma said faintly, “I am glad to clarify that.”

Damien nodded mutely, looking away again. He sat next to her rather than opposite; his hip pressed against hers.

“You look beautiful and behaved demurely,” he murmured presently. “The Regent was mightily impressed with you. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. It was a lovely ceremony and a very pretty church,” Emma replied.

Damien's hand strayed to hers as the carriage swerved to avoid something in the road. She clasped it instinctively. For a brief moment, the motion threw them together closer. Damien's arm went around her protectively, and he thudded his fist against the roof.

“What the devil are you doing, man!” he called to the driver.

“I'm sorry, Your Grace, an urchin dashed across the road in front of me,” he replied.

Damien looked down at Emma, who nestled in his arms. She looked back, and their eyes lingered. Then he released her, pushing himself away as much as the carriage would allow. She felt her face flush and regretted it when his hand released hers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Are you aware of what your brother might be getting up to?” Damien asked as he strode into his now-shared drawing room of his Curzon Street Residence.

Emma peeked up from the book she had been reading alone, as she had been wont to do the past week during her private time in between invitations and socials. The couple had not talked much outside of that, owed to Damien’s nightlyerrandsand his promise to keep their connection impersonal.

Presently, he stopped at the center of the room, finely dressed and shod, hair falling straight back from his temples like a Norse chieftain, dressed for the eighth social of the week.

Emma calmly set the book down and rose.

“I am not. I have not seen nor spoken to Charles for more than a week. Not since the wedding breakfast, in fact.”

Damien held a rag of a gossip sheet in one tight fist, found for him by Wilkins. Emma's eyes snapped to it. They were bright and intelligent but also tense. Damien felt the same tension; it made him irritable.

“What is that? Something to do with Charles?” Emma asked.

“Obviously,” he replied shortly.

“It is not obvious unless it is explained,” she said, putting out a hand for the paper, “and whatever he has done, it is beyond my control.”

“Rumors of gambling and debts,” Damien muttered. “I mention it only as it undermines what I am trying to achieve in marrying you. Undermines what you are trying to do for your family.”

“I am no more happy with the effort we have gone to here being wasted than you are. What would you have me do?” Emma said, sounding exasperated, “Lock him up?”

“When I decided to marry you, it was because of the position and reputation of your family. Even then, but more so now, I find that there are secrets that were kept from me.”

Emma put her hands on her hips.

“Youforcedyour way into my family, need I remind you. You insisted on marrying me. You would not be in this difficult position otherwise.”

Damien knew this to be the truth but was too angry to accept common sense. He turned away.