Page 18 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“ M y house is not far,” Damien said as they began to walk in an easterly direction towards Oxford Street.

Emma stopped abruptly.

“No, not there. The modiste will have arrived by now, and even if she has not… my sisters will have. I would prefer it not to be in their presence.”

Damien frowned, and then looked about as though reorientating himself.

“Then… we will go to the Black Lion on the Harrow Road. It is not far and they keep a room for me.”

He turned the horse which he led by her bridle and began walking north again. Emma followed meekly.

“They keep a room for you?” she asked quietly, “when your residence in London is so close by?”

Damien stumbled and then cleared his throat. Emma wondered if she had caught him in an admission that he did not want to make. What reason would he have?

She could think of one that she did not like and hoped was not the case.

“When the house at Portman Square was being prepared for me, I required lodgings,” he began finally. “And then there are times when I must come to London but do not… want my presence advertised to the ton. Staying somewhere on the periphery is useful then.”

“It would be useful for a gentleman who enjoyed entertaining ladies discreetly too, I suppose,” Emma said, boldly. “I ask only because you wish me to marry you. I would say that I have a right to know...”

Damien regarded her squarely.

“I swear on my honor and my name that there are no ladies whom I have or seek to entertain. Our marriage may be one of convenience, but I will be as faithful a husband as if it were real. And, for the sake of my reputation, which is the entire point of the marriage, I would humbly request you to do the same.”

Emma’s eyes widened a touch at his implication, then she shook her head adamantly. “Of course! I have given you no grounds to think that I am a lady of loose morals. That I would be anything but faithful!”

“You have not, and it was a factor in my choice,” Damien nodded solemnly. “I did not mean to cause offense.”

“You succeeded without meaning to, then,” she muttered curtly with a bitter grimace.

She strode ahead, lengthening her stride. They had left Hyde Park and were walking along the Oxford Road with open countryside to one side and the jumbled metropolis of London behind them.

“I do not think that I can be entirely blamed for my assertion,” Damien called after her, “we have both given into our... primal instincts before now.”

Emma whirled on him, and he stopped short but did not look away.

“Are you trying to make yourself reprehensible to me? To drive me away perhaps?” she demanded.

“It seems to be you that is attempting to start a battle between us,” Damien rapped back.

Emma felt aggrieved at this.

“I have behaved impeccably throughout our acquaintanceship.”

“Except for our time atop the hill at Nettleden,” Damien pointed out.

Emma felt her face flush and was glad in some way that his face did the same. It made his eyes shine brightly and was very attractive. She tried to control her breathing, aware that she was breathless and that her heart was racing. She told herself that it was anger but the sight of the same reaction in him gave her a thrill that had nothing to do with animosity.

“Do you judge?” she demanded.

“I judge both of us. One cannot dance alone, as it were,” Damien replied.

“And how do you judge us both? As feral animals incapable of controlling our baser instincts?”

“We are all animals. And I used the word primal, rather than baser,” he corrected.

He had caught up now and stood, towering over Emma. If he had a mind to, he could cast her down onto the road and do as he would with her. There was no one else abroad and the only houses were distant. A scream might not even reach them.

“I used my words deliberately,” Emma pointed out.

“You regard our mutual attraction, for that is what drove us both to do what we did, as base ?” he asked.

“Yes, of course!” she shot back.

“And when you became aroused behind your bedroom door, knowing that I was equally as aroused on the other side? Was that base?”

His voice had dropped to a whisper, husky with desire.

All this time, he… he knew?

She wished he would look away, wanted desperately to escape the magnetic pull of his eyes. To escape the charisma of his body which seemed to sing to hers. A stray breeze stirred her auburn hair, casting it across her face. Damien's hand moved before hers, brushing it aside.

“I do not wish your face to be hidden from me,” he said in a voice made hoarse by...by... what? Lust ? Desire ? Could she inspire such profound emotions in a man?

“ I wish it hidden…” Emma whispered. “I wish the entirety of my body to be hidden. If I could be married in a shroud and never seen by you or anyone, then I would. It should make my life simpler.”

Damien frowned and reached up to stroke her cheek. She caught his hand before the contact, knowing that another touch would break her. Her base desire would take control and she would crave his body once more.

“Will you tell me the truth about your refusal to allow Madame Rousseau to measure you?” he asked.

“I saw her measure my sisters. It was an intimate exercise,” she answered.

“I have been measured for clothes, I can attest to that. I would not do it in public,” he assured.

“But I also have good reason to avoid... intimate touch.”

Damien frowned. “Madame Rousseau is a married woman and entirely respectable...”

“Not that!” Emma snapped in exasperation.

“Then what?” he asked, equally as frustrated.

“I... I cannot explain further.”

She felt the sting of frustrated tears pricking at her eyes. She wanted to tell all but did not want to see the revulsion in his eyes at the thought of her disfiguring scars. Nor the disgust at her for being unable to stand up for herself while almost being tarnished by a lecherous beast.

It should not matter as they would never be intimate again. But, for some reason, it did matter. It mattered more than anything.

Damien's hand was still in hers, she realized. His grip was strong. If he did not wish to let go, she did not think that she could make him do so. His hands were warm but she could feel the hard lines of calluses. He stilled as her fingers brushed his knuckles and she realized there was scar tissue there too, and fresh.

“What have you been doing?” she breathed.

Damien withdrew, stepping back and clasping his hands behind himself.

“Shall we? The Black Lion is along the Westborn Green, a few roads away.”

“So that you may measure me, becoming acquainted with the contours and lines of my body while I remain ignorant of yours?” Emma asked bluntly.

Damien ducked his head, the picture of a shamed giant, and then brought his hands into sight again. He turned them over, first the backs, then the palms. Emma stepped closer and gasped at the sight of numerous scars, bruises, and cuts.

“I... have frequented some of London's less salubrious quarters, and such places come with physical dangers that could only be overcome one way.”

“You are saying that you visit hells and get into brawls? And you accuse me of threatening your reputation?” she scoffed.

“No! I do not. Sort of . I have been and always am incognito. It is sometimes liberating to walk among the common man without the barrier of rank between you. But I do it no longer,” he quickly reassured.

“Do you indulge in that barbaric sport they call pugilism?” she asked.

Damien smiled as they continued their walking. “ Barbaric ? In London at least, the prize ring rules render it more a sport than an example of barbarism. So yes, I have practiced said art before.”

Emma winced. “So, I am asked to accept a husband who enjoys beating other men and being beaten?”

Damien actually laughed. Emma felt a stab of irritation. The truth was, the feelings stirring within her at the thought of Damien stripped to the waist and slick with sweat made her giddy. She told herself that she was outraged and tried not to think about how deliciously arousing those thoughts were.

“I enjoy the sport. A battle of strength and skill,” Damien replied, “and if it makes my hands a little rough, so be it.”

“Sports of skill?” Emma said, eyeing the horse, “Do they impress you?”

Without warning, she took the bridle from Damien's hands and swung herself up into the saddle in one smooth, practiced maneuver. She sat side-saddle but immediately had the reins and gave the mare a nudge with her heels, speeding her into a canter.

As the wind whipped her hair back from her face, Emma felt a momentary thrill. Not just for the opportunity to ride but also to show off her ability. She glanced back over her shoulder, grinning in triumph at the look of astonishment on Damien's face.

Spurring the mare to a gallop, Emma rode up the Westborn Green lane until she reached a low point in the hedge that framed the road. Whirling the mare and shouting her encouragement, she leaped the hedge and the mare sped across the field beyond. Sheep scattered like clouds before storm winds. Damien stood on a stile, watching her.

“It is a shame that you do not have a horse of your own!” she called out to him, “you could put your horsemanship against mine!”

“That is my horse and you have stolen it!” Damien called back, laughing.

“Then I am a criminal and on the run!” Emma said, feeling dizzy at the sense of liberation which the mare gave her. She looked around and saw the outline of a large house in the distance. It looked large enough to be an inn, with multiple columns of smoke rising from its many chimneys. She pointed.

“Catch me then,” she dared and spurred the horse towards the inn.