Page 19 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

E mma reached the Black Lion Inn and was met by a stable hand to whom she handed her reins. She went inside and asked for the landlord, announcing herself as fiancée to the Duke of Redmane. She half expected a sly wink from the man and a knowing smile, but he was ingratiating, apparently taking her claim at face value.

“Kindly show me to the Duke's room. I shall require a measuring tape, paper, ink, and a pen,” Emma announced.

None of her requests were met with so much as a blink of the landlord's eye. He bowed and exclaimed that all would be as she requested before showing her to an upstairs room.

It was well lit with windows under the eaves of the sloping roof. A large fireplace stood against one wall and a well-stocked bookcase on the other. A chaise nestled under the window beside a table and well-appointed chairs. A door led into a bedroom, the bed large and curtained.

Once again, Emma imagined Damien using this room to entertain other women. The idea of lying with him in that large bed was intoxicating . The idea of others doing the same with him was maddening .

Tape measure, paper, pen, and ink were brought and left on the table of the sitting room.

“Why am I here?” she muttered to herself. “I must have been mad. Or drunk!”

She had stolen his horse and offered to race him to this place. And now she was going to...

“I am mad! How can I let a man who is almost a complete stranger see me in my...”

Damien appeared in the stable yard below. His boots were muddy and there were blotches on his coat. He had clearly run through the field, uncaring of the damp conditions underfoot. Emma looked down at herself, seeing smatters of soil tossed up by the horse's hooves.

She heard the Duke breezing through the inn below, being greeted, and then heard the rapid blows of booted feet on stairs. She turned to face the door, hands clasped together at the middle of her stomach, heart racing.

The door soon pushed open and Damien strode in, closing it behind him. He looked to the tape measure.

“I see you are prepared. The innkeeper asked me if he should be sending for a dressmaker after your request. I told him not to.”

“I am prepared,” Emma said, unable to keep a waver from her voice.

Damien approached, picking up the tape measure and examining. He looked at Emma, eyes studying her from head to toe. That glance was almost a physical touch.

“Well, this should not be too difficult,” Damien murmured, approaching her closer, “I suppose she will need to know your height. The length of your skirt...”

Emma swallowed. “I believe you will be required to provide the measurement of my neck both in length and circumference. My bosom. My hips and waist. My legs, inside and out,” she hesitated. Damien raised an eyebrow, waiting, “and I believe that the measurements would not be accurate if they are taken... above my gown.”

She knew her face was now scarlet but she forced herself to look at Damien, refusing to let her embarrassment best her. His lips were parted and it was as though he was striving to keep his eyes on her face alone.

“I see,” he nodded. “That makes sense.”

Emma took a deep breath. It was now or never.

She turned without a word, gathering her hair in both hands to bare the nape of her neck and the row of tiny buttons trailing down her spine.

The first button slipped free beneath his fingers.

She felt his breath, warm and unhurried, ghost across her skin as the fabric gave way. With each delicate release, his touch drifted lower, unfastening her inch by inch, as though unveiling something precious.

The last button surrendered.

Emma let the bodice slide from her shoulders, gravity taking hold as the gown slithered to her waist, then down to the floor in a soft, rustling heap. She stood still—breathless, and burning. Her arms at her sides. Waiting.

The cloth tape measure, brass-tipped and innocent in its purpose, brushed the back of her hand. Then, the curve of her shoulder. Then, the nape of her neck. A hush settled between them. She felt the length of the tape unravel down her spine, followed by the gentlest press—his hand at the small of her back. She heard numbers, murmured close to her ear, and swallowed hard. Her mouth went dry as he reached around her waist, encircling it with the tape next.

She could not see the proximity of his body but she could feel it. He must only be inches away from her. Only a thin layer of fabric separated them, one that could easily be rented asunder by his powerful hands. There was then nothing beneath to separate her nakedness from him.

“I think you must move your arms so that I may measure your sides,” Damien whispered, almost rasping. “That must be important, I would think, for your bodice.”

Each breath was a gossamer touch to her skin and Emma fought the urge to writhe against that touch. She wanted to glory in it, to feel and revel in the feelings he was bringing forth. But she forced herself to remain still and unmoving.

That in itself was a torture and a pleasure.

She fought the instincts of her own body, fought for control against the growing desire. The cold metal of the tape tip pressed against her skin under her right arm. The undergarment she wore was sleeveless.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Emma became aware that goosebumps stood on her bare arms.

“There is a draught,” she nodded subtly.

She almost squeaked as he touched her bare shoulders. His gentle graze ran down her arms and the goosebumps subsided as his skin warmed hers.

“You told me we would be husband and wife in name only,” Emma said hoarsely.

“We will be.”

“Then you cannot touch me.”

“Tell me to stop.”

The words caught in Emma's throat. His hands closed about her upper arms, palms pressing against her skin and fingers enclosing her delicate pale femininity. Emma could feel her pulse thundering in her throat. Most exciting of all was that she could hear his heavy breath, hear the desire in him.

Soft lips pressed against her neck and remained there. He did not kiss, merely pressed his warm lips against her skin. Emma gasped, hands reaching for her throat and then being forced to her sides. Movement against her throat, his mouth pressing harder, lips parting as though tasting her. The very idea sent Emma into paroxysms of pleasure, making her knees tremble.

His hands were about her waist and they rose, the material of her petticoat bunching as they did, rising with his fingers to expose stockinged legs.

When his touch reached the scarring on her left side, she froze.

Whirling, she slapped his hands away, stepping back towards the window. Damien looked astonished. Then his face darkened to anger. To Emma, it was like the face of Silas Sutherland. He had also been shocked when she slapped his face. Then enraged.

Except, Damien simply sighed. “I am sorry. I have given in to my instincts once again. And after you have made your feelings clear. I can only apologize. I mean what I say when I talk about a marriage of convenience,” he started to turn away, then he stopped, “I must ask though. Is the idea of intimacy so repellent where I am concerned? What is it that makes you react so? I feel that you are attracted, and then...”

Emma’s throat worked around a reply. “I… I cannot explain,” she whispered plaintively.

Damien bridged the gap between them in two long strides and took her hands, holding them in his own and kissing them. She looked up at him and he smiled reassuringly.

“You are without question the most beautiful, exotic, and remarkable woman I have ever met,” Damien said softly.

“You are infuriating and controlling and I should hate to be married to you,” Emma replied instead.

“At times, you are just as infuriating as I suspect I am. And yet, there are moments when I think I am…” Damien faltered, clearing his throat, and looking away for a moment, “I did not ever expect to be in this position. I was prepared for this to be purely transactional when I first hosted the ball.”

Emma swallowed, her voice low. “I also did not anticipate being in this position. Not for a very long time.”

“But why?” Damien demanded with passion, caressing her face. “I cannot resist touching you. I do not know how I will hold to the agreement I have entered into with you. I will hold to my word but it will not be easy. Tell me, Emma—why would a woman like you believe she’d never marry?”

She tried to speak. The words stuck.

“Because…” Her throat tightened. “Because I am…” Her voice broke. “Debased. Deformed... Corrupted.”

Once the words tumbled out, they could not be contained.

“I was defiled. And it clings to me. Always. No matter how clean I try to be. I cannot be touched—not without feeling his hands. His stain.”

Damien immediately paled. His breath left him in a sharp exhale. His features hardened—not with judgment, but with fury.

“Who?” he asked, voice trembling, barely restrained. “…Who did this to you?”

“I shan’t ever say,” she replied, eyes glistening. “If I do, someone will seek vengeance on my behalf. And get hurt in the process. I won’t allow that. He’s taken enough from me. I won’t let him take anyone else.”

Damien’s voice dropped to something near reverence. “What happened?”

She blinked, and the tears spilled freely. “I was propositioned,” Emma whispered, “an indecent offer made to me which I refused. He didn’t care. One night, he found me alone. He forced himself on me. I fought him.” She inhaled shakily. “He… hurt me. And he left me scarred.”

The silence that followed was thick with emotion, broken only by the quiet, steady sound of her weeping.

Without a word, Damien drew her into his arms and led her gently to the chaise. He sat and held her close, arms wrapped firmly around her, anchoring her in the storm of her pain. His embrace was tight, and Emma felt safer than at any time since her childhood. Certainly since being attacked by Silas Sutherland. Pressed against his chest, Emma wept—harder than she had in years. But for the first time since that night, she did not feel lost.

“Does anyone else know?” he asked, his voice low, almost guttural. “Your family?”

Emma shook her head. “No one. Only Elsie.”

Damien was silent for a moment. Emma looked into his eyes and when she met his gaze, she saw a terrible rage there. It burned like the fires of hell. His face was tight, the face of an implacable god intent on vengeance. She suddenly felt deathly afraid for anyone who was the subject of that anger.

“I understand now,” Damien grated from between gritted teeth. “Elsie tended to your injury. You left your family to recover in privacy and Elsie was your nurse.” His fists clenched. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Emma looked down, ashamed. “I was burned. Thrown against the stove in the kitchen. The iron caught my side. I didn’t tell anyone… didn’t ask for help. It festered.” She took a breath. “The scar, I mean. I waited and then sought a place in a sanatorium where I could recover in secret. I pretended an illness to my family, kept to my rooms. By the time I reached the sanatorium, I was gravely ill. Nearly gone.”

Damien closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was guttural and raw.

“I will kill him.”

“And then you would hang for murder! I would not have him ruin another life.”

“But that would be justice!” Damien roared.

“I won’t give you his name,” Emma insisted.

Damien's jaw locked. The silence between them crackled again. “You should not be ashamed of a scar,” he muttered, gravelly, “it is not a badge of shame. It is a wound that did not take your life, which you had the strength to recover from. That is a mark of strength.”

She put her hand to her side, feeling the scar there.

“I cannot see it so,” she whispered.

Without another word, Damien stood and turned to face her. He stripped off his coat. His waistcoat. Then, unlaced his shirt. He pulled it over his head to reveal his bare chest.

Emma gasped.

Scars—countless, cruel—scored his chest, crisscrossing the muscles with terrible precision. He turned, and her breath caught again. His back bore worse. Livid welts, old but brutal, like lashings from some merciless hand. It was as if someone had tried to brand the soul out of him.

She rose, slowly.

Damien took her hand and pressed it to his chest, atop one of the scars. Then he moved it in a line that followed the scar.

“What… what happened?” she asked.

Damien smiled tentatively. “I have led an adventurous life since I inherited the Dukedom. I will not speak of it in detail. But I wear these marks as badges of honor. None of these wounds killed me, though I suppose any one of them could have. I am stronger than the harm they sought to do me. And, little dove, so are you.”

He walked across the room and snatched up the tape measure again, holding it up.

“May I?” he asked.

Emma hesitated, then nodded mutely.

She turned her back and lifted her petticoat up over her head. She cast it aside and stood with arms folded. She could not hide the nakedness of her derrière from him but concealed her breasts and her womanhood simply by standing with her back to him.

He could look if he wished. Emma would not stop him. She knew that her scarring was now on full display.

Her heart trembled. In spite of it all, she waited with bated breath for a snort of disgust. For the sound of him leaving the room or telling her to redress.

Instead, there was only silence.

Then came the faintest shift of the floorboards.

Her entire being jolted when she felt the brush of his lips, tender and infuriatingly careful, at the top of her scar. He did not speak. He simply kissed the place where her pain lived, and moved lower in slow, aching increments, tracing the length with reverence she couldn’t breathe through.

Her arms clutched tighter around herself.

A moment later, the cold tape whispered against her side.

“ Shoulders ,” he murmured. He wrapped the tape beneath her arms, the cold metal brushing just beneath her breasts.

She stiffened. His fingers lingered there far longer than they ought.

She stared fixedly ahead. “I do hope the dressmaker appreciates the detail.”

“I am certain she will,” he replied gently. Only the rough edge of his breath betrayed him. His hands slid lower to her waist, fingertips grazing the hollow there before drawing the tape in snug. “Waist… narrow. Irresponsibly so.”

“I shall endeavor to consume more breakfast rolls,” she said.

“I shall endeavor to serve more,” he murmured, shifting closer. “If you would permit me, I should need to measure across the front.”

One hand dipped lower, a subtle gesture of shielding she made no apology for. Then, she nodded.

He moved around her, standing before her now, bare from the waist up. The firelight painted shadows across the broad plane of his chest, the pale scars vivid and strangely beautiful. She tried not to look. She failed utterly.

“This… will require arms lifted,” he said, his tone maddeningly mild.

Emma frowned. “I might object to that.”

His silence was deliberate. Then he moved, passing by her to the hearth. With his bare hands, he dimmed the firelight until the room was wrapped in a gentle gloom. The flames still flickered, but their glow barely reached the corner where she stood.

When he turned back to her, his voice was gentler. “There. The shadows will do most of the work. The rest… you may trust me with.”

Her arms slowly loosened, though her fingers still trembled. Her head ducked ever so slightly in coyness.

She bared herself.

He stepped close again, holding the tape, but not using it just yet. His eyes met hers first. Then dipped—slowly, reverently— taking her in not as a thing to be devoured, but something to be memorized.

When he did lift the tape, his hands brushed the curve of her breast. It was barely a touch, only enough to anchor the edge, but it seared through her like a brand. He measured across her chest with infuriating calm, though his breathing was far from steady now. Then, down her neckline to her waist.

“Are you—certain the dressmaker needs this much precision?” she whispered.

He regarded her once more. “ Quite certain.”

He didn’t move. Nor did she.

Her fingers curled.

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upward. “You are beautiful in the light,” he murmured, “but in shadow, I think you might be unbearable. You ought not ever be shy.”

Emma didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

His hand dropped to her hip, then traced the curve of it. “ Hips ,” he said, as though he needed to announce it. As though his thumb wasn’t pressing into the softness there in a way that made her legs feel rather uncertain beneath her.

“Does this meet your standards for statistical accuracy?” she asked, breath catching.

He looked up at her lips. “Not yet.”

He rose. Gently, his mouth found hers—slow, warm, utterly consuming. There was no performance in it, no showmanship. Just heat. And longing. And the slow slide of his palm across her ribcage, then the soft weight of it over her breast. Her hands tightened above her head, but she didn’t pull away.

His thumb brushed her peak, coaxing a gasp from her lips. She leaned into him, unsure if it was desire or instinct—or simply relief at being touched without pain, without shame. Her body moved without her permission, aching for more.

But just as the kiss deepened, something shifted between them. A flicker of clarity, of sense piercing through want.

Emma’s hands found his chest and pressed—gently, but enough.

Damien broke the kiss. His forehead rested briefly against hers. The space between them pulsed with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they nearly had.

“I believe we’ve reached the limits of what a dressmaker requires,” she said, breathless.

He gave a soft, almost rueful exhale. “Then I should be grateful she asked for so much.”

The tape returned, grazing lower, teasing across the top of her thigh, then rising again. His free hand ghosted along the back of her leg, where skin turned delicate. She felt the heat of his palm. She didn’t dare move. Or speak. Or exhale .

When he stepped back at last, the room felt several degrees colder.

Damien looked at her, his chest rising with effort, and though he said nothing, his expression held a thousand words unspoken. He did not touch her again.

Instead, he reached for her discarded petticoat, offered it silently, and turned his face away as she covered herself.

“I believe that concludes the necessary numbers,” he said, as if they had simply recited a parish ledger.

She stepped away slowly, accepting the petticoat and slipping back into it with shaking fingers.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But when she glanced up, she caught him watching her with that same impossible gaze—that quiet storm that said: this was not enough. And yet it was already too much.