Page 52 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
“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, itdidmatter. 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 lesssalubriousquarters, 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 saidartbefore.”
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!”
“Thatismy 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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emma 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.
