Hence, he’d arrived at the solution: find himself a new wife and retire his aunt to the dowager house for good.
Of course, finding a lady who could rub along with his aunt wouldn’t be easy. Laura and Patrice had fought like two well-bred cats, polite in public, hissing and clawing in private. An idea had germinated over the last few days, and for an instant, he allowed himself to consider it: how would Emma and Lady Patrice get along?
His ethereal, nervy aunt would likely expire from the shock of Emma’s arrow-straight directness.
Yet as mad as the notion was, the idea of making Emma his duchess held a certain... appeal. Once the possibility had nudged itself into his head, he couldn’t help but ponder it. Thanks to her meddling, his search for a wife had been thwarted. Her testimony against him had tainted his reputation, and, even with its retraction, the scandal would take time to fade. He didn’t want to waste another Season looking for a wife.
Not when he had a perfectly good candidate staring him in the face.
“The jade or gold cufflinks, your grace?”
“Jade,” he murmured.
Hell, Emma had made a hash of his marriage plans; sheowedhim a duchess. And marriage would actually give him control over her. She would carry his name. Eventually his child.
His loins stirred at the thought.
Aye, that was the most compelling reason of all: he would no longer have to deny his sexual attraction to her. He could bed her as often, as thoroughly as he wished. Night after night, he could bring about her passionate surrender.
As his valet helped him into his jacket, Alaric told himself not to rush things. Because there would be clear drawbacks to marrying Emma as well—the main one being that he’d never have a moment’s peace again. She was the most headstrong, tenacious woman he’d ever met... yet he had to admit that she was generally not underhanded about it. When Emma defied him, she did so to his face.
In retrospect, he knew it had been unfair to call her manipulative, his reaction triggered by his experiences with Laura. By his dead wife’s deviousness, her ability to slyly twist him into knots of guilt and anger.
Despite the dark memory, his mouth suddenly quirked.
One could accuse Emma Kent of being many things butsubtle? Not so much.
The valet stepped back. “Your grace?”
Pushing aside his musings, Alaric flicked a look at his reflection. His arm had healed nicely, the bandage barely visible beneath the sleeve of the cutaway. He looked and felt almost as good as new.
“That’ll do, Johnston,” he said.
The valet bowed, departing as Jarvis shuffled in.
The butler held out a note. “A message arrived, your grace. From Mr. Cooper.”
Alaric’s senses prickled. Richard Cooper was one of the guards he’d hired at his brother’s recommendation. Like Will, Cooper had been a scout for the 95th Rifles, and recognizing the stoic ex-soldier’s skill immediately, Alaric had assigned him to a special purpose.
Alaric scanned the brief message. The hairs shot up on his nape.
Christ’s blood, I’m going to wallop her until she can’t sit for a week.
With mingled fury and fear, he pushed by the startled butler, shouting for his carriage.
***
“How may I assist you... Mademoiselle Kendall, was it?” The buxom, black-haired proprietress arched a thin eyebrow.
“Um, yes. Eloise Kendall. That’s me,” Emma said.
Inwardly, she cringed. She hated lying, was terrible at it. Yet as she’d entered the shop located on a hidden lane in Covent Garden, her instincts warned her to keep her true identity and purpose concealed. Something about the place didn’t seem quite... right.
She couldn’t put a finger on the reason, however. The boutique was sumptuously decorated in tones of cream and pale bronze. Its wares—ladies’ unmentionables that looked as expensive as those Lily had been described as wearing—were artfully displayed.
From all appearances, Madame Marieur ran a successful establishment.
Emma’s ears picked up a noise, and her gaze shot to the red curtain at the back of the shop. “What was that sound?”
