The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke Page 2

  pendable young lady. And her father had dutifully married her off to a dependable Scottish viscount, the cheerful, quiet-spoken Stuart, Lord Lyons, who had never given her a moment of sorrow until his death from blood poisoning several years ago.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, reaching around Lord Wolverton to the table, “I have to find one of my students who’s feeling unwell. Oh, and here—hold out your hand.”

  He feigned a look of fright. “Are you going to spank my knuckles with a spoon?”

  “As much as you probably deserve it, no. Do as you’re told.”

  He did. And she dropped three pretty marzipan comfits into his gloved palm. “How did you do that?” he asked in surprise, glancing back at the cake.

  She arched her brow. “One learns to be sneaky when one has a reputation for propriety.”

  He broke into a grin. “Truly? I’ve always operated on the opposite principle.”

  “Ah.”

  He popped two comfits into his mouth and offered her the third. “Open your mouth.”

  “No, I couldn’t—” He slipped the sweet between her parted lips, his forefinger lingering on her cheek for a moment. Emma suddenly found it impossible to swallow. Her mouth tingled.

  He straightened. “You’re Emma, aren’t you? I couldn’t remember at first. My name is—”

  Emma bit her underlip, backing away. Perhaps he was simply lonely and desired conversation. Or shy—no, he wasn’t shy at all. “I know who you are, my lord,” she said in a parting whisper. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in London.”

  “You’ve heard of me then?”

  She sighed.

  “I’m not as bad as everyone says,” he called after her.

  She laughed, glancing back at him. “I’ll wager you’re not as good as you should be, either.”

  She escaped into the hall and headed up the small staircase to the ladies’ retiring room, hoping that by now Miss Butterfield’s stomach could survive the short ride home back home to her brother’s town house. To her surprise she was still smiling from her encounter with Lord Wolverton. She hadn’t expected him to be so candidly disarming.

  It was preferable to make a discreet and early exit. She was a little miffed that Sir William had vanished without a by-your-leave, but then perhaps he had been waylaid by a political friend. William was a true defender of the undertrodden and donated much of his time to charities.

  Waylaid.

  She recognized his erudite voice, the voice that could move the conscience of Parliament, drifting from the niche at the end of the hall. The sharp report of a slap and the indignant but elucidating outburst of a chambermaid followed. Emma found herself torn between making a hasty exit and confronting the son of prattlement who had pretended to court her.

  “I will not do the improper with you, you twiddle poop,” the young girl insisted. “And I’ll thank you to keep your trinkets in your trousers.”

  Emma swallowed her distaste and turned swiftly before either party could see her. She’d heard enough. She gripped the iron railing and started back down the stairs.

  What a bitter discovery. Sir William had seemed to be such an upstanding gentleman. What a disappointment, she thought wryly, to realize he was willing to stand up for anyone, and at a wedding. She could never look the pretender in the face again.

  “Emma!” he said in shock as, apparently, he caught sight of her.

  She glanced back unthinkingly, grateful that his trinkets were not in view, although his disheveled state spoke for itself.

  The maidservant squeezed around him, her gaze averted.

  “She accosted me,” he blurted out at the filthy look Emma gave him. “Bold little baggage shoved me into the wall and demanded I surrender my—”

  “—trinkets,” Emma said in a soft voice. “Yes, I heard. I wish I hadn’t.”

  “It ain’t true, ma’am,” the maidservant whispered, straightening her crooked white cap. “I was only doin’ me work.”

  “I know.” Emma glanced at Sir William with repugnance. His attractive face seemed flushed from drink and suddenly mean-spirited, not at all mature. He defended the downtrodden, which meant he’d earned the right to take advantage of the working class? How had she missed the signs? Good manners did not always go with a good heart.

  “Leave quietly,” she said to the maid. “The day is not ruined yet. Brush your hair and behave as though nothing has happened.”

  Sir William reached for Emma’s arm. She recoiled. The maidservant hesitated, for another man had just pounded up the service stairs at the end of the hall behind them.

  “Do not touch me,” Emma warned William in a low voice.

  “We can all pretend this never happened, Emma,” he said carefully, grasping her hand. “You and I have a future together.”

  “Get your filthy mitts off her,” the maidservant said, slowly moving to Emma’s side. “She’s a lady.”

  Sir William’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “This entire affair is a misunderstanding. I wandered into the hall by mistake. You and I are going to be married, Emma.”

  “We most certainly are not,” she said indignantly.

  She tugged her hand from his. He caught it again and closed his fingers over hers. “Shall we announce it now? It would be a very romantic way to end a wedding.”

  “I’ll get help,” the maidservant whispered, jabbing one last pin in her cap. “Don’t you worry about this little weasel.”

  Chapter Two

  Adrian reached the top of the stairs and halted in his tracks. After Emma Boscastle’s straightforward comment about his reputation, and her subsequent disappearance before he could defend himself, he hadn’t felt like standing alone at the table like a footman. He decided he’d done something wrong and thought he should apologize, although he would probably only end up teasing her again. Besides, there wasn’t much to defend about his reputation.

  Perhaps—he looked down. Had she noticed he was wearing his old comfortable riding boots? There hadn’t been time to change. Her brothers had dragged him from the park, not informing him of their destination.

  In fact, he’d have left the wedding if he had been able to find the other Boscastles. And then he remembered Drake mentioning there was a card room upstairs for the gentlemen. But no one was supposed to tell the bride.

  He glanced up thoughtfully at the man and woman talking in the hall above. At first, by the low sound of their voices, he thought he’d interrupted an intimate encounter.

  A moment later, he realized the exact nature of the situation.

  He pursed his lips, sneaking back down a step. He’d assumed he had offended Emma Boscastle by being himself and not putting on airs. Now he wondered if she’d merely had something else on her mind when he’d been talking to her. Another gentleman. He hadn’t been away from England for so long that he had forgotten the intrigues and indiscretions of the aristocracy.

  For himself, well, he preferred a more forthright approach to a love affair.

  Emma Boscastle’s soft cultured voice rose in obvious irritation. “Go home and play with your trinkets in private, Sir William.”

  Adrian glanced up in astonishment. He thought he must have misunderstood what she’d just said. So, apparently, did the gentleman clinging to her gloved hand, for his mouth dropped wide open.

  “Emma!” he said in obvious shock. “From you of all ladies. Don’t you remember why we became friends in the first place? You admired my fight for the lower classes. You—”

  Adrian told himself that eavesdropping was impolite, and a true gentleman knew the value of a discreet exit. Furthermore, he did not wish to interfere. Usually when he poked his nose into someone else’s affairs, a fight ensued. And yet as he watched the scene before him unfold, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was forced to intervene. Heath’s sister thought she could control the dandy-prat. Adrian doubted it.

  Emma’s response underscored the wisdom of following intuition. “Accosting a
maidservant is not what I call social reform, you—dog.” And then she twisted her wrist in another effort to free herself.

  “That’s going too far,” the man in the tightly knotted neckcloth said. “Come, my darling. You’re upset. Have a calming glass of champagne—an entire bottle, at my expense—with me, in one of the bedchambers.”

  She appeared to bend the tight neckcloth’s little finger with her free hand until he turned a sickly shade of gray. Adrian grimaced. It didn’t look well for their romance. Emma might be small in size, but that bold Boscastle temperament clearly betrayed her in times of duress. He braced one elbow back against the balustrade, resigned to whatever would come.

  “That was a blow, Emma,” her companion exclaimed. “Both an insult to my manly pride and to my finger. What a cold woman you are, and here I hoped that you would become my wife.”

  She shook her wrist. “If you do not release my hand this instant, I shall break your pinkie, William, and with an unforgivable amount of pleasure. I’d as soon marry a—a—”

  “—barrow pig,” Adrian murmured as he began to unbutton his coat. He was glad now he hadn’t stolen those comfits.

  “Hush, my pet,” the man unable to take a hint replied. “There’s someone standing on the stairs. We’re liable to be overheard.”

  Emma glanced over her shoulder, releasing an exasperated sigh as Adrian met her gaze and smiled at her. “Oh. Not him again.”

  He shook his head. What could he say? He should have escaped when he had the chance. Now he had no choice but to intervene. She had seen him. He’d seen her.

  And typically, when Adrian made an entrance, affairs tended to go from bad to worse. Still, he thought in cheerful resignation, he understood the Boscastle brothers well enough to know they would not tolerate any mistreatment of their sister. Furthermore, they had championed him on more than one occasion since his return to England.

  He had an obligation to return the favor.

  Emma was not a woman to make idle threats. As distasteful a task as she had pledged, she would carry it through before enduring another moment of the clodpate’s touch. “I beg you, William,” she whispered, “stop making a fool of yourself. Release my hand.”

  He thrust out his lower lip. “Not until you agree to marry me.”

  She was immensely thankful for the inborn breeding that saved her from shoving him into the wall. How she had come to misjudge him would keep her awake for months to come. Her personal feelings, however, must be cast aside until she was shed of him.

  “Let go of the lady’s hand,” a deep authoritative voice said over her shoulder.

  “Why should I?” Sir William asked belligerently, and then, taking a closer look at the man who strode up behind Emma, abruptly obeyed. “Who the blazes are you, may I ask?”

  “No, you may not.” Adrian stripped off his coat and handed it to Emma. The gesture drew her gaze down the broad contours of his chest. “Do you mind holding this for a moment?” he inquired politely.

  “Yes, I mind,” she said, folding the garment carefully over her forearm. “In my experience when a man removes his coat—”

  Adrian grinned.

  “Disregard that last remark,” she said hastily, a peculiar sensation stealing over her.

  “Who is this person, Emma?” Sir William demanded, staring up into Adrian’s hard-sculpted face.

  She moistened her lips, whispering, “Lord Wolverton.”

  “The Wolf?” he asked in an apprehensive under-tone.

  She nodded mutely.

  Sir William seemed to shrink. “Perhaps you ought to fetch Lord Heath to act as an intermediary.”

  “Please do,” Adrian said with a lethal smile. “It’s always preferable to have witnesses when one is defending honor.”

  “Not necessarily,” Emma retorted.

  “Go, Emma,” Sir William said faintly.

  “Yes, do.” Adrian stepped in front of her to confront the man who appeared to be losing his own powers of speech. “I’m a family friend, in case you were wondering. You, as evidenced by your misconduct, are not.”

  Emma held Adrian’s coat out to him. “Put this back on, Lord Wolverton,” she whispered in an urgent voice. “We’re still at a wedding.”

  His gaze lowered to her in a look she could only describe as incendiary. “I think we established that some time ago. Why don’t you go back downstairs and supervise the cutting of the cake?”

  She shivered at the meaningful smile he gave her before he unfastened his cuffs. A smile such as his signified trouble. At a wedding, of all places. “Do not roll up your sleeves,” she whispered as he began to do just that.

  She felt panic roil inside her. She had watched her brothers tuck up their shirtsleeves too many times with that same careless disregard not to realize that acts of violence, possibly involving missing teeth, would ensue.

  “This is not anything you should concern yourself with, Emma,” he said in a dismissive voice.

  “It isn’t something you should do,” she whispered in rising alarm. But she knew the signs. It was too late to thwart male pride. Thus had the world evolved, and in the end all a woman could do was tidy up afterward and hope no one was seriously hurt.

  Sir William looked as if he were about to faint. “When did you become Lord Wolverton’s lover?” he asked Emma incredulously. “You turned to ice whenever I tried to touch you.”

  “His lover?” she echoed, aghast. For that aspersion she could have challenged him herself.

  Adrian walked him backward toward the wall. Sir William edged over to one of the two crested hall chairs that flanked the niche. “Why don’t we sit down together and talk this over?” he suggested to Adrian.

  Emma turned away, all but resigned to an ominous ending. Her brother Heath had just appeared in the hall below. In flagging hope she thought that if she could attract his attention in time, she might be able to avert a scandalous outcome.

  A vaguely familiar woman’s cry, a strange man’s answering curse from the upper hall diverted her again. She glanced back in reluctance, recognizing the comely maidservant whom Sir William had accosted, and at her heels a strapping young man in footman’s livery. The newcomer was obviously her enraged sweetheart, summoned by the girl to satisfy the affront to her honor.

  “Where is he?” the footman muttered. “Gentry or not, I’ll show ’im a thing or two.”

  Emma gripped Lord Wolverton’s coat in her hands. Distractedly she noted that it smelled pleasantly of vetiver. And the owner—well, his gentlemanly demeanor had apparently been discarded.

  He was standing over the chair into which Sir William had either been shoved or collapsed. Adrian’s broad shoulders blocked all but William’s shoes from view.

  “Did you hit him?” she asked in dread.

  Adrian straightened, his brow lifting in bemusement. “I think the sapskull has merely pretended to pass out. I never even touched him.”

  She lowered her hand in alarm. The footman had hefted the other chair into the air and was bearing down upon Adrian like a maddened bull. “Behind you, my lord,” she cried in warning.

  Sir William chose that inopportune moment to attempt to rise. Adrian, barely glancing at him, bent to push him back down into the chair.

  And at the instant he turned, the agitated footman brought the balloon-backed chair crashing down upon the back of Adrian’s head. Emma made an inarticulate sound in her throat. The maidservant gasped, swaying back in horror.

  “That’s the wrong man, you bloody idiot!” she cried at the footman. “Not him. The other one.”

  Adrian raised a hand to his face.

  For a moment Emma thought he had withstood the blow. Then he put his other hand out to the wall to brace himself and slowly crumpled to the floor.

  “It’s the wrong man,” the maid cried again. “What have you done, Teddy? What have you done?”

  The wrong man, Emma thought in despair, dropping Adrian’s coat. Men were wrong in general, or so she believed at that
moment. Male pride and imprudence. Was this to be her entire life? Was there no peace?

  She glanced down the stairs and saw her brother Heath staring up at her in alarm. A good man, she thought. An example of one who was rarely wrong. He asked her a question, but the words were indistinct.

  She could not manage an answer, at any rate. Shaking her head in a wordless plea for help, she rushed over to the man who had fallen in the hall. She dropped to the floor and slid her arm beneath his shoulders, raising him against her.

  Wrong man or not, Adrian had only meant to protect her.

  Adrian felt her bend over him, felt her hand upon his. She had light bones and a strong, confident manner, a peculiar but appealing combination in a woman. He knew he’d offended her sensibilities, quarreling at a wedding, but from his perspective, there had not been a choice.

  He hadn’t been away from England for so long that he had forgotten there were rules to follow. He supposed the finer points would come back to him sooner or later. Not that he cared to impress anyone. He had done his wicked best to distance himself from his heritage.

  Emma Boscastle had made quite an impression on him, though. Unexpected, that. He couldn’t remember Heath mentioning her, except in the vaguest terms. But then Heath was a private person, as Adrian tended to be, and he kept personal matters to himself.

  How the clodhopper of a footman had managed to attack him with a chair was testament to the lady’s charms. If Adrian hadn’t been intent on protecting her, he would not be crushed against her soft, tempting breasts at this moment.

  “Your head is bleeding,” she said in alarm, stroking his temple. “Please don’t be seriously hurt. I shall not allow it,” she added, and he smiled to himself, imagining his Renaissance angel taking up his cause in the good court.

  Or the fiery one below. He hadn’t exactly lived an exemplary life.

  He ought to tell her he had no intention of surrendering his earthly existence at all. But a pleasant darkness beckoned.

  Something warm touched his cheek. Her lips? “Did you just kiss me?” he asked with a half-smile.