The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke Page 8

  “Why do you want to look at my eyes?” he demanded suddenly of Julia.

  “To judge how responsive you are.”

  “I’m responding to you well enough now, aren’t I?”

  Julia raised her brow. “You know, Charlotte, it might not be a bad idea to fetch Emma, after all.”

  “Why?” Charlotte asked in amusement.

  “Because she is accustomed to dealing with the recalcitrant.”

  “And the socially hopeless,” Charlotte added, her mouth curving into a grin.

  “I beg your pardon,” Adrian said. “Have the pair of you come here to make fun of me?”

  “We’re only thinking of your welfare,” Julia said lightly.

  “My welfare.” Had he been away from England so long that women had become liberal in expressing their opinions? Or was this a particular influence of the Boscastle men? Not that he’d given the matter deep thought, but if he ever married, he might appreciate a woman who wasn’t afraid of her own shadow. Or of him.

  Marriage. He supposed it would be expected of him if he chose to accept his legacy. Breeding sons and horses came as part of the package, and it wasn’t an unpleasant prospect for the future.

  “Recalcitrant,” he muttered. “Hopeless.”

  Julia laughed. “Perhaps the last was an exaggeration. But you have to understand that my sister-in-law is the family’s caretaker, and well, we’re all a bit intimidated by her.”

  “A bit?” Charlotte, said, laughing.

  Intimidated? Adrian smiled to himself. In a certain light he could see how Emma would intimidate. He’d been a little afraid of her until they were alone and she had softened, let down her guard.

  “What she means,” Charlotte said, “is that Emma lavishes her attention intensely on those of us in whom she perceives a deficit.”

  Another person entered the room before Adrian could reflect upon this revelation. He glanced up in the hope that it might be Emma herself, come to lavish attention on him. It was her brother, Heath.

  “Is our hero demonstrating his deficits this morning?” he asked wryly, seemingly having overheard at least the latter part of the conversation.

  He went straight to his wife’s side; his arm slid around her waist. “What we were discussing,” Julia said, leaning comfortably into Heath’s embrace, “was how Emma thrives on taking care of those in need.”

  “Ah.” Heath grinned. “It’s true, I’m afraid. My sister will probably fret over you unmercifully as long as you remain within her care.”

  “Really?” Adrian managed to sound polite but disinterested even as he absorbed every word. Within her care. Why was that phrase so enticing? “I shall have to do my best not to draw attention to myself,” he said after a brief hesitation.

  Heath met his gaze. “That’s a good idea.”

  A warning there. Adrian had failed to hide all traces of his interest in Emma.

  “My sister is never happier,” Heath continued, “than when coaxing social improvement in the uncouth.”

  “I hope she can forgive me for what happened yesterday,” Adrian said, smiling faintly. Not to mention last night. Would she forgive him? Could he make her believe what they’d done was as uncommon an occurrence for him as it had been for her?

  Heath shrugged. “She seemed herself at breakfast.”

  Adrian shifted in the chaise; he felt a bit foppish with his legs crossed at the ankles to keep them from dangling in midair.

  “Speaking of which,” Heath went on, now addressing the two ladies in the room, “yon Wolf has a lean and hungry look. What do you say we feed him breakfast to fortify him before another visit from the doctor?”

  Adrian grunted. It was on the tip of his tongue to insist there was nothing wrong with him that required a visit from that mountebank. But something stopped him. He crossed his arms behind his neck.

  And he knew what—or, rather, who—it was.

  If Emma Boscastle felt the need to lavish her attention on an uncouth being, she had certainly met her match in Adrian. Never had a man begged more for betterment. He wondered idly whether she was up to such a challenge. And how he could present his case to her in a way she could not refuse, or that would not offend her family.

  Emma could not concentrate.

  His face insisted upon stealing into her thoughts.

  That hard, compelling face. It was strange, she mused, but when a certain light captured his strong bones, he appeared as cold and distant as a Norse god. Yet when he smiled or teased, he seemed vulnerable, a man who had simply lost his way.

  She stared down at the etiquette manual from which she had been reading aloud. She couldn’t find her place. She couldn’t even remember what she’d been—ah, table manners. So very essential.

  “Woolgathering, are we?” Harriet asked, her impudent voice jolting Emma’s attention back to the present.

  She cleared her throat. Now even a ragamuffin found cause to scold her. “One starts to learn table manners almost at the moment of birth,” she said, warming to the familiar. “A diligent nursemaid never allows her charge to eat his eggs without a fresh linen bib. And even the youngest infant must learn not to spill.”

  She paused, distracted by the sight of one student slumped forward in her chair. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “Is Miss Butterfield dozing off? This will never do.”

  “Blame Harriet,” one of the girls grumbled. “She kept everyone up all night.”

  Emma laid her book down upon the table with a light bang. “Amy. Amy.”

  Miss Butterfield woke up with a start of embarrassment. The other students smirked. It was never pleasant to be on the receiving end of Lady Lyons’s reproach. But it was wonderful fun to witness a fellow student’s scolding.

  Emma frowned. The image of a pair of warm hazel eyes and sensuous mouth taunted the back of her mind. Her concentration faltered. This would not do. How could a man she’d met only yesterday intrude upon her guiding principles?

  It had never happened. He had promised.

  She raised her voice. “We will discuss next how one is to hold a spoon and fork.”

  Harriet slouched in her chair with a huge sigh. “Are we still talking about that messy baby?”

  “It’s your fault, Harriet Gardner,” Miss Butterfield burst out, tears of anger in her eyes. “She got cross at me because you kept us up till all hours with your vulgar games.”

  Emma paled. Another thread unraveled.

  “Vulgar games?” She strode to Harriet’s chair. “I hope I have misheard. You did not sneak back to the rookeries last night and take along the other girls? You did not involve them in your former life?”

  Harriet stood, her head bowed in an attitude of meekness. “No, Lady Lyons, upon my humble soul I did not commit the crime of which I am so unfairly charged.”

  Miss Butterfield jumped out of her chair. “You dirty little gutter girl! Tell her what you did do, then. Tell her, Harriet Gardner.”

  Harriet’s head jerked up. Fists raised, she shot around her chair like a pugilist only to be hauled back by Emma’s hand. “Who the bleedin’ ’ell are you calling dirty, I wanna know? Who the effin’—”

  Emma clamped her other hand over Harriet’s mouth, effectively smothering what she knew from experience would be a blistering earful of shameful invective. Miss Butterfield smirked, only to be nudged back to her chair by Charlotte Boscastle.

  Another girl popped up in her place. “Harriet didn’t leave the house. She made us all go upstairs and dared us to look at the duke’s heir.”

  “The duke’s heir?” Emma said, aghast. “She disturbed Lord Wolverton?” She lowered her hand from Harriet’s mouth. “Whatever were you thinking?”

  Harriet backed away from her. “I only wanted a peek at ’is nibs while he slept. That ain’t no crime, is it?”

  One of the younger girls spoke. “She ordered us to look at him while he slept, Lady Lyons. She said that if we wanted to marry a duke, we had to see what one looked like in the dark.” />
  Emma did not dare ask what they had seen.

  Less than an hour later Adrian was reconsidering the wisdom of prolonging his recuperation as an underhanded method of attracting Emma’s continued attention. He was not even sure he could tolerate being laid up for another day. The rough-hearted men who had fought under him would burst their sides with hysterics if they could see him taking breakfast in bed.

  He who had refused brandy when he’d been stitched up by a surgeon from wrist to scapula with only a stick clenched between his teeth to stifle his screams of pain. Hell. The surgeon had been drunk and sweating more than Adrian.

  If he remained in this house for another hour, it would only be for one reason. Which had absolutely nothing to do with injury or enfeeblement. It had everything to do with his desire to be near Emma Boscastle.

  And since she’d made it painfully clear she wished nothing further to do with him, he would have to be a little more subtle about how he went about it. He would have to prove himself to her. As he’d never bothered about making an impression before, and as he was anything but subtle in manner, he perceived he had a problem.

  So he loitered in bed a little longer, studying the church spires and gray sky through the window.

  Unfortunately, he had not pondered long before another visitor interrupted his concentration. He groaned inwardly as he recognized Emma’s cousin, Sir Gabriel Boscastle, a handsome gambler and hard-seasoned soldier with a dark sense of humor who had walked on the dangerous side of life a few times himself. He’d been at odds with his London cousins in the past. It appeared the two factions of the family had made amends. “Look at our little patient. I heard you ruined a perfectly good chair with your head yesterday.”

  Adrian snorted. Gabriel was a man’s man, a lady’s man, and had lived as many years on the fringe of Society as he had. “I might just jump out of bed and throttle the next person who reminds me of that humiliating fact.”

  Gabriel broke into a grin. “At least they’ve got your head resting on pretty silk cushions. Would you like me to bring you some flowers?”

  Adrian laughed reluctantly. “I thought I might start reading fashion magazines.”

  “All jesting aside, are you all right?” Gabriel inquired, swinging his long legs over a stool.

  “How do I look?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “Damned peculiar on that chaise, I have to say. Why are you still here, anyway?”

  “I suppose I am easily amused.”

  Gabriel lowered his voice. He’d been born with the dark Boscastle beauty and passion for life. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”

  Adrian angled forward, his interest piqued. “Explain.”

  “Escape, my friend, while you have the chance. This is not a place for men like us who value their freedom.”

  “I suppose you’re referring to the young ladies of the academy,” Adrian retorted. “I believe I can keep them at bay.”

  “Hell, not them,” Gabriel said rudely. “I mean the headmistress, Emma. Get out of this house and run for your life before her gloves of doom grasp you in their dainty but deadly clutches.”

  Now Adrian’s curiosity was not merely piqued, it was aroused uncontrollably. “Run from Emma? She’s half my size,” he mused. And more than twice his weight in spirit.

  Gabriel smiled darkly. “Once she realizes what a miserable past you’ve led, she will move heaven and earth to make your life one of duty and decency.”

  Adrian cleared his throat. He liked what little he knew of Gabriel. But, frankly, he was more intrigued by his dire threats of Emma’s intentions than discouraged. “I must say, Gabriel, if she tried to redeem you, it doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  “Some of us are beyond redemption,” Gabriel replied, unoffended. “I try to avoid her notice as much as possible. Of course you don’t have much choice. You do know what the family calls her? The Dainty Dictator.”

  Adrian hid his amusement behind a bland expression. It occurred to him that Emma had developed her leadership skills of necessity in a family of dominant personalities. A wilting violet would perforce be trampled at an early age in this clan.

  “I suppose I would have done the same thing yesterday if I saw her insulted,” Gabriel mused. “Mind you, I think you should have ducked before ruining that chair.”

  “That’s good advice.” Adrian suddenly reached back for a cushion to hurl at Gabriel’s chest. “Duck.”

  Gabriel caught the cushion with a grin. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Lying here wounded makes you an ideal target for one of Emma’s improving crusades. It’s truly painful when she decides to redeem you because, well, because there’s something about her that makes a man wish he could be better. She lectures you. You pretend to listen, and then before you know it, you start hearing her voice, like an angel of conscience on your shoulder, just when you’re tempted to have a good time.”

  “Well, she won’t have any luck with us in the long run, will she?”

  “Not in my opinion.” Gabriel tossed the cushion back onto the chaise. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t take up the challenge and put us through torment in the meantime.”

  Adrian laughed. No one in his memory had ever taken him as a cause. It sounded almost pleasant.

  “She improves young girls, Gabriel. Not battle-scarred soldiers like you and me.”

  Gabriel backed toward the door. “Now there’s a thought. She can buff you up with beeswax for one of her debutantes. I might even suggest it to her before I leave.”

  “Why, in God’s name?”

  Gabriel grinned. “Because as long as she’s got her hands occupied with one sinner, she’s not likely to try reforming me. Don’t let her delicate appearance fool you, Adrian. Emma is the equal of her brothers when it comes to having her way.”

  Emma’s temples began to pound with tension. Why had she been possessed to think she could change a girl from the gutters of Seven Dials into a gentlewoman?

  A peek at Lord Wolverton while he slept.

  Had he even been asleep? “What time did you perpetrate this unforgivable intrusion, Harriet?” she asked in a choked voice.

  Harriet shrugged her thin shoulders. “Not long after you walked your nightly patrol.”

  “It is not a patrol,” Emma said in vexation. “Did Lord Wolverton awaken during your misdeed?” she demanded.

  “Didn’t you ’ear him?” Harriet asked with a grin. “He roared to bring down the walls.”

  “You should send her back to the slums, Lady Lyons,” Lydia Potter suggested. “My parents would be ever so upset if they knew I was rubbing shoulders with the likes of her.”

  Harriet smirked. “I’m sticking a big brown spider up yer nose while you’re asleep tonight—”

  Emma took hold of Harriet’s arm. “You shall do nothing of the kind. Please, Harriet, do behave.”

  “Why do you even bother?” Harriet asked, as if it were a question she’d heard a thousand times in her life. “I’m a hopeless cause. Everyone knows that. I’m only gonna come to a bad end and bring the rest of you down with me. Why bleedin’ bother?”

  She spoke the words without pity or even defiance, as though she’d long ago resigned herself to the fact. Emma found herself torn. She had an obligation to her paying students, the vow she had made to their parents, that their daughters would emerge from their cocoons of awkwardness into enchanting social butterflies.

  But nobody wanted to help the street girls of London, the orphans, the abandoned, the abused. Were they truly hopeless? Surely not all. Surely a woman of conscience could not sleep at night without trying.

  She released Harriet’s arm. “I shall attempt one more time.” She picked up her manual from her desk. “‘The invention of eating utensils such as the spoon precedes the wheel.’”

  “Well, hell,” Harriet said. “Who’d have guessed? Or cared, for that matter?”

  Emma continued as if she had not noticed the interruption. “Does anyone know what is sai
d to distinguish a gentleman—and I cringe even using the term—from a clodpate?”

  “His ancestors?” Miss Butterfield asked brightly.

  “No.” Emma allowed a fleeting look of disdain to settle upon her aristocratic face. “It is the use of a fork—”

  “A fork,” Harriet said. “Well, blow me down with a friggin’ feather.”

  “—over a spoon,” Emma continued calmly. “The use of a fork over a spoon separates the gentleman from his lessers. And I daresay we still raise countrymen on our proud island who may as well eat with a shovel, so abysmal are their table manners.”

  Harriet regarded her wistfully. “Lady Lyons, if you honestly think that using a spoon to eat is the worst crime a man can commit, I would be willing to enlighten you otherwise.”

  “Please, don’t,” Emma said quickly. She pressed her knuckle to the tickling vein beneath her right eyebrow. Her head felt as if it might indelicately explode. “Actually, I think this is a good time for you girls to gather your shawls and take a walk in the garden with your sketchbooks. I shall expect each of you to draw in detail whatever object of beauty catches your eye.”

  “I know what Harriet is going to draw,” Miss Butterfield said in a disgruntled voice.

  Harriet snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t be the first one in this ’ouse to draw it, I can tell you that.”

  “Go upstairs, Harriet,” Emma said tersely. “Read a book or…take a nap.”

  “A nap?”

  “Under no conditions are you to disturb Lord Wolverton again, do you hear?”

  “Anything to please you.”

  “Good gracious,” Charlotte said, hurriedly throwing on her cloak as the girls filed out of the room. “I shall have to accompany them. Harriet is liable to start a revolt if left unsupervised.”

  Emma sighed. “I know.”