The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke (7 page)

He made an ungainly effort to chase after them, at the very least to tell them off. But the dose of sedative Heath Boscastle had insisted he swallow would have put a weaker man to sleep for a minimum of three days. In Adrian’s cast-iron system it would remain potent only until morning. It slowed him now.

He bellowed once more on principle to demonstrate his wrath, then stomped back to the bed. His head throbbed mightily. His limbs felt clumsy and uncoordinated.

In the morning, perhaps, he would recover sufficient strength to pursue the impertinent mice and inform them he was not a man to trifle with. But not until after he had found Emma Boscastle alone and apologized for the offense he had given her.

Not that he was truly sorry for what had happened, to be perfectly honest. Their pleasant inter-lude had been the only bright spot in his gloomy return to England. She was quite possibly the only human being, certainly the only woman, who had displayed a genuine concern for his welfare with no thought of what she would receive in return. He’d always had a strange weakness for a woman of sharp wit.

Every other person in this accursed country had fawned at his feet upon learning he was a duke’s heir. As if that misfortune of birth elevated him to some lofty status.

Misfortune of birth. For the formative years of his life that was exactly what Adrian had been led to believe his existence was. A misfortune. The result of sin.

And he had not particularly cared one way or another whether he proved this belief to be true or not. Until a few hours ago when Emma Boscastle had stolen a few comfits from a wedding cake to please him.

Emma had gone to bed in the weak hope that when she woke up she would discover the previous day hadn’t really happened. But the first thing she thought of when she opened her eyes in the morning was him. Her injured Lord of Scandal. Lord Wolf lying abed. Still wounded or in wait? She had no precedent upon which to speculate.

She was quite confident, however, that once she faced her day’s work, her students, those wild buds of flowering womanhood, she would be able to put Adrian Ruxley from her mind and resume her regular affairs. The demands of instruction never failed to distract her.

It was raining lightly. The coal in the grate had gone out, leaving the scent of old ashes and damp in the room.

She huddled under her quilt and listened to the splash of carriage wheels and hooves through puddles in the street below. Through the rhythmic pattering on the town house roof she heard the faint cry of the pie-sellers offering their freshly baked wares. Her empty stomach grumbled.

She was suddenly ravenous, hungry for something more substantial than her usual light breakfast of tea, toast, and a slim wedge of white cheese. A flaky-crust steak and onion pie, perhaps. A meal in which to sink her teeth.

She pushed her way slowly through the bedclothes. Her body felt unaccountably lush and agile. Even the cold air seemed to caress her skin.

How dare he.

Had he passed a peaceful night?

She washed briskly with her precious orange blossom soap from Spain, usually reserved for special occasions such as court appearances or Christmas mornings. Well, today
was
a special day. The day she rededicated herself to the ordinary life she had chosen. And to the young ladies whose parents had entrusted her with instilling in their daughters the highest values.

She inquired after Lord Wolverton during breakfast and was informed by Heath that Adrian was apparently still alive but asleep. What that meant Emma was afraid to ask.

It seemed best for now to let sleeping wolves lie. If Adrian had passed a restful night, it was more than she could say for herself.

“If you are concerned about him,” Heath added from behind his morning newspaper, “I’d be happy to accompany you to his room.”

She shook her head dismissively. “Perhaps later. I have a demanding day. I might visit him when he’s had a chance to rest.”

He raised his brow. At least she imagined he did, his face still hidden behind the morning news. She could only assume there was not yet any mention of the wedding brawl in the papers.

“Should I give him your regards in the meantime?” he asked as she rose from the table.

She took a breath. “Of course.”

“And I’ll explain,” he went on in a casual tone, “how busy you are. Too busy to sit at his bedside.”

She stared at the door. She reminded herself how dearly she loved her four brothers. She really did, even when they provoked her. “You might want to phrase that a little less bluntly.”

“Don’t worry about Wolf’s feelings, Emma. He’s not the sort to weep over a slight.”

“I’m sure he’s not.”

“I’ll take care of him for you,” he murmured.

She gripped the doorknob. “That is a comfort to me.”

He chuckled. “I knew it would be.”

Chapter Seven

Adrian awakened later that morning with barely an ache to remind him of the embarrassing events that had brought him to his ignominious position. He thought immediately of Emma and wondered when he would see her again or if she intended to ignore him. He yawned fitfully and had just thrust the bed curtains apart when he heard a woman speaking outside his door. It did not sound like Emma’s soft, pleasant voice. Perhaps it belonged to one of the mice who had found it amusing to study him last night while he slept.

Rising, he strode to the rose-satin chaise and at tempted to arrange his too-big body across the em broidered cushion in an intimidating, male pose. The effort made his temples pound faintly in pro test; it was a dull pain he could ignore and it soon receded.

There was a light rap at the door. Then a woman’s voice inquired, “Are you awake, Lord Wolverton?”

He lifted his brow. Not a mouse’s voice that. “Yes.”

“May Charlotte and I visit? It is Heath’s wife, Julia, and my cousin-in-law. I won’t stay long.”

Ah, Julia, the wife of his host, Lord Heath. She was definitely not the sort of lady to accost a strange man in his sleep. Her husband appeared to be another matter. Adrian grinned as he remembered the scandal this red-haired viscount’s daughter had caused Heath right before their marriage last year. London had been at turns shocked and delighted when she had sketched his disreputable parts as a cartoon of Apollo and then lost her drawing, only to discover it printed in the broadsheets of the city.

“Please come in, Julia.”

“Good. You are awake,” she said in relief. “And famished, I expect. Would you like your valet sent up to shave you before or after breakfast? He’s been here all morning with your personal belongings. I’ve kept a plate of bacon and eggs warm for you. I never thought to see you laid low, Adrian.”

He leaned his head back against the demeaning piece of furniture. What
he
would have liked was to see Emma standing behind Julia, rather than her comely blond companion who had not lowered her blue eyes quickly enough for him to perceive the laughter in them.

He sighed. Just because he had promised that he would not remind Emma of the Evening-That-Had-Never-Happened didn’t mean he couldn’t hope for another chance. He was suddenly irritated at how easily he had alienated her affections with his untimely bid for intimacy.

“Lord Wolverton?” Julia asked, apparently concerned by his lapse of attention. “Shall I send for the doctor? Have you taken a queer turn?”

“Perhaps I should summon Lady Lyons,” Charlotte said from the door.

“Wait,” Julia said, her eyes full of mischief. “She’s teaching table manners this morning. You know how she dislikes to be interrupted in the middle of such crucial instruction.”

Table manners. Adrian suppressed a grin. He could just hear her refined voice now as she drilled her debutantes on the importance of not impaling their peas with a knife.

“Lord Wolverton,” Julia said again, a little more sharply this time. “Let me look at your eyes.”

He blinked. She was a tall, commanding woman and apparently not one to be ignored. Heath Boscastle had allegedly been in love with her for years but had almost lost her when he went to war. Now that he reflected upon it, Adrian seemed to recall that Julia’s love affair with Heath had been sparked after she’d shot him in the shoulder. He assumed it had been an accident. He couldn’t be entirely sure. The Boscastles tended to marry strong-hearted mates, which would contribute to perpetuating their passionate line.

“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.