Page 11 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

Hadn’t she known the moment she laid eyes on Lord Wolverton’s charismatic personage that he exuded a disrespectable air? It once again proved that instinct should be obeyed.

And yet she could hardly have left the valiant rascal lying on the carpet. Thank goodness no one had witnessed him stealing that kiss or, heaven forbid, nuzzling his strong jaw against her breasts.

To think she had held Sir William in such high esteem and believed him to be a gentleman. Defender of the downtrodden, indeed. He and his trinkets and tailored striped trousers. It had been an entirely humbling day and Emma would be thankful to see it end.

“Whatever am I supposed to tell the girls?” her cousin and trusted assistant Miss Charlotte Boscastle asked outside the private bedchamber designated for Lord Wolverton’s recuperation. In recent weeks, the upper-floor room had been used as an evening office or sickroom when one of the academy’s students took ill. Ofttimes Charlotte escaped there for the quiet to write.

Emma paused to catch her breath. She’d scarcely been able to think the whole time she had stood at Lord Wolverton’s bedside. How a man could sustain such a devastating blow and yet manage to disconcert those around him was past explanation.

Even now she flushed at the thought of his impudent hazel eyes as he studied her from his bed. Clearing her throat, she realized that her cousin was awaiting a reply. The girl was too beautiful for her own good and observant to a fault.

Furthermore, she was a Boscastle, a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed member of the family, and as such, totally trustworthy and worthy of worrying about.

“Tell the girls as little as possible of this incident, Charlotte.”

“Easy for you to say,” Charlotte retorted. “The young imps have been practically crawling up the curtains for a peek at the duke’s heir. I for one feel like murdering the lot of them.”

“How vulgar,” Emma murmured. “Perhaps I’ll ask Heath to have bolts installed on all doors that give access to Lord Wolverton’s room.”

“That would be better than him awakening with a dozen schoolgirls at the foot of his bed,” Charlotte agreed.

Emma sighed. What a trial upon her soul, to gently usher these willful unweds into the arms of some respectable husband. In this, Emma harbored no illusions. While she might wish otherwise, her academy existed for no better purpose than the blatant procurement of a good marriage for her students. Ah, well. Upon such a foundation lay the future of England.

She ushered Charlotte toward the staircase. “Have a stern talk with the girls before evening prayers.”

“Good idea.” Charlotte paused. “You do not think Lord Wolverton would—well, wander off himself?”

“Wander off?” Emma asked, her voice rising at what her cousin was suggesting. A wolf wandering off.

“And fall down the stairs,” Charlotte added hastily. Still, her solicitous look only underscored that she was not concerned about his lordship taking a tumble in the dark. A tumble in some young woman’s bed was what she’d meant.

“A nocturnal foray is highly unlikely in his condition,” Emma said. “He has been given a sedative and will have to be observed throughout the night for signs that his symptoms do not worsen.”

“What exactly are his symptoms?” Charlotte asked.

Immoderate masculinity. Abundant charm. A wicked tongue and temper.

“His lordship has suffered a severe laceration of the scalp and is complaining of blurred vision and hammering headache.”

“The poor man could still die,” Charlotte said in sympathy, then added, “although it strains the imagination to think of one so virile being felled by a chair.”

“Greater men have been brought down by far less, I assure you. Furthermore, his virility is hardly the issue at stake.”

Charlotte appeared to fight a smile.

“I would appreciate it,” Emma continued, subduing her own smile as she swept down the stairs, “if you would alert the staff to be on guard against gossipmongers. I shall be more than occupied with the current crisis as it is.”

“I’ll say.” Charlotte trailed after her. “Shouldn’t one of us watch him through the night?”

“Heath and Julia have offered to take turns with me. This is an uncommon emergency one does not encounter in the etiquette books.”

Charlotte’s brow knitted in a frown. “You don’t think we shall have to close the school?”

“I haven’t thought past tomorrow. We can only hope that whatever scandal ensues will blow over without bringing us down with it.”

“We could always move to the country,” Charlotte said in hesitation. “I realize we are still short of funds, but—”

“And let Lady Clipstone think that she has driven us away?” Emma’s face darkened at the thought of admitting defeat to her rival in London, Lady Alice Clipstone, who had opened an academy in Hanover Square and who was unabashedly trying to steal Emma’s students. She and Alice had been friends once and were now sworn enemies in etiquette. Which meant that, as politely as possible, they never missed an opportunity to best the other. “She won’t wait long to take advantage, I tell you.”