Page 26 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

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 embroidered 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?”