Page 28 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“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.