Page 30 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

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 said 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—”