Page 31 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“A fork,” Harriet said. “Well, blow me down with a friggin’ feather.”

“—over a spoon,” Emma continued calmly. “The use of a fork over a spoon separates the gentleman from his lessers. And I daresay we still raise countrymen on our proud island who may as well eat with a shovel, so abysmal are their table manners.”

Harriet regarded her wistfully. “Lady Lyons, if you honestly think that using a spoon to eat is the worst crime a man can commit, I would be willing to enlighten you otherwise.”

“Please, don’t,” Emma said quickly. She pressed her knuckle to the tickling vein beneath her right eyebrow. Her head felt as if it might indelicately explode. “Actually, I think this is a good time for you girls to gather your shawls and take a walk in the garden with your sketchbooks. I shall expect each of you to draw in detail whatever object of beauty catches your eye.”

“I know what Harriet is going to draw,” Miss Butterfield said in a disgruntled voice.

Harriet snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t be the first one in this ’ouse to draw it, I can tell you that.”

“Go upstairs, Harriet,” Emma said tersely. “Read a book or…take a nap.”

“A nap?”

“Under no conditions are you to disturb Lord Wolverton again, do you hear?”

“Anything to please you.”

“Good gracious,” Charlotte said, hurriedly throwing on her cloak as the girls filed out of the room. “I shall have to accompany them. Harriet is liable to start a revolt if left unsupervised.”

Emma sighed. “I know.”

“What are you going to do about her, Emma? She’s quite incorrigible.”

“I’m not sure.”

“I should be tempted to turn her out on her ear.”

“I am tempted, believe me. And, yes, I know everyone thinks I’m a trifle mad for trying to reform a street girl in the first place. Perhaps I am.”

“Perhaps everyone else is wrong,” Charlotte gave her a sympathetic smile. “You’ve worked wonders on some of your students.”

“I’ve had modest success.”

She had, in fact, done her duty by the three other altruistic cases she’d undertaken. One had become a competent housekeeper; her sister had married a judge. The third was a dedicated schoolmistress in Gloucester who was engaged to an apothecary.

No one knew how those minor triumphs had lifted Emma’s spirits. How her personal mission to transform all of England into a haven for the refined had lifted her above the pall of grief that had befallen her when she had lost a brother, her father, and her husband in a short span of time.

Perhaps it was sheer Boscastle arrogance, believing herself imbued with the power to improve others.

At least in her case, as opposed to the behavior of her siblings, she had channeled that Boscastle spirit into a force for the good of humankind.

Until last night.

Last night…when she had proven, if only to herself, that Emma Boscastle really wasn’t any different, or any better, than the rest of her scandal-prone family. She might well be the most wicked of the lot, and if this were true, well, there would be no one in the family to take her to task.

Adrian rubbed the thick towel against his smooth jaw. His valet, Bones, could shave a man in under a minute. He could behead one, too, if it came to it, which had been a useful talent for a mercenary’s subaltern and makeshift undertaker, but one that would hardly stand him in good stead with English Society. He and Bones had met while defending East Indiamen from French pirates on the Persian Gulf, their duty having been to discourage the growth of French industry. A year later Bones had lost an eye while defending Lahore and had consequently offered to sail as Adrian’s valet to Java under the orders of Stamford Ruffles. Bones had done his part to enable the British to conquer Batavia.

“How do I look?” Adrian inquired, stooping to examine his face in the gilt-edged cheval glass.

“The very picture of health, my lord.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Adrian regarded his sun-burnished complexion in disgruntlement. “I don’t look as if there’s a thing wrong with me.”