Page 37 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“Well, excuse me,” Harriet said, crumbs on her chin. “No one told me we was just supposed to look at ’em. Or are they for dippin’ in this piddle here?”

“You may leave now, Harriet,” Emma said, not raising her voice at all. “Your lesson is over.”

“Do I ’ave to take another nap?”

“Why don’t you help in the kitchen?” Julia suggested gently. “Learning what is needed to run a home is a useful skill for any gentlewoman.”

Harriet stood. “I’d rather rob a—”

Emma’s eyes widened in warning. “You are excused, Harriet.”

After a moment of apparent indecision, Harriet took heed of the militant fire in Emma’s voice and made a quick escape. Aunt Hermia, however, had not been sufficiently diverted to forget the scandalous topic of conversation.

“What is Adrian doing in this house?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Emma rose. “He is recovering from an unfortunate mishap. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

“Well, I just got back from Tunbridge—what sort of mishap?” she asked sharply.

“I’m sure Julia will be happy to answer your questions, Aunt Hermia,” Emma murmured. “I’ve really left the other girls alone far too long.”

A silence enshrouded the room upon her departure. Julia sipped her tea, and studiously nibbled at her tart. Lady Dalrymple sat and stared at her until Julia began to squirm.

“I will not leave this house until I am told the truth, Julia.”

“Oh, really. How do you know Adrian, anyway?”

“It has been brought to my attention by one of my friends that he would make a fine addition to our deity collection. I knew his father and his aunt some years ago.”

“You are not going to paint an injured man au naturel,” Julia said heatedly. “I will not allow it.”

“This is a matter of art, my dear,” Hermia said with an offhanded shrug. “Is the man possessed of a grand physique?”

“Art?” Julia asked with a disbelieving laugh. “You aren’t deceiving anyone. You and your friends like to draw naughty pictures of handsome young gentlemen. There is no excuse for any of you. I’m quite ashamed, at your age.”

“Need I remind you, Julia, of a certain woman who unleashed upon the populace a sketch of her lover’s primary appendage as a cannon? The Wicked Lady Whitby. Wasn’t that your signature?”

Julia was beyond blushing over that particular faux pas. Most likely the notorious cartoon of her husband’s royal scepter would be immortalized on her gravestone. “I don’t know whether Adrian has a grand physique or not,” she said irately. “He has been abed with a head wound, and it did not occur to me to examine him.”

Lady Dalrymple drained her cup. “I must pay the heroic man my regards.”

Julia’s gray eyes widened in shock. “You are not going to disturb him. It’s indecent of you, Aunt Hermia. It’s—”

“—none of your affair, darling. I’m old enough to be his grandmama. I shall simply offer the gentle consolation that only a lady of some years can give.”

Julia sprang to her feet. “Don’t you dare ask him to pose for your painting circle. He’s a duke’s son. Moreover, he has suffered a blow to the head and hardly knows what he’s about.”

“Goodness, my dear, you make me sound as if I mean the brave man harm. I’ve met his family, as I just told you. His father, old Scarfield, had a passion for me many years back. It’s only common courtesy that I pay his son a call.”

“Alone, Aunt Hermia?”

Lady Dalrymple stood. “Unless you would like to accompany me?”

Julia flushed. “I should like to restrain you. Short of that, however, I’ll only ask you to promise that you will not harangue my guest about posing for your embarrassing club.”

Chapter Ten

Adrian swept his sword into the air, his knees bent in a classic fencer’s pose. He had come to the regrettable conclusion that his ruse would not work. He’d been bedridden for—how long? not two whole days—and he was ready to jump from the window and climb the rooftops from lack of activity.