Page 38 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

Even as a child he had not been able to sit still for more than three minutes at a time. His nursemaids had chased him for hours on end across his father’s vast country estate. As a soldier he’d held the conviction that a man’s prowess began to deteriorate from the day he did not demand sacrifices of his body. Even if he did come into the dukedom, he had no intention whatsoever of sitting plump-arsed on a bejeweled saddle and trotting about his acres while others broke their backs in labor.

He wanted to fight, to move, to—to make wild love to Emma Boscastle. But as that appealing option seemed to be temporarily denied to him, he wasn’t about to laze about in bed like a cosseted empress waiting for a daily bowl of stewed prunes to move his bowels.

Riposte.

Retreat.

He kicked over the stool, leapt onto the chaise, and attacked a nonexistent assailant at the door.

Unfortunately, at that instant, the door opened to admit an unsuspecting chambermaid bringing fresh towels and a pitcher of wash water. She took one look at Adrian, standing on the chaise with his sword directed at her, then emitted a shrill cry and barely managed to unburden her delivery on the floor before whirling to escape.

Adrian lowered his sword. “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?”

The gamine-faced maid shook her head, suddenly looking more curious than alarmed. Adrian climbed down from the chaise and frowned at her. “Have I seen you before? Aren’t you supposed to knock before coming into a gentleman’s room?”

“I dunno,” she said with an impertinent shrug.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m whoever she tells me to be.”

“Lady Lyons?”

“Yeah.” She went down on her knee to collect her towels. “I thought you was laid up.”

“I was—I am. There was a cobweb on the ceiling. I was trying to reach it with my sword. I can’t abide spiders.”

She glanced up shrewdly. “I don’t see any cobweb.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I sliced it to kingdom come.”

Her knowing gaze sized him up. “You don’t look like there’s anything wrong with you, either.”

He sat down on the end of the bed. “And you don’t look like a chambermaid.”

She straightened, a look of delight brightening her elfin features. “I know what you are.”

“Do you?” he asked disinterestedly, his sword balanced between his knees.

“You’re a scaldrum-dodge.”

“A what?”

“You’re a fakement.”

He gripped the sword hilt. “I beg your pardon.”

“There ain’t nothin’ wrong with your ’ead.”

“There must be,” he retorted. “Or I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

She dropped her voice. “You ain’t a duke’s son, then?”

“That’s—this is none of your business.”

“Why are you fakin’ it? You gonna rob the house?”

He looked up in irritation. “You cheeky monkey.”