Page 41 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

Emma sat down on the bench, resisting the urge to raise her voice.

“I think,” Adrian said carefully, “that such a question might be better answered by your head-mistress.”

Everyone looked expectantly at Emma, who found, to her chagrin, that she was awaiting Adrian’s response to the highly improper question as eagerly as her class. His answer would certainly not be the usual advice. He was anything but the typical aristocrat.

He coughed quietly, a smile hovering on his lips. “Lady Lyons?”

“Class dismissed until after late afternoon,” she announced in a wry voice.

Emma and Charlotte had decided several months ago that they would write an etiquette manual for those young gentlewomen who strove for refinement but could not afford private instruction. Both women wrote for recreation. But a guidebook was a vast undertaking that would possibly require years of effort and deep practical reflection. Once or twice a week, at the end of the day, Emma would scribble a few notes on a crucial issue to be included.

Sometimes she and Charlotte would indulge moments of sheer silliness and insert a satirical chapter just for fun. The Delicate Art of Disengaging Oneself from a Belching Baronet. How to Pour a Bad Glass of Wine into a Potted Fern at a Party.

Where in this guidebook would there be a chapter entitled: “A Gentlewoman’s Disgrace—How to Feign Dignity After the Fall”? She laid down her quill with a sigh, dismayed to notice the nib dripping ink onto her papers. And on her brother’s desk, too.

She had never spilled ink in her entire life.

This was the careless state into which her one sin had led her. Where was the sand? She watched the stain spread until a dark velvet voice spoke over her shoulder.

“May I offer you some help?”

She slid from her chair as Adrian reached over her and blotted the ink with the clean handkerchief he had produced from his vest pocket. “You’ve ruined that, too, you know,” she said in embarrassment. “What a pair we make.”

He folded his handkerchief across the ink blot. “What’s another stain to a life as corrupt as mine?” he asked in the neutral voice that made it impossible to know whether he was serious or not.

She stood, her heart racing as her eyes met his brooding regard. “You should not be walking about without an attendant,” she said lightly. “I meant to mention that in the garden.”

His gaze held hers before he glanced away. “And I meant to tell you that I really feel much better. I’m leaving, actually. I’ve taken advantage of you and your brother long enough.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts. What an infuriating person. On the one hand, he made her feel guilty and ashamed for what she’d done with him. On the other, she suffered the same emotions for driving him off before he’d had a chance to heal. “Why is it that men can never admit to any weakness? I’m going to have you taken back to bed. By a footman.”

He leaned his hip against the edge of the desk. “Don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother at all,” she said, turning toward the bellpull—and finding herself suddenly trapped between a tall virile male and the desk. “What are you doing?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What did you want of me?”

“I was looking for Heath,” he said quietly, his body a breath from hers.

He edged a little closer. She shivered in response.

She raised her face to his. “Really?”

“No.” He lowered his gaze. “No. I was hoping to see you before I left.”

His confession, the memory of the brief but blissful pleasure they had shared, hung between them, both a taunt to Adrian and a temptation. He wanted her so badly, he refused to believe she did not want him back.

Before she could stop him, or he could stop himself, he bent his head and kissed her. Her lips parted, perhaps in surprise. He drove his tongue deeply inside her mouth. Her body shook. Even then he forced himself to hold his hands at his sides because if he touched her, he would want more and more until he’d taken his fill. He wanted her, and if she were any other woman he would have found a hundred ways to have her. But for now, because she was Emma Boscastle, he had to pretend to observe certain rules of conduct that he’d never bothered to properly learn in the first place.

“No,” she murmured, but her lips yielded, warm and lush, and underneath her denial he tasted desire and remembered driving his fingers into her silken flesh. Groaning, he deepened the kiss. “Please,” she said faintly.

“Please, what?” he whispered.

“I don’t know. Someone might…see.”

“I locked the door behind me.”

Her shoulders gave a delicate shiver that hinted she craved this as much as he did.

“The problem,” he continued softly, “is that you’re in my every thought. I am tormented by the memory of how it felt the moment I breached your defenses.”