Page 49 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

He did not give a damn what anyone said, or that Adrian’s profession had brought shame to the ancient family name. Scarfield would have his way.

Adrian would wed a neighboring young lady, the girl he had been unofficially pledged to in childhood, and the rightful order of things would be restored as it had been written in the stars centuries ago. The village would prosper again. The brigands who haunted the outlying woods and roads would be chased off by a man strong enough to challenge them, for in a particular way, Scarfield took pleasure in his son’s self-assertion.

It never occurred to the Duke of Scarfield that his son would turn his back on his inheritance and refuse his offer of forgiveness.

But it had occurred to Florence and she could not sleep for dreading what was to come.

Chapter Twelve

Emma arose for the following three mornings at her customary time, if not in her typical good temper. As a rule she frowned upon indulging in any extreme of mood. To be at the mercy of one’s emotions was a weakness of character. Such distemperaments should be subdued in private.

That her father, the fourth Marquess of Sedgecroft, and her older brother, Drake, had suffered from this dark affliction of disposition did not persuade her that her struggle against one’s personal demons were in vain.

One must battle the subtle devils of self-doubt and discouragement almost daily. This had been the advice her practical-minded mother had bestowed upon her unruly brood. Of the Boscastle siblings, however, only Grayson, Emma, and Devon seemed to have inherited their mother’s ability to rise above their father’s private struggles with personal darkness.

Emma, of course, understood the reason for her own present disquietude. Whereas she should have felt relieved, it was a pea in her shoe that Lord Wolverton had not attempted to contact her again since their last encounter in the library.

She knew it was for the best.

She knew she had made him promise to keep their indiscretion to himself. And so far he had. In fact, the papers had made only a fleeting mention of the embarrassing incident at the wedding. Apparently even Lady Clipstone had not stirred up the scandal pot. All was well that ended without commotion.

It even began to seem possible to Emma that she would be able to put the week behind her and return her full attention to the academy where it belonged.

And where it was so desperately needed.

Indeed, as she entered the ballroom after breakfast she found her entire class gathered suspiciously around one bright-haired girl. And in that girl’s hand was a sketch.

Emma swallowed and prayed for personal fortitude as she strode forth to wage an entirely different kind of battle. “Give it to me.”

“It’s our lesson from Lady Dalrymple,” one of the girls exclaimed.

“Harriet Gardner, hand me that drawing now, or I shall—heaven forgive me, I shall—”

Harriet looked up with more astonishment than fright. “I thought a lady couldn’t raise neither her voice nor her fists.”

“I might be persuaded to make an exception,” Emma said. “Give it to me now.”

Harriet did, watching Emma’s face for her reaction as she glanced down at the rough but skilled sketch Hermia had made of Adrian in the garden the day of his departure.

Her initial thought as she studied the charcoal figure was of a profound, knee-trembling relief that he had not been rendered au naturel, except for one bare arm and shoulder, which Hermia’s artistic imagination had captured in all its muscular glory.

To her embarrassment, Emma felt her eyes misting with tears as she beheld Adrian’s imperfect angular profile. Lady Dalrymple had caught the beauty of his face, his stark bone structure. Truly he did resemble a young hero, although Emma thought wistfully that Hermia’s depiction had not succeeded in capturing Adrian’s more endearing traits.

She sighed. She would like to keep this sketch even if she would have nothing more to do with him. Well, she’d be polite if they met at a party because one could hardly ignore a duke’s son in good society. Especially when—

“Emma,” Charlotte said, touching her arm. “What are we going to do?”

She gathered her wits. “For one thing, we mustn’t leave the girls unsupervised while Lady Dalrymple gives instruction.”

Charlotte glanced down at the drawing. “Oh, but it’s lovely—very artistic, I think. Just look at that ferocious lion. It’s—quite believable.”

“Lion? What—oh, yes. Beastly.”

“Furthermore, I was supervising,” Charlotte added, “and there wasn’t anything untoward about the lesson. The girls are developing an appreciation for Greek culture.”

Emma quirked her brow. She doubted her little band of debutantes cared one way or another for ancient history.

“Greek culture notwithstanding, the girls are chatting away while we stand here. Today’s lesson is supposed to be a continuation of the art of deportment in a foreign land. Where is Yvette, by the way? I shall use her as our queen at court.”