Page 7 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“It isn’t something you should do,” she whispered in rising alarm. But she knew the signs. It was too late to thwart male pride. Thus had the world evolved, and in the end all a woman could do was tidy up afterward and hope no one was seriously hurt.

Sir William looked as if he were about to faint. “When did you become Lord Wolverton’s lover?” he asked Emma incredulously. “You turned to ice whenever I tried to touch you.”

“His lover?” she echoed, aghast. For that aspersion she could have challenged him herself.

Adrian walked him backward toward the wall. Sir William edged over to one of the two crested hall chairs that flanked the niche. “Why don’t we sit down together and talk this over?” he suggested to Adrian.

Emma turned away, all but resigned to an ominous ending. Her brother Heath had just appeared in the hall below. In flagging hope she thought that if she could attract his attention in time, she might be able to avert a scandalous outcome.

A vaguely familiar woman’s cry, a strange man’s answering curse from the upper hall diverted her again. She glanced back in reluctance, recognizing the comely maidservant whom Sir William had accosted, and at her heels a strapping young man in footman’s livery. The newcomer was obviously her enraged sweetheart, summoned by the girl to satisfy the affront to her honor.

“Where is he?” the footman muttered. “Gentry or not, I’ll show ’im a thing or two.”

Emma gripped Lord Wolverton’s coat in her hands. Distractedly she noted that it smelled pleasantly of vetiver. And the owner—well, his gentlemanly demeanor had apparently been discarded.

He was standing over the chair into which Sir William had either been shoved or collapsed. Adrian’s broad shoulders blocked all but William’s shoes from view.

“Did you hit him?” she asked in dread.

Adrian straightened, his brow lifting in bemusement. “I think the sapskull has merely pretended to pass out. I never even touched him.”

She lowered her hand in alarm. The footman had hefted the other chair into the air and was bearing down upon Adrian like a maddened bull. “Behind you, my lord,” she cried in warning.

Sir William chose that inopportune moment to attempt to rise. Adrian, barely glancing at him, bent to push him back down into the chair.

And at the instant he turned, the agitated footman brought the balloon-backed chair crashing down upon the back of Adrian’s head. Emma made an inarticulate sound in her throat. The maidservant gasped, swaying back in horror.

“That’s the wrong man, you bloody idiot!” she cried at the footman. “Not him. The other one.”

Adrian raised a hand to his face.

For a moment Emma thought he had withstood the blow. Then he put his other hand out to the wall to brace himself and slowly crumpled to the floor.

“It’s the wrong man,” the maid cried again. “What have you done, Teddy? What have you done?”

The wrong man, Emma thought in despair, dropping Adrian’s coat. Men were wrong in general, or so she believed at that moment. Male pride and imprudence. Was this to be her entire life? Was there no peace?

She glanced down the stairs and saw her brother Heath staring up at her in alarm. A good man, she thought. An example of one who was rarely wrong. He asked her a question, but the words were indistinct.

She could not manage an answer, at any rate. Shaking her head in a wordless plea for help, she rushed over to the man who had fallen in the hall. She dropped to the floor and slid her arm beneath his shoulders, raising him against her.

Wrong man or not, Adrian had only meant to protect her.

Adrian felt her bend over him, felt her hand upon his. She had light bones and a strong, confident manner, a peculiar but appealing combination in a woman. He knew he’d offended her sensibilities, quarreling at a wedding, but from his perspective, there had not been a choice.

He hadn’t been away from England for so long that he had forgotten there were rules to follow. He supposed the finer points would come back to him sooner or later. Not that he cared to impress anyone. He had done his wicked best to distance himself from his heritage.

Emma Boscastle had made quite an impression on him, though. Unexpected, that. He couldn’t remember Heath mentioning her, except in the vaguest terms. But then Heath was a private person, as Adrian tended to be, and he kept personal matters to himself.

How the clodhopper of a footman had managed to attack him with a chair was testament to the lady’s charms. If Adrian hadn’t been intent on protecting her, he would not be crushed against her soft, tempting breasts at this moment.

“Your head is bleeding,” she said in alarm, stroking his temple. “Please don’t be seriously hurt. I shall not allow it,” she added, and he smiled to himself, imagining his Renaissance angel taking up his cause in the good court.

Or the fiery one below. He hadn’t exactly lived an exemplary life.

He ought to tell her he had no intention of surrendering his earthly existence at all. But a pleasant darkness beckoned.

Something warm touched his cheek. Her lips? “Did you just kiss me?” he asked with a half-smile.