Page 88 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

The plasterwork ceiling drew the eye to a fresco of mythic scenes depicted on gilded stucco. Her feet sank into the garden of overblown peonies and peacocks of an Aubusson carpet. She surveyed the sideboard with a sigh of approval. Wedgwood plates of classical design and silver tea urns glistened under the guard of six attentive footmen.

Plate-warmers coddled a golden brown roast turkey, and three mince pies, as well as a beefsteak bursting with savory meat and gravy. She sighed happily at the sight of a tureen of piping-hot porridge nestled between tall pots of coffee, fresh cream, and chocolate.

Heaven, she thought. She had expired in her beloved husband’s arms and awakened to discover herself in a paradise of elegant living.

The duke rose from his chair, watching her with the intensity of an eagle atop an aerie. If he had expected his daughter-in-law to be intimidated by either his estate or the grandeur of his presence, he was to be disappointed.

For Emma Boscastle was suddenly hurled into her element, the place amidst the stars reserved for her. In truth, she would have been at ease in any of the world’s royal courts. The rituals of aristocracy came as easily to her as breathing. On her mother’s death, it had fallen upon her to attend the details of her papa’s private life. It was a young Emma who had answered cards of condolences, remembered birthdays, reminded her siblings of their manners. She had worked hard to deserve her parents’ faith in her.

She dipped into a perfect curtsy before the duke.

He exhaled in pleasure and lifted his arms to welcome her. “Thank God,” he muttered. “Oh, thank you, thank you, God.”

And Emma, who had lived with five unruly brothers, understood exactly what he meant. Adrian had not married an unmannered woman. Despite the questionable foundation of her romance with his son, she was not about to bring disgrace upon the name of Scarfield.

They embraced like long-lost souls, neither with an excessive display of emotion. That the duke had ever doubted Adrian to be his natural son puzzled Emma. Their resemblance to each other was striking. Both men had the same angular face and long-boned build that lent fluid elegance to their every move.

Still, there was a warmth and wicked spontaneity to Adrian that Emma deduced might have come from his mother. But then perhaps the duke was subdued due to some inscrutable illness. As a wiry balding man detached himself from the wall to assist him, Adrian’s father seemed to shrink both in strength and personality.

“This is my nursemaid Bridgewater,” he said wryly.

Emma took the chair a footman had drawn for her. “You mean your secretary and estate manager, your grace?”

The duke coughed. “Yes. Go, Bridgewater. Bother my children. I wish to be alone with the enchanting lady who has brought my son home.” He looked Emma in the eye. “I assume he came at your encouragement?”

Emma made a show of examining her ivory-handled knife. “I only know that he returned home. And that he has a will of his own.”

Perhaps their private breakfast was meant to be a test of her inner mettle. By the time the footmen brought in an assortment of hothouse peaches, pineapples, and early strawberries, she and her father-in-law were discussing the practical affairs of the estate as casually as they would the country weather.

“Adrian’s mother had a talent for tallying my accounts,” the duke explained wistfully. “I did not appreciate her intelligence at the time. But the woman could balance our books to the penny.”

“A practical lady,” Emma said in approval.

He chuckled. “She caught the blacksmith cheating us when Bridgewater missed the offense. Of course, she also chastised me when I neglected to pay a laborer.”

“And you, being a man of—”

Emma broke off as the side door opened to admit the duke’s attentive secretary. Bridgewater took one look at his master and his mouth thinned in dismay. “You are fatigued, your grace.”

Emma stared down at her plate. On one hand she felt that Bridgewater acted in too personal a fashion. On the other, she had to agree that the duke appeared more pale and tired than when he had greeted her. Personal concern for his well-being superceded all other observations. She stood decisively.

“I have overtired you, your grace.”

“Bloody stuff and nonsense. Bridgewater is a bothersome old woman.”

Bridgewater glanced at Emma as if to beg her support. She said, “I admit I am still overwrought myself from the ordeal at the bridge yesterday.”

The duke rose. His steely gaze informed her he was not at all deceived.

“My son has exceeded my expectations in choosing you for his wife. I couldn’t have dreamt a lady better suited to becoming the next Duchess of Scarfield than you.”

Emma went to his side. Bridgewater was steadying his progress to the door. Perhaps it was prideful of her to enjoy his praise.

But she did.

Only for a moment.

“I’m honored to be your son’s wife,” she said with her hand at his arm. “I love him.”