The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke (23 page)

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know. I’d say he tended toward the cold side, but if you’re really curious, you could ask Bridgewater.”

She arched her brow. “Since you’re smiling, I shall assume all went well.”

“Well enough. We didn’t argue.”

She sighed as if she sensed what he’d left unsaid, then curled herself around his body. “Still, it must feel good to be home.”

The warmth of her presence relaxed him. His wife. “It feels good to be here with you. I wouldn’t have come back alone.”

Her voice deepened to a drowsy whisper. “It’s a beautiful estate, Adrian. The park looked like paradise in the moonlight.”

He stroked his hand down her spine. “I’ll show you the rest of it tomorrow.”

“And I suppose I’ll meet everyone then?”

He closed his eyes. It
wasn’t
home. Too many painful memories lingered, in every room, in every face. “You’ve already met my brother. Florence and my father are impatient to see the lady who tamed me.”

“No old friends showed up for the prodigal’s return?” she asked innocently.

“If you mean Serena,” he said mischievously, “then no.”

She was quiet for a moment. He wished she understood that there never had been, nor would there be, a woman who could compare to her.

“Do you think,” she asked after several moments, “that you might like to stay here?”

“In Berkshire, perhaps. I promised you a country school. But not here. Not now.”

“I do feel guilty,” she whispered, “that I left my duties in London unfulfilled.”

“We can leave whenever you wish,” he said idly. He’d never discussed his foreign investments with her. The typical English aristocrat thought earning money to be a vulgar occupation, but the truth was that he could afford to make their home anywhere she desired.

She sat up unexpectedly, leaving him bereft of her pleasingly warm body. “Are
you
in a particular hurry to make a return journey with Hermia and Odham, my lord?”

“That,” he said, pulling her back against him with a laugh, “is a thought to give one pause.”

Chapter Twenty

Emma had anticipated that the next day would challenge the sum total of her social knowledge. She had not expected, however, that Adrian would abandon her before breakfast. She could have cheerfully crowned the devil.

He had gone off riding with his brother to survey the estate, which meant she would sit alone with the duke in the private winter room—a retreat so opulently designed it would have befitted a Roman emperor.

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.”

He shook his head in bemusement. “How the deuce he was able to persuade you to marry him—ah, well. He’s inherited his mother’s charms and will soon inherit my estate. It’s a relief for me to go knowing you will advise him.”

They walked arm in arm to the door, Bridgewater trailing. “And where exactly do you plan to go, your grace?” she asked lightly.

“Most likely to Hades.”

“Not true,” Bridgewater said. “Your grace is going upstairs to rest.”

“No, I’m not,” the duke said irritably. “I’m playing cards with Hermia and Odham. He and I are both passionate for that woman.”

“Well, you must not let your passions get the better of you, your grace,” Bridgewater said gracefully.

“Stuff it, you old busybody.”

Emma bit her lip as the pair of them, clearly forgetting her presence, began to bicker back and forth. She was certain that the duke would not have permitted such familiarity had he not trusted Bridgewater as one did a cousin or close friend.

By the time the three of them reached the dark vaulted hall, she could see that the duke was indeed struggling for breath. She thought of her own father, how she’d believed him invulnerable before his death.

“He’s come back just in time, hasn’t he?” a soft voice asked her. Adrian’s sister came up the stairs behind Emma. “I think there will be peace now for everyone.”

Adrian did not return from his ride with Cedric until late afternoon. Windblown, elegantly commanding his mount, he cantered across the park where Emma was walking with Florence. Both women stopped in their tracks and turned as he dismounted and ran toward them. He was as grand as the estate he would inherit.

Before Emma could greet him in a fashionable manner, he picked her up and spun her in the air. “I missed you.”

Florence coughed lightly. “Has it been all of six hours?”

“Nine,” he replied, setting Emma back on her feet. “And you’ll both be relieved to know that there are no brigands in the area.”

“That’s where you’ve been, chasing villains?” Emma asked in chagrin. “You really do love danger, don’t you?”

He laughed. “I love you.”

Her face grew warm. If they had been alone, she would have had a hard time keeping her hands off her husband. He looked irresistibly handsome in his billowing white muslin shirt, molded leather riding breeches, and—

“You’ve got mud on your boots.”

“So I do.”

“We’re having a formal supper tonight with the family,” she said, biting her bottom lip.

His eyes danced with mischief. “Are you suggesting I’m not decent to dine with?”

Indecent. That’s what you are. And that’s fine with me.

She glanced away. “A bath would not be remiss.”

“Oh, good.” He closed his black-gloved hand over hers. “We’ll take one together. My father has had a huge Roman bath built.”

“Adrian,” she whispered, “your
sister.
”

He winked at Florence. “She can take her own bath later.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” Florence exclaimed with a delighted grin.

A groom ran forth to take Adrian’s lathered horse. Cedric trotted past them toward the stables, nodding his head to the ladies. A footman greeted Adrian at the entrance portico with a sweeping bow.

“Shall I draw your bath, my lord?” he inquired, his young voice unsteady.

Adrian glanced down at his mud-besmirched boots with a devil-may-care grin. “Are you all in on my wife’s plot to make me a presentable gentleman?”

The footman grinned. “A message arrived for you while you were gone, my lord.”

“For me?” Adrian asked in surprise. “What have I done now?”

“What haven’t you done?” Emma whispered, covertly nudging him away with her chin.

“I don’t know,” he said under his breath. “If I’ve missed something, do let me know. My wife is forever eager to further my education.”

She gave a delicate cough. “In private, my lord.”

He sighed. “What was this message?”

“Lady Serena says she will be delighted to join you for supper tonight,” the footman replied.

Adrian smiled uneasily at Emma. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with this. Do you wish me to tell her that we are unable to receive her tonight?”

“No,” Emma answered him firmly. “If she is an old friend, it would be unforgivable to snub her.”

Adrian looked doubtful. “I’m not sure that I ever explained to you the exact nature of my relationship with Serena. But she and I never were the best of friends.”

No matter, Emma was determined to behave decently toward her husband’s former sweetheart. As Adrian’s wife, a woman of noble birth, she would be compassionate, a gracious winner as it were. She would also, in the most polite manner possible, make it absolutely clear that Adrian was taken for life.

At least this was the advice she repeated to herself hours later as she met Hermia outside her room on the way to supper.

Hermia had dressed in full evening regalia, a crepe turban ornamented with a plume of peacock feathers and a gold evening gown underlaid with layers of cream lace. A spidery gauze shawl dangled over one plump shoulder. “How do I look?” she inquired. “And do be honest.”

“You shall catch every eye at the table,” Emma answered.

“Hmph. I have just heard from the housekeeper that Serena indeed is a raving beauty. I don’t believe it, of course, for housekeepers are seldom truthful.”

Emma paused. She was underdressed, as usual, in a long-sleeved bisque-satin evening gown with a silk-flowered hem. “Raving beauty or not,” she said. “It would be an insult for us to be late to meet her.”

Hermia slowed pace as they approached the dining hall. “She has waited for almost a decade.”

“I know,” Emma murmured.

“Perhaps because no one else would have her,” Hermia added, more from defending Emma than unkindness.

Emma held back a smile. “You are indeed a stouthearted lady, Hermia.”

“A woman of a certain age acquires an understanding of human actions,” Hermia explained with a dismissive smile. “I will even go so far as to predict that Serena has a malicious nature.”

Emma laughed in disbelief. Hermia’s predictions were as reliable as a gypsy fair girl’s. “Oh, really?”

“Those of us with obvious beauty must strive to develop strength of character.”

“Did I hear myself mentioned?” Odham asked behind them, offering each lady an arm. “Strength of—”

“Shallow,” Hermia went on. “Vapid. And, most likely, selfish.”

Odham blinked. “Well, obviously you were not discussing me.”

Adrian emerged from his father’s study, somber, lean, and attractive in black evening attire. “Is everyone ready to eat? I’m famished.”

Emma examined her husband with unhidden pleasure. “Aren’t we waiting for our guest?”

He brushed her cheek with a kiss. “Serena? I believe she sent word she’d be late.”

“I told you.” Hermia nodded her turban-adorned head in satisfaction. “That is a sign of thoughtlessness if ever there was one.”

The meal of oxtail soup, roast pheasant, and leg of mutton was once again served to perfection on a pristine white tablecloth. Emma might as well have been eating bits of chalk for all she enjoyed the painstakingly prepared courses. It was too petty of her, she realized, to allow Hermia’s predictions to unsettle her.

Lady Serena was almost an hour late.

And when she finally did arrive, everyone in the dining hall—including the six attentive footmen—looked up in silent expectation toward the door.

“A dramatic entrance,” Hermia murmured smugly. “Planned to the minute.”

A dramatic entrance. Serena managed that and more as she swept into the room. She stood tall and statuesque to Emma’s diminutive frame, a brunette, with dark eyes and the enchanting laugh of one who knows she is beautiful. She captivated the attention of everyone in the hall.