Page 36 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“Is that all?”

“How could it be anything else?” she asked quickly.

“I don’t know.” His concerned gaze searched her face. “He’s led a hard life.”

“Yes,” she murmured, swallowing. “What of it?”

“You’re my sister, that’s all.”

Chapter Nine

The physician had come and gone when Emma began her routine the following day. According to Julia’s report, Lord Wolverton had been awake when he arrived and had chased the man from his room. After that no one except his valet had dared disturb him again. It was to be hoped by the entire household that this was a sign he was recovering and would soon be himself again. Exactly who he was, what sort of man, was a topic upon which Emma reflected as she sat down with a cup of tea in the informal drawing room with its long scrolled-back sofa and matching rosewood table.

She’d gathered three of the girls together for a lesson on the finer points of paying a social call when Julia and her high-spirited aunt appeared and asked to be included.

Emma could hardly refuse. This was, after all, Julia’s home. Practical experience in the arts of etiquette was essential.

Furthermore, if any well-received person in London were capable of distracting one from troubling thoughts, it was Lady Dalrymple, or Aunt Hermia, as the entire Boscastle family had fondly come to call her. The robust beldame still had gentleman admirers. One could not help liking the lively Hermia and the ladies of her painting club, although Emma had privately warned her students not to emulate this unconventional circle of older women who thought themselves past the age of propriety.

“Don’t tell me we’re ’aving tea again,” Harriet said as she burst into the room unannounced and flopped into an armchair, dislodging the other three girls who were standing patiently awaiting Emma’s permission to sit.

Emma frowned. “What are you doing here, Harriet? I did not summon you.”

“Miss Charlotte sent me out to you. I was disrupting history.”

“I don’t doubt it, my dear. Hold your tongue, please.”

“How do I drink me tea if—”

“Silence, please.”

Harriet sighed.

Lady Dalrymple examined Harriet’s scrunchedup face with an encouraging smile. “Another diamond from the coal scuttle, it appears.”

Emma’s eyes gleamed. “We make exceptions at the academy for the young and the infirm.”

“Infirm as in Lord Wolf?” Harriet asked slyly.

Lady Dalrymple shifted around in attention, a woman with a keen instinct for mischief. “Lord who?”

“Not now,” Emma said hastily. “It isn’t a topic for young ears.”

“My ears are quite aged,” Lady Dalrymple said. “Are you keeping secrets from me, Julia?” she demanded of her niece. “What is this mention of a wolf in London? I do believe that the poor beasts died out almost two centuries ago.”

Emma exhaled slowly. “Miss Gardner was ill-advisedly referring to Lord Wolverton, and not a genuine wolf.”

Lady Dalrymple might be in her dotage; she might be as wrinkled and plump as the next fairy godmother. Her mind, however, was anything but ancient. Her fingers fluttered coyly in her pale butter-yellow gloves. “Did you say Lord Wolverton?”

Emma set aside her cup with care. The elixir of scandal wafted in the air, and clearly Hermia had caught an intoxicating whiff of it. “Yes, unfortunately, I did.”

“Adrian?” Lady Dalrymple pressed her gloved knuckle to her chin. “Adrian Ruxley?”

“I believe that is his given name,” Emma said evenly.

“That’s ’is nibs, all right,” Harriet chimed in, taking advantage of Emma’s inattention to stuff a whole gooseberry tart into her mouth.

“I saw that,” Emma said in an undertone, “and I am quite revolted.”