Page 5 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

The maidservant squeezed around him, her gaze averted.

“She accosted me,” he blurted out at the filthy look Emma gave him. “Bold little baggage shoved me into the wall and demanded I surrender my—”

“—trinkets,” Emma said in a soft voice. “Yes, I heard. I wish I hadn’t.”

“It ain’t true, ma’am,” the maidservant whispered, straightening her crooked white cap. “I was only doin’ me work.”

“I know.” Emma glanced at Sir William with repugnance. His attractive face seemed flushed from drink and suddenly mean-spirited, not at all mature. He defended the downtrodden, which meant he’d earned the right to take advantage of the working class? How had she missed the signs? Good manners did not always go with a good heart.

“Leave quietly,” she said to the maid. “The day is not ruined yet. Brush your hair and behave as though nothing has happened.”

Sir William reached for Emma’s arm. She recoiled. The maidservant hesitated, for another man had just pounded up the service stairs at the end of the hall behind them.

“Do not touch me,” Emma warned William in a low voice.

“We can all pretend this never happened, Emma,” he said carefully, grasping her hand. “You and I have a future together.”

“Get your filthy mitts off her,” the maidservant said, slowly moving to Emma’s side. “She’s a lady.”

Sir William’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “This entire affair is a misunderstanding. I wandered into the hall by mistake. You and I are going to be married, Emma.”

“We most certainly are not,” she said indignantly.

She tugged her hand from his. He caught it again and closed his fingers over hers. “Shall we announce it now? It would be a very romantic way to end a wedding.”

“I’ll get help,” the maidservant whispered, jabbing one last pin in her cap. “Don’t you worry about this little weasel.”

Chapter Two

Adrian reached the top of the stairs and halted in his tracks. After Emma Boscastle’s straightforward comment about his reputation, and her subsequent disappearance before he could defend himself, he hadn’t felt like standing alone at the table like a footman. He decided he’d done something wrong and thought he should apologize, although he would probably only end up teasing her again. Besides, there wasn’t much to defend about his reputation.

Perhaps—he looked down. Had she noticed he was wearing his old comfortable riding boots? There hadn’t been time to change. Her brothers had dragged him from the park, not informing him of their destination.

In fact, he’d have left the wedding if he had been able to find the other Boscastles. And then he remembered Drake mentioning there was a card room upstairs for the gentlemen. But no one was supposed to tell the bride.

He glanced up thoughtfully at the man and woman talking in the hall above. At first, by the low sound of their voices, he thought he’d interrupted an intimate encounter.

A moment later, he realized the exact nature of the situation.

He pursed his lips, sneaking back down a step. He’d assumed he had offended Emma Boscastle by being himself and not putting on airs. Now he wondered if she’d merely had something else on her mind when he’d been talking to her. Another gentleman. He hadn’t been away from England for so long that he had forgotten the intrigues and indiscretions of the aristocracy.

For himself, well, he preferred a more forthright approach to a love affair.

Emma Boscastle’s soft cultured voice rose in obvious irritation. “Go home and play with your trinkets in private, Sir William.”

Adrian glanced up in astonishment. He thought he must have misunderstood what she’d just said. So, apparently, did the gentleman clinging to her gloved hand, for his mouth dropped wide open.

“Emma!” he said in obvious shock. “From you of all ladies. Don’t you remember why we became friends in the first place? You admired my fight for the lower classes. You—”

Adrian told himself that eavesdropping was impolite, and a true gentleman knew the value of a discreet exit. Furthermore, he did not wish to interfere. Usually when he poked his nose into someone else’s affairs, a fight ensued. And yet as he watched the scene before him unfold, he knew it was only a matter of time before he was forced to intervene. Heath’s sister thought she could control the dandy-prat. Adrian doubted it.

Emma’s response underscored the wisdom of following intuition. “Accosting a maidservant is not what I call social reform, you—dog.” And then she twisted her wrist in another effort to free herself.

“That’s going too far,” the man in the tightly knotted neckcloth said. “Come, my darling. You’re upset. Have a calming glass of champagne—an entire bottle, at my expense—with me, in one of the bedchambers.”

She appeared to bend the tight neckcloth’s little finger with her free hand until he turned a sickly shade of gray. Adrian grimaced. It didn’t look well for their romance. Emma might be small in size, but that bold Boscastle temperament clearly betrayed her in times of duress. He braced one elbow back against the balustrade, resigned to whatever would come.

“That was a blow, Emma,” her companion exclaimed. “Both an insult to my manly pride and to my finger. What a cold woman you are, and here I hoped that you would become my wife.”