Page 86 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

His father stared at him, tall, a stone thinner, but still a man who commanded a room. “It doesn’t matter where he’s been. He’s home.”

His sister Florence smiled at him warmly. “And brought a wife. Where is she, Adrian?”

“Is she a foreign woman?” his aunt asked. “I hope the English weather doesn’t make her ill.”

Adrian chuckled. The only good thing he could say of his family meeting Emma was that she would be able to handle them, and with far more grace than he could muster, too.

“Adrian was set upon by brigands at the bridge,” Florence explained gently. “He fought them off, Aunt Thea. Everyone is fine, it seems.”

The elderly woman nodded in approval. “Foreign brigands, I suppose. Why did you go away, Adrian? I’ve missed your company so much. Cedric is boring, and Florence has forgotten how to laugh.”

Adrian smiled at her. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“What is your wife’s name, dear?”

“Emma. Emma Boscastle.”

“That doesn’t sound very foreign.”

The duke, who had been quietly watching this scene unfold, motioned to his estate manager. “Do you mind taking everyone to the conservatory for wine and cake, Bridgewater? Adrian and I will join you shortly.”

And then, moments later, Adrian was alone with the duke, still unable to think of him as his father, but not able to dredge up his former hatred, either. He waited in resignation. There was an old picture mounted on the wall of his mother in a riding habit with her beloved spaniel. A deep ache stirred inside him. She had not deserved to die in condemnation.

“You look well,” he said to the duke, “for a man who is suffering a terminal illness.”

“I could have been dead ten times over in the time you took coming here,” the duke retorted.

“I—”

“Don’t lie. I have no wish to fight with you. We have too many issues to pound out concerning the estate.”

“Are you and Lady Dalrymple truly old friends?” he asked, seeking a more neutral subject.

“Hermia?” The duke’s careworn features seemed to soften. “I sought her favor as a callow youth, and lost. It is to your credit that she befriends you.” He put his hand to his breastbone, his eyes suddenly dark. “Indigestion, Adrian,” he said with a grimace. “Are you done evading the matter of your responsibilities?”

Adrian hesitated. In his memory his father had always been omnipotent, invulnerable, aloof at his best. At his worst, Scarfield had seemed weak-willed and malicious. And now? He could not deny his father had aged and, unexpectedly, he pitied him.

He shifted. “It’s been a long day—”

As if he’d been eavesdropping, Bridgewater entered the room bearing a tray of medicine. “It’s time for your evening cordial, your grace.”

“Do you have nothing better to do with yourself than interrupt me every five minutes?” the duke asked in more resignation than anger.

Bridgewater smiled. He, too, showed the signs of age and service.

Adrian came to his feet. Bridgewater and his family had been devoted to Scarfield ever since, well, according to Bridgewater, ever since the damned Crusades. And although Adrian could not pretend affection for the duke, he did not wish him ill. He was not sure what, if anything, he felt.

“Aren’t you in the least bit curious about your old love?” his father asked.

Adrian managed to grin. “My sheepdog is still alive?”

The duke chuckled as Bridgewater hovered at his side with a glass of cordial. “I meant Serena, the girl you were meant to marry.”

Adrian raised his brow. “Do not tell me you’ve convinced her to wait for me.”

His father laughed, and suddenly, to Adrian’s surprise, some of the awkwardness between them seemed to ease. “To be honest, Adrian, I think Serena has always been more in love with her horses than with you. Now, when am I to be introduced to your bride?”

Adrian met his father’s eyes. “Tomorrow.”