The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke Read Free

fought.
    She took great pains to preserve the family name whilst her family did everything possible to taint it. Take the tall, recklessly handsome man who kept studying her in the mirror. Heir to a dukedom notwithstanding, he hardly appeared to be a man with whom a lady should share more than a glancing nod.
    And yet there was a playful appeal about him that made her wish she could kick up her heels and indulge in that infamous Boscastle behavior. A few moments of dangerous flirtation, she thought wistfully. She’d married at eighteen, a debutante, and she should have settled into sedate widowhood.
    You’re the good girl, Emma,
both her parents had praised her before they died.
You’re our de
    pendable young lady.
And her father had dutifully married her off to a dependable Scottish viscount, the cheerful, quiet-spoken Stuart, Lord Lyons, who had never given her a moment of sorrow until his death from blood poisoning several years ago.
    “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, reaching around Lord Wolverton to the table, “I have to find one of my students who’s feeling unwell. Oh, and here—hold out your hand.”
    He feigned a look of fright. “Are you going to spank my knuckles with a spoon?”
    “As much as you probably deserve it, no. Do as you’re told.”
    He did. And she dropped three pretty marzipan comfits into his gloved palm. “How did you do that?” he asked in surprise, glancing back at the cake.
    She arched her brow. “One learns to be sneaky when one has a reputation for propriety.”
    He broke into a grin. “Truly? I’ve always operated on the opposite principle.”
    “Ah.”
    He popped two comfits into his mouth and offered her the third. “Open your mouth.”
    “No, I couldn’t—” He slipped the sweet between her parted lips, his forefinger lingering on her cheek for a moment. Emma suddenly found it impossible to swallow. Her mouth tingled.
    He straightened. “You’re Emma, aren’t you? I couldn’t remember at first. My name is—”
    Emma bit her underlip, backing away. Perhaps he was simply lonely and desired conversation. Or shy—no, he wasn’t shy at all. “I know who you are, my lord,” she said in a parting whisper. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in London.”
    “You’ve heard of me then?”
    She sighed.
    “I’m not as bad as everyone says,” he called after her.
    She laughed, glancing back at him. “I’ll wager you’re not as good as you should be, either.”
             
    She escaped into the hall and headed up the small staircase to the ladies’ retiring room, hoping that by now Miss Butterfield’s stomach could survive the short ride home back home to her brother’s town house. To her surprise she was still smiling from her encounter with Lord Wolverton. She hadn’t expected him to be so candidly disarming.
    It was preferable to make a discreet and early exit. She was a little miffed that Sir William had vanished without a by-your-leave, but then perhaps he had been waylaid by a political friend. William was a true defender of the undertrodden and donated much of his time to charities.
    Waylaid.
    She recognized his erudite voice, the voice that could move the conscience of Parliament, drifting from the niche at the end of the hall. The sharp report of a slap and the indignant but elucidating outburst of a chambermaid followed. Emma found herself torn between making a hasty exit and confronting the son of prattlement who had pretended to court her.
    “I will
not
do the improper with you, you twiddle poop,” the young girl insisted. “And I’ll thank you to keep your trinkets in your trousers.”
    Emma swallowed her distaste and turned swiftly before either party could see her. She’d heard enough. She gripped the iron railing and started back down the stairs.
    What a bitter discovery. Sir William had seemed to be such an upstanding gentleman. What a disappointment, she thought wryly, to realize he was willing to stand up for anyone,