The Duke of Scarfield stood, his back straight despite the rheumatism that had settled deep into his bones alongside a decade of bitter regrets. His heavy brows were knitted in a perpetual frown. His craggy face betrayed no weakness or self-pity. He was a man who believed fiercely in the duty of his birthright.
Begging the forgiveness of his firstborn son did not come easily to his pride. In fact, it had taken him years to admit that he had wronged his late wife. Almost a lifetime had elapsed before he’d found the courage to accept the fact that his jealousy had destroyed his family, and to invite Adrian home. He knew his son had arrived in England a year ago. And still he had waited for his return. Either this was Adrian’s revenge, or perhaps he merely did not care.
“A week,” he said, studying the dreary wooded landscape. “It’s been raining for a week.”
Miniature pools of rainwater glistened in the crushed oyster shells that comprised the circular drive. He had kept a vigil for several months for sign of Adrian’s return, always to be disappointed.
“The weather makes travel difficult,” his golden-haired daughter said from the chair where she plied a needle into one of her endless tapestries.
“Perhaps he is ill, my lord,” murmured Bridgewater, the estate manager, from the candlelit desk where he awaited the duke’s attention to his neglected accounts. Indeed, the entire estate had slipped into neglect as if everyone counted on Adrian’s return to awaken whatever hope Scarfield had once known for the future.
Scarfield turned with a rueful laugh. “We play this performance every afternoon, do we not?”
His daughter Florence glanced up with a smile. “Every morning, every afternoon, every night.”
“At least Cedric could have sent word,” the duke said in a fretful voice.
“The weather, your grace,” Bridgewater said vaguely. “Travel is difficult at this time of year.”
Florence rose, dropping her needlework in a basket at her feet. “Well, I for one like the rain. I think I shall walk over to see Serena before the day darkens.”
“To tell her that her betrothed has not returned?” her father asked with a sigh.
She laughed again, the two deerhounds following her to the door. “You have not paid attention if you think it matters to her after all this time.”
“Of course it matters,” the duke snapped as he sank into his leather chair. “A promise is a promise.”
His daughter caught Bridgewater’s sympathetic glance before he looked away. “I shall be home before supper.”
“You must have the groom drive you, Lady Florence,” Bridgewater said. “There’s been another report of brigands on the road.”
Her father did not appear to hear, resuming the vigil for his prodigal son. Once she too had wished for Adrian’s return. But now the entire estate waited in suspense for the reunion of the duke with the firstborn he had banished on the basis of nothing but a false accusation.
She walked across the thick Turkey carpet, Bridgewater rising hastily to open the door for her. He was a white-haired elf of a man whose family had served hers for over a century. For a moment the flash of naked worry in his keen amber eyes saddened her. He saw everything that went on in the house.
He knew all of their secrets. He had witnessed her father unfairly accuse her mother of adultery, her mother’s brief illness and sudden death. Bridgewater had served here during her father’s subsequent decline into spells of melancholy. He knew which footman had impregnated the chambermaid, and what the butler was up to in the pantry late at night.
Did he fear, as she did, that Adrian’s return might be too late for Scarfield?
After the emotional upheaval of her older brother’s departure the house had settled into a predictable rhythm, if not a pleasant one. Adrian’s absence had ended the constant quarrels that erupted almost daily between him and his father.
In Florence’s estimation, the question of Adrian’s parentage should never have entered anyone’s mind. Still, by the time Adrian escaped, there was no one on the estate, from the scullions to the family’s maiden aunt, who had not been convinced that he had been conceived of an illicit seed.
Then, two years ago, all had changed.
On her deathbed, the children’s retired governess had told witnesses that the duchess had been indeed faithful to her husband, if not devoted. Miss Mallory then confessed that it was she who had maliciously sent the duke anonymous letters describing his young wife’s love affair with a soldier who had stayed in the village. Adrian, the author of these unsigned missives had claimed, was not Scarfield’s natural son. His early arrival as an eight-month baby had proved this shameful fact.
Scarfield’s mistrust of his duchess grew. She was fifteen years younger than he. She was so vivacious that it hurt him to gaze upon her. He accompanied her everywhere, and his dark suspicions ruined their marriage. When she died of a sudden lung infection, he refused to mourn her. His sorrow, his resentment were turned upon his son Adrian, who at a young age resembled his mother.
When Adrian had left home and set upon his notorious career, it seemed to Scarfield that he had been proven right. The boy was wild, uncontrollable, and showed none of the sense of duty that was the duke’s lodestar. The base instincts of his birth father drove him. He shunned his obligations because recognition of privilege was not in his blood.
And then Scarfield had learned that he had been deceived by the vindictive lies of a former governess, a simple act of revenge. The duchess had caught Miss Mallory physically restraining Adrian in the nursery one day. The young mother had dismissed her on the spot, accusing the woman of being unfit to care for the heir.
Miss Mallory had pleaded for another chance, which the duchess had refused to give. Years later the governess had paid her back.
So many years wasted. Scarfield had allowed a lie, his jealousy, to destroy everything that mattered in life. Self-remorse had not erased all traces of his arrogance, however, and never would.
He wanted his heir home. Never mind that those who cared for and served him, his elderly aunt, his daughter and second son, even his assiduous estate manager, who had pulled the estate from poverty more than once due to the duke’s ill-chosen investments, had cautioned him that a reconciliation of such a breach might take time.
Scarfield did not listen. The law proclaimed Adrian his rightful heir, past deceptions and suspicions notwithstanding. It remained for him now to bring the boy home and make amends. The duke was not a well man. He would not live much longer.
He did not give a damn what anyone said, or that Adrian’s profession had brought shame to the ancient family name. Scarfield would have his way.
Adrian would wed a neighboring young lady, the girl he had been unofficially pledged to in childhood, and the rightful order of things would be restored as it had been written in the stars centuries ago. The village would prosper again. The brigands who haunted the outlying woods and roads would be chased off by a man strong enough to challenge them, for in a particular way, Scarfield took pleasure in his son’s self-assertion.
It never occurred to the Duke of Scarfield that his son would turn his back on his inheritance and refuse his offer of forgiveness.
But it had occurred to Florence and she could not sleep for dreading what was to come.
Chapter Twelve
Emma arose for the following three mornings at her customary time, if not in her typical good temper. As a rule she frowned upon indulging in any extreme of mood. To be at the mercy of one’s emotions was a weakness of character. Such distemperaments should be subdued in private.
That her father, the fourth Marquess of Sedgecroft, and her older brother, Drake, had suffered from this dark affliction of disposition did not persuade her that her struggle against one’s personal demons were in vain.
One must battle the subtle devils of self-doubt and discouragement almost daily. This had been the advice her practical-minded mother had bestowed upon her unruly brood. Of the Boscastle siblings, however
, only Grayson, Emma, and Devon seemed to have inherited their mother’s ability to rise above their father’s private struggles with personal darkness.
Emma, of course, understood the reason for her own present disquietude. Whereas she should have felt relieved, it was a pea in her shoe that Lord Wolverton had not attempted to contact her again since their last encounter in the library.
She knew it was for the best.
She knew she had made him promise to keep their indiscretion to himself. And so far he had. In fact, the papers had made only a fleeting mention of the embarrassing incident at the wedding. Apparently even Lady Clipstone had not stirred up the scandal pot. All was well that ended without commotion.
It even began to seem possible to Emma that she would be able to put the week behind her and return her full attention to the academy where it belonged.
And where it was so desperately needed.
Indeed, as she entered the ballroom after breakfast she found her entire class gathered suspiciously around one bright-haired girl. And in that girl’s hand was a sketch.
Emma swallowed and prayed for personal fortitude as she strode forth to wage an entirely different kind of battle. “Give it to me.”
“It’s our lesson from Lady Dalrymple,” one of the girls exclaimed.
“Harriet Gardner, hand me that drawing now, or I shall—heaven forgive me, I shall—”
Harriet looked up with more astonishment than fright. “I thought a lady couldn’t raise neither her voice nor her fists.”
“I might be persuaded to make an exception,” Emma said. “Give it to me now.”
Harriet did, watching Emma’s face for her reaction as she glanced down at the rough but skilled sketch Hermia had made of Adrian in the garden the day of his departure.
Her initial thought as she studied the charcoal figure was of a profound, knee-trembling relief that he had not been rendered au naturel, except for one bare arm and shoulder, which Hermia’s artistic imagination had captured in all its muscular glory.
To her embarrassment, Emma felt her eyes misting with tears as she beheld Adrian’s imperfect angular profile. Lady Dalrymple had caught the beauty of his face, his stark bone structure. Truly he did resemble a young hero, although Emma thought wistfully that Hermia’s depiction had not succeeded in capturing Adrian’s more endearing traits.
She sighed. She would like to keep this sketch even if she would have nothing more to do with him. Well, she’d be polite if they met at a party because one could hardly ignore a duke’s son in good society. Especially when—
“Emma,” Charlotte said, touching her arm. “What are we going to do?”
She gathered her wits. “For one thing, we mustn’t leave the girls unsupervised while Lady Dalrymple gives instruction.”
Charlotte glanced down at the drawing. “Oh, but it’s lovely—very artistic, I think. Just look at that ferocious lion. It’s—quite believable.”
“Lion? What—oh, yes. Beastly.”
“Furthermore, I was supervising,” Charlotte added, “and there wasn’t anything untoward about the lesson. The girls are developing an appreciation for Greek culture.”
Emma quirked her brow. She doubted her little band of debutantes cared one way or another for ancient history.
“Greek culture notwithstanding, the girls are chatting away while we stand here. Today’s lesson is supposed to be a continuation of the art of deportment in a foreign land. Where is Yvette, by the way? I shall use her as our queen at court.”
Charlotte hesitated. “She’s upstairs packing with her maid. She was supposed to come and inform you herself.”
“Inform me of what?” Emma asked.
“That her papa is removing her to Lady Clipstone’s school.” Charlotte looked away. “It seemed that he felt our academy was perhaps not the most favorable milieu for Yvette, considering the recent violence.”
“Violence? At the academy?”
“Well, at the wedding. The scuffle. It reminded the marquess of the Terror.”
“Being hit upon the head and beheaded are hardly events one can compare. But…” Emma’s voice trailed off. She could not defend brawling at a wedding in any terms. “We must not wallow in our own dirt,” she said briskly. “Nor shall we lower ourselves by bemoaning our fate. Come, girls! Gather around—Harriet. Yes, let us pay court to Miss Gardner. Today she is a French princesse.”
“A princess—Harriet?”
“She is ‘Votre Altesse’ to you, Miss Butterfield,” Emma said. “And if one of us were fortunate enough to be presented to a French prince, what would we do in his presence?”
“I’d faint at his bleedin’ feet,” Harriet said, flouncing to the chair that was her throne. “Better yet, I’d ’ave him kiss my feet, seeing as how I’m a princess and—” Without warning she burst from her dais and flew to the window in a manner more befitting a parlormaid than a royal princess. “He’s ’ere!”
“Your prince?” Emma inquired under her breath.
“No,” Harriet said absently. She twisted off the apron one of the girls had tied about her shoulders as a robe. “The duke’s heir. Poor feller can’t stay away. Cripes, look at his pumpkin.”
“Look at his what?” Emma asked.
“His pumpkin—cart and wheels.”
“Are you speaking of Lord Wolverton’s carriage?”
At Harriet’s distracted nod, Emma edged forth a few steps to peer over the heads of her excited students. The “pumpkin” in which the prince had made his untimely arrival was a white ducal carriage emblazed with rampant gilt lions and unicorns. The stiff-backed driver wore a black frock coat and knee breeches trimmed with gold lace.
Indeed, it was an impressive sight, but not nearly so awe-inspiring as the handsome figure in a double-breasted black coat who descended onto the sidewalk. Emma stole a look at his rugged profile and resolutely turned away, ignoring the bittersweet ache inside her.
Her attention was immediately diverted.
Anarchy in Harriet’s imaginary court had ensued. Emma clapped her hands in dismay to draw the girls away from the window. Charlotte took a more direct course of action and pulled the drapes closed on their disappointed faces.
“Spoilsport, miss!”
“It isn’t fair. What if he’s come to see Lady Lyons? What if he’s going to ask her to marry him?”
Emma frowned at this frivolous speculation, fighting not to run back to the window herself. “He is no doubt here to visit Lord Heath, not that it is our affair.”
“What if he’s in love with Lady Emma?” Miss Butterfield cried to a chorus of scandalized gasps.
Harriet jumped up onto her chair. “What if he’s going to abduct her? What if he hurls her over his shoulder and spirits her away?”
“What,” Emma said in a well-modulated voice that cut across the ballroom like a bullwhip, “if you all go to bed without dessert for a week?”
Silence followed this unpopular threat. Then Harriet cleared her throat. “We’ll ’ave order in this court right now. So shut yer gobs and—”
Adrian swept into the room, so breathtaking in his tailored black coat and snug trousers tucked into black leather boots that every pair of eyes widened to watch him.
Resisting his blatant charm, if only to make an example of herself, Emma remained in the center of the room. She was chagrined as the girls rushed to encircle him, even if she felt a similar tug of temptation. Her job was to set a proper standard of protocol, not to fling herself against that manly chest.
He disengaged himself from the girls with an embarrassed smile and made his way to Emma’s side. He appeared to be a man, like her brothers, who did not mind what sort of example he set.
“Lord Wolverton,” she said, managing to appear chagrined beneath her undeniable pleasure. “We are in the middle of lessons. May I help you? Perhaps you’re looking for my brother?”
“Yes.” Suddenly he looked intimidated by all the attention he had drawn. “I was going to invite him to att
end a horse auction later today.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve reconsidered taking me as a student?”
This inquiry set the class off into a fresh round of giggling. Charlotte quickly shushed them, looking a little curious herself.
“I’m afraid,” Emma said in a polite, professional tone, “that there has been a misunderstanding. May I ask how your head is?”
“It’s still on my shoulders.”
“I can see that. I wonder, though,” she said with an arch smile, “whether you have regained your clarity of thought.”
“I’ve never felt more clearheaded in my life.” He stared levelly at her. “And you?”
She shook her head.
Adrian, holding his high black silk hat in one hand, smiled in a manner that suggested he understood her uncertainty. Had she just thought all this attention intimidated the man? Not in the least.
He drew her out of earshot. “May I ask you another question? Since you didn’t answer my first.”
His hard body brushed against hers. Forbidden heat flooded her. He should not have come here, but she was glad of it. Too glad for her own good. It did not bode well for the safekeeping of her heart.
“The girls are watching us,” she whispered.
He looked around innocently. “Well, we’re not doing anything wrong.”
She frowned. “It’s the way you looked at me.”
His brow lifted knowingly. His gaze wandered over her with lazy sensuality. “Yes? What of it?”
She blushed. “You know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Teasing is most impolite.”
“That’s why I need your advice.”
“I’ll give you some advice, Lord Wolverton,” she said, her voice climbing. “You should return to Berkshire and—”
The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke Page 13