Page 49 of How to Ruin a Duke
“Prudent.He dwells in the north now.”
“Which does not rule him out as your nemesis.”
His Grace raised a hand and the serving maid scampered over.“If you’d be so good as to wrap up the rest of this food, I’d appreciate it.”
A common request, but the maid looked as if she’d never been given a greater compliment.“Of course, sir.At once.”
“All of it,” he said.“Every morsel, and some plum tarts and cheese wouldn’t go amiss either.You know how hunger can strike two hours after a decent repast, and good food shouldn’t go to waste when a man of my robust proportions is on hand to enjoy it.”
“Quite so, sir.Exactly.Waste not, want not.Ma says the same thing at least seventeen times a day.Eighteen, possibly.”
The maid gathered up the plates while Edith tried not to watch.This was the best meal she’d eaten in ages, and Emory wasn’t having the leftovers boxed up for himself.
“Thank you,” she said, when the maid had bustled off to the kitchen.
His Grace looked at Edith directly, something she could not recall happening previously.Emory stalked through life, intent on pressing business.At the ducal residence he’d often been trailed by a secretary, solicitor, footman, steward or butler, all of whom followed him about as he’d lobbed orders in every direction.
At table, Emory tended to focus on the food, the wine, the appointments in the room.
On the dance floor, he was so much taller than most of his partners, he usually stared past their shoulders.
The full brunt of his gaze was unnerving.His eyes were brown, the deep, soft shade of mink in summer.They gave his countenance gravity, and Edith well knew those eyes could narrow on the deserving in preparation for a scathing setdown.
His gaze could also, apparently, be kind.
“Hunger makes me irritable,” he said.“I cannot think as clearly, I cannot moderate my words as effectively, and we mastodons require substantial fare on a regular basis.If you’ve finished, I’ll walk you home.”
That was as close to an apology as a duke was likely to come, but Edith did not want him to walk her home.Foster might be there, and that would occasion questions such as only a nosy younger sibling could ask.He left the house each day “to look for work,” but no work ever found him, and matters were becoming dire.
“That courtesy is not necessary, Your Grace.I appreciate the meal.Have you exonerated me of literary crimes against your person?”Edith never had borne him ill will—just the opposite—and no sane woman wanted a duke taking aim at her.
“If you were clever—and you are—you would toss out other candidates to throw me off the scent.”
He stood and offered Edith his hand, still bare because they hadn’t yet put their gloves back on.“What would my fate be, if I admitted to authorship ofHow to Ruin a Duke?”
“I’d offer you a substantial sum to return to your needlepoint and gothic novels.We would sign an agreement giving me all right, title, and interest in any further literary works written by you or based on your recollections of my household, and society could move on to its next scandal.”
His idea of a substantial sum would doubtless be enough to see Foster commissioned as an officer, but then what?A lady—a woman raised to privilege—had few means of earning any coin at all, and Edith regarded writing as her best option for remaining a lady in any sense.
She took his hand and rose.“I cannot accept that offer, Your Grace.As it happens, I was calling on Mr.Ventnor precisely because I hope to become established as an authority on domestic matters in homes with some means.Signing away my ability to earn a living would not be prudent.”
The duke left a pile of coins on the table—a generous sum—and collected a sack from the beaming serving maid.
“You are a shrewd negotiator,” he said as he held the door for Edith.“Perhaps you called upon Ventnor because you seek more lucrative terms upon which to write a sequel to the first volume.”
“A sequel?”Edith blinked at the bright sunshine and still—still—she had the impulse to open a parasol out of habit.“Somebody is at work on a sequel?”
“You needn’t sound so pleased.Why haven’t you a parasol?”
The meal had fortified Edith, put her back on her mettle.“I pawned all of my parasols months ago.”
“And your good cloak as well, apparently, and yet you disdain to take my coin.”The insult to her cloak was half-hearted, and His Grace’s pace down the walkway more leisurely.
“Honesty rather than pride prevents me from taking your money, sir.I did not writeHow to Ruin a Duke.You could buy the rights to ten books from me, and I’d still not be able to prevent that sequel from being published.”
His Grace fell silent, which was a mercy.The day was too beautiful and the meal had been too lovely to resume bickering.Edith made no further attempts to send Emory on his way, because the truth was, she liked having him at her side.
Even on this pretty day in this mostly decent neighborhood, Emory’s escort made her feel safer and a little bit more the respected lady she’d been raised to be.
