Page 48 of How to Ruin a Duke
“You admit to being sufficiently desperate to go after the lure of dangled wealth,” Thaddeus said, ignoring his dessert.“So why shouldn’t I attribute authorship of that vile book to you?”
“Because,” she said.“I have no patience with dangling modifiers, and what ruin isn’t visited upon the fictitious Duke of Amorous is inflicted by the author on the English language.If I set out to ruin you, Your Grace, I’d at least do it in the king’s proper English.”
Verbally brawlingwith Emory enlightened Edith on one point: She finally understood why young men delighted in pounding each other to flinders in the name of pugilistic science.All of her worry, all of her ire at a fate she and Foster had done nothing to earn, found a target in the person of the duke who was ignoring his sweet while he argued with a lady.
Maybe this was why gentlemen were prohibited from engaging in disputes with women—because the ladies could too easily learn to enjoy winning those arguments.Where would masculine self-regard be then?
“I have silenced you,” Edith said, savoring another fat, tart raspberry slathered in sweetened juices.“Have a care when you step out of doors, Your Grace.”
“You fear for my welfare.I am touched, Lady Edith.Moved in the tenderest profundities of my heart.What occasions your concern, when my social disrepute does not?”
“Low-flying swine.If ever an omen augured for their appearance, your silence does.You should not waste your sweet.”
He moved the bowl of lemon cake closer and made no move to pick up his fork.“You make a jest of me and then scold me, but your point fails to prove that you didn’t writeHow to Ruin a Duke.A skilled writer can affect any number of less-skilled mannerisms in her prose.”
“I liked you better when you held your tongue.These raspberries are delectable, and one shouldn’t spoil good food with harsh words.”
The duke gazed across the common, apparently at nothing in particular.An older couple sat at a table by the window sharing a meal in silence while they each read from a newspaper.A trio of young men did justice to a pitcher of ale closer to the door.Two maids were wiping down empty tables, and a boy with a tray collected dirty dishes.
A scene like this would have fascinated a younger Edith for its plebian details.Nobody here carried a parasol, despite the brilliant sunshine outside.Nobody wore silk or lace at this establishment, but for the lace adorning His Grace’s cravat.
“Your conclusion,” Edith said, “that an author of some skill penned the book, eliminates your cousin Antigone as a suspect.She can barely write her name.”
His Grace buttered one of the four remaining slices of bread.“Her gifts lie more in the direction of social discourse and water colors.”
Gallant of him, to defend a chatterbox who’d never had a governess worthy of the name.“Antigone knows everybody and is liked by all.She might have collaborated with a co-author.”
The duke made two bread and butter sandwiches, using up every last dab of butter.“Now you toy with me.If we bring co-authors and collaborators into the equation, half of Mayfair might have written that infernal tome.”
A pot of strong tea and some real victuals had taken the edge off of Edith’s foul mood, enough that she could make a dispassionate inspection of the man across the table.
Emory carried a vague air of annoyance with him everywhere, a counterpoint to his luscious scent and fine tailoring.He doubtless had reason to be testy.His mama was a restless and discontented woman by nature, given to meddling and gossip.His younger brother was the typical spare waiting to be deposed by a nephew.
Lord Jeremiah was a fribblingbon vivantfor whom Edith had no respect, though she’d liked him well enough on first impression.His lordship had the gift of making anybody feel as if they were the sole focus of his attention and always would be.Perhaps fribbles developed that skill early.
His Grace’s extended family called upon him mostly when they wanted something—a post for a young fellow completing the university education Emory had paid for, entrée at some fancy dress ball to which Emory would be invited as a matter of course.
Never had Edith seen or heard the duke complain regarding his duties.He groused at length about the king’s financial irresponsibility, he lamented without limit the idiocy that passed for Parliament’s governance, and he had pointed opinions about women who wore enormous hats.
But on his own behalf, he never complained, and he wasn’t complaining for himself now.How to Ruin a Dukewas affecting his family, and Emory took their welfare very seriously indeed.
“A co-author bears thinking about,” Edith said.“Your mother’s circle includes the set at Almack’s, and they’ve all but banished Lady Caroline for her literary accomplishments.If Her Grace wroteHow to Ruin a Duke, she could hide behind the skirts of a collaborator or hack writer.”
His Grace next began slicing up the uneaten portion of Edith’s steak.Perhaps he was one of those people who had to keep his hands busy, though in two years of sharing meals with him, she’d never noticed that about him.
“Lady Caroline had worn her welcome thin in polite society long before she took up her pen,” Emory observed, “and for the viciousness of her satire, she deserved banishment.At least whoever decided to lampoon me left the rest of my friends and family unscathed.”
“Which again suggests your mother, a cousin, or a rejected marital prospect.The author’s ire is personal to you, Your Grace.”
He finished slicing the meat and set down the utensils.“Sir Prendergast made a scene at Tattersalls.”This recollection inspired Emory to a slight smile, more a change of the light in his eyes than a curving of his lips.The only time Edith had seen him truly joyous was on the occasion of becoming godfather to some new member of the extended family.No man had ever looked more pleased to have his nose seized in a tiny fist.No baby had ever been more carefully cradled in his godfather’s arms.
The ceremony had gone forth, with the duke caught variously by the nose, the chin, or the gloved finger, and Edith feeling oddly enchanted by the sight.
“Perhaps Sir Prendergast is your culprit.”
“He found another fortune to marry.Once his bruises healed, I made it a point to introduce him to a few cits who wouldn’t mind seeing their daughter on the arm of a gallant knight.”
Edith’s lemon cake was half gone.She stopped eating, lest she regret over-indulging.“Generous of you.”
