The Duke And His Four Wards

Chapter 6.2 (Part 2)

   Francis allowed his eyes to travel, gently, so as not to startle her, over the delicious figure before him. Very nice. His smile grew. The silence around him penetrated his mind, entirely otherwise occupied. "Rickshaw, I think you'd better introduce us." he said to his brother's astounding butler.

   Rickshaw almost allowed a frown to mar his impassive countenance. But he knew better than to try to avoid the unavoidable. Exchanging a glance of fellow feeling with Mr. Cunnings, he obliged in sternly disapproving tones. "Captain Francis Cambridge, Miss Emma Fleming. The young lady is His Grace's youngest ward, sir."

   With a start, Francis's gaze, which had been locked with Emma's, flew to Rickshaw's face. "Ward?" He has not been listening too well last highly when Felix has been telling him of the estates, but he was sure his brother had not mentioned any wards.

   With a thin smile, Rickshaw inclined his head in assent.

   Emma, released from that mesmerizing gaze, spoke up, her soft tones a dramatic contrast to the masculine voices. "Yes. My sisters and I are the Duke's wards, I didn't know the Duke had a brother. I've only dropped by to exchange some books His Grace lent us. Mr. Cunnings was going to take care of it."

   Francis took the small gloved hand out to him and automatically bowed over it. Straightening, he moved to her side, placing her hand on his arm and holding it there. "In that case, Rickshaw's quite right. You should wait in the drawing-room." The relief on Rickshaw's and Mr. Cunnings's faces evaporated at his next words. "And I'll keep you company."

   As Francis ushered Emma into the drawing-room and pointedly shut the door in Rickshaw's face, the Duke's butler and secretary looked at each other helplessly. Then Mr. Cunnings scurried away to find the require books, leaving Rickshaw to look with misgiving at the closed door of the drawing-room.

  Inside, blissfully unaware of the concern she was engendering in her guardian's servants, Emma smiled trustingly up at the source of that concern.

   "Have you been my brother's ward for long?" Francis asked.

   "Oh, no!" said Emma. Then, "That is, I suppose, yes." She looked delightfully befuddled and Francis could not suppress a smile. He guided her to the chaise and, once she had settled, took the chair opposite her so that he could keep her bewitching face in full view.

   "It depends, I suppose," said Emma, frowning in her effort to gather her wits, which had unacceptably scattered, "on what you'd call long. Our father died eighteen months ago, but then the other Duke—your uncle, was he not?—was our guardian. But when we came back from America, your brother had assumed the title. So then he was our guardian."

   Out of this jumbled explanation, Francis gleamed enough to guess the truth. "Did you enjoy America? We're you there long?" he asked with curiosity.

   Little by little his questions succeeded in their aim and in short order, Emma had relaxed completely and was conversing in a normal fashion with her guardian's brother.

   Listening to her description of her home, Francis shifted, trying to settle his shoulder more comfortably. Emma's sharp eyes caught the awkward movement and descried the wad of bandaging cunningly concealed beneath his coat.

   "You're injured!" She leaned forward in concern. "Does it pain you dreadfully?" she asked, her face full of worry and compassion.

   "No, no. The enemy just got lucky, that's all. Soon be right as rain, I give you my word." Francis reassured her.

   "You were in the army?" Emma's eyes had grown round. "Oh, please tell me all about it. It must have been so exciting!"

   To Francis's considerable astonishment, he found himself recounting for Emma's benefit the horrors of the campaign and the occasional funny incident which had enlivened their days. She did not recoil but listened avidly. He had always thought he was a dab hand at interrogation but her persistent questioning left him reeling. She even succeeded in dragging from him the reason he had yet to leave the house. Her ready sympathy, which he had fully expected to send him running, enveloped him instead in a warm glow, a sort of prideful care which went rapidly to his head.

   Then Mr. Cunnings arrived with the desired books. Emma took ten and laid them on a side-table desire her, patiently ignoring the Duke's secretary who was clearly waiting to escort her to the front door. With an ill-concealed grin, Francis dismissed him. "It's all right, Cunnings. Miss Fleming has taken pity on me and decided to keep me entertained until my brother returns."

   Emma, entirely at home, turned a blissful smile on Mr. Cunnings, leaving the gentleman with no opinion but to retire.