Free A Matter of Scandal by Suzanne Enoch

students to become successful ladies . If you stray one inch from that, I will consider you to have lost.”
    “Thank you for your confidence in my lack of morality, but I do know the rules.”
    “Good.” Even so, she would be keeping a close eye on him. “I instruct some of the more remedial young ladies in basic, common-sense etiquette, Your Grace. Perhaps you might wish to sit in on a class or two.”
    “I’ll consider it,” he said dryly. “Perhaps you might wish to attend a class or two of mine.”
    “Oh, I intend to.”
    “Good. I may conduct private classes, as well.”
    Emma stopped. His lascivious tone and what itmight portend were precisely what she’d been worried about. “Not with my students, you won’t.”
    The duke halted directly in front of her, so she had no choice but to look at him. Her eyes were level with his broad chest, and with a sigh she barely remembered to stifle, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
    “I wasn’t talking about your students.”
    Emma swallowed again. “Oh.” She reminded herself that he was a practiced rake and probably flirted with every sentence he uttered in that deliciously low voice, so she’d have to be on her toes every moment he was near her students and herself, just in case. “Private classes are very well, I suppose, but what do they have to do with the number of pigs at Haverly?”
    Wycliffe shrugged. “Just seeing how willing you are to be distracted.”
    “I’m not.” Emma glanced through the window of William Smalling’s bakery and saw Mr. Smalling, Mrs. Tate, and Mrs. Beltrand staring back out at her. Drat . Mr. Smalling was such a gossip. “For your information, I teach an entire course about men like you. You aren’t likely to trip me up, at all.”
    His teeth flashed in a wicked smile. “By that I assume you mean handsome, charming men?”
    Her pulse sped up. “Yes. Precisely.”
    “Then why do I still make you blush?”
    Emma felt an even deeper flush creeping up her cheeks. “I may not be able to keep myself from blushing in sympathetic embarrassment at your exceeding arrogance, Your Grace, but don’t think that means I intend to turn tail and run.”
    Wycliffe lifted an eyebrow. “But I don’t want you to run,” he said softly. “Where would the fun be in that?”
    Oh, goodness . She needed to attend her own class on rake avoidance again. Immediately. “F—fun? That is precisely why you are going to lose this wager, Your Grace: it’s a game to you. Allow me to assure you, though, that it is much more serious to me.”
    The duke reached one hand toward her, and Emma froze. But instead of caressing her cheek as she’d expected, he merely lifted her slipping shawl back onto her shoulder. “Pity,” he murmured.
    And she was even leaning toward the blackguard. “As I said, this is not a game to me,” she continued stoutly. “You, however, seem to be playing several, and none of them very well. I am unmoved by your seductions, and unimpressed with your…delivery.” With a sniff she turned around and strode back to her cart.
    Grey watched her recede into the distance and wondered when, precisely, he’d lost his mind. This wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a defiant tenant, for God’s sake. Bellowing ultimatums without listening to opposing arguments, though, and making wagers with them—that was new. And tenants—even impertinent hazel-eyed ones—did not boldly face him and inform him that he was rude and unimpressive.
    “I’m not finished playing yet, Emma Grenville,” he murmured, as her cart bumped down the lane toward the small stone bridge which marked the east border of Basingstoke. “And neither are you.”
    With a slight grin, he returned to his horse to go after her. She’d stalked off before he could give her the notes about Haverly. And she wouldn’t have the last word this morning, if he had any say in this little farce—which he did.
    As he rounded the curve in the road, though, he reined in