Tall, Duke, and Dangerous

by Megan Frampton

  Perhaps she could take a poll in the ladies’ withdrawing room and find out what, precisely, other ladies were looking for. No, longing for. What—or who—were their goals?

  Perhaps then she would discover her own.

  “Ah, yes, thank you, my lord,” she said quickly when she realized she’d been hesitating too long.

  He gave a satisfied smile. “My father, the earl, keeps a hothouse stocked all year. The temperature ensures that there are always flowers in bloom for when we require them. Which is all year,” he added.

  Well, yes, because that is what a hothouse is for. The ability to procure flowers all year.

  So she could add pleasantly intelligent, but not too much so, to the list of his attributes.

  “That is lovely,” she murmured. The music was likely too loud for him to hear her, but he could see her lips moving, and she hoped that that would suffice.

  This was all pleasant enough. It was just that she was tired from smiling, and making polite conversation, and reassuring Thaddeus that she was having a splendid time.

  Lord Brunley was fine. He was absolutely fine.

  She just wanted something more than this. She knew, for a certainty, that whatever goal she settled on would definitely be more than this.

  “Would you mind, my lady, if we stop dancing?” Lord Brunley said, his mouth curled into a warm smile. A smile that ignited neither ice nor fire.

  Just more lukewarmness.

  She suddenly felt prickly, which made her feel awful, because it wasn’t this gentleman’s fault that this wasn’t what she wanted.

  “Of course, my lord,” she replied.

  He escorted her off the dance floor, walking not nearly as quickly as Nash, which conversely made her more irritated. Because she could keep up, damn it, and she wanted to be challenged, not kept up with.

  He guided her to the table with refreshments, directing that friendly smile toward her again. “Something to drink?”

  She nodded. “Please.”

  Instead of getting her a glass himself, he gestured toward one of the passing footmen, then indicated the punch bowl.

  Since he couldn’t possibly deign to dip a glass of punch for her himself?

  She truly was irritated. But then again, if he was so snobbish that he wanted a servant to do something for him that he was perfectly capable of doing himself—well, that would seem to indicate all manner of things about him, none of which Ana Maria found appealing. Never mind the easy things like assist someone out of a carriage, or pluck an errant feather from a hat from an unsuspecting cheek; what about the things that Ana Maria knew perfectly well about, having spent most of her life in and amongst servants, who were far more blunt-spoken than their aristocratic counterparts?

  Things like what happened between a husband and wife.

  Not that she’d suspect he’d palm that duty off onto a footman, but she doubted he would be enthusiastic about it. And she knew, even though she had no idea what it would feel like, or if she would enjoy it at all, that she would require enthusiasm in that arena from any potential partner.

  “Thank you,” she said as the footman handed her the glass. Whether she was speaking to Lord Brunley or the footman, she didn’t know.

  “We should sit down somewhere. You look flushed.”

  She wrinkled her brow. She didn’t feel flushed, certainly not as hot and also cold as she had been when waltzing with Nash; furthermore, it wasn’t precisely polite to comment on a lady’s appearance in any way that could be taken as disparaging.

  But she wasn’t accustomed to arguing, so she allowed him to take her arm, place her barely touched glass of punch back on the footman’s tray, and escort her to one of the small salons at the edge of the ballroom.

  The salon was tastefully decorated, and Ana Maria spent a moment taking in the clever use of hanging silk on the walls, swags of which were fastened together to spotlight some of the paintings. The paintings were of varying images, but they shared a color palette, and Ana Maria was nodding in approval before noticing the thing that most ladies would have picked up on immediately when entering a salon with a gentleman who was neither her husband nor her betrothed.

  “The room is empty, my lord, we should return. My cousin is no doubt looking for me.”

  Lord Brunley smiled again, that same easy smile, as he closed the door behind them.

  If Ana Maria had been one of those “most ladies,” she might have felt a sense of trepidation at what was about to occur. About what he had planned in escorting her to an empty room.

  But since she was Ana Maria the former drudge, she only felt annoyed. Or actually more annoyed, and prickly, and irritated, because this time she had actual cause rather than her own peevishness.

  “I’d like to return to my cousin, the Duke of Hasford,” she repeated, this time in a stronger voice.

  “And I would like to plead my case to you, my lady.” He twisted the lock on the door, making his intentions clear.

  She folded her arms over her chest, tapping her foot at the same time. “What case? I cannot imagine what you wish to say to me.” That last bit said in a sarcastic tone as she rolled her eyes. Because of course she knew what he was going to say to her—he’d sent her flowers, for goodness’ sake, he’d danced with her, surely he deserved to have her hand in marriage—not to mention her enormous dowry—for those kindnesses.

  Men. She shook her head.

  “Don’t say no straightaway, my lady,” Lord Brunley began, misunderstanding her gesture. He took her arm and led her to the sofa, where he indicated she should sit.

  She did. She might as well be comfortable as she planned her response.

  There was a small fireplace to the left of where she was seated, and the fire tools—brush, shovel, tong, and most importantly a fireplace poker—were within stretching distance of her hand.

  Excellent.

  There was a decanter of something on the small table to her left as well. She couldn’t see what liquid was inside, but she could see it was half full, and the decanter itself appeared to be made of a sturdy glass, not at all delicate.

  “You know I have long admired you, my lady,” Lord Brunley said, getting down on one knee on the carpet.

  “I know no such thing.”

  He blinked. Likely not expecting that response.

  “And my dearest wish is that you will accept my hand in marriage. That you will agree to be my wife.”

  “Thank you, and I appreciate your kind offer,” she said, “but I am not convinced we would suit.”

  He clutched her skirt, still kneeling. “You must allow me to persuade you otherwise, my lady. My dearest Ana Maria.”

  He tugged on her skirts then, making her tilt forward a bit before she steadied herself.

  “No, my lord. No.”

  “Surely you cannot mean that ‘no,’” he replied, giving her what he likely thought was an irresistible smile.

  “I assure you, I do,” she said, twitching her skirts out of his grasp as she rose from the sofa, leaning to snag the poker from the set as she stood. His eyes widened, and he scrambled up from his kneeling position.

  “You would not—”

  A childhood learning from female servants about what to do in case a gentleman got overly familiar would not be in vain, it appeared, though Ana Maria had yet to test her education in a real-life setting.

  “You would not,” he repeated. “Because if you do, it will come out that you and I were alone together, and the scandal will require that you marry me.” He held his hands out in supplication. “Why not just skip the violence and agree to terms now? I promise I will be a tolerably pleasant husband.”

  She wrinkled her nose at his words. She did not want tolerably pleasant. If anything, she wanted the opposite—intolerably agonizing, so much passion and emotion that one could not bear to live with it, even as one could not bear to live without it.

  A walking oxymoron, indeed.

  “I will not be blackmailed,” she replied
. She used the poker to gesture toward the door they’d entered from. “Unlock that, exit quietly, and I will follow. Nobody need know what happened here. But I will not marry you.”

  Instead of retreating, however, he stepped toward her. She’d have to take more desperate measures, since she would not be bullied into marriage, for goodness’ sake. She brandished the poker up over her head, making his mouth drop open in surprise. I have more surprises for you if you continue, she thought. He reached for her weapon, but lost his footing, instead hurtling over the sofa and onto the small table with the decanter of liquid, which crashed onto the ground with a deafening sound, spilling brandy—because she could see and smell it now, it was most definitely brandy—over both of them, staining the skirts of her beautiful silver gown and splashing up onto her face.

  He was on the floor staring up at her, his pleasantly handsome face also now covered in brandy, and she couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the sight.

  At which he scowled, scrambling up to his feet, starting to approach her with what he probably thought was a threatening manner.

  She still held the poker, however, so she lowered the tip of it enough to hook it into the top of his waistcoat, then pushed him toward the door. “No.”

  He opened his mouth as though to argue again, but she shook her head. “No,” she said more loudly.

  He snapped his mouth shut, then turned and began to walk to the door. Only to reel back as the door snapped open, revealing Nash in all of his elegantly dressed fury, his fists clenched, a menacing expression on his face.

  “Nash, it’s fine,” she said, holding her hand out in a vain attempt to stop him. “I have it handled.”

  And then Nash did what Nash always did.

  The ballroom was filled with what Nash supposed were beautiful women, many of whom seemed intrigued by the Dangerous Duke, but Nash couldn’t seem to stop watching her. He kept his eye on her as he danced with the smiling blond woman—a Lady Felicity, as it happened—and rebuffed the lady’s attempt to lure him onto the terrace.

  He was well aware of terrace shenanigans, even though he’d never partaken himself.

  He watched her as she danced with a variety of partners, noting her smile, seeing how much she seemed to enjoy herself. He was surprised to find he was mildly irked that she had so many partners—he had only asked her because he’d assumed she didn’t know anybody, and yet here she was, dancing and smiling with people he didn’t think he had ever seen before.

  Humph.

  Had she enjoyed herself as much when she was dancing with him?

  Was it the music, the rhythm of the dance, or the partner that made her so happy?

  And why didn’t he know? Why didn’t he know more about her? Of course he knew her, it felt as though he’d always known her, but what did he know about her?

  He scowled as he thought about it. He knew she loved Sebastian. They had that in common, even though neither Nash nor Sebastian would ever say things like love to one another.

  He knew she was always cheery, even when she was being berated by her stepmother, Sebastian’s mother. He’d been at the house several times when the late duchess—good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought sourly—had summoned Ana Maria to be dressed down in front of everybody.

  And Ana Maria had taken it, keeping that same slight, accommodating smile on her face as her stepmother told her just what she thought about her stepdaughter.

  If it had been Nash, he would have resorted to violence long ago.

  Then again, that was who Nash was. It was not who Ana Maria was.

  Other than that? He knew nothing about her.

  Except that she apparently liked dancing and music and gentleman partners.

  It was frustrating that he didn’t know.

  It was even more frustrating when he saw her being guided to the refreshment table by some cur who seemed far more pleased with himself than Nash would have liked. And the most frustrating when he saw that same cur, probably some lord’s son who had no ideas of his own, lead her through a door into a room where he couldn’t see her any longer.

  He narrowed his gaze, searching the crowd to find Thaddeus. Her chaperone should have been watching her as well. Not leaving it up to Nash, who didn’t know her at all.

  But Thaddeus was at the far side of the room, his hand clamped on some military man’s shoulder, speaking intently to the man, his gaze unwavering from the other man’s face.

  Damn it, Thad.

  Nash took a deep breath and began to walk toward the room she’d gone into, ignoring his grandmother’s sharp call to him, ignoring the people who seemed to want to address him, then wisely backed away when he snarled in reply.

  He heard a crash inside, and his pace quickened, reaching the door in just a few more moments. He hesitated for a second—what if she didn’t welcome the intrusion? After all, he didn’t truly know her, he didn’t know what she might want in this situation—but decided it was better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission, particularly where this lady was concerned.

  He turned the knob, only—nothing. It was locked.

  And he heard her voice, commanding and dismissive, and he leaned his shoulder against the wooden door and pushed, hearing something splinter and break as it opened.

  It took seconds for him to assess the situation—her, advancing on the man with a poker, the man’s expression belligerent as he grasped the pointy end of the poker and tried to remove it from his chest.

  She glanced up to meet his gaze. She didn’t look terrified, as he would have expected; she looked annoyed. As though the man had stepped on her foot, or disparaged her choice of gown. Not as though she were trapped alone in a room with him where her only choice was to resort to fireplace tools, of all things.

  He advanced, the anger feeling righteous, one of those moments where he reveled in his temper. He would flatten this gentleman, who was clearly no gentleman, and he would save the day. Save her.

  “Nash, it’s fine,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I have it handled.”

  But he ignored her, unable to stop moving forward, his clenched fists itching to make contact with the lord’s face. Nearly as much as his fingers had itched to touch her skin while they were dancing.

  And where had that thought come from? His righteous anger seldom allowed for any other thoughts.

  Thwack! His fist connected with the man’s jaw, sending him flying, sprawling onto the carpet. Landing with a soft, unsatisfying thud. Just like the broken chair, though this miscreant deserved it.

  “Now look what you’ve done.” She dropped the poker, scurrying over to the now-unconscious man. She began to actually touch the blackguard, loosening his wretched hellcloth.

  “What? I took care of things.”

  Wasn’t that what his temper was for? The swift dispersal of justice? God knew it wasn’t for unleashing on loved ones. If it wasn’t useful for anything, then there was just no point to being him.

  “You punched him.”

  He frowned in confusion. “Yes. As I said. I took care of things.”

  She yanked off the cur’s neckcloth, snapping it out and dabbing at the man’s face.

  He did not want her dabbing at anybody’s face.

  The man moaned, moving his head from side to side, his eyes fluttering open. “He hit me.” He said it as though it were a complete surprise, which was baffling to Nash; after all, he’d been the one to be seen pinioned by a poker, so it stood to reason there would be retribution.

  “He did, my lord.” She leaned over the man, assessing his situation. “You will be fine in a moment or two.”

  “I need some brandy.”

  “I think that is the last thing you need,” she replied tartly, rising to her feet. “I will send someone to assist you, my lord.” She advanced toward Nash, grabbing his lapel between her thumb and forefinger. “You should come with me.”

  Nash allowed himself to be removed from the room, wondering why she seemed so piqued when all he h
ad done was help her.

  That was what he always did—help people. And most of the time, his helping people meant that other people got sprawled onto carpets, or flattened on the street, or brought unwillingly to the authorities.

  But it seemed she didn’t want that, which made him wonder just what she did want.

  Chapter Five

  She wished she weren’t so conflicted.

  But wasn’t that the story of her life now? Lady Ana Maria Dutton, Conflicted Oxymoron.

  Yes, it was redundant. No, she didn’t care.

  She pulled Nash by his jacket out the door and into the ballroom, moving swiftly to the edge of the room and heading straight for the doors that led out onto the terrace.

  “Ah, terrace shenanigans,” she heard him murmur.

  “What?” she said, startled. “No, on second thought, never mind.”

  There were a few people out on the terrace already, and she turned so she couldn’t make eye contact with any of them, taking Nash to a bowed-out nook that was home to an enormous potted tree.

  They wouldn’t be seen, but more importantly, they wouldn’t be heard.

  She let go of his lapel, unable to keep herself from smoothing it down. She would never rid herself of the need to tidy things up, would she? Another reason she and that flattened lord would be a terrible match—he’d be appalled whenever she tried to do something for herself, whereas she was appalled he couldn’t.

  But she didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about him. She needed to make this right, to see if Nash could understand.

  She spotted a footman, making eye contact with him as she gestured with the hand not holding on to Nash. “Could you go in there and see to the gentleman?” she asked.

  Nash snorted.

  “He is in need of assistance,” she added. The footman nodded, moving toward the room where Lord Brunley was likely still moaning.

  And now she had discharged her duty, she had to get him to hear her.

  “Don’t do that,” she said at last.

  His eyes were dark and intense in the moonlight. She couldn’t look away.

  “Do what? Rescue a damsel in distress?”