Tall, Duke, and Dangerous

by Megan Frampton

  “You’ve got a sour look on your face now,” Octavia commented.

  “Could you stop being so observant?” Ana Maria asked in a rueful tone. “I was just thinking about the bet at Miss Ivy’s. Lady Felicity. I wonder if she will be at the ball tonight.”

  Octavia arched her eyebrows. “I imagine she will be. She seldom misses an opportunity to spend time with eligible gentlemen. I wonder at her family circumstances—she usually has an older aunt with her as a chaperone, and I haven’t heard anything about her family. Normally I am more aware of a family’s finances than they are themselves, thanks to the club.”

  “Are you now going to make me feel sympathy for Lady Felicity? Hint at some sad poverty-stricken story that requires her to marry soon and well?”

  Octavia’s eyes brightened. “That would make a perfect novel! I threatened Ivy a long time ago that I wanted to write books about dangerous gentlemen like your behemoth—”

  “He’s not my behemoth,” Ana Maria muttered.

  “And ladies who seem to need rescuing, but can rescue themselves.”

  An odd thought struck Ana Maria as she listened to Octavia. “You want to write my story.” She snorted. “Though I know you’d be bored writing about all the decorating parts.”

  Octavia rolled her eyes. “I’d far rather spend time writing about all the times the rescuing lady and her behemoth ended up alone together . . . in a carriage, on a deserted street, in a salon.”

  “On a terrace,” Ana Maria added with a wicked smile.

  “I cannot wait to hear how your story ends, my lady,” Octavia said with a wide smile. She popped another biscuit in her mouth, making an appreciative sound as she chewed.

  Ana Maria wondered how it would end also. If only he could let go of some of his secrets.

  “What are you wearing this evening?” Octavia asked, taking another biscuit. “Have you had any of those fabrics made up into gowns?”

  Ana Maria sighed in sartorial satisfaction. “I have, actually. And I think it is gorgeous, although Jane—my lady’s maid and dear friend—thinks it all might be a bit much.”

  “Which likely means it’s just perfect! Will you show me before I have to go back to get dressed myself?” She winked. “I don’t want to accidentally arrive at the party wearing the exact same thing.”

  Ana Maria chuckled. “There is not a chance of that,” she said.

  “Oooh,” Octavia sighed as she gazed at the gown Jane had laid on Ana Maria’s bed.

  The silk was woven into an intricate pattern that must have taken so much skill and so many hours—Ana Maria felt a pang of remorse at how long the workers must have spent on it, and she hoped, but wasn’t optimistic, that they had gotten properly recompensed.

  One good mission at a time, she warned herself as she began to think about traveling to those places and finding out the work conditions.

  The fabric shimmered in the light, and it was difficult to say with any certainty what color it was—seafoam green? Teal blue? Ocean blue?

  The pattern was detailed with red, gold, and green stitching, a multitude of flowers and other shapes on the skirt and the bodice.

  The gold thread caught the light, and Ana Maria knew it was a good complement for her skin, which wasn’t the pale English rose of most of the other young ladies in Society. Hers bore her Spanish ancestry in its golden hue, more like a pale yellow tulip. Her coloring was something her stepmother often railed about, but now seemed as though it made her a tulip among the roses—something special and distinctive.

  “I told her that the gown was a bit too much,” Jane sniffed, her tone both concerned and proud, “but she said she is up to the challenge.”

  Octavia petted the fabric and made inarticulate happy noises. Noises that were echoed in Ana Maria’s brain.

  “Can I see it on you? Though it’s not time to get dressed yet, is it?” Octavia frowned at the clock in the corner.

  “I am dining with Thaddeus in an hour, and I don’t want to get anything on it, so you’ll have to wait until I pick you up for the party.”

  Octavia looked startled. “Your cousin isn’t coming, is he?” She gave a mock shudder. “Any time I see him I worry he is going to order me to make an attack, or hunker down on the front lines or something.”

  Ana Maria laughed, shaking her head. “He is not.” In fact, Thaddeus did not know of tonight’s party. She had decided not to tell him because of his arrogance in making decisions about her and not with her.

  Perhaps it was a tiny bit of rebellion, but it was her rebellion.

  “Oh good.”

  Octavia drew back from the gown with one last happy sigh, then embraced Ana Maria. “I will have to find something I can wear to live up to your splendor,” she said with a smile. “I do love dressing up. That’s one of the reasons I love the Masked Evenings at the club so much.”

  Ana Maria’s eyebrows rose. “Masked Evenings?”

  Octavia gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yes, at first it was just that—people wore masks to play. But now people come in costume, and it is so much fun! Last time I dressed as my Roman namesake.” She struck a dramatic pose as she spoke, and then both women dissolved into giggles.

  “We’ll have one soon enough. Next time I’ll let you know, and you can come yourself. In disguise,” she added, waggling her eyebrows.

  That idea sent shivers up Ana Maria’s spine. She already had too many personas, she knew that—former scullery maid, unwanted stepdaughter, duke’s wealthy relation, enterprising businesswoman—but the idea of being in a place where she could shed all of that was certainly intriguing.

  Especially if she could get another person to shed all of his personalities and show who he truly was.

  “But I’ve got to go. You’ll come by at ten o’clock?” Octavia said, nodding goodbye at Jane as she made her way to the door.

  “Ten o’clock. Yes.”

  “Enough!” Finan said, holding his hands up in surrender.

  The two of them had been boxing for well over two hours, the two hours since Ana Maria had left the house after her remarkable request.

  The image of her lips moving to say “fight and fuck” would never leave his brain.

  The only thing he’d been able to fathom doing was to exorcise his mind in violent physical energy. Finan had obliged, as usual, but for once was giving up.

  Nash raised his arm to wipe his forehead of sweat. His shirtsleeve was already soaked, however, so there was no relief.

  “Here.” Finan tossed him a dry towel, which Nash caught. He ran it over his head, then his chest, frowning down at his thoroughly soaked shirt. He shrugged, then pulled it off and tossed it on the floor, continuing to wipe his skin with the towel.

  “What is it today? The dowager duchess making you mind your p’s and q’s too much?”

  Finan squinted at him, his own face drenched with sweat.

  “Take one of those towels for yourself,” Nash ordered. “You’re going to have to get me dressed in a few hours for another one of those parties.” He spoke as though it was a hardship, but tonight’s should be less so than the usual ones. Given by a somewhat scandalous widow on the edge of propriety, tonight’s party wasn’t one the dowager duchess would deign to attend, and he knew that Ana Maria and Miss Ivy’s sister Octavia were going, so he thought he would as well.

  And when had he become someone who would willingly attend a party?

  As soon as she’d appeared in that ballroom a few weeks ago, all starlight and sparkle.

  He knew neither Thaddeus nor Sebastian would be there either—the former was long overdue for a dinner with fellow officers at his club, while the latter was working at Miss Ivy’s when his sister-in-law was out at the same party, so he wouldn’t have to face their scrutiny either.

  “How has your search been going, anyway?” Finan asked, going to sit on one of the chairs at the edge of the room.

  “Search?” Nash winced. His search for a bride. Right. “Oh that. Fine, fine,” he replie
d, giving a dismissive wave.

  To a man who would not be dismissed. “Fine how? You know who you like or at least can moderately tolerate? Does the dowager duchess approve? You’re gonna have to tell whoever it is that you’ve hired all your father’s by-blows, you know.”

  Nash glowered at his friend, who grinned in an obnoxious way.

  “I see it’s going very well. Fine, you might say.”

  Nash’s hands curled into fists, which made Finan laugh. “No, no, you’ve done that too much today. You should develop another hobby. Some other way to relieve your tension.” He gave a knowing look. “Perhaps take your energy out in another way?”

  Fight and fuck.

  And then Nash felt himself start to get warm. Goddamn it, was he blushing? He did not blush!

  Thankfully, he was already so sweaty that likely his reddened face would be attributed to the fighting, not the embarrassment.

  Finan rose, tossing his towel into the basket to the side of the chest of drawers. “I’m going to go see what Cook has in the kitchen. Getting beaten up by you gives me one hell of an appetite.”

  “Back at nine o’clock,” Nash called as Finan pushed the door open and walked out. His only response was a wave of Finan’s hand.

  It was only seven o’clock, and he wasn’t hungry. What did he want to do?

  Well, he knew what he wanted to do, but she wasn’t here.

  A bath. He’d take a bath.

  He strode out of his training room and down the hall to his bedroom, yanking the bellpull as he entered.

  The room still didn’t feel like his. It had belonged to his mother, but his father had changed everything in it when his mother left. Nash refused to even consider using his father’s room—that room would be a spare bedroom in the unlikely event he’d ever have so many guests he’d have to use it.

  What would it look like if he asked Ana Maria to help change it?

  He didn’t think she’d insist on using those bright colors she preferred for her own rooms—she was too sensitive to what he might want for that.

  He took the flower out of his pocket again, staring at it, thinking about what it meant to see something and to admire it. He had only ever felt a sense of triumph when he’d bested someone who deserved it.

  He hadn’t found beauty in small things.

  Except her, he thought with a chuckle.

  But what would it look like if she could show him how to appreciate small things like a flower, or a pleasantly decorated room?

  A tulip? A joyful dance? Or a gorgeously gowned woman?

  It terrified him, the thought that if he allowed himself to find beauty and appreciate some things for themselves . . . then what? What if it never stopped? What if his emotions kept building and building until they—and he—inevitably exploded?

  That was the whole point of choosing a wife who he would merely tolerate. If he could keep himself and his feelings in check, he would never run the risk of being so explosively violent he would hurt anyone.

  But he was starting to feel.

  He still held the flower. A few of its petals had fluttered to the ground, and he stooped to pick them up, cradling them carefully in his palm. Then he went to his dressing table and opened one of the small drawers at the top, the place where Finan kept combs and a mirror and other grooming implements Nash never needed.

  He plucked one of his hellcloths from the dressing table, spreading it open and placing the flower and the petals in there, wrapping them all carefully so as not to crush them, then tucked it into the small drawer, all the way at the back.

  He could not allow himself to feel. Not about her. He should be strong enough to separate out his desire for her with his feelings of friendship.

  Even though a voice warned him that that was becoming impossible.

  There was something he did appreciate about being a duke, he thought, as he leaned back in the tub.

  He’d ordered it especially sized, since his height wouldn’t fit into a normal-sized bathtub.

  It stood on a pedestal, close to one of the windows, so he could gaze out at the view while he bathed.

  The water was hot, so hot he knew the servants had scurried to get it up to his bedroom. He’d have to give them some extra money on payday for their hot water diligence.

  His muscles were sore from the time he’d spent with Finan—he hadn’t held back, he couldn’t hold back. Finan was the only person who could withstand what Nash delivered. Even the street fights Nash got into required him to hold back—most of the people he challenged were bullies, not accustomed to anyone actually calling on them to defend their indefensible positions.

  An indefensible position. That was what he had agreed upon with Ana Maria this afternoon. If Sebastian or Thaddeus found out, he’d lose his friends. All of them.

  But he couldn’t seem to resist her. And he didn’t want to.

  That was what scared him the most. He could imagine being married to her, even though he knew it was the worst idea ever. But the thought of having her in his bed, every night, was so tempting.

  If only he could know for certain he’d never lose his temper again.

  His father exploded at everything—his tea was too hot, it was too cold, his dogs didn’t come when he called.

  His wife was terrified of him.

  As was his son.

  Nash’s throat got thick as his mind flooded with memories—the fear he’d felt on the rare occasions his father summoned him. Bracing himself for the inevitable sharp tweak of his ears, the too-forceful straightening of the shoulders.

  The punch to the nose.

  How was Nash any different from him?

  He used his fists to demonstrate his feelings. He couldn’t seem to say what he felt—yes, he’d gotten a reputation as someone who rarely spoke. But it was because he felt as though he couldn’t.

  What would it look like if he could open his mouth and all of his thoughts came pouring out? Would it make a difference?

  The thought was terrifying.

  Even as it was comforting—because if he could say what he felt instead of using his fists, maybe he wouldn’t have to turn to violence every time. If he could choose who he would be—maybe, just maybe, he would deserve her.

  We know we cannot marry.

  Even so, there were things they could do.

  Fight and fuck.

  And he’d just fought.

  He reached below the surface of the water to grasp his cock, which had already begun to harden.

  He closed his eyes and began to stroke himself, thinking of her face when he made her come. How she said “please” as he touched her.

  The sated, dreamy look on her face right after, when his fingers were soaked from her.

  Damn. He could not wait to bury himself in her wetness. To bring her to the brink of a shuddering, gasping climax, then allow himself to thrust home to his own release.

  He hadn’t even seen her breasts yet, though he’d had his hands on them. On her stiff nipples that seemed to be aching for his touch. He wanted to kiss her there, lick those nipples as he caressed her breasts, watching her reactions to see if she liked it as much as he knew he would.

  He knew Ana Maria was adventurous, even if she didn’t seem to realize it. But he would encourage her to go on an adventure with his body, see what he looked like all over, touch him and learn what brought both of them pleasure.

  Meanwhile, his hand stroked himself firmly, his balls tightening as he increased the pressure on his cock.

  He imagined it was her hand touching him, her watching his face to see how her touch was affecting him.

  Fuck, it felt good. It would feel so much better with her.

  He felt the climax rolling in, building, and he tightened his grip more, blurring the lines between pleasure and pain.

  And then the pleasure suffused him as he exploded, gasping at the intensity of the feeling.

  He leaned his head back against the tub, the waves of sensual heat surrounding him.
Images of her still floating in his mind, helpfully supplying ideas of what she might look like naked. Sprawled out in his bed, surrounded by the flowers she loved.

  He grinned as he thought about it. Anticipated what it would be like to see her later that evening. Perhaps even say how he felt about her.

  That would be remarkable.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Your Grace.”

  Richardson stood at the doorway to the dining room, his usual unperturbable expression . . . perturbed.

  Nash rested his fork and knife on either side of his plate. “Yes?”

  “There’s a lady here to see you as well as a gentleman. The lady says she is related to you.”

  Nash’s spine felt frozen. Related to you. His mother? Or one of the half siblings he’d recently found?

  He felt his chest tighten.

  He’d asked Robert to contact her, but he hadn’t expected her to appear so quickly, if at all. If anything, he’d thought maybe a letter would arrive.

  He took a deep breath, pushing his plate away. “Bring her to the library.”

  “Ignatius.”

  It was her. His mother, standing beside a gentleman approximately her age, both of them dressed in the height of fashion, at least as far as Nash could tell. Her clothing was nearly as colorful as anything he’d seen Ana Maria in, while her head was covered by a bonnet with what seemed to be a ridiculous amount of ribbons and flowers and some other ruckus.

  Nash’s head felt as thick as if he’d guzzled an entire bottle of brandy. His chest was tight, his breath was short, and he could only stand there and stare at her.

  She looked like him. Or more accurately, he looked like her: dark hair, though hers was sprinkled with gray. Dark eyes and a strong, straight nose. She was taller than the gentleman beside her, so perhaps his height came from her as well.

  “Ignatius,” she said again, her voice constrained, “allow me to present my husband, Monsieur DeCalles.” The woman—his mother—gestured to the older gentleman she’d arrived with, an anxious expression on her face.