Tall, Duke, and Dangerous

by Megan Frampton

  She’d had that already when Sebastian’s mother had been forced to accommodate her in the household. She refused to be resented every day simply because of who she was, and what she had done. What they had done together.

  The one thing she knew for certain was that she would not compromise—she would own her contradictions. She could want to be with him even though she would never agree to it, not with the kind of weak offer he was making now.

  “You are right in one thing,” she said. “You don’t deserve me.”

  Even though she loved him. And that he likely loved her, but there was something so wrong, so damaged, that was blocking him from telling her.

  This was the worst possible time to realize it. Not that she hadn’t suspected for some time—her acute fascination with him, her intense desire to kiss him, her need to make certain he was at least relatively happy might have been clues.

  “Tell me why I’m wrong.” She kept her gaze locked on his face, feeling her heart hurt at his shuttered expression. Tell me.

  What was worth keeping so hidden? Was it worth making himself miserable for the rest of his life? Making them miserable?

  Because it wasn’t arrogance to know that he would be miserable without her. Everything he’d shown her—even if he had yet to tell her—told her that.

  And still he stayed silent.

  She was good enough to fight and fuck, but not good enough to love.

  “Tell her!” Sebastian demanded, poking Nash in the arm.

  Nash looked grim.

  “If you can’t tell her whatever it is she needs to know,” Thaddeus said, “perhaps you can tell her you will leave her be so she can find her own happiness. She deserves better.”

  Nash growled in response.

  “You want to hit me, don’t you?” Thaddeus said, glancing to Nash’s fists. Which unclenched as Ana Maria watched. “You won’t talk, so you hit.”

  “I’m not going to hit you,” Nash replied, each word emerging as though it was being dragged from his lips. “I choose not to.” He glanced over at Ana Maria, just for a moment, and then he stalked past them, all of them, through the gardens and out of sight.

  Ana Maria watched his retreating form as she felt her heart crumble into pieces.

  He didn’t deserve her.

  That was the only thought that kept screaming through his head. He felt raw and bruised, aching from wanting to tell her how he felt, thwarted in his attempts because of his own failure.

  He raised his fist to punch the wall of the carriage, but froze before impact. It wouldn’t do any good. He knew that now.

  Ironic that the most incredible time of his life—being with her in that building, watching as she broke apart—was followed by the worst time in his life.

  Although perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps there would be even worse times still. Times when he had to watch as she married someone else, someone who gave her flowers and warmth and words.

  While he existed.

  He didn’t want to just exist anymore.

  Rich, coming from him, the person who’d decided years ago to only think of things in shades of gray. Never allowing himself to enjoy, or even feel, the colorful world she inhabited for fear he would lose control.

  But now he did want to live in her world. Even though it terrified him. Even though the thought of saying any of it out loud struck him silent as the agony of his love tore through him.

  What if those colors overwhelmed his emotions so much he lashed out?

  What if he wasn’t able to tolerate such extremes, and lost himself in a world of color and furiously intense behavior, a place where reason wasn’t welcome?

  But he’d be with her. She would keep him on a measured course. She knew how to navigate this world that terrified him.

  Did he just want her because he didn’t trust himself?

  No. He loved her. He thought he might have always loved her, back from when he’d first clung to Sebastian’s friendship right after his mother had left.

  He’d not known it himself, of course. His love had been shielded for what it was by his natural protective instincts.

  But it was love. And it was more frightening to face than being in the ring with a massive boxer whose arms were the size and strength of railroad pistons.

  “Ignatius?”

  His mother peered into the library, her expression one of concern.

  He waved her in, and she entered, shutting the door behind her. She took a seat beside him on the sofa, picking his hand up and holding it in hers.

  “What is wrong?” she asked in a soft voice.

  And he told her.

  Speaking as he never had before.

  At the end of his recitation, she leaped up from the sofa, her eyes wet from crying. “You cannot think you are anything like him.” She spoke fiercely. “He was cruel, and you are nothing like him.” Her hand shot out in an accusing gesture. “Is it the actions of a monster to find and protect the people whose births were no fault of their own?”

  Nash began to speak, but couldn’t say anything before she continued. As usual.

  “I wanted to come earlier, I told you that.” She was pacing in her agitation now, proof indeed that she was his mother. “But I didn’t until I knew for certain who you were. You found me, but of course I knew where you were. I’d gotten news of his death, and I nearly came then, but I—” She shook her head as she bit her lip. “I wasn’t sure who you were. If you were like him. But I made inquiries, and everything I heard—everything anyone has said about you—is that you are a generous person who wants to right all the wrongs in the world.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Not that you could have accomplished that, of course, but you have done what you could. I made certain to ask the people who were most affected by you, your father’s children, what they thought.”

  “You spoke to them?” Nash said, surprised.

  “No, but I hired people who got them to share their experiences of you. I didn’t want to return to your life until I knew for certain that you would be worthy of it. And you are, Ignatius, you are.” She sat back down, taking his face in her hands. “Your father was a monster. You want to right wrongs, and sometimes you use your fists. But that does not mean you are him.” She shook her head. “You were so young when I left, it is no wonder you have the wrong idea about who you are. But you have to believe that you are the best possible person you can be.”

  A pause as she took a deep breath. “You cannot allow the boy you were at ten to define your life now.”

  He gazed at her, feeling her words settle into his brain. Was she right? Was he the best possible person he could be? Was that the person he was choosing to become?

  They both turned at the sound of the door opening, and then the dowager duchess made her way inside, using her cane for support.

  Nash got up to draw his chair closer to her, and she sat, resting both her hands on top of the cane.

  “I heard you arrived, Helen,” the dowager duchess said, looking at his mother. “I was hoping you would come.”

  “It is good to see you, Your Grace,” his mother replied. She glanced at Nash, who had positioned himself near the fireplace, leaning on the mantel. “Ignatius has been speaking to me about his father.”

  The dowager duchess’s expression tightened. “I regret everything I didn’t do to help you.”

  Nash’s mother leaned forward to pat the dowager duchess’s knee. “I know that. You helped me as much as you could.”

  The dowager duchess nodded.

  “And now it appears that Ignatius has fallen in love.”

  The dowager duchess’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Lady Felicity?”

  “No,” Nash said. “Definitely not Lady Felicity.”

  “Oh good,” the dowager duchess replied. “When any idiot can see it is that Lady Ana Maria you are in love with.”

  Nash snorted. “I gather I am the idiot?”

  The dowager duchess waved vaguely. “If the description fits,” she began, soun
ding her most supercilious. “But I was hoping for this, even though you insisted she was not being considered. Likely you had some idiotic reason—”

  “Such as worrying I would end up like my father?” Nash interrupted.

  The dowager duchess gave a vigorous shake of her head. “I have been here only for a short time, but I know that you are nothing like him.”

  “That is what I have been telling him,” his mother exclaimed.

  “If you were, you would have tossed me out on my ear when I demanded you marry. But you knew it was for the greater good, even though I could see how much it chafed at you. And there’s the little matter of you taking in all of my son’s . . . mistakes.”

  Did everybody know?

  “This lady, this Ana Maria,” Nash’s mother said, looking intently at him. “Do you think you can convince her that you are worthy?”

  He glanced between his mother and grandmother, both of whose eyes glimmered with compassion, and spoke honestly. “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

  The carriage ride home—or more accurately, to Thaddeus’s house—was a silent one.

  Because it wasn’t home, even though it was the only home she’d ever known.

  She had never felt as though she belonged, and right now, she felt that not belonging even more acutely. It was as though she were suspended on a wire between a dirty kitchen grate and an elegant ballroom, and she didn’t want to be in either one.

  She wanted to be where she belonged.

  “Ana Maria?” Thaddeus spoke tentatively, not at all in his usual way. “Is there—do you want to talk?” He gestured toward his study as he spoke.

  “Yes.”

  She led the way to his study, the images of the day—now long into evening—flooding her memory.

  His care in her pleasure. His attention on her as he taught her the things she’d asked for. How he’d looked when they’d been discovered.

  His clenched fists. But he hadn’t used them. He’d chosen not to.

  “Look,” Thaddeus began, sitting at his desk, “you have every reason to be angry with me. With us.”

  Ana Maria nodded. “I do.”

  Thaddeus blinked in surprise. “Yes. Well. The thing is, we only want what is best for you.”

  She tilted her head. “How is Nash not best for me?” She spread her hands out in question. “Isn’t he your friend?”

  Sebastian strode into the room, glancing between the two of them as he heard her question. His expression tightened.

  Ana Maria turned to face him. “I was just asking Thaddeus why he believes Nash isn’t the best for me. Perhaps you have something to share on the topic?”

  It felt exhilarating to challenge them, even though it also felt enervating.

  Lady Oxymoron.

  “But you don’t want him, you just said so!” Sebastian exclaimed, flinging his hands up in the air.

  “I am entirely contrary,” she replied. “But on second thought, never mind. Don’t answer the question. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Sebastian took a deep breath, then stepped forward to wrap her in his arms. She allowed it, curling her face into his chest, feeling herself beginning to sob.

  “We love you so much,” he said. She felt another hand on her back, and knew that Thaddeus had joined the circle.

  “Yes, we do,” he said, sounding stiff. “We likely wouldn’t think anybody would be good enough for you. Even our closest friend.”

  She sobbed harder, and Sebastian held her tightly as Thaddeus patted her back.

  “Do you love him?” Sebastian asked after a few minutes.

  She nodded, lifting her head to speak. “It doesn’t matter, though. It doesn’t.”

  “We could hit him,” Sebastian suggested in a hopeful tone. She chuckled slightly in response.

  “That wouldn’t solve anything.” Nash himself could attest to that.

  “But it would make us feel better,” Sebastian said.

  She took a deep breath, stepping out of his arms, turning to face both of them. “Thank you both.” She wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “I am not going to rely on you two to solve my problems,” she said. “I am going to solve them myself.”

  “If you will pardon me, sir, I have work to do.”

  Nash put his hand on the merchant’s arm. “I just want to tell you what I like about your range of fish.”

  The merchant rolled his eyes. “I have to work, sir.”

  Nash dug into his pocket, withdrawing some coins, handing half of them to the merchant, whose face lit up. “If you’ll just give me a bit more time,” he said.

  “Of course,” the man replied, his tone changing at the sight of the coins.

  “Tell me, are sprats always this small?” He reached into the pile of fish and withdrew one, holding it up to his nose. It had a fishy smell, naturally. “Of course they are, I can see that.” He reached over to another pile. “Whelks are odd little creatures, aren’t they? I wonder who was the first individual to think to eat them. That person had quite a lot of imagination, wouldn’t you think?” He raised the shell to eye level, rotating it to view from all sides. It was beautiful, truly, when you truly looked at it. That he could see the beauty was something new—he’d kept himself shrouded from emotions for so long that recognizing beauty was a terrifying and incredible experience.

  Was this how she walked through life every day? Looking at things and noting their size, or their fishy smell, or their beauty?

  “Thank you for letting me discuss your fish,” Nash said, putting the whelk back onto the pile.

  The merchant gestured to his wares. “Don’t you want any of it? You paid me plenty.”

  Nash waved his hand. “No, thank you, I paid for the privilege of speaking with you today.”

  He nodded, then made his way determinedly down the street, walking toward the flower sellers.

  It had taken three days for him to venture out of his house after that evening. Not because he didn’t want to see her, because of course he did, but he needed to ensure he was prepared for what he was going to do. And he also had to make everything right in his own house before going to hers.

  First he’d spoken to all of his staff members, both individually and as a group. He’d never told them about his experiences with his father, nor had he bothered to ask them about the same thing.

  But he’d spoken with his mother, sifted through his memories, and discovered he and his half siblings had a lot more in common than just a parent. The people he’d gathered in his house weren’t just people he owed because of someone else’s callous cruelty; they were family.

  He’d never truly had family beyond Sebastian and Thaddeus.

  It felt terrifying and amazing.

  He and his mother were forging a relationship as well. He was grateful to find that her husband worshipped the ground she walked on, and she was actually happy.

  His grandmother asked him every time she saw him what he was going to do about Lady Ana Maria.

  He’d told her he needed to make sure he was good enough for her. That seemed to satisfy her until the next time she saw him.

  And now he was walking the streets of London, practicing telling people what he thought. Speaking to them instead of passing them by or ignoring them.

  There were three separate flower sellers side by side in the market. Each had an assortment of roses and—and a bunch of other types of flowers that he did not recognize.

  “Tell me,” he said, walking up to the first seller and picking up a posy, “what is this flower?”

  The flower seller was an older lady, likely around his mother’s age, with gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, a white apron tied around her waist. She was very fair-skinned, with bright patches of red on her cheeks.

  “That is a gloriosa, my lord,” she said. The flower was striking, sharp purple tendrils emerging from a pale green base. The flower looked like it could double as a weapon, and Nash imagined Ana Maria would apprec
iate its dual use, given her own duality: Cinderella, both before and after. The scullery maid transformed into a lady, but not because of some fairy, but because of her. And still clearly conflicted about the transformation.

  “And this one?” He picked up another flower, this one a meek yellow-and-orange flower that was not at all weapon-like.

  “Marigold,” she replied.

  “Come and see what I have, my lord,” the second seller said. Nash nodded, searching in his pockets for more coins. He dropped an equal amount into each of their hands.

  “Do you have any tulips?”

  All three sellers nodded, then each began to pluck flowers from their buckets. “It is a pleasure to find a gentleman who is interested in flowers,” the first seller said. She selected a few flowers from each of her sections, handing him a small bouquet. Then the other two did the same, and the first seller took all the flowers from his grasp, fashioning them into an enormous bunch.

  “That looks splendid, don’t you agree?” the first seller said, turning to the other two, who nodded their assent. “Take this to your lady with our thanks,” she added, handing him the bouquet.

  Nash stared at it—roses, gloriosas, marigolds, and a few other blooms that must have been tulips, a glorious tumult of color in his hand. The sheer beauty of it resonated through his entire body, and he couldn’t wait to see what she thought of it.

  What she thought of him.

  “He still hasn’t come?” Jane asked, as if she didn’t already know the answer.

  Ana Maria didn’t bother to reply.

  The two women sat in Ana Maria’s exuberant salon, Jane mending some of Ana Maria’s garments, and Ana Maria choosing fabrics for her bedroom and the Marchfields’ project.

  She refused to be despondent about him—she could have had him, if she’d compromised. She would not compromise.

  But she couldn’t help feeling mournful about what they were both missing: the opportunity to be with someone who could understand what it was like to be them. People with family they’d chosen, people whose experiences marked them out for isolation. People who coped as they had to, whether it was to constantly stay sunny, or to shut themselves off from feeling.