The Ugly Dukeling

by Bex McLynn

  Cisnetta sighed as she began flipping through her book. “I said retired military. I know I did. Military-trained doesn’t mean he has the experience—”

  Naosim’s hand covered her pages, halting her frantic review of her notes. “Ciss, he’s what’s needed.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get to interview him.” She bit off her words as Naosim’s tone, paired with the way he solemnly blinked at her, finally registered. She side-eyed him. “Who is it?”

  “Atrates.”

  Atrates. The never-to-be-named before the duke, vehemently guarded younger brother of her cavalier employer. The man who had her daydreaming as she gazed out the coach window and carded her fingers through Cobbs’s feathers. For six long, bumpy hours.

  Trone’s words resurfaced in her mind. He’s been managed.

  Indeed, he’d been managed, and apparently, so had she.

  Flicking her eyes to Naosim she caught his earnest sympathy before returning her gaze to the floor. She stared at her worn boots that she’d polished and mended herself because she couldn’t afford a bootboy, let alone new boots or Otaric-made boots that were said to look new even after years of wear.

  She slumped her shoulders. “Sim, am I not doing well?”

  Naosim sat up and placed a warm hand on her nape. He gave her a brotherly jostling. “Oh, Ciss, don’t think that. You are indispensable. Extraordinary.”

  “Underpaid,” she injected gloomily.

  “As are we all.” He gave her one more jostle before removing his hand. “That’s why we’re all here. To be magnificent while being under-compensated. And we’re not bitter at all because it’s all for the greater good.”

  “Right.” She gave him a rueful look as she tidied her bun. “I’ve met Lord Barbotière. He might not share our altruism.”

  “Oh, well, that right there set you off on a bad start.”

  “What? His challenge with exuding compassion?”

  “No. Trone says his brother hates that courtesy title.”

  Cisnetta tossed her hands up in exasperation. “This is why Trone simply can’t ‘manage’ things, Simmy. He manages poorly. I should have been informed.” Then she mumbled. “Doesn’t like his fluffy title.”

  Naosim waved his hand at her. “You’ll both rub along fine, Ciss.”

  “We don’t rub at all,” Cisnetta said with a frown. “We sluice off one another like water on a swan’s wing.”

  “Ah,” Naosim said with a bright smile. “Birds of a fea—”

  “Don’t you dare finish that.”

  Naosim shrugged a careless shoulder. “Denial only silences the truth; it doesn’t change its nature. Thus, the truth remains, seen but not heard, lurking about in the corner, being very awkward and pathetic. Rather cruel of you, Ciss.”

  “Trone’s brother and I aren’t the same, Simmy. We’re water and oil.” Cisnetta grumped. “There’s no lurking because we don’t mix together at all.”

  Chapter 4

  Atrates lingered in the shadows of the back fence as he watched Miss Fowler garden. The ground lanterns dimly illuminated her as she kneeled before a bed of magone.

  “You’re terrible at lurking,” Miss Fowler said to him.

  With a disgruntled huff, he strode over to her. “I’m excellent at lurking.”

  He’d taken up position in the garden a quarter-hour ago, and it irritated him that she finally noticed him.

  She simply hummed, and he couldn’t quite tell if she’d agreed to disagree with the unsaid portion of his statement: that she possessed zero instincts. But he definitely caught her lack of concern over the matter.

  And why should she have been concerned about one shortcoming, when she was plagued by another?

  Her terrible lack of sense had them conversing in the garden at two in the bloody morning.

  This seemingly pragmatic woman lacked practicality, mirroring her supposed recovery facility’s lack of refugees.

  When Atrates had first arrived hours ago, Usberg, a veteran infantryman, showed him to a spare room that had been turned into a barracks. It was a cramped, but tidy place for the volunteer guards to bunk down for an hour or so. Atrates had eschewed the discomforting communal room and had begun his circuit around the property. He’d immediately noted weaknesses as well as some earnest efforts to secure the townhome.

  As he’d toured the property and placed security sensors on doors and windows—handy bits of Otaric tech that adhered to any surface and disappeared as a light-refracting cloak engaged—he again noted the absence of any women in need of shelter and protection.

  The only woman he’d encountered was Miss Fowler. He’d stood outside of her bedroom door, listening to her coo to her demon bird. He’d slapped the security sensor to the wall before moving on, grumbling to himself as he went.

  As soon as he’d completed his initial rounds, Miss Fowler began her endless, fretful wandering of the house. She’d pinged all his sensors, creating a constant chime that had his attention locked on his farsimi screen. As she’d lit up alarm after alarm, she had him playing games with himself. He’d placed wagers as to her next destination—her series of trips from the kitchen to the study to her bedroom to the empty bedrooms upstairs.

  He’d watched her enter the garden wearing worn pants and a faded shirt with her hair in a long plait down her back. Stared in irritation and fascination as she kneeled on the ground and sank her fingers into the loamy dirt of Gisth.

  Finally, she’d settled, and something inside of Atrates eased yet riled. He’d taken the synten that Valment had foisted upon him, but as he’d watched her from the shadows, arousal continued to flare within him. It butted up against his medicinal barrier and flung the reverberation of his lust back at him.

  Want. Want. Want.

  “Would you?”

  He blinked and refocused with a suppressed growl. She gazed up at him with an inquisitive expression.

  Hell, she’d asked him a question, hadn’t she?

  But thank god for her poor night vision. He’d been roving his gaze over her, noting that her braid reined her hair as severely as her bun. That the gap in her shirt collar gave him a flash of her unadorned tan brassiere. That dirt caked her hands and a smudge scored her left cheek.

  “Would I?” he asked her.

  “Would you prefer I call you something else? Other than Lord Barbotière?”

  God, yes, he would prefer that. But his own name got lodged in his chest.

  He cleared his throat and grumbled. “Major Geswin, if you must.”

  She gazed at him, her brown eyes not softening. Not hardening either. But nevertheless, he found himself wanting to shift under her attention.

  “Very well, Major.”

  Then she stunned him. Instead of bobbing another sloppy curtsey, she executed a swift, perfunctory salute before returning to her gardening.

  He found himself hovering, standing there and staring down at her at a loss. Although their exchange had ended, it wasn’t a customary conclusion. She didn’t dismiss him with a disparaging comment or a glare or a huff. She simply returned to her task, sending him off with no ill will.

  It wasn’t often that someone treated him so… normally.

  Within the small bubble of light from the ground lanterns, he watched her work. She wore no gloves to shield her hands, yet she gently slipped her fingers between the stems of the blooms, pulling weeds and detaching caterpillars. She placed the squirming pests in a pail with a cheesecloth knotted to form a lid.

  “Why don’t you kill them?” he blurted out.

  She kept working as she jutted her chin toward a row of brambles along the courtyard fence. A patch of jaggers grew there. The thorny tangle was a good deterrent should a vagrant hop her fence, but not enough to stop someone who was determined and prepared to steal a hyper-frenetic woman.

  “Milkweed comes up between the jaggers. These little darlings, with some redirection and encouragement, can set about eating the milkweed, where I can’t reach.”

 
; With his superior eyesight, he could see that she’d obviously tried to reach. Dozens of raised white scars covered the backs of her hands and her forearm.

  He wondered what made her go back, only to be nicked over and over, determined—or perhaps desperate—to keep a biting thing like a bramble of jaggers alive and well. But he knew. Those jaggers were the only security she’d had until help arrived.

  Then he grumbled and swore silently. She had him contemplating the usefulness of pests and brambles, things typically cleared away from a manicured landscape.

  He canted his head at her. Perhaps he underestimated her. “You walked me right into that, didn’t you?”

  He heard the amusement in her reply. “I would do no such thing. You’re not on a lead, Major.”

  He chuffed.

  “But color me impressed.” She looked up and smiled at him. “You’re very perceptive. Congratulations, you’ve got the position as Head of Security.”

  The corner of his mouth tugged tightly, and the impulsive smile surprised him. “My orders are routed through OMC, Miss Fowler. You are not my superior.”

  He regretted the word as soon as he said it. Superior. He’d meant it as rank and file, not disparaging her qualities.

  She sighed, a breathy exhale that bounced with a wry chuckle. “Well, we’ll learn to rub along by taking baby steps.”

  Cursing he stepped forward and gestured toward the flowerbed. “I can assist.”

  “You most certainly can.” Again, it astounded him to hear laughter and not scorn in her tone. “Please join me.”

  Atrates took a knee, making sure to lower himself in measured increments.

  Not too quickly and eager.

  Not so slowly that even the duke could have risen and lowered himself a dozen times.

  He settled next to her, and the hair on his nape rose as he inhaled. He ignored the overpowering magone and sought that hint of fragrance that was distinctly hers.

  There. He caught a whiff of her—warm, tangy musk that was at odds with the heavy floral perfume of magone.

  During his security circuit through the house he’d smelled nothing but magone, which made sense for a recovery facility. Whereas synten was effective in treating frenesia in men, magone—when processed into a distilled extract or used in teas and aromatherapy—provided relief for women.

  Atrates saw evidence that the townhome had been arranged to accommodate frenetic women. Magone had been fully incorporated into the living space. Sachets and swags of dried magone hung on the walls in every room. Magone soap was used to launder the linens covering the beds, and magone soap cakes were in the privy.

  He’d seen other signs, besides the magone, that frenetic women resided there. None of the cleaning supplies resembled the equipment that he’d seen at OMC, which was modified tech from the Ark that kept the ship’s environment sterile. The home also lacked machines to ease meal prep, and he hadn’t seen a food replicator. The townhome’s only upgrade was a fully-outfitted Otaric medical ward.

  He knew the reasons for maintaining such a low-tech home. The hands-on chores would enable the women to burn excessive frenetic energy through housework.

  Miss Fowler sat back on her heels. “Do you need gloves?”

  “No need to fuss.” He thrust his granite-black hands out before him. “It won’t show.”

  “Ah,” she said, her tone light compared to the bitterness he’d uttered. “Mind that you don’t pinch the caterpillars too hard.”

  He grumbled as he brushed back magone petals and sought out the pests in the lower layer of the foliage. Heat prickled his skin as he grew sheepishly aware that his large hands were ill-suited for such precise work. His wheelhouse was smashing mortar and snapping chains. He’d never been called upon to preserve something.

  They plucked in silence until she said, “Nighttime is best for this. The lamps draw them down the stems and away from the floral disc.”

  He gave her a wordless acknowledgment—a gruff hum to let her know that he’d heard.

  “They crawl toward the light,” she continued as she carefully plucked and cradled a wiggling insect in her dirty hand. “Then we get to move them along to a place that is far better for them.” She shrugged. “Far better for us as well.”

  Atrates looked at the jagger bramble across the tiny urban yard. Hell, he’d been in brigs bigger than this yard. “But they keep coming back.”

  “That they do.”

  He grumbled. “So all your work is for nothing. Better to crush them then. Be done with the nuisance.”

  When she didn’t answer straight away, he turned to look at her.

  It was a bad move on his part.

  She was reaching toward him, and he stared, dazed, as she gently removed the caterpillar in his hand. Never had a woman—other than female hybrids—gotten this close to him without salacious intent in her eyes.

  When she brushed her skin along his and relieved him of the caterpillar, awareness flared through him. Her touch heightened the sensation of everything in his hand—from the grating grains of dirt to the minuscule feet of the crawling garden pest.

  “They are not a nuisance, Major.” Her voice flowed over him like a warm breeze. “They are simply caterpillars. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Chapter 5

  Atrates ran through Virgate Park, blowing hard as he lengthened his stride. He dodged the lackadaisical pedestrians who strolled along the winding path. Startled shouts and a few muttered curses pinged his sensitive hearing—damn alien—but Atrates ran on. After all, ducking and weaving amongst the carriages, single riders, and prams along the Andedam—the park’s large pond—was a better reactionary exercise than jogging alone.

  What did jogging achieve other than having his feet pounding upon Gisth as his heart thundered in his chest and that woman’s words from last night echoed in his mind?

  Not a nuisance.

  God, she and those damn caterpillars.

  Vermin threatened her resources and she didn’t burn them to the ground? Rather, she carried them in her hand, relocating them to a forward position, allowing them to regroup and charge another assault.

  It was foolhardy of her, yet annoyingly optimistic of her as well. It had seemed almost endearing.

  That unusual admission had him stumbling over level ground, forcing him to pivot and then hurdle an oncoming nanny with her pram.

  He huffed out an apology, something rote and courteous and entirely insincere.

  Bloody Cisnetta Fowler and her sensitive sensibilities.

  Or was it her strident sensibilities that unbalanced him both during and after their interactions thus far?

  Thus far? Hell, he’d only known her for a day.

  His farsimi, strapped to his bicep, pinged and vibrated. He’d handpicked that spine-twisting, irritating tone for his brother. Trone was hailing him.

  It was about damn time, too. Atrates had tried hailing his brother yesterday afternoon once he’d completed his assessment of the townhome. He’d wanted answers as to why he found no women, since Miss Fowler had yet to arrive.

  He also wanted to know why Dr. Naosim Lecit, Trone’s lover, was boxing in the basement. The doctor had been shadow-sparring in an impromptu ring. Although his punches lacked pounding impact, Atrates recognized the form that made his brother formidable in the ring. Trone had been a champion until the duke reminded him that the heir to the Andrake dukedom, one of the most esteemed titles in Mayren, did not bloody his nose or that of others.

  A duke would hire a swain.

  It galled Atrates to think that by working security at a den recovery facility sponsored by his brother, he’d turned himself into a duke’s swain.

  “Atty!” his brother boomed.

  Atrates barreled over his brother’s greeting. “Where are the women, Trone?”

  Perhaps he barreled over him too loudly. With the farsimi pressed to his ear, he ducked his head, surreptitiously glanced around, and caught people giving him glares as they hastened aw
ay from him.

  He strode on with a huff, heading toward the pond. A breeze rippled over the surface, yet the distortion of his reflection didn’t mask his identity. He was a dark shadow on the water, a distinct shape compared to the reflections of the other Mayreni who meandered along the water’s edge.

  “The women are fine, Atty,” Trone chatted on, unperturbed by Atrates’s ire. “Ciss relocated them to Barbotière a few days ago.”

  Atrates frowned down at his reflection. “My mother’s manor?”

  “Your manor, Atty.”

  When the duke had divorced his first duchess, Atrates’s mother, he’d compensated her and appeased the Otar by ceding Chateau Barbotière—the dowager manor—to Atrates and his mother. The former duchess hadn’t lived long, having become a humiliated outcast of the bon ton. He’d been very young when she died and had no memories of his mother. He could only summon blurry impressions of the manor.

  According to the royal peerage registry, Chateau Barbotière would be ceded to Atrates once he reached some convoluted majority, for all the good it did for him. The duke, and now Trone, never treated Barbotière like Atrates would become its lord and master. Atrates simply held the ridiculously useless courtesy title, Baron Barbotière.

  Atrates gritted his teeth before releasing a deep breath. “You’ve commandeered my mother’s home. The home that the duke has sworn to burn to ash should I cross the threshold as its master. Now you are asking me to return there under your employ, to oversee the installment of security.”

  “The old jackass always underestimated you, Atty,” his brother said brightly. “Quick to judge with his eyes and quick to punish with a switch. A man moving that quickly only skims the surface.”

  The surface. If only Trone knew how deeply the duke’s switches and slurs had scarred him.

  Trone continued, “Tell me your impression of the townhome?”

  Impression? He had a list of problems to rattle off to Trone. Strangely, he hadn’t itemized Miss Fowler, though a part of him reared its head and said that yesterday she would have topped that list. Rather, within his one-day assessment of an empty recovery facility, he saw how she filled the gaping shortcomings of the place as best she could. But despite her best efforts, she was merely whitewashing a collapsing house.