Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel

by Megan Frampton

  “No.” Now he folded his arms over his chest and appeared, to Edwina at least, to exude an almost palpable menace.

  Robert blanched and stuffed his papers back into his bag, throwing an anguished look toward Edwina.

  Not going to help you, she thought.

  “You may leave,” the duke said in a stronger tone than he’d yet used. “And if I find you have been bothering my employee, Mrs. Cheltam, in any way, you can be certain I will discover it and take proper measures.”

  That was definitely a threat.

  Robert glanced between the two of them a few more times, and then he bowed. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace.” He rose and looked at Edwina. “Edwina, please give my regards to Gertrude and tell her her cousins miss her.”

  Thank goodness he wasn’t going to press the point, given how the duke had spoken, and what he looked like now.

  “Thank you, I will.” She stood to the side to allow him to walk out of the room, then exhaled and looked at the duke, who remained in his Intimidating Aristocrat pose, his arms crossed, his expression fierce.

  “Thank you,” she said, at last. “Even though it was not necessary for you to—to—”

  “Interfere?” he supplied, raising one eyebrow as he spoke.

  She grimaced. “That is what I meant, although now you say it, it sounds churlish. I will leave it at thank you.” She bit her lip and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. “If you will excuse me, I must finish the preparations for the journey. And Gertrude and Miss Clark are no doubt waiting for me as well.”

  She nodded at him and left the room, relieved nothing worse had happened, wondering why she trembled even though nothing worse had happened.

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  26. Because no one dares to tell them they shouldn’t.

  Chapter 13

  When he saw her in the room, confronting that toad who dared to be related to her, he wished he could just tear the man’s head off and toss it on the ground. And he did not mean figuratively.

  Where did that protective anger come from, anyway? It wasn’t as though he had claim on her, beyond the relationship of employer and employee. And kisser and . . . kissee? Although she had kissed him just as much.

  There wasn’t anything more to it than that, he assured himself. But he knew he was lying, and he loathed lying, even within the confines of his own mind. He stood in the second salon alone for at least five minutes, concentrating on slowing his breathing, his mind full of images of her face, pale and tight, and her brother-in-law’s look of venom when Michael had first entered, only to be replaced with a look of supplication.

  If asked, Michael would say he preferred the look of venom. It was more honest. The man didn’t like Edwina, that was clear, just as much as she didn’t like him. That was likely why Michael had felt such a strong reaction—knowing the man had those feelings, and yet had felt compelled to pay a visit, as though they were on friendly terms.

  Now he could say with some certainty that they would be on no terms at all, or he would have something to say to Mr. Cheltam. He actually hated that she shared the name, that any part of her could be connected to him.

  And yet—and yet he had met people like Mr. Cheltam before, and they hadn’t bothered him. At least not to the same extent. Usually he assessed the type, found them wanting in intellect, honesty, or both, and dismissed them from his mind.

  Not Mr. Cheltam though.

  He didn’t think anything would have happened if he hadn’t come into the room—he knew Cheltam well enough to know she could handle herself, and besides, there was a houseful of servants who would have come running if they had heard anything. But he hadn’t even considered not entering, not when Hawkins had told him who was visiting her.

  It made him uncomfortable. Uncomfortable that he felt the need to watch over her, to guard her. As though he had taken a flag and planted it, proclaiming her as belonging to him.

  She would likely scoff at the idea of belonging to him, of being owned by anybody, and he would join her in the scoffing. Nobody should be owned by another, even though the law said a husband could own a wife, and fathers could do what they liked to their children.

  It wasn’t right, it wasn’t something with which he agreed, and yet he could see the appeal of it now. Being able to state, in action if not in words, that she was his property. His to protect, his to do with as he pleased.

  Which only reminded him that they were not currently ensconced in his carriage together. Now he really wanted to hit something.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it, but knowing it wouldn’t be clear until he’d satisfied—well, so many things. His curiosity, his hunger, his desire.

  “I’ve narrowed down the choices to five companies, as I see them, out of the original seventeen.” Cheltam sat beside him in the carriage, her head bent over the mass of papers on her lap.

  Finally. They were finally off on the trip, after more delays than Michael would have thought possible, all handled adroitly—if not as speedily as he would have wished, given he wished to be on his way immediately—by Cheltam with Hawkins’s throat-clearing assistance.

  Hawkins had only cleared his throat once when he discovered Cheltam would be sitting in the duke’s carriage.

  Their first stop would be in a few hours, to take refreshment at some inn that Cheltam had deemed suitable for someone of the duke’s importance. The duke himself didn’t care, just as long as he could have something to drink and stretch his legs.

  Speaking of which—he straightened his legs and put his feet on the cushions opposite, folding his arms over his chest and wriggling until he was comfortable.

  She glanced at him then, one eyebrow raised. She did not say anything, however, perhaps because he was returning the glance with his own eyebrow.

  “As I was saying, I’ve narrowed the choices to five. Unless you would prefer to take a nap?” She spoke to him as though he were six years old, like her daughter.

  He did not like it, not at all, and he wanted to just haul her over into his lap and kiss her senseless to show her just how much not like a six-year-old he was. Only that would be an impulsive and probably rash thing to do, much like a six-year-old.

  He wished sometimes he weren’t quite so able to discern the logic of things. If he weren’t, he would currently have her on his lap, his mouth on hers, his hands roaming over her body.

  He shifted as his body reacted to his thoughts.

  “I will not be napping,” he said in an imperious tone. “I do not nap.”

  He thought he might have heard her smother a snort, but he decided to act as though he hadn’t heard that. Showing, at least to himself, that he was not a child prone to impulsivity.

  “What five companies, and why did you choose them?” he continued.

  She returned to looking down, flipping through the sheets of paper. “The Victorian Rails, the Powers and Smith Corporation, the Right Way Railway, Cortwell Investments and Holdings, and the Better Engines Company.”

  Those were the same companies he would’ve selected himself. “And why did you choose them?”

  He hadn’t expected to be entertained when listening to her reasons for making the choices she did, but in this regard, unlike usual, he was surprised. She spoke well and intelligently about her findings, but she also included details that added life and a layer of depth to each company, many of which were amusing.

  “So you’re saying the Cortwell Investments representative refused to look you in the eye?”

  “It was the oddest thing. You’d think I had some sort of growth sprouting from my head or something. I kept dabbing at my face with my handkerchief, in case there was something on it, but to no avail. The man spoke to my ear, the wall behind me, and at one point even my elbow, but he never did meet my gaze.” She shook her head. “I suppose it was because I am female, but you would think, as your representative, that he would overcome his antipathy to my gender.”

  Michael chuckled.
“I doubt he had antipathy toward you, Cheltam.” He reached over and took her hand, which was resting on her lap. On top of all the correspondence she had just summarized. “You are a woman, yes, but on top of that you are a beautiful woman.”

  He felt her shift, as though uncomfortable, and squeezed her fingers. “I am only speaking the truth, honestly, as I do. Surely you know you are beautiful?”

  When she spoke, her tone was subdued. “Thank you. Yes, I know I have a certain amount of beauty, I suppose. Else why would Mr. Cheltam have wanted to marry me? He had only ever seen me a few times before he offered marriage, and we’d never had any substantive conversation.” A pause. “Either before or after we were wed.”

  She sounded rueful and sad, and he felt something in the area of his chest at hearing her words. Odd, that something she said would cause a physical reaction.

  “At least you were spared his conversation. If your late husband was anything like his brother, he was an idiot.”

  A silence, and then she let out a sharp laugh, leaning her head back against the carriage cushion. “Of course you would say precisely the truth, even though I’d never really dared to think that to myself before.” She laughed again, shaking her head. “There is something to be said about your way of communicating. I like that about you.” He felt himself warm at her words. “Imagine how much easier life would be if we all just said what was on our minds.” She tilted her head and looked at him, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Not to mention how much more difficult, as we all learned what we thought of one another.”

  He met her gaze, noting how she looked at him, how the air suddenly felt heavy with everything they hadn’t yet said.

  “And what do you think of me?”

  She bit her lip and then smiled. “Why, that you’re an eccentric crank, of course.”

  Oh my goodness. Did she think him irresistible and compelling when he was just seated behind his desk, his long, elegant fingers leafing through his accounts or steepled in front of him as he listened to her?

  That was nothing compared to how irresistible he looked when he was, judging by his expression now, both piqued and intrigued. Oh, and interested, she’d have to add.

  Interested, presumably, in the same thing she was, which boded ill for her widowed virtue. But what was the point of being a widow, a widow who had no intention of ever marrying again, if one could not finally get to do for fun what one had to do within the confines of marriage?

  Did that make her a woman of easy virtue? No, not unless you were speaking about her virtue in regard to this man. She didn’t think she would ever meet anyone who compelled her as much as he did, the remarkable mix of intelligence, logic, humor, arrogance, and that overpowering handsomeness that made her breathless each and every morning she entered his presence.

  “I suppose that is as good an epithet as any,” he said, his gaze traveling down her body to where their hands were clasped. His gaze was so—so intense it felt as though he were actually touching her in other places, and her body tightened and felt as if it had gotten suddenly more sensitive, as though any touch would make her body feel as though it were vibrating.

  Honesty. That was what was called for, was it not? “When we stop for the night, after we have retired, I am wondering if you—” and she licked her lips and took a deep breath. “That is, I would like it if you would want to come to my bedchamber.”

  There. She’d said it. Spoken aloud what they’d nearly almost discussed earlier, only this time, she’d spoken with complete honesty. Not prevaricated, by just asking him if he would want to come; she’d told him she would like it. Nothing ambiguous there about what she wanted. What she hoped he wanted.

  He smiled at her, the look in his eye making her shiver, and raised her hand to his lips. “I would like it also,” he replied before placing an openmouthed kiss on the back of her hand.

  Six hours later, Edwina was regretting her honesty. Well, not precisely regretting, but perhaps questioning her sanity. Much worse than regret. Regret was when you wore something not quite warm enough for the weather; questioning your sanity meant you wondered if there was an enormous monster made of ice currently breathing down your neck.

  And soon he might be breathing down her neck. On her neck. And other places as well. She shivered thinking about it.

  Which meant, perhaps, that she hadn’t dressed warmly enough for the weather.

  But that wasn’t it, was it? It was her shivering with the thought of it, with the anticipation of feeling his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, seeing what he looked like when he was less than perfectly garbed.

  She was shivering again when she heard a soft knock on the door. She bit her lip and stood, drawing her wrapper a little closer around herself. As though that would protect her when he came in. Protect her from herself, because she knew in the deepest part of her that this was going to happen. That she wanted this with an almost overpowering intensity, only increased when she thought about him, and his commanding air, and his intensity.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  And felt her breath whoosh out of her as she looked at him, all the lean and powerful height of him.

  “May I come in?” He spoke with a trace of humor in his voice, but also a hesitancy she hadn’t heard from him before. As though this was important to him.

  And then she knew it would be all right, this would happen, and it would be what it was—wonderful or not, she had no idea—but it would be all right. If it wasn’t wonderful, it wouldn’t be repeated, and she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t press her. If it was wonderful—well, then she would have a slew of other problems, all glorious, amazing ones; when to do it again, how to keep herself from thinking about it when she should be working, why she absolutely shouldn’t feel guilty about it.

  How it could never be permanent. Logic wouldn’t allow for it.

  But he was still standing at the door, his eyebrow raised in question, and she felt herself flush as she grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, shutting the door behind him. Sliding the latch so they were entirely and completely alone.

  She pushed him against the door and put her hands on either side of his arms, trapping him, even though she knew he was allowing her to do so.

  She stared up into his eyes, her breath catching—again—when she saw the spark of desire, of passion, of hunger reflected in those green depths.

  “Well?” he said, inclining his head. “You have me. What do you want to do to me?”

  And she pushed herself up on her tiptoes, leaned into him, and placed her mouth on his.

  Her mouth was so warm, and so soft. He resisted the urge to pull her in closer to his body, letting her take the lead. Knowing this wasn’t something she was in the habit of doing, and he knew he would have to be prepared if she decided it wasn’t something she wished to be doing after all.

  But, oh Lord, he hoped she wouldn’t. Her tongue licked at the seam of his lips, then pushed inside, her hands sliding over the wooden door to rest on his shoulders. He felt her rise up more, as though she were climbing him, and he allowed his knees to bend so he could lower himself a bit to meet her. To be her equal, as much as it was possible.

  She growled in what sounded like frustration, and he smothered a chuckle. She removed her mouth from his and glowered at him. “Do you find this funny, Hadlow?”

  “Absolutely not.” He felt his mouth curl into a smile, and her glower intensified. “Well, a little.”

  She leaned back, keeping one hand on his shoulder while she punched his chest with the other. “You’re not making this any easier.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, as he’d been longing to since he entered the room only a few minutes earlier, and drew her against him. Him leaning on the door, and her leaning against him, all the warmth and soft curves of her pressing into his body.

  “Is this better?” he said in a whisper. Willing his cock to stand down, just for a moment, so he wouldn’t scare her.

/>   She nodded. “It is. I want this, I do. I’m”—and she laughed, but it was more of a rueful laugh than anything humorous—“just not very good at this. You’re going to have to help.”

  And wasn’t that something to make his cock pay attention all over again?

  “I will, Cheltam. Leave it all up to me.”

  And with that he pushed her away, sliding his hand down her arm to take her hand, leading her to the bed and sitting her down on it, kneeling on the floor in front of her.

  She gazed down at him, her eyes wide and dark, her tongue reaching out to lick her lips. Soon it would be him licking her lips. And other places. He couldn’t wait.

  Only he had to wait, didn’t he, since he wanted this to be satisfying for both of them. To be everything he’d only just begun to realize he’d been thinking about from the first time he saw her.

  He placed his hands on her ankles, feeling the delicate bones under his palm, rubbing his fingers on her instep, feeling her start to relax under his caress.

  “I’m fairly certain I’ve never had a duke at my feet before,” she mused after a few minutes.

  “I’m fairly certain I’ve never knelt at any woman’s feet before,” he replied in a soft murmur. “But I seem to make an exception for you, Cheltam. From being my female secretary to letting your daughter talk me into bringing her to an exhibition to having you dine with me because the alternative is far less pleasant.” He hadn’t thought about it beyond the rudiments, but she’d changed his life the moment she’d entered it. There were so many things he hadn’t realized before. That he was lonely, that he longed for the kind of connection it seemed he had with her.

  And now things were about to change, irrevocably, between them. Or so he hoped.

  He kept the pressure on her feet, then moved up to her ankles, rubbing them until he heard a soft moan. He felt his throat grow tight, and he swallowed before looking up at her.

  She had her eyes on him as well, and now he could see the frank desire in her gaze, how her lids drooped over her eyes, how her mouth was parted, her lips still red and swollen from their kiss.