“Syllogist?” she supplied.
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘caviller,’ or perhaps just the more succinct ‘prig,’ ” he said, smiling as he spoke. “ ‘Syllogist’ is so much kinder.”
“You should be kinder to yourself,” she replied, surprising him. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t.
“How so?”
She shrugged. “I can tell, you think poorly of yourself for coming close to berating Hawkins when he dares to question you, or snapping at me when I’ve not done something you expected would be done. But that is you. You are not always a nice man”—and that hurt, oddly enough, even though he knew that about himself—“but you are an honest one, and that is valuable, and far rarer, I believe.”
“So you think I should snap?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, that is not what I am saying. I am saying you should give yourself more credit for not snapping, but for heaven’s sake, don’t take it up just because it is easier. You are the last person I would ever expect to do something because it is easier, anyway,” she finished.
“True.” It felt right, and oddly satisfying, to have her understand him so thoroughly. When had that ever happened before?
Oh right, never. His closest friend was canine, and his next-closest friend was probably—her. It was so lonely, being him, and so being with her, both in the daytime and now in whatever nighttime activities they were embarking on, felt so special.
But what if they weren’t? What if this was how people who were normal, who weren’t he, behaved all the time? How would he know that?
“You’re thinking about something. Did you want me to continue with this report, or do you have enough information?” She frowned. “How long is the journey to the factory anyway? We should be there soon, if Smaxton is correct.”
Michael felt a twinge—or more than a twinge—of jealousy at hearing her speak about someone else. “And who is Smaxton?” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
She rolled her eyes again. Apparently his tone wasn’t neutral enough. “Smaxton is your coachman, the one with the wife and five children, who smells of tobacco.”
“Oh.” Sad, truly, that he didn’t know his coachman’s name. Perhaps if he did know it, his coachman would end up being his closest friend, supplanting his dog, and making her his third-best friend.
Although he highly doubted that.
“I have enough, thank you.” Although he really didn’t, but she wouldn’t be able to provide what it was that he most needed to know when considering an investment—what the ultimate costs would be, if it felt as though it were the right decision, if he thought it would make the world a better place for his having done so.
Not unlike taking a lover, he thought, suppressing a grin. He did not think she would appreciate the comparison, so he did not mention it. Even though he dearly wished he could share the thought with her, as it seemed he wanted to share so much.
“Since we do have some time, tell me about yourself.”
He blinked. Nobody had ever asked him to talk about himself, mostly because they knew all the relevant facts: He was a duke, he was thirty-four years old, he was so many inches tall, and he was brutal when he encountered stupidly curious people.
Probably the last item was the one that meant nobody asked him anything.
“What do you want to know?” He sounded stiff.
She shrugged. “I know who you are now, but tell me more about yourself in general.” She smiled. “I can’t imagine what you were like as a little boy.”
“Younger,” he replied quickly.
She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Of course you would say that. That I would know, since I do understand how time works. What were you like?”
She stressed the last word, and he allowed his mind to travel back, to remember things he hadn’t deliberately recalled in years.
“I had an older brother,” he began, and he saw her expression change into one of concern, because of course he wouldn’t be the duke if his older brother were still alive. “His name was William, and he was my hero. I followed him around as soon as I could walk, and he only got frustrated with me a few times, which is remarkable given how annoying I was.”
“I am guessing you asked loads and loads of questions,” she said in a fond tone.
He snorted. “Yes, my mother said it was a good thing I went to sleep, since otherwise she’d have to answer questions twenty-four hours a day.”
“What happened to your brother?”
His chest tightened. “I didn’t know then, but he had a weak constitution. We went fishing one day, I was only four, and he fell into the water. Not enough to drown him, but it was nearly winter, and the water was cold.” A pause. “He died a few months later.”
She reached forward and placed her hand on his arm. “I am so sorry.”
Just those few words eased the feeling in his chest. He didn’t doubt she was sorry. He could hear it in her tone of voice. He believed it, unlike when other people offered their apologies for something or another.
“Thank you,” he replied, placing his hand on top of hers. “Thank you.” This was by far the most . . . intense dalliance he’d ever had with a woman.
Even though he knew it was everything more than a dalliance. Even though it never could be.
She’d never thought that showing emotions was a particularly attractive quality—her late husband had shown plenty of emotion, namely jealousy, and pride, and misplaced arrogance. But with him, with Hadlow—Michael, she supposed she might call him now, though that felt odd even inside the confines of her own head—his emotions were appealing. Even the ones that were less attractive.
That was, of course, because he was he. On anybody else those emotions would be annoying. Needy. But he wore them like an unfamiliar set of clothes, strangely awkward and ungainly in a way that she didn’t think he had ever felt before.
It shouldn’t make him more attractive. But it absolutely did. And when he had opened up enough to speak to her about his brother—she just wanted to cry and wrap her arms around him and protect him, of all the ludicrous ideas. A duke, especially his type of duke, wouldn’t need any protecting. But that reality didn’t diminish her feelings.
“Do you think,” he began, sounding almost nervous, “do you think Gertrude would want something from this trip? I wonder if any of the factories produce models of their engines or something like that. Only if you think she would like them,” he added hurriedly.
Dear Lord. Had she thought him appealing when he was vulnerably emotional? That was nothing compared to when he was thinking of something thoughtful he could do for her child, a being who had no hold on him, to whom he owed no obligation.
“She would love it,” Edwina replied. She clasped the hand he’d placed on hers and squeezed it. Here, alone in the carriage, they could acknowledge what they’d done. Who they were to each other, couldn’t they?
She hoped so.
He looked down at their hands, his thumb moving in small circles on the back of her hand. Sending prickles up her spine, and a warmth flowing through other parts of her body.
“This is,” he said, speaking in a low tone of voice, “this is special to me, you know.”
She hadn’t known. Not exactly. She’d suspected, but she hadn’t known.
“Yes, to me as well.” She blinked away the onset of tears. Why was she even tempted to cry? “It is not as though I do this kind of thing every day.”
“Of course you don’t. I am honored you have chosen to do so with me.”
He kept rubbing the back of her hand, and she felt as though that was the only thing she could feel or know about, his thumb on her skin, the way the carriage jostled their shoulders together, the constant thrum of the wheels and the distant jangling of the horses’ harnesses.
They stayed silent for the remainder of the trip, Edwina as comfortable as she could possibly be alone in a carriage with her employer, her lover, and—and her friend.
“We’re slowing,” he said after about an hour of travel. Edwina jerked upright, not having realized she’d been dozing, and looked out the window of the carriage. The factory was to the right of them, a large, square building with a few stray plumes of black smoke emerging from the top. The carriage drew to a stop directly in front of the black wrought-iron gates, the script in the gates proclaiming they had, indeed, reached Powers and Smith.
“Let’s hope this is a useful visit,” he muttered in his usual aggravated tone. She suppressed a smirk—of course he was already aggravated, since he was likely anticipating the potential stupidity of whomever he might meet inside—and picked up her papers, straightening them and patting her hair, just to ensure she was looking tidy.
Smaxton opened the carriage door, holding his hand out to help her down the steps. She thought she heard him growl behind her, and bit her lip. Perhaps now that he was allowing himself to show his emotions he should take care to hide them a bit more. If anyone knew—her whole body suddenly felt as though it were freezing, and she swallowed hard against the rising anxiety. If anyone knew what they were doing, it wouldn’t reflect poorly on him—what with being a duke, and male, and basically above any kind of judgment—but it would on her.
And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. So she just had to be very, very careful. As did he.
Which was why, when he held his arm out to her, she shook her head no. He narrowed his eyes at her, and then nodded in return, seeming to process what she was thinking.
“Come along, Cheltam,” he said, starting to walk toward the gate in a brisk stride.
She hurried behind him, darting a few surreptitious glances at his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the back of his head.
She had to be discreet, not entirely oblivious, after all.
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?
22. Because a heart is responsible to nothing but itself.
Chapter 17
There was a flurry of movement as they approached the gates, and then a man stepped through the running mass of bodies toward them, a smile suitable for greeting a duke—not too friendly, just hovering on the right side of obsequiousness—on his face. This was obviously either Powers or Smith, his clothing completely clean and more expensive than even a site manager could afford.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” the man said in a cultured accent. He glanced at Edwina, frowning for a moment, then returned to looking at the duke.
“Good morning. You are?” the duke said in his usual brusque tone.
The man didn’t seem to take it as amiss as Edwina would have if he had addressed her that way.
“Mr. Smith,” he replied. “Mr. Powers is tending to some emergency in the production room”—and then his expression froze—“not that it is a true emergency, not that anything is wrong, just that—”
“Fine,” the duke interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Lead on, Mr. Smith,” and at that he shot Edwina a look as though to say, See? We got the businessman; we won’t get anything useful out of this, and she wanted to laugh at his grumpiness.
“Er, would you wish your—your companion to wait for you while we conduct our business?”
Edwina stiffened as she realized what the man thought—that she was the duke’s paramour brought along as entertainment, presumably, on the trip. Of course he’d know the duke wasn’t married, nor was her clothing as fine as would belong on a duchess. So the only alternative would be that she was his mistress.
Which she was, she supposed, only she didn’t belong to him. She was not a property to be disposed of in an office while he went around looking at admittedly boring things.
“You are mistaken,” Hadlow replied, his tone sharp, “this is my secretary, Mrs. Cheltam. She will be accompanying us on the tour.”
Mr. Smith immediately looked chagrined, and Edwina almost felt sorry for him. “Ah, yes, of course. Your secretary,” and the way he said the last two words, as though they should be accompanied by a wink, took whatever sympathy she had for the man and shredded it. It made her angry and sad, also—because it just meant that no matter what, this was just temporary. Anger because there was no logical way they could be together forever, and sad for the very same reason.
If he hadn’t been a duke. If she had been closer to his class. But this, this was just a fraction of what it would be like if people knew about them.
But she couldn’t daydream away on “ifs”; she had work to do.
“This way, please,” Mr. Smith said, holding his arm out toward the large building in front of them. The duke paused to let her go first, and she stopped short when she realized that was likely the first time he’d acknowledged her being a female while working as his secretary.
Obviously he acknowledged her as female when he was acting as her lover, but those two situations were entirely different.
She followed Mr. Smith as he opened the door to the building, the noises of production and men talking getting louder. She stepped over the threshold, and was immediately inside what was clearly the main production room. It was an enormous space, with ominous-looking contraptions hanging from the ceiling, and rectangular worktables placed in a pattern in the room, at least two men working at each one.
“If you will step into my office, I can go over what we will see,” Mr. Smith said, having to raise his voice over the din. He gestured to the left corner of the room, where Edwina saw a discreet door with the word “OFFICE” painted on it.
The duke placed his hand at Edwina’s back and guided her to the office. It wasn’t untoward that her employer would do such a thing and touch her to ensure her safety, but she was fairly certain that it was untoward when his fingers slid onto her waist and squeezed. She would have to have a talk with him about discretion, and its importance, if they were to continue this—this careful dance of employer and employee, of man and woman, of bed partners. Lovers.
And she would also have to have a discussion with her body, because her body was all too delighted that he was touching her inappropriately. Her nipples had tightened, and she was keenly aware of him at her back, the solid, strong warmth of him an almost tangible touch, just like his fingers.
His clever, clever fingers.
“If you’ll just step this way, Mrs. Cheltam,” Mr. Smith said, interrupting her salacious musings. The duke dropped his hand from her body as she walked into the office, noting its general neatness, impressed despite her not feeling too kindly toward its proprietor. There were bookshelves all along one wall, and on another, a small window looked out on to the factory space. A large desk, its surface bare except for a few papers and a pen, was at the left, with two chairs placed opposite.
“If you’d care to have a seat?” Mr. Smith continued, gesturing to the chairs. She glanced at the duke, who nodded, and followed to sit in the other chair after she’d settled herself.
Mr. Smith closed the door and took the chair behind the desk. He beamed at both of them, settling his hands on the desk. “We very much appreciate your taking the time to visit our humble premises, Your Grace.”
Edwina didn’t even have to look at him to know his gaze had narrowed and his jaw had set at the man’s falsely modest words. She felt a pang of sympathy for him—he encountered this kind of sycophancy all the time, due to his position. And of course he had less patience for it than a man of average intelligence did.
No wonder he seemed so relieved to be able to share his thoughts with her.
“I do not invest funds in something if I cannot be persuaded as to its eventual results. Whether the results are financial, or beneficial to progress, or some other tangible measure of success.” The duke leaned back in his chair, the very epitome of aristocratic indulgence. “So tell me why I should invest in Powers and Smith.”
The next half hour was spent with Mr. Smith going over, with great alacrity, the forward progress of the company, the dedication of its workers—above all, Mr. Smith—and how all the other engine manufacturers had less commitment, more mistakes,
and faultier engines.
Edwina took a few notes, but now that she was aware of what the duke wanted—facts, not hyperbole—there wasn’t very much to write down for later discussion.
The duke broke in on Mr. Smith’s monologue as he was describing the specific quality controls for the engines—mostly Mr. Smith going around and checking himself. “Right, well, I want to see the premises,” he declared, getting up and holding his hand out to Edwina for her to rise as well.
She placed her fingers in his and stood, dropping them as soon as she was upright. He frowned and clasped his hands at his back, rocking on his heels.
Mr. Smith’s mouth had dropped open, but he recovered relatively quickly, standing up and nodding in agreement. “Of course, of course, just this way,” he said, beckoning to the door from which they’d entered.
At least now they were moving, Edwina thought, even if what Mr. Smith was saying about the machines was similar to what he’d said in his office—he spoke in generalities about quality, and persistence, and innovation, without offering many specifics.
It was interesting, Edwina had to admit, to watch how the engines were made. Each part in its precise place, the motion of the workers themselves almost mechanistic. She could understand a bit more why the process fascinated him; there was only the quality of the work and the resulting product to assess, with no sprinkling of beauty, or fatuous words, or anything but the thing itself.
That could be applied to him, as well—even if he weren’t a duke, he would be impressive. Fiercely intelligent, creative, handsome, strong, and honest. It was remarkable, truly, that those qualities had survived his title. She didn’t think many men would have all that power and still be committed to doing something more with it. Most would be content to settle, to do what they had to, or what they thought they had to, but nothing more.
But not him. It was as though there was a force inside him, propelling him forward, into action beyond what most men would do. That force—she had to wonder—did that apply to his romantic life also? Was she just the most current one in his forward trajectory? Although even if she weren’t, it didn’t matter. They’d agreed to what this was, and it was not permanent.
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel Page 16