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

by Megan Frampton

  The innkeeper returned with their drinks, setting them down on the wooden table. The duke waited until the man was well out of earshot, then leaned forward and spoke in a low, fierce tone. “You will not leave my employ until I allow it.” He tapped the table. “I suppose I will marry at some point, but I have no plans to do so.” Again, the contrast between his high-handed words and how much it seemed he wanted her made her both angry and pleased.

  She was not doing a very good job of handling her feelings.

  “When you do,” she said again, knowing he had to understand, had to know what would happen, “I will leave your employ.”

  He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine.”

  Had she truly gotten him to agree to something?

  “Because I have no plans to marry.”

  No, she hadn’t. He was just reducing her words, her feelings, to semantics. It shouldn’t hurt, that was how he dealt with things, but it did. It hurt that he would so summarily assume that this whatever they were doing could continue indefinitely, even though she knew it had to stop as soon as they returned home.

  “When did you decide this?” Her words were sharp.

  He shrugged, as though it wasn’t important. She wanted to scream at him that it was, that this was her life, her future happiness, that he was toying with. He couldn’t expect her to just—do what they were doing until he tired of her? Because she knew she would never tire of him. And she also knew he wouldn’t even consider something so irresponsible as to marry her. It hurt, but it was the truth.

  The innkeeper returned again, this time with her food, and laid it out on the table. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asked, glancing nervously at the duke.

  “No.”

  Edwina resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his short tone, instead buttering her bread and taking a bite.

  It was delicious; the bread was still warm and the butter melted just enough. It was a simple pleasure, the kind that would remain after the more complicated pleasures had become a distant memory. Like him, and their affair.

  She sighed as she swallowed, wishing she could be content with the simple pleasures. Bread and butter, her daughter’s smile, the times she felt as though she’d done good work for the day.

  Although those were complicated also—her daughter wouldn’t be smiling if they were starving, and she wouldn’t have done good work if she weren’t employed.

  She was doing a terrible job of cheering herself up, wasn’t she?

  “We should be on our way,” she said, standing up before he could reply. He rose also, his expression still grim, as though he were thinking about how he might not get his way entirely.

  Or perhaps that was just her interpretation of his expression. Maybe he had forgotten entirely, and was just anticipating having to deal with people who were less intelligent than he.

  She had to remember who he was, and more importantly what he was, and that she was just another element of his complicated life. Nothing he would be concerned about, unless it seemed as though she was going to do something he didn’t like. Such as leave his employ, or his bed, before he was prepared.

  In the meantime, this was enjoyable, and she would just have to keep in mind that it was temporary enjoyment. And why shouldn’t she have fun while she was in the midst of it?

  Her words had unsettled him. The thought of her leaving, even though she had been with him for only a few weeks, made him want to shout and punch something.

  Not at all the way he usually felt. About anybody. Not since his brother.

  “Your Grace?”

  She stood before him, holding her clutch of ubiquitous papers, her hair perfectly done up, her cloak buttoned tightly around her.

  He much preferred her as she was in bed, her hair down, her glorious body uncovered where he could see it, touch it, slide against it.

  “I am ready,” he replied in a gruff voice. Damn it. He couldn’t afford emotions. Not only were they not helpful, he didn’t quite know what to do with them. He was comfortable with finding his dog a pleasant companion, but other than that?

  “Excellent.” She walked out of the inn, nodding at the innkeeper, who stood by the door.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I hope everything was suitable, Your Grace.” The innkeeper spoke in that mixture of nervousness and obsequiousness that it seemed everyone adopted when talking to him.

  Everyone, that is, except her. And her daughter.

  Damn it.

  “If you’ll just step over here, Your Grace, you can see the area where we manufacture the smaller parts.” The representative from the Right Way Railway was, thankfully, more cognizant of the workings of the factory than the man from the day before. But the factory itself was less tidy, and Michael sensed that the sloppiness extended to the company itself, even though he couldn’t identify where.

  Cheltam accompanied him on the tour, keeping herself a few steps behind him, in a properly secretarial way. Which annoyed him also.

  Was this to be his life? To be annoyed at things that were entirely proper? Although that had happened long before he met her. It was just—now it felt like a slap, since he wanted to do things he’d never wanted before. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever wanted something so much. Damn it. This was getting far too complicated.

  “Here is where we produce things such as the piston rod, the pistons, the brake shoes, and the coupling rods. Along with many of the other parts.” The man was clearly enthusiastic about his work.

  “Is this also where the eccentric crank is made?”

  Michael glanced at her to find her looking at him, her eyes dancing with mischief.

  “You know something about engines, Mrs. Cheltam?” The man sounded far more appreciative than Michael liked, and he stepped forward to place himself more directly in front of her before he realized what he was doing.

  “Yes, I have picked up some knowledge in the course of working for the duke,” she said, stepping out from behind him.

  His arm almost—almost—reached out to keep her away, but he stopped himself just in time. It wasn’t his place, even though it chafed at him to think that another man might find her as fascinating as he did.

  “Yes, well, the eccentric crank is produced over there, along with some of the medium-sized parts.” The man—if Michael were more interested in him he’d figure out what his name was—gestured to where a group of workers were laboring over a table, plumes of smoke whirling in the air above them while the steady drone of production was a constant hum in the background.

  “Is the eccentric crank considered a medium-sized part, then?” The witch was definitely teasing him now, knowing he couldn’t do anything to respond, not here in public.

  But just wait until they were alone.

  The man nodded. “Yes, it is. I’m interested in why you are so intrigued by this particular element of the engine?” he said, at which point Michael had to clamp his jaw shut not to yell at both of them. At least the Right Way Railway representative had no idea what he was saying.

  But she did. The minx.

  “I am not sure why I am so interested in the eccentric crank,” she replied, darting another mischievous glance his way. “Maybe because of its eccentricism. Or the crankiness.”

  The man looked confused, as he should be, since she had just spouted nonsense.

  “Oh, what I am saying? I just find all the parts fascinating.” And then she lifted her eyebrow in his direction, as though to say, I find all of you fascinating, and goddamn if he didn’t wish they were alone, and naked, and in bed.

  He found himself stepping forward before he recalled where he was, actually, and that it would not be appropriate for him to throw her over his shoulder and take her somewhere to ravish her for her impudent words.

  “I believe we have seen enough, thank you, Mr. . . .” he said, pausing because he still didn’t know the man’s name.

  “Mr. Pierson, yes, thank you,” she supplied, speaking so smoothly a
fter his words it was barely noticeable he’d stumbled on the man’s name.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Mrs. Cheltam.” Mr. Pierson bowed to them in turn, bowing a bit lower for Cheltam, Michael noticed with a tinge of something in his chest. Jealousy? No, it couldn’t be. He was never jealous.

  They walked out to the carriage, Michael’s long stride eating up the distance between the factory doors and where his footman waited at the door.

  “Just you wait until we’re safely inside, Cheltam,” he said in a low growl. “I’ll show you who’s an eccentric crank.”

  “I cannot wait,” she said in an equally low tone.

  Which made him hasten his pace even more, so she was running to keep up with him.

  Well, so this was what it felt like when one taunted a wild animal in its cage. If the animal was a tall, well-bred duke with a sharp temper. She had to admit she liked it. Even though she had no idea what to expect once they were alone in the carriage.

  Although she had her suspicions, and she suspected they’d involve his mouth, his hands, and other parts of them in various iterations. Goodness, now that he’d shown her that the mouth could go elsewhere on the body, it opened up all sorts of possibilities.

  She hoped she could discover more of them firsthand before this was all over.

  The coachman held his hand out for her to assist her into the carriage, but the duke inserted himself so that it was his hand she took. As though he could not bear anyone else touching her.

  The thought of that kind of possessiveness did, she had to admit, give her a certain kind of thrill.

  She slid onto the seat, watching as he entered after her. She fluttered her hands on her lap, feeling nervous even though she had started this game. That, judging by the martial look in his eye, he had every intention of continuing.

  “Eccentric crank, Cheltam?” His words were spoken in a suspiciously calm voice, and she licked her lips before replying.

  “Yes, well, being in your employ has given me many new interests.” She glanced over at him from underneath her lashes. Dear Lord, but he was handsome. And right now exuding a kind of sexual menace that shouldn’t excite her, but absolutely did. Likely because she knew the man underneath the blunt, rough talk. The man who did unexpectedly kind things for her daughter, was egalitarian in his treatment of either gender, valued honesty and intelligence above any kind of sycophancy.

  Was as blunt and rough in what he wanted in bed as he was out of it. She appreciated his consistency.

  “Can you show me your . . . interest?” he said, leaning over to speak into her ear. Which made her shiver all over.

  “If you can show me yours,” she replied, sliding her hand onto his thigh. Not quite daring to go there, especially not in the carriage, but certainly willing to offer him the opportunity to move things to there, if that’s what he wanted.

  “Oh, I can show you,” he said, twisting in his seat before wrapping her in his arms and kissing her senseless.

  Or nearly senseless; she had enough sense to know that it was he who was kissing her, not some random man she’d accidentally stumbled into the carriage with; and she knew enough to realize that her hands were grabbing his shoulders to pull him closer, and she was leaning into the corner of the carriage, his body covering hers, his hands roaming over her body, seeming to want to find a spot of uncovered skin. He settled for placing his hands on her jaw, holding her still for his kiss while his tongue worked its magic. He really was a delightful kisser, not that she’d had much experience before.

  Mr. Cheltam had contented himself with kissing her chastely on the mouth three times a year—on her birthday, their wedding anniversary, and Christmas. When he came to her bedroom to claim his husbandly rights, he didn’t bother with kissing beyond a few halfhearted and messy passes of his mouth on hers. So perhaps the duke was a terrible kisser, but she had to doubt that, given how her whole body was reacting.

  All too soon he drew back, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes heavy-lidded and intense, his hands still gripping her, but his body not entirely on hers.

  “How is that for an eccentric crank?” he asked at last, a sly grin stretching his mouth.

  She found herself returning the smile. Who knew that this kind of activity could also be so humorous? “I can’t imagine any other eccentric crank even comparing with that.”

  They smiled at each other, and she felt as though she were drowning in his eyes, forgetting entirely that they were in a carriage, that he was her employer, and almost what her own name was.

  She shook her head after a few moments, lowering her gaze to the floor. “We should discuss our impressions. What did you think of the egregiously named Right Way Railway?”

  He didn’t speak for a moment, but his grip on her arm tightened. As though he didn’t want to let this moment go.

  I don’t want that, either, she thought. But she couldn’t tell him that, not without revealing how far she’d fallen in love with him. She, a widowed secretary with a daughter, only a few pounds away from penury, falling in love with a duke.

  Every time she thought about it she got mournful. She should just not think about it any longer.

  “I liked the gentleman’s enthusiasm, even though I did not like his interest in you.” He cleared his throat, as though embarrassed. “But I think some of the processes seemed overly complicated, and the factory was not as clean as the one we saw the day before.”

  “That was what I thought also. We should review the financials and keep that in mind as we make the next visits.”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat again, and now he slipped his hands down her arms to take her hands in his. “Thank you for—for all this. Coming on the trip, and being such a help, and . . .”

  “And . . . ?” she prompted.

  “You know what.” It was odd, hearing him unable to say what he was thinking when he had been so bluntly, even crudely, honest in the most intimate situations. It also felt oddly touching, as though he were unable to find the words himself, words that weren’t basic facts, that were more than statements of things. That were his feelings. Probably feelings he had never felt before, and wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

  “Yes,” she said at last, and squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  29. Love is the highest emotion, and dukes are the highest in every other place.

  Chapter 20

  They spent the rest of the short ride to that evening’s inn in silence, still holding hands. It felt so comfortable. Yes, there were the remnants of the passion that had flared when they first got in the carriage, and she couldn’t wait for the evening, but it also had the warmth of being settled. Of knowing who you were, and who he was, and how you worked together.

  Even though what worked now could not always work.

  They arrived at the inn, Edwina glancing out of the carriage window to see the innkeeper—fat where the one the night before was thin, a huge smile on his face—standing at the doorway, beckoning the carriage in.

  “Until tonight,” the duke said, drawing one of her hands up to his mouth to kiss.

  She swallowed, unable to speak for a moment.

  He descended first, then turned around to assist her out of the carriage.

  She stepped down, glancing to the innkeeper, who was waving a piece of paper at them. Another letter from Gertrude?

  She walked forward eagerly, composing herself into her ducal secretary guise. “Is that correspondence for the Duke of Hadlow’s party?” she asked. “I am his secretary, I can receive it.”

  The innkeeper frowned in confusion. “His . . . secretary?” Apparently the man hadn’t realized a woman could be a secretary as well as a man could.

  “Yes,” Edwina replied in a terse tone of voice.

  “If you say so,” the man responded in a skeptical tone. His smile had dimmed, and Edwina found herself missing the anxious thin innkeeper from the previous night.

  She soon forgot all about
him, however, as soon as she read the letter.

  Michael was just reaching the bar of the common area to ask for a drink when the door opened and Edwina burst in, her mouth open in a shocked O, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “What is it?” he said, striding over to catch her in his arms. Although not enfold her entirely, he had to remember the boundaries between them. The necessary propriety of their relationship, even though he chafed at its constrictions.

  “Look.” She held a letter out to him, and he took it, scanning the lines quickly.

  He raised his head and looked at her. “This says that your brother-in-law has taken Gertrude? But how? More importantly, why?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, just that I have to go back, I am sorry to have to leave you, but she is—”

  “Do you really think I would let you go alone?” He was shaken, not just because of what had happened to Gertrude, but because she wouldn’t just assume he would accompany her. What was he to her? Was he just an employer who happened to also be able to pleasure her in bed? What were they to each other?

  Although this was not the time to be asking such questions.

  “It is not your responsibility,” she replied in a trembling voice. “She is under my care, and because I was here, I was not there to prevent—”

  “You were doing your job,” he interrupted. “Something I required, so if there is blame to be assigned, blame me.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Although neither of us deserves any blame, it is that blackguard brother-in-law who is at fault.” He took her arm and led her back outside. The coachman was already beginning to unhitch the horses, and Michael strode up to clamp his hand on the man’s arm. “Change of plans. We are returning to London immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” It said a lot—not all of it good—that his coachman didn’t ask why, or even look confused by the sudden orders. Michael wasn’t sure whether to be proud or ashamed his staff was so efficient.