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

by Megan Frampton

  “I can, and I will. Mr. Cheltam!” the duke called, his commanding voice ringing through the empty hallway.

  One of the doors opened, and Robert stepped out, his face a mixture of fear and bravado. “You’re here about the girl.” His gaze darted between them, and he appeared to swell up, the bravado winning out over the fear.

  “Where is she?”

  Robert waved his hand dismissively. “First we need to talk.” He stepped into the hallway and beckoned to the room from which he’d just emerged. “In here.”

  The duke didn’t answer, just strode down the hall as quickly as Edwina had ever seen him move. She followed, glancing up the staircase in hopes she’d see Gertrude somewhere. Was she safe? Was she even here? Who was taking care of her?

  Robert shut the door when all three of them were inside. They were in his office, which was nearly as disheveled as the woman who’d answered the door. Papers were scattered on every surface, some having fluttered to the floor, and there were blank spaces on the bookshelves, a layer of dust showing neither the books nor the shelves had been touched in some time.

  “Please sit.” Robert went to his side of the desk and sat without waiting for them to follow. The duke shook his head, as though sorry for Robert, and Edwina felt a twinge of fearful anticipation—was he going to kill him? Or just hurt him very badly? He was a duke, after all; he could get away with things other people could not.

  “We won’t be sitting. We will, however, be retrieving Mrs. Cheltam’s daughter. What do you want?”

  Robert blinked, as though surprised by the duke’s directness. “I thought we could discuss that.”

  “We are discussing it. Tell me. Now.”

  Robert blinked again, as if trying to figure out what to say that would be to his advantage. Edwina wished she could tell him there was nothing he could say that would possibly make this better for him. And she better understood the duke’s impatience with slower people, given how agitated she was for this all to be over.

  “I am not certain Gertrude should be in your household.” Robert spoke in a belligerent tone.

  Edwina resisted the urge to close her eyes at what the duke’s reaction would be.

  “And why not?” His tone was deceptively soft.

  Robert gestured between them. “It is clear that there are—are loose morals being displayed, and I owe it to my late brother to ensure Gertrude is raised in a good, Christian home.”

  Edwina nearly snorted. If the woman who answered the door was any indication, Robert was definitely not keeping a good home. She couldn’t speak to the Christian element.

  Never mind that it didn’t seem that any of Robert’s family was here any longer. The house felt still, as though it just housed Robert and the woman who’d answered the door. Where had they all gone?

  But that didn’t concern her nearly as much as where Gertrude was.

  “I want to see her,” she blurted. “I want to see how she is doing.”

  “As her guardian,” Robert replied, his tone unctuous, “I believe I can accommodate that. But I will have to have your assurances you will not attempt to steal her away, not without—”

  “Not without coming to some financial agreement,” the duke interrupted in an impatient voice. “Yes, yes, we understand. What do you want?”

  Robert consulted some of the papers on his desk. Had he already compiled a sheet of Things I Must Get from the Duke of Hadlow Before Returning My Niece? Edwina stifled a hysterical laugh at the thought.

  “As you know, I am acquiring investors in the Tea-rific Enterprise,” and then Edwina did laugh; the name was as foolish as the idea behind it, “and when it is known the Duke of Hadlow is an investor, then—why, then it would be suitable for my niece to return to your home.”

  “You mean,” Edwina said, hearing the words grind out of her mouth, “you will keep Gertrude in your possession until the duke has let enough people know he’s invested in your ridiculous company?” Her voice rose continually as she spoke, so her final words were said in a shrill tone.

  Then he did take her hand, as though to reassure her.

  “Not acceptable. The girl comes with us today, and you can have my word as a gentleman that I will publicly support your venture, as well as invest—say a thousand pounds?—into the enterprise.”

  Robert pretended to consider it, then nodded his head. “Agreed. As a gentleman, I accept your promise.” And then he looked at Edwina, and she felt the force of all of his jealousy, his dislike of her evident on his face, “but keep in mind that I am Gertrude’s legal guardian, so if there is ever a question about where she is living, I will remove her.”

  Edwina’s throat thickened at the obvious threat. She never thought he’d actually exercise his legal right to Gertrude. And even though they had both been left in charge, it could take years before the courts ruled on the matter. Years where Robert could retain custody.

  “That will not be necessary.”

  She wanted to tell the duke to just shut up, don’t feed Robert’s animosity any more than it was, but she couldn’t speak, especially not to say something so familiar to her employer—Robert would seize on that as proof of their relationship, and would come demanding more soon. Or sooner than she thought he might otherwise. That this blackmail would continue until she was out from under the duke’s roof, she had no doubt.

  So not only did she have to sever her relationship with him, she had to leave his employ. Or he would have to continue to spend money on her behalf that would reveal just how close they’d become. Which would negate his spending money in the first place, since if it became known just what he’d done, everyone would speculate as to the nature of their relationship.

  Michael was proud of himself he hadn’t just walked in and beaten the loathsome toad. He’d been sorely tempted, especially when he was treating Gertrude as something to be bargained with, as if she weren’t a person, likely a scared, small person who needed protecting from her purported guardian.

  So it cost a thousand pounds. And he had no illusions that the toad would not return with more threats in the future. But what was money compared to human life? Compared to the look on Edwina’s face when she saw her daughter?

  Compared to how he felt when he thought about what it would be like to be taken away from someone you loved?

  “Mama!” Gertrude cried as she spotted Edwina at the foot of the stairs. Michael waited behind, keeping himself between the toad and the ladies, just in case the man had second thoughts. He would have no hesitation then about beating him.

  “My girl,” Edwina said in what sounded like a strangled sob, pulling Gertrude into her arms and holding her tight.

  Michael felt his throat tighten. He hoped he wasn’t getting ill.

  “We should leave,” he said after a few moments.

  “Yes, of course.” Edwina rose from where she’d been kneeling, hugging Gertrude, a grateful look on her face as she regarded him. “Thank you,” she said in a low murmur.

  He shrugged. It was only money, and he had plenty of it. What he had in short supply was an efficient secretary and her lively daughter.

  “Is there anything you need to bring with you?” Edwina asked Gertrude, who was already shaking her head.

  “I just want to go home and see Chester,” the girl replied. She narrowed her gaze at her uncle, and Michael wanted to crow about the obvious disdain evident in her expression. “You said you had a dog here, and you did not. You are a liar, Uncle Robert,” she said, each word a scathing indictment of her uncle’s lack of canine inhabitants.

  Michael had never liked the girl more.

  It was hours later, and Gertrude had been hugged by nearly every member of his staff, it seemed, and then she’d been put to bed, a still joyful Chester climbing up beside her. Edwina had tried to shoo him off, but Michael had stayed her hand.

  “Let him be. He’s missed her, too, you know.” His fingers were on her wrist, right on her pulse, and she was looking up at him, her eyes wid
e and dark in the shadowy room, one candle flickering in a sconce against the wall.

  She bit her lip, and glanced back at her daughter, whose eyes were closed, but her hands were still petting Chester. And then she nodded, and Michael saw the bright sparkle of tears in her eyes, and he felt his throat get tight.

  “Let’s go get you something to drink,” he said in a low voice, still keeping hold of her wrist, hoping she wouldn’t notice for another minute or so, another minute when he could touch her.

  She nodded again, and withdrew her hand, preceding him through the door. One of the footman—not the William one, but another one—was seated on a chair in the hallway, standing up suddenly when he saw them.

  “Thank you for staying here,” Edwina said to the footman. She glanced up at Michael. “It is foolish, I know nothing can happen, but just—”

  “Just for a few days until you both feel more comfortable.” It was foolish, there was no way anybody would get to Gertrude here on the third floor, past the impenetrable mass of his staff, but if it made her less anxious, he’d do it. Hell, he’d hire a group of mercenaries if it would ease her mind.

  What had happened to the remarkably logical man he’d been? The first hasty decision he hadn’t regretted—hiring her, having her and Gertrude come to live here—and all of a sudden he was tossing logic to the winds. Doing things because they would make someone else happy.

  He was definitely different now. He was very afraid he might like it.

  “Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the sofa in his study. The one where they’d kissed, it seemed so long ago, but it couldn’t be that long.

  She looked as though she wanted to rebuke him for his tone, but settled on a sly smirk instead.

  He poured two healthy servings of brandy and walked to her, giving her the glass, holding his up to his nose to savor the aroma.

  It didn’t smell as good as she did when they were entangled together in bed.

  He wished they were in bed right now.

  “Your brother-in-law is not going to stop, you know.” He sat down on the sofa next to her, the weight of his body on the seat making her shift toward him.

  Yes. Come closer.

  She looked down, at her glass, as though it was the most important thing in the room. I am, he wanted to shout, but then again, she knew that already. Was acutely aware of it, likely, which was why she wasn’t meeting his gaze.

  “I know that,” she replied in a low voice. “I will pay you back, somehow, I just don’t—”

  “Marry me.”

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  12. They have done everything else.

  Chapter 22

  “Pardon?” He couldn’t have said, “Marry me.” Maybe he said, “Carry me”? Although why would he need carrying? And how would he possibly think she could carry him anyway?

  Maybe it was “very wee,” only there wasn’t anything all that small, and what was he doing talking about the size of anything anyway?

  “Marry me.”

  Oh. He had said that. She took too large a sip from her glass, the brandy burning down her throat the way his words—

  “Did you just say that?” she asked, when she was done sputtering.

  He looked amused, damn him. As though marriage proposals and possible choking on strong beverages were something to chuckle about. Oh, ha, ha, I’ve just asked the most unsuitable woman in the world to marry me, and then she expired because she was so startled she inhaled far too many spirits.

  “I did.” He stretched one arm out across the sofa, his fingers coming to rest on her shoulder. “Surely you cannot have failed to notice our mutual attraction.”

  He said the words as though that was all that was needed for a successful marriage. Not that she knew, she didn’t even have the bare minimum of attraction in her one, and thus far only, marriage.

  “There is a world of difference between—between what we were doing”—and what we won’t be doing any longer—“and marriage. That is a permanent commitment,” she said, her voice rising in outrage.

  “I know what it is. I have successfully avoided it for thirty-four years.” He spoke in a bored drawl, one that set her teeth on edge and made her want to fling something at his head. Not the brandy, she needed that.

  She took another sip. This time, it didn’t burn as much going down, instead settling a warmth into her stomach. “And why am I the one you should now marry?”

  He looked at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised. She felt herself blushing.

  “Not just because of that,” she muttered.

  “And why not?” He stroked her neck with his fingers, and she trembled. “We get along very well in bed, we get along tolerably well outside of it, and I imagine we will continue to do both things until we die.”

  Even George, when he’d proposed, had spoken of love.

  Although George had lied. At least Michael—and she had to think of him as Michael now, now that they had done those things and now he was saying this thing—would never lie to her. Which was why he wasn’t speaking of love, not at all, but of sexual congress and tolerable consanguinity. Maybe if she was lucky he would tell her that his house was very large so they needn’t see each other every day.

  “You cannot marry me.”

  This time, his raised eyebrow looked less amused. “And why not? I am the Duke of Hadlow, after all.”

  As though that would squelch the gossip, the chatter, the bloodlines, the family heritage, knowing how to be a duchess, how other children would treat Gertrude, and how she would always feel—always know—he had married beneath him. And he would know it, too.

  “I am your secretary, Your Grace,” and at that he frowned, his eyes narrowing. He looked fierce and mean, but she knew she had nothing to fear from him. Except for his anger, which would pass when he realized she was right.

  If he realized she was right. The number of times he had been wrong about something was—well, she didn’t know, but she suspected the number hovered around zero. There was always a first time, she thought, knowing she was on the verge of hysteria. Because she did love him, damn it, but he didn’t love her, and she was not going to succumb to his offer, and suffer all the consequences, if it wasn’t worth it. If his love wasn’t the thing keeping her going when people were whispering about her and them, and making her feel uncomfortable.

  “And as your secretary,” she continued, willing her voice to stay steady, “it is my responsibility to advise you as to when you might be taking a misstep. Attending the wrong party, or investing in the wrong company, or—or marrying the wrong woman.”

  He withdrew his hand from the sofa and placed it on his knee. He downed his drink in one swallow, not choking at all, she noticed with envy. “Please do explain how you are the wrong woman.”

  Now he sounded offended. As though she had accused him of being wrong. Which she had done—he was likely more offended by that than by her not immediately saying yes to his inane proposal. Another reason she absolutely could not do this thing, even though she wished she could. She really did.

  “I am the wrong woman, Your Grace,” and this time she said it just so he would remember just who he was, and what responsibilities he had, “because I am not of your class. I don’t know the first thing about moving in your world, being a duchess, nor do I care to. You know nothing of my family, and it is my belief that attraction and tolerating one another is not a good enough reason for people to marry.” She paused. “Unless they are of the same class, and they both understand what they are getting into.”

  “So you’re saying no?” She wanted to laugh at how astonished he sounded.

  “I am. As your secretary,” she said, wishing her damn heart wasn’t almost audibly breaking, “I am saying that if you find yourself wishing for a wife, you should go find one among your own type of people. Someone that nobody would think twice about you marrying. Someone who knows all about how to run a vast household, who will be the appropriate mother for your children”—and
then she nearly broke in front of him, thinking about what it would be like to bear his children, smart little things that would always get their way, and always be right—“whom you will also be able to tolerate. It shouldn’t be that difficult, it is just that you likely haven’t applied yourself.”

  His lips clamped together into a tight line, and she felt as though she were hanging on a wire suspended between them—if he said just one word about love, just one, she would submit and they could be together the rest of their lives. And her heart wouldn’t break, and Gertrude would be secure, and she could explore his body and mind forever.

  “Fine,” he said at last. No talk of love. Nothing but acceptance. Did that mean he thought she was right? There was always a first time, after all.

  “Fine,” she repeated, placing her now empty—when did that happen?—glass onto the table beside her and standing on shaky legs.

  She walked out without another word, unable to speak because she was concentrating so much on not falling to the floor in frustration. In heartbreak. In devastation at what could never be, and yet what could have been if she had just been willing to tolerate another unsatisfying marriage.

  She’d said no. She’d said no. Michael paced in his room, his bedcovers turned invitingly down, him being appropriately garbed in his nightclothes, and yet he had no desire to sleep.

  Because she’d said no.

  When he’d thought of it, it had seemed like the perfect solution—he liked being with her, he definitely liked being in bed with her, and it would ensure her loathsome toad brother-in-law wouldn’t ever be able to bother her again.

  Perfect.

  Except she’d said no.

  Fine.

  Now that he’d thought about marriage, it seemed . . . appealing. The idea of someone being his partner, of being the one to maneuver her way through the social niceties he didn’t want to bother with, was something he had to consider.

  So if it wasn’t to be she, he would have to find someone else. Someone of his own class, as she’d suggested—she was an excellent secretary, after all—who was comfortable in his world, who was reasonably attractive, who didn’t make him want to scream with her stupidity. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?