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

by Megan Frampton

  Settled on that course, Michael climbed into bed, wishing he didn’t feel so lonely—now that he knew what he’d been feeling all this time—wishing she hadn’t thrown his own logic back in his face.

  Fine. He’d go out, and he’d find himself a wife, someone who wouldn’t say no.

  Someone who wouldn’t be her.

  “Good morning, Gertrude.” Edwina sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed, unable to keep herself from touching her, the shape of her leg under the covers, a flung-out arm over her head. Anything to reassure her that her daughter was here, and was safe.

  For now.

  Gertrude opened her eyes, blinking dazedly. “Morning,” she mumbled. Her daughter took a long time to wake up, just like her mother. Unlike her mother, however, she didn’t have to be alert for anything her employer might throw at her.

  Such as a marriage proposal.

  She couldn’t think about that, not now. Not when she’d spent most of the night thinking about just that thing, about how he’d looked, and what he’d said. And not said. Nothing about love, or caring, or being a family.

  “What do you want to wear today? I’ll help you dress.” The weeks they’d been here, Edwina had let one of the maids come in to help Gertrude, since she was usually already working with the duke, and Gertrude was thrilled to have new people to talk to, but today she wanted to be the one to assist her daughter.

  It might be just them soon enough anyway.

  Because if he did find a wife, she would have to leave. She couldn’t bear to stay here, not with him spending his nights with another woman, not with her knowing what he looked like naked. What he looked like when he—well, then.

  “I want the white one.” Gertrude shifted to her side and pointed at the wardrobe where her gowns were kept. “Do I have to have lessons with Miss Clark today?” she said, her words already sulky.

  Edwina smoothed her daughter’s hair. “Yes, you haven’t had lessons in a few days, you don’t want to fall behind.”

  “Fine,” Gertrude replied, and Edwina’s heart hurt. Fine. Just what he’d said last night. Fine. Even though things were anything but, but at least she and Gertrude were together, and she would stay and work for him, saving her salary until she had to leave.

  When he brought home someone else. Someone appropriate, and of good family, and most importantly, not her.

  She blinked away the sudden tears, not wanting her daughter to notice and ask questions, questions she wouldn’t be able to answer.

  Why are you crying, Mama?

  Because I acted improperly with my employer, and now I am suffering the consequences, and my heart is broken.

  “Hop on out of bed, and let’s get you dressed.” Edwina swiped her fingers under her eyes to make sure there was no moisture there. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d imagined. She’d have to go see Carolyn at the agency soon—she owed her a visit anyway, and she’d have to ask Carolyn to help find her another position.

  Because things most definitely were not fine.

  “Good morning, Cheltam.” He sounded as he did every morning.

  “Good morning, Hadlow.” She stepped into the office, taking a deep breath as she walked toward him.

  He was standing in front of his desk, his hands folded behind his back, his expression neutral. As though he hadn’t proposed the night before.

  As though it all hadn’t mattered to him.

  She lifted her chin as she sat. Well, if it didn’t matter to him, she couldn’t allow herself to show that it mattered to her. Even though of course it did. “What are we working on today?”

  He frowned, then his features settled back into his usual expression. “The railway investments.”

  “Even though we haven’t seen all the factories?” Because we had to race home because I put my daughter in jeopardy by falling in love with you?

  He shrugged. “The factory tours aren’t necessary to the decision.” He looked at her, his gaze sharpening. “There were other factors in us going to visit them.”

  Oh. He’d wanted to get her alone—or relatively alone—and that was the best way to go about it. But now that it was all over, they could proceed as they would have normally, if she were a regular secretary and he were just her employer.

  “Excellent.” She reached forward to retrieve the stack of ever-present papers on the edge of his desk. Her edge. “So have you made your decision?”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand draw up into a fist, then unclench slowly. “I think perhaps I have. The Powers and Smith Corporation, with smaller investments in the Better Engines Company and the Right Way Railway. Terrible name,” he muttered, as though he couldn’t help himself.

  “Excellent.”

  His hand—now back into a fist—slammed onto the desk, making her jump. “Stop saying, ‘Excellent.’ ”

  “Of course.” She kept her tone demure, her eyes lowered at the papers in her lap. No need to antagonize him, even though the earlier Edwina—the one prior to having her heart broken—wanted to smirk and say, Excellent.

  “And review the invitations that arrived while we were away,” he said, his tone stiff. “I wish to attend some events, but I don’t want to be bothered with deciding which are best.”

  “Of course,” she said again, and again, she saw his hand clench. She felt a fierce pride that she had been able to affect him at least a little bit. Was he now going to tell her not to say, “Of course”? What words would he leave her with, then?

  Not yes. She’d already refused to say yes the night before.

  And then what he’d said hit her like a punch to the heart. As though someone had hit her, just there. He wanted to attend some events. Events where he would meet eligible ladies, women who weren’t widows with canine-crazy children, who knew what to do when meeting the Queen, who had the right bloodlines and would likely accede to all of his requests.

  Who would bore him utterly.

  She rose and walked to the other side of his desk, the one where Hawkins had placed the various invitations that she and the duke both usually ignored. Because he was too busy, and what was more, he did not want to spend any time being with people who were only interested in parties, and gossip, and wanted nothing to do with eccentric cranks, either railroad or ducal.

  “Do you have a preference for the type of event you attend?” Her voice sounded strained. Well, of course it would be; she was basically sending him off to another woman. To be chosen, by another woman.

  “No. Just pick. No more than two a week, and only the ones where—” And then he stopped, and Edwina supplied the rest of the words for him.

  “Where you will have the most chance of meeting eligible young ladies.”

  The silence hung between them. She bit her lip, turning her head to look in the corner of the room so that if she started to cry—damn it, when she started to cry—he wouldn’t see it.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “Of course.”

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  16. Because falling in hate is not ducal.

  Chapter 23

  Michael refrained from rolling his eyes as the butler stepped forward. “His Grace, the Duke of Hadlow,” the man announced in a suitably respectful tone.

  Michael walked past him, descending the stairs as he heard the murmur of more than a hundred of his reputed peers and their ladies begin. He shouldn’t be annoyed; it wasn’t as though he made a habit of attending such functions. It was natural that his arrival would cause nearly as much interest as if the Queen were to attend something.

  He shouldn’t be annoyed, but he was.

  “Your Grace.” His host, he presumed, stepped forward from the buzzing crowd and held his hand out. “I am so delighted you chose to attend our little party.” Yes, his host. The Earl of Nibley, whom Michael had spoken with perhaps a year or so ago about implementing some law or another. The earl had wilted under the force of Michael’s logic, which had made things easier, but had left Michael with not
a very good opinion of the man’s strength of mind.

  But what else was new?

  Michael took the earl’s hand, squeezing it perhaps a little too hard, judging by the man’s wince. Was it his fault the earl’s handshake was as weak as his opinions?

  “May I introduce my wife, the countess?” The earl beckoned a woman forward, a woman whose sycophantic expression made Michael’s skin crawl.

  He really was not in a good frame of mind to be doing this, but he wasn’t sure he ever would be. And now that he’d decided to take a wife, he had to just get on with it.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” The countess’s expression was even more beatific after she’d spoken. “Allow me to present my daughters.” She made a quick gesture, and two women—girls, really—stepped forward, both of them clothed in startlingly white gowns, the only distinction between the two being that one looked terrified, while the other looked vaguely amused.

  “Lady Elizabeth Nibley and Lady Lucinda Nibley.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Michael said, taking each of their hands in turn. The terrified one turned an unattractive shade of red, and if he had been anyone other than himself, he would have felt sympathy toward her, given how obviously awkward she was at the introduction.

  “My oldest”—and the countess gestured to the red daughter—“is betrothed to the Viscount Langley’s son.”

  Ah. So she was off the table, marriage-wise. Not a problem, since he did not want to be married to someone who was in danger of bursting into flames if he looked at her. Much less touched her.

  Not that he wanted to do that, either.

  “Could I persuade Lady Lucinda to grant me the honor of a dance?” He might as well begin this whole unpleasant process, and at least this girl didn’t seem to need a glass of water just because he’d looked at her.

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” The girl’s voice was low, and he found himself nearly bending over to hear her. Not good, either. He would develop a crick in his neck if he married her.

  And why was he so quick to decide?

  Oh, because he always made the right decision, and never had cause to doubt himself. Like when he had decided to focus on growing his family’s wealth rather than just letting it be, or when he had helped to change the work laws for poor families in various factories.

  Or when he had hired Cheltam as his secretary.

  Before he could continue to pursue that line of thinking—thank God—Lady Lucinda’s hand was in his, and he was guiding her onto the floor. It felt as though everyone was watching them, holding their respective aristocratic breath as the music started.

  They danced in silence, Michael counting off the steps as he usually did. The music was tolerable, but he’d never felt as though he were immersed in it, so when he danced, he spent far more time ensuring he performed the steps adequately rather than just enjoying himself.

  Although immersing oneself in music didn’t seem as though it were something he would ever be prone to. The only time he’d felt immersed, the only time he’d ever felt as though he were more than the sum of his brain was—

  He couldn’t think about that. He would not. He shut the door firmly on that part of his mind, instead returning his focus to Lady Lucinda.

  “The party is well attended.” He glanced over the woman’s head at the other guests. They all looked generally the same—well-to-do people dressed in their best finery chattering and drinking and ensuring they were posing in the most attractive positions they could muster.

  Boring.

  “Yes, it is.” She bit her lip, like she—

  Not thinking about her or any of that now.

  “Do you like parties, Your Grace?”

  That was an asinine question. Because he never attended parties, in general, so one would presume he didn’t like them. But he could not answer honestly, despite his first impulse to do so, because this party was being hosted by her father, and he did not want her reporting back to her parents that the Duke of Hadlow did not like the entertainment and then the word would spread and there would be talk.

  He hated having the weight of the world’s approbation on his shoulders.

  Why couldn’t they want his opinion on something that actually mattered to him? Like innovations in industry, or the best way to ensure that everyone who resided in England was properly fed and taken care of?

  It wasn’t logical.

  But meanwhile, he hadn’t answered the question. “Certainly I do, when I am in a humor for it.”

  That was relatively close to the truth. He had never yet been in the humor for a party, so it wasn’t precisely a lie.

  “The music is pleasant, is it not?”

  How could he answer that? If he lied, and said it was pleasant, he would be lying. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he wasn’t enjoying it. If he told the truth, they were returning to that problem where he was inadvertently insulting her family because of his opinion.

  He expelled a breath, wishing it were as easy as breathing to be himself.

  “It is.” And now he was lying, and he hated lying.

  “Have you been enjoying the temperate weather, Your Grace?”

  Was she going to ask him questions for the entire duration of the dance? It wasn’t difficult for him to maintain one part of his brain with counting the steps of the dance and the other one for inane questions, but he would prefer not to.

  “It has been temperate,” he replied. He had no idea if it had been or not, he seldom paid attention to the weather, but at least he wasn’t strictly lying.

  If he were to marry—an idea that was rapidly losing favor in the court of his mind—would this be his everyday interaction with his wife?

  Did you enjoy the lovemaking, Your Grace?

  Again, not something he would likely be able to answer honestly.

  The music sounded as though it were winding to a close, and he felt an emotion he wasn’t sure he could name—not surprising, given how few emotions he usually had—sweep over him. Relief that the dance was ending?

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Lady Lucinda curtseyed, her expression seeming to mirror his feeling—relief at being finished with dancing with him?

  And then he was piqued, but he could not allow his irkedness to color his actions.

  “It was my pleasure.” And then he shut his eyes, knowing that if he were to do this, he was going to be setting on a course of lying for the rest of his life.

  “Cheltam!”

  Edwina jumped in her chair, startled. She had put Gertrude to bed a few hours earlier, and should be asleep herself, but wasn’t able to. So she had found the most boring book in the duke’s library—something about proper tilling practices—and was attempting to read it, hoping it would make her sleepy.

  Thus far, all it had done was to make her fascinated by how many different theories on tilling seemed to exist. She’d never thought about the topic at all, which now seemed like a failure on her part.

  She placed the book down on the table and stood, wishing the duke’s library held something more pertinent to her interests. How to Stop Inappropriately Lusting After Your Employer, perhaps, or Living Within Your Means When Your Means Add Up to Ten Pounds for the Rest of Your Life.

  “There you are,” the duke said, striding into the library still garbed in his evening wear.

  It simply was not fair that he managed to look so handsome all the time. Tonight he was breathtaking—dressed in severe black, with his white shirt the only relief from the all-imposing blackness. His cravat was tied simply around his neck, since he didn’t need the fussiness that most men seemed to require to make them look intriguing.

  He was just intrinsically intriguing, damn it.

  “Yes, here I am,” Edwina said, then resisted the urge to wince at how stupid the sentence was. “I hope you had a pleasant evening?” she continued, lacing her hands in front of her. Resisting the urge to walk forward and touch him, to slide her fingers down the lapel of his coat, to place her hands on his
chest and lean up for a kiss.

  He did not reply; instead, his lips turned down as though he were contemplating something he did not care for.

  She wished she were high-minded enough not to feel happy about that, but unfortunately she was not. She was definitely low-minded, especially when it came to him.

  The highest aristocrat in England. The irony was not lost on her.

  “Dance with me.” His words came out in a short, demanding burst.

  “Pardon?”

  His jaw clenched. “Dance with me,” he said again, through gritted teeth.

  She glanced around the library, as though musicians were going to suddenly appear.

  He didn’t wait for her—or for the imaginary musicians, for that matter—and stepped forward, placing his hand at her waist, gathering her into his arms, holding her other hand in his.

  “You are aware there is no music.”

  He gazed down at her, his green eyes showing a spark of humor. “I am, Cheltam.” He raised an eyebrow. “Were you not aware it is within a secretary’s duties to hum a tune when her employer demands it?” He sounded so arrogant, so completely sure of himself she nearly apologized for not knowing that secretaries were, indeed, required to hum.

  And then felt a bubble of laughter in her chest. This was the man she had come to know. The man only she knew. The man she had to give up. But she could dance with him, couldn’t she?

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and nodded. “I will rectify my shortcoming, Your Grace.” At which he frowned, of course, since she had just addressed him by his honorific.

  She began to hum a tune she’d heard when she’d first arrived in London from her parents’ house, one of the first pieces of music she’d danced to. It felt so long ago, before marrying George, before Gertrude, and definitely before him. His mouth relaxed, and he nearly smiled, although “smile” would be too generous a word for what his lips were doing.