Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  Like apologize. Or make a living.

  “Of course.” Hodgkins nodded, then left the room.

  Sebastian withdrew a satchel from the bottom of the wardrobe. He would not need what he had worn, and was still wearing, the night before. He doubted if elegant evening wear would be an essential element of his future life.

  But he did like the gold waistcoat quite a lot.

  He removed his jacket and then the waistcoat, folding the latter into some semblance of neatness. Or not, actually. He hadn’t folded anything before.

  He had a lot to learn.

  He found a clean white shirt, shucking his current one onto the bed. Then he changed his trousers and rummaged in the wardrobe and chest of drawers to find clean linen, more shirts, and a few more pairs of trousers. He took his shaving kit as well, placing it on top of the pile.

  Glancing skeptically between the pile of clothing now on his bed and his satchel, he shrugged and began to stuff it all in. If it all came out wrinkled? He’d ask Finan to help him sort it out. Even though that meant not learning.

  He’d ask Finan to demonstrate what to do. There. That was better.

  “Your Grace, your boots.” Hodgkins froze as he took in what Sebastian was doing. And then drew himself up stiffly, his entire person radiating offense. “Has my work not been satisfactory? If there is something you wish I had done, perhaps you can—”

  “No, it’s not that,” Sebastian replied, cutting him off. “You’ll hear eventually, but I want to inform you myself. I would just ask”—and here it got tricky, since he didn’t want Hodgkins to have to lie—“that Lady Ana Maria not be told until I can tell her.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Hodgkins’s expression eased.

  “I—Well, the thing is,” Seb began. This was even more difficult than he’d imagined, and it was to Hodgkins, not to his beloved sister. Perhaps he should view this as a practice run so he didn’t entirely muck it up. “It turns out that my cousin, the Earl of Kempthorne, is actually the duke. I—I am not.”

  He exhaled as he spoke, glad to have the truth out there, somewhere, even if it wasn’t all of the truth to all of the people.

  Hodgkins’s mouth had dropped open.

  “And while I am welcome to stay here, the new duke has assured me of that, I would prefer to stay . . . elsewhere.” He gestured toward the satchel. “So I am packing a few of the things I will need.”

  “Yes, Your—” And Hodgkins’s expression froze so comically, Sebastian was sorely tempted to laugh.

  But he didn’t. The last thing his earnest valet needed was for his not-duke employer to laugh at him.

  See, I can be cognizant of other people’s sensitivities. He had just never done it before.

  “I’ll send for more things once I know where I am to live.” Sebastian spoke in a tone that indicated he knew that there would be a place for him to live when he knew nothing of the sort.

  Perhaps he could get a position upon the stage. Acting as though he knew things when he did not.

  He leaned down to pick up the boots from where Hodgkins had put them, then picked up the satchel and swung it onto his arm.

  Sebastian paused to clap a hand on Hodgkins’s shoulder. “Thank you, Hodgkins.”

  “Of course, Your—” Hodgkins replied.

  “Goodbye,” Sebastian said, cutting him off so Hodgkins wouldn’t be entirely appalled. “Remember about Lady Ana Maria. I’ll speak with her as soon as I can.”

  And with that, he was down the stairs and out the door, heading to his new life. Though he didn’t know where, for how long, or with whom.

  Just that it wasn’t this.

  Chapter Four

  Ivy emerged from the club, blinking at the sunlight. It was nearly noon, and she’d been unable to sleep past eight o’clock, which meant that she’d gotten approximately five hours of sleep—the club remained open as long as the players were wanting to play, and Lady Massingley had been surprisingly sprightly until close to three. But she’d been losing, so Ivy was more than happy to be exhausted the next day. Not that she was happy, per se; she was still irritated about the incident the previous night, especially since she’d allowed herself to be lured in by his charm and good looks.

  But she had to stop thinking about it, and him. “Apples, bread, cheese,” she chanted to herself, clutching the empty basket resting on her hip. She didn’t normally take care of the shopping, their maid Carter did, but today was the day Carter was taking the rescued kittens to their new homes. Ivy didn’t think it was fair to ask Carter to do the shopping on top of that, so she’d volunteered.

  And it was a welcome distraction from her thoughts.

  “Miss Ivy!” a voice called. A male voice, a voice belonging to the gentleman who’d chased off several of her patrons the night before.

  So much for being sufficiently distracted.

  “Mr. de Silva,” she replied in a short tone, continuing to walk. He fell into step beside her, shortening his long stride.

  He’d removed his waistcoat, but his hair was ruffled, and his cheeks were dark with stubble. Had he not gone home?

  Perhaps he had gone to a pub and told everyone there about the hazards of drinking.

  And then gone to a stable and discussed the various injuries one could incur while horseback riding.

  Mr. Unwelcome Words de Silva.

  “Miss Ivy, I completely understand if you don’t wish to speak to me, but you must allow me to—”

  “If you understand I don’t wish to speak to you, then why are you speaking to me?”

  Had anyone ever told him to stop talking before?

  And why was she allowing herself to be so irritated?

  “Fair point. But let me just apologize for my behavior last night.”

  She stopped walking, turning to regard him. “It wasn’t your behavior that I object to, it was that you were about to discuss the inner workings of the play to the players. You do realize you were on the verge of driving away my customers?”

  He winced. “I do. At least I did once I’d thought about it. And I want to make it up to you.”

  She met his gaze. He really was handsome. It irked her. “So come lose money in my establishment.”

  His expression tightened. “That is not possible.”

  She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Because you’re such a good player? Do try to lose, Mr. de Silva, it will be a novel experience.”

  “It’s not that.” He looked away from her, off into the distance as though he was thinking. “I haven’t had to measure my words before, and I regret that I said the things I did. I really do admire the unique aspects of your establishment. I was out of line.”

  “You were.” Her words were direct, but her tone was softer. It did sound as though he was truly regretful.

  “Where are you going? May I accompany you?” He spoke as if unaccustomed to asking. Likely he didn’t ask, he just did. Like the previous evening.

  “Uh . . .” she began. Did he not know how that might look? Not that she had a reputation to lose or anything. But he didn’t know that.

  He shook his head as he spoke. “That was not well done of me, I apologize. Again. I do not seem to know how to behave in certain company.”

  Drat. She could never resist helping a person in need. And this gentleman seemed needy.

  “I am going to buy,” she began, then tilted her head up to recall, “apples, bread, cheese.” She shrugged. “You are welcome to keep me company on such an important errand, if you want,” she said with a self-deprecating tone.

  They were walking toward the market, people streaming hurriedly past them, forcing them to walk closer together. Her shoulder brushed his arm, making both of them shift unsteadily for a moment, and then he took her arm and looped it through his. She opened her mouth to object—he hadn’t asked, after all—but it felt lovely, so she thought she’d rather not.

  She reminded herself sternly to reprimand him if he took further liberties.

  But r
ight now, she didn’t mind. Apparently her indignation could be mollified if the result felt pleasant. She wanted to smack herself for her pliable standards.

  “The thing is,” he began, “I didn’t intend to chase your customers away.”

  “It doesn’t matter what your intent was, the result was that you were on the verge of it.”

  “Intentions don’t matter,” he said, sounding as though he weren’t replying to her, but commenting on something else. “The results are everything.” Once again, his thoughtful tone made it sound as though he were having a separate conversation somewhere.

  “Yes, well,” she replied. She wondered who he was arguing with inside his head. “It’s not that you were wrong. I mean, we both know that hearts is a game anyone can play, and anyone can win at. There is very little skill involved.”

  “Loo and écarté take more skill.”

  “As you said last night.”

  “I was an ass, wasn’t I?”

  “Indeed.” But her tone was amused, and she looked up at him, a smile on her face.

  “But what I said before is true. Your club is distinct, far more interesting to me than Crockford’s.”

  “Because Miss Ivy’s allows ladies to play?”

  “That is an attraction, I admit.” He paused. “But that’s not all of it. Requiring the players to settle up before they leave, letting anyone in as long as they have money—it’s a radical concept. Quite innovative.”

  “Thank you,” Ivy replied. “Here we are,” she continued. They were stopped in front of a cart overflowing with apples.

  “Miss, sir, how can I assist?”

  The merchant’s head popped up from behind the cart, his cheeks as red as his apples. Ivy suppressed a giggle.

  “I need apples,” she said.

  “It appears you have come to the right place,” Mr. de Silva murmured beside her. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “What kind?” the merchant asked.

  “Uh—” she began.

  “I’ve got the Harvey, the Laxton’s Superb, the Maiden’s Blush, and the Cox.”

  “Maiden’s Blush, I think,” she decided. Apropos for the day. “Enough to make a pie and have a few left over.”

  He placed the apples in a bag, handing them over the cart. Mr. de Silva took them in one hand, sliding the basket off her arm with the other, then placed the bag inside the basket.

  “That’ll be two and eight,” the merchant said.

  Ivy withdrew her wallet from her skirt pocket, handing him the coins.

  “Apples cost two and eight,” she heard Mr. de Silva say in a musing voice.

  “Bread and cheese next?” he said, taking her arm again.

  “Bread and cheese,” she confirmed.

  An hour later, he was walking her toward the club, having shared some of the food she’d bought. He had waited patiently as she made her purchases, even though she had told him he needn’t bother—he’d apologized, she’d accepted the apology, and that should have been that.

  But.

  But he was still here, and he still held her arm, and her basket, and he was such a pleasure to look at, even if she couldn’t do more than steal a few glances at him.

  Pliable standards. She had them.

  “Well, thank you for escorting me to the market. It was nice not having to carry all of these things myself.” She took the basket from his grasp.

  “And thank you for accepting my apology,” he replied.

  “Would you want to come inside to continue the discussion?” She smiled. “Now that there are no customers about, I would like to hear your opinions on how we could improve Miss Ivy’s. I am certain with so many opinions you are bound to have some on that matter.”

  And then she wanted to wince at the invitation. Of course he didn’t want to come in, he merely felt bad about chasing her patrons away.

  “I’d love to.”

  Oh.

  “It’s not as though I have anything else to do.”

  Oh. That put an entirely different spin on his reply. And who was he, anyway, not to have anything to do in the middle of the day?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered, what always mattered, was finding and implementing good ideas.

  She slid the key into the lock, then pushed the door open. The club stood empty, the chairs all pushed against the wall in preparation for the floor getting mopped. “Through here,” she said, stopping to place her basket on one of the chairs before walking across the floor. She flung the next door open, stepping into the hallway. Straight ahead was the door that led upstairs to the private rooms, which is where she and Octavia lived, while to the right was her office, which was basically a glorified term for the room where all the necessities for the club were stored: extra dice, alcohol, cleaning supplies, and whatever else was needed.

  “Come into my office.” She led the way, going to sit behind the desk where she did her paperwork.

  If she were the lady she’d once been, she would have blanched at inviting a gentleman to spend time with her alone. As she would have at his asking to accompany her on her errands. But she was a businesswoman, and he had advice to share.

  “Please sit.” She gestured to the well-worn wooden chair opposite the desk as she sat in her own chair, the mate to his.

  “Is it too early for a drink?” she asked.

  “Never,” he replied, a grin on his face.

  She bent down to retrieve the bottle of whiskey she kept in her bottom drawer along with two glasses. He nodded affirmatively as she held them up.

  “Here,” she said, sliding one glass across her desk to him. He sat as though on a throne, not in her spindly office chair, his legs planted on either side next to the chair legs, his hands resting on his thighs. A king amongst the clutter.

  “To Miss Ivy’s,” he said, lifting the glass.

  She smiled, raising her own glass as she took a deep swallow. The whiskey burned as it went down her throat, and her chest immediately felt warmer. At least she could blame that on the alcohol, and not on him.

  “Excellent,” he commented. “Like your champagne.”

  “Yes, and our food is even better.” She couldn’t disguise the pride in her voice.

  Another one of Ivy’s rescues, her chef, Mac, was an Irishman who’d trained in the celebrated chef Alexis Soyer’s kitchens. He had remarkable talent, but of course no aristocrat would hire an Irish chef. And Mac was far too talented, and aware of his talent, to settle for less than what he was worth. That made him tricky to manage, but the food was delicious. Word was already spreading that there was fine food as well as fine gaming to be found at Miss Ivy’s.

  “Well,” she said, finishing her whiskey and setting the glass down on the surface of her desk, “what ideas do you have for me?”

  So. This is how it felt to be asked one’s opinions and advice because of one’s actual opinions and advice, not because it would flatter the opinion giver, or bestow some sort of reflected splendor onto the asker.

  Perhaps not being a duke wouldn’t be the barren nightmare he imagined.

  No moping, he reminded himself.

  Just reality, he retorted.

  Seb finished his whiskey, nodding affirmatively when she gestured toward the bottle again. Now it didn’t seem quite as important that he dull his mind, but her whiskey was truly excellent, and he didn’t know when he could afford its quality himself. He was glad, however, he’d accepted her offer of bread and cheese—he needed to keep a clear head for—well, for the rest of his life, since he couldn’t afford any kind of misstep.

  Which reminded him he still had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. And that the rest of his life was a vast unknown chasm. What did people who were not dukes do, anyway?

  But now, he still had whiskey and conversation with an intriguing woman. He could table the whole “rest of his life” question until later.

  “Masks, as I said last night.” He tilted his head to stare at the ceiling. “I suppose you c
ould also have special evenings.” The ideas were whirling through his head. As though his change of circumstances had freed something inside him.

  It was refreshing for him to actually be thinking. Not just pushing things along, or attending something because of who he was, standing silent as he acknowledged his importance.

  He wasn’t important anymore. He was the illegitimate offspring of a duplicitous woman. But he could be the useful illegitimate offspring of a duplicitous woman. So that was an improvement.

  “Special evenings such as costume night, where your guests arrive in costumes from another era. Or one evening where the wagers aren’t based around actual money, but around transactions.” He thought of the possibilities. “That could be quite intriguing,” he added.

  Her cheeks flushed, and he surmised she had come to the same conclusions he had. Conclusions that seemed far more intriguing if she were involved.

  Well, at least he knew that if he was no longer a duke, he would still be a rake.

  “Your ideas are certainly creative,” she said. She took a deep breath. “So tell me, Mr. de Silva, why aren’t you running your own gambling hell?”

  His immediate reaction was to be affronted—how dare this woman suggest that he actually work at something?

  But then he realized his response would be insulting even if he was still a duke. This woman was working at something, something that clearly mattered to her. She was obviously proud of her accomplishments and wanted to improve her business. She served the best food and drink, even though similar establishments made do with mediocre fare because their clientele would accept it.

  And if he were still a duke, he wouldn’t have even gone to the club in the first place to see what she’d done. He’d have gone to a party, getting fawned over by people whose names he could scarcely remember. Being eyeballed as a prospective husband by any number of conniving mothers.

  But that was far too harsh. He needed to remind himself that he was still Sebastian, even if he didn’t have a title.

  The reality was that he did have some friends whose presence at that party would have made it tolerable. Who would have shared a commiserative glance at an obsequious comment? He had been depending on those friends to help Ana Maria navigate Society; he doubted practical Thaddeus would be able to charm people as well as he could. In fact, he knew that was a sure bet.