Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  And then it all came rushing back, his memory of what had happened in the solicitor’s office, the evening with Nash, the apology he’d offered, the time spent pondering his future, all accompanied with a sharp sense of panic.

  As though he were falling off a cliff with no idea of what awaited him. Which would be merely a moment of panic if it wasn’t also entirely true.

  “Damn it, I have to get going.” He sat up suddenly in bed, groaning at how his head reacted to his movement, but keenly aware of time ticking by.

  As a duke, he hadn’t been answerable to anybody. Plus, he’d always been accompanied by various servants. But he was on his own now, and he had no idea if Nash was concerned about his not appearing home that evening. What had he done? Right, he’d returned to Nash’s house for dinner, and then was too restless to settle down. His roaming had brought him to the club, hoping for a chance to speak with her again. Even though it had been ridiculously late, what had he been thinking?

  Which meant he hadn’t made it to Nash’s house. Would his friend be concerned?

  Likely not, knowing Nash. But Finan might be.

  “You’d better not. Let me get you some tea.”

  “Tea will not solve anything,” he said firmly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His boots were on the floor, and he was still clad in his shirt and trousers. So he really had just been knocked unconscious. Drat. Although that meant he hadn’t disappointed her in that way, so at least there was an upside.

  A moment of bleak humor in the midst of all this uncertainty.

  He got to his feet, sitting abruptly back down as his head started to spin.

  “Tea,” she said firmly, walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.

  He lay back on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge, staring up at the ceiling.

  He needed to start his new life. Whatever that would be. After he told Ana Maria. Not that he knew what he would tell her. What would he tell her?

  The truth.

  Well, yes. The truth. It wouldn’t affect Ana Maria directly, except it would confirm what both of them already knew—that Sebastian’s mother was ruthless and wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. Not her husband’s daughter or British law.

  And even though he knew it had nothing to do with him, he didn’t want to be the reason she was disappointed again.

  Damn it.

  But thinking about her meant he wasn’t contemplating what the hell he was going to do.

  He sat up again just as Miss Ivy returned holding a tray of tea things. She placed it on the bureau to the right of the bed, nudging what appeared to be an ancient doll with one eye missing to make room for the tray. He glanced around, taking in the details of the room.

  An enormous bookshelf was at one end, stacked with books put in any which way. Dolls ranged along the surface of the other bureau he could see, all in various stages of disrepair. Taxidermic animals sat between a few of the dolls, while an enormous bust of some glowering man stared straight at him. Pieces of bric-a-brac were scattered around, seemingly without a thought toward decoration.

  “This isn’t your room, is it?” he said, unable to disguise his tone of voice.

  Because if it were, and he had been here for a romantic interlude, he’d have to ask himself just how much he wanted to have relations in this setting. The room was . . . unsettling, to say the least.

  “Are you back to thinking anything happened last night, Mr. de Silva?” She shook her head, beginning to pour the tea. “This is not my room. I slept in my own room, thank you very much. How do you take your tea?”

  “Not at all, if I can help it,” Seb replied.

  She gave him an exasperated look.

  “Fine,” he said, waving his hand. Not as impressive a gesture when he was effectively in bed. “A bit of milk, no sugar.”

  She nodded, then handed him a cup and saucer. She made her own cup and sat back in her chair.

  “I did a lot of thinking prior to the incident last evening,” she said. She took a sip of tea while Seb studied her.

  Her expressions shifted as she thought, and he wondered just what was going through her mind. He could see she was debating something and saw when she’d made her decision.

  “You’d make a terrible card player,” he remarked.

  Her eyes widened, and for a moment it actually seemed as though she was about to growl. “I would not! I do not! I am an excellent card player as it happens, Mr. de Silva. How do you think Miss Ivy’s is so successful? It is not because I am a terrible card player.” He wanted to laugh at her outraged tone.

  He shrugged deliberately, accidentally spilling some tea onto his leg, which made him jump. “Blast,” he exclaimed, putting the cursed tea on the side table next to the bed.

  She was laughing, damn her, one hand held up to her mouth, her eyes dancing with humor. He couldn’t help but join her. It was funny, and he definitely deserved her laughter. Plus he had been rather obnoxious when he’d believed he was a duke who had spent the night with a lady.

  “Although I do not play cards with my clientele, at least not often. Sometimes I sit in when there is a large pot and the player likes to feel as though anyone could win or lose.” She shook her head as though impatient. “But that’s not important. I am wondering, Mr. de Silva—if your position is one you would consider leaving,” she began, lacing her fingers together. “I would like to offer you a job at Miss Ivy’s.”

  Mr. de Silva was staring at her as though she’d sprouted an additional head. Was it such an odd question? And if it was, all he had to say was no. He didn’t have to look at her as though she’d just arrived on this planet.

  Although she could understand that presumption if he thought this was her bedroom. It was filled with detritus from her childhood, plus several of Octavia’s odder interests, including the time she thought she might want to be a taxidermist. She’d even thought of a name for her shop—Dead on Arrival.

  “Uh—” he began.

  “If you have a position you don’t wish to leave, I would understand,” she interrupted. “Or if you believe it would be beneath you—” This same scenario had not been nearly as difficult when she’d hired Samuel and Henry. But neither of them was this gentleman.

  “No,” he said.

  She blinked. “No, what? No, you are absolutely not interested in working here, or no, you don’t have a position, or no, it isn’t beneath you?”

  “No, I don’t have a position.” He looked thoughtful, and Ivy nearly held her breath to hear how he’d answer. She’d never thought of hiring a second-in-command before, but the club was doing well, and Mr. de Silva had so many interesting ideas. Ideas she knew her clientele would love.

  Plus he was obviously a gentleman, and she’d realized there was a certain group of patrons she would never lure into the club if they thought a fallen lady was entirely in charge. Hiring him would pay for itself in no time. If she could increase the club’s revenue, she would be set that much sooner. Perhaps there’d even be enough money to give Octavia a reasonable dowry so she could get married.

  She winced as she imagined Octavia’s inevitable response to that idea.

  She’d cross that marital bridge when she came to it.

  “So do you want to work for me?”

  Mr. de Silva took a deep breath, his hands curled into fists on either side of him. “I have to do something with myself,” he said in a bitter tone. What was that about? “I would,” he said in a louder voice, meeting her gaze. “Thank you.”

  He looked and sounded humble now, the first such time she’d thought that about him. Perhaps there was more to him than a man of clever ideas and rakish pursuits. Or maybe there was less to him, since she had no idea who he was. Making her impulsive decision even more impulsive. But that was how she worked, and thus far, her instincts had been proved right.

  “I am grateful for the opportunity.” A pause as his brows drew together. “But what do you want me to do?”

  I
vy couldn’t help the immediate and completely inappropriate thought that first came to her: a fig leaf, a pedestal, and perhaps a gaming table.

  Even though she should absolutely not be thinking any such thing, since the thought was so inappropriate.

  For one thing, he was to be her employee, and there were rules about such behavior, even though it was normally a male employer and his female employee. For another, she didn’t know if he was already involved or perhaps even married.

  And then there was the fact that he appeared to try to flirt with every female, so she’d never know if he truly liked her, or she was just convenient for the time. He hadn’t been successful with Caroline, but he had tried.

  That was a lowering thought. But it had the benefit of making her realize just what a horrible idea it was in the first place.

  Even though she still found him ridiculously handsome.

  “I want you to help me implement some of your ideas from last night, help me manage the club. Perhaps work as a dealer occasionally.” She shrugged. “We’ll have to see. There is a lot to do, and not a lot of people to do it.”

  “I’ll need a day or two to—to settle my affairs,” he said. He looked pained again, and she opened her mouth to inquire about it. But that wasn’t her business—his working for her was, but nothing else, she reminded herself firmly.

  No matter how handsome or charming or rakish he was.

  “And,” he said, taking a deep breath as he spoke, “I suppose I should tell you who I am.”

  “So who are you?” she asked. Unless he was a spy, or a serial cribbage board attacker, it didn’t really matter.

  He gave a chuckle devoid of humor. “Until two days ago, I was the Duke of Hasford. But because of some recent information, it turns out that I am not.”

  “The Duke of Hasford?” No wonder she’d pegged him as a gentleman. He was one of the highest such gentlemen in the land. Or had been. So what was a gentleman who used to inhabit such a prestigious title doing defending her club with a cribbage board? Now tucked up in her spare room as though he were just another one of Octavia’s collected items?

  She had so many questions. But again, it wasn’t her business.

  Besides which, she knew as soon as Octavia found out, her sister would waste no time getting all the details, so her curiosity would be satisfied without having to ask him for clarification.

  Which made her principled decision not to ask him a lot less principled.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Your Grace,” she said, a wry grin on her face, “when would you be able to start working?”

  Chapter Six

  Sebastian felt stunned by the past forty-eight hours.

  Literally stunned, since it seemed he’d been knocked unconscious the previous evening. But also figuratively stunned; he’d gone from being a duke with all the privilege and prestige in the world to being an illegitimate nobody.

  But he’d also, somehow, miraculously, found something to do that did not involve moping or bemoaning his lot.

  Which were somewhat the same thing, he had to admit. Perhaps he could get a position supplying synonyms to perplexed conversationalists.

  He had left Miss Ivy’s an hour or so ago, and was wending his way back to the town house, which he could no longer call home. He didn’t have a home any longer.

  He had to shove those thoughts aside. Better would be to think out the details of some of the ideas he’d mentioned to Miss Ivy—his new employer. His thoughts were scattered, veering from shock at his change in circumstances to excitement about what might lie ahead.

  But first he had to go to his not home.

  He needed to see Ana Maria and explain everything. Hopefully she hadn’t heard yet.

  His chest tightened as he anticipated her likely reaction.

  It wasn’t until after his mother died that she had been treated as an equal and valued member of the household—before that, she’d been treated as an unpaid servant, doing whatever tasks his mother had assigned her. Their father was too scattered to notice his wife’s treatment of his daughter, and Sebastian hadn’t been able to dissuade his mother either—the most he’d ever been able to do was behave so recklessly himself that he’d taken the duchess’s attention away from Ana Maria.

  It was one of the many reasons he’d been relieved when he’d been informed of his parents’ deaths. Ana Maria didn’t deserve to be treated so poorly, and his only comfort was that eventually he would become the duke and he could change all that.

  Ana Maria was always cheerful, even when scrubbing floors and peeling potatoes, but it was only in the past six months that she had seemed to relax, though she still had a habit of cleaning things, despite Sebastian’s reminders that they had servants for that. She had finally agreed to enter Society, though she had balked at having a traditional come-out.

  Her life was about to be altered again, after having just seeming to settle.

  As was his, of course.

  No moping, a voice inside his head admonished.

  I’m not moping, I’m pondering, he rejoined.

  Humph, the voice responded. A synonym provider might suggest those were the same thing in this context.

  Thank goodness he arrived at the door before a fully blown fight could break out between the voices in his head.

  It swung open before he could knock, Fletchfield regarding him with a concerned expression.

  “Your—yes, uh, you are home. Your sister has been worried about you. She is in your library.”

  Sebastian handed his hat and coat to Fletchfield, then stood and regarded the library’s closed door. This would be the worst of it—telling Ana Maria.

  He loved his sister. She was the one who’d taken care of him when he was little, when his mother was off tending to her duchess duties. Ana Maria had read to him at night and stayed with him when he’d had nightmares. They had been each other’s sole comfort in the house; their father wasn’t usually present, either in person or in mind, and his mother was not a kind woman.

  And when he had inherited the title, he had reassured Ana Maria that she had a proper home with a loving family of two. Now he was going to have to tell her that she was being abandoned, albeit unwillingly. Just as her mother had unwillingly abandoned her at birth.

  Damn it.

  At least she would be living with Thaddeus, who cared for Ana Maria even if he didn’t understand her nearly as well as Sebastian did.

  “Sebby!” Ana Maria emerged from the library, wearing one of her old work gowns that Sebastian had tried to toss in the rubbish. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, as usual, but also as usual her curls had made a run for it, spiraling around her face, giving the impression that even her hair was delightfully fun.

  She grabbed him in a tight hold, and he allowed himself to feel the warmth of her embrace for a moment of respite.

  “You’ve returned, I was worried, you usually send a note if you’ll be—uh, out all night.” Her delicate way of referring to his spending the night with one of his many ladies. She continued speaking, her words tumbling out faster and faster. “And when I asked the staff if anyone had heard from you, they all gave me the strangest looks. Though they did say you were at Nash’s house, but I couldn’t figure that out, since why would you spend the night there when you could be here?”

  So it seemed the staff knew, even if his sister didn’t. They must be frantic with worry about their futures—he hoped Thaddeus would take possession soon and sort it all out.

  He withdrew from her embrace, then held her at arm’s length. “We need to talk.”

  “What is it?” Her expression was concerned, but not yet worried.

  “Let’s go into the library. We’ll need some privacy.”

  “But—but there must be some mistake! Why did those letters just turn up? And why would your mother do something like that?”

  Ana Maria’s expression was incredulous, and Sebastian had to admire how she continued to believe in the good of people, ev
en when they showed her who they were, time after household-drudgery time. His mother had never hidden her dislike of her husband’s first child, quashing any attempt to allow Ana Maria to take her rightful place as a duke’s daughter.

  But Ana Maria refused to be quashed, just making her own joy in whatever task she tackled. Sebastian had often shaken his head at how she’d always contrived to make a game of whatever terrible task the duchess had assigned her. As though she’d been rebelling against the chores in her own optimistic way.

  She paced back and forth in front of his desk while he leaned on the mantel of the fireplace watching her frenetic energy. He suddenly felt exhausted, whether from being knocked unconscious or his entire world changing, he couldn’t say.

  At least he wasn’t moping. Thank goodness for small favors.

  He tried to keep his tone measured so as not to exacerbate Ana Maria’s agitation. “It doesn’t matter why. It just matters that it’s the truth.”

  She turned to face him, planting her fists on her hips. “Well, if you’re not the duke, and you have to leave here, I’m coming with you. If you’re not here, it’s not home.” Her expression was determined, and his chest hurt at the palpable sign of her love and caring for him.

  He was shaking his head before she’d finished speaking. “You can’t, Ana Banana.” The childhood nickname emerged without his thinking about it. “Be reasonable. Thaddeus will take possession of the house, and has promised to give you everything you rightfully deserve—your place in Society, the chance to find a husband who is worthy of you. Following me won’t do any of that.” One of the best parts of inheriting the title was that he would finally be able to help Ana Maria—he couldn’t bear it if she turned her back on all of it just because of his situation.

  “What if I don’t want it?”

  Sebastian snorted. “Funny, that’s exactly what Thad said. That he didn’t want to be duke. He asked if we could just pretend that we hadn’t seen the documents and letters.”

  Ana Maria flung her hands into the air. She was always dramatic with her gesticulations, something her stepmother had deplored as part of her Spanish heritage. As though Sebastian’s mother hadn’t also been Spanish. But Sebastian’s mother was the epitome of a reserved English lady in her demeanor, and the duchess was constantly reminding Ana Maria to be less exuberant. Reprimands that Ana Maria refused to heed. “And why didn’t you? That would be far better than this situation.”