Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  There was time to retreat to the country, if necessary. He could fail at any time, and he knew Thad would be there to help him out. But he wouldn’t accept that, not now, not when he had his sights set on his own opportunity. And the means to get there—he and Miss Ivy hadn’t negotiated what he’d be paid yet. Perhaps he could leverage that to his advantage.

  “Thanks, but no,” Sebastian said. “I know you mean well, but this isn’t what I want to do. Not now.”

  Thaddeus’s lips pursed. “I should have expected this answer. You always were stubborn.”

  Sebastian grinned. “And handsome and charming and—”

  “And far too full of yourself,” Thaddeus interrupted, back to sounding like the stuffy cousin Sebastian had met fifteen years previous. Which he promptly dispelled by grabbing Sebastian in an enormous bear hug. Sebastian was the taller of the two cousins, but Thaddeus was broader. His embrace was more like a smother.

  Sebastian clapped his cousin on the back, then withdrew, holding on to Thad’s arms. “I promise I’ll reach out if I need help. But until then, you’re going to have to let me do this on my own.” He paused. “And I promise not to come lecture you about the right way to be a duke.”

  Thaddeus snorted. “You probably should. And don’t lecture me for giving you this.” Thaddeus took his wallet from his breast pocket, withdrawing some bills and stuffing it into Sebastian’s hand, curling Seb’s fingers around it.

  Sebastian glanced down at his hand, then back up at Thad. His cousin’s expression was forbidding, almost grim. Thad only looked that way when he was in the throes of some deep emotion, and Sebastian felt a pang at how this situation had upended Thad’s life, as well—his cousin had only ever wanted to serve in Her Majesty’s army, and now he wouldn’t be allowed to.

  “Thank you, Thad.”

  His cousin nodded, then spun on his heel and walked out without looking back.

  Sebastian stood in place for a few moments. He had always taken his chosen family—Ana Maria, Thaddeus, and Nash—for granted. They were there for him, and he was there for them. He’d never imagined he’d have to call on them for anything; he was the heir to a dukedom, after all. And he hadn’t even called this time either—they’d just come to offer their help and support.

  If he hadn’t just lost his entire identity and had no idea where his life was going, he would have thought this not-being-a-duke thing wasn’t that bad.

  But he had, and it was. Although thanks to Miss Ivy, he wouldn’t have to sell his sexual skills, at least not right now.

  Chapter Seven

  “Everything settled?” Ivy asked as Mr. de Silva returned to the parlor. She peered past him, looking for the large military man. And then heard distant footsteps, and then the door shutting.

  “Yes. My apologies.” Mr. de Silva sat down, crossing one lean leg over the other. “My affairs were not as settled as I’d thought. It won’t happen again.”

  Ivy waved her hand. “It is of no concern.” She gestured toward the tea tray. “I know your opinion of the beverage, but would you care for tea?” She accompanied her question with a questioning look. “Or are you in need of something stronger?”

  “Something stronger would be much appreciated. Family has a way of driving one to drink.”

  “Ah, so that gentleman is a relative?”

  Mr. de Silva’s expression tightened. “Yes, he is the actual duke, as it turns out. And my cousin.”

  Ivy rose, walking to the cabinet where she kept the alcohol. She opened the door and bent down, shifting the half-empty bottles of sherry to find the whiskey tucked in the back, pulling it out with a triumphant exclamation. “I knew we had some. Here,” she said, opening the bottle and pouring whiskey into the delicate teacup.

  “Are you going to have any?” he asked as she handed him the cup.

  She tilted her head in thought. “I believe I will.” She picked up her own tea, drank it down, then splashed whiskey into her cup. She raised it up in his direction. “Cheers!”

  “May we never want a friend, nor a bottle to share with him. Or her,” he said, nodding in her direction.

  They both drank, Ivy relishing the burn of the alcohol down her throat.

  “How do you lose a dukedom, anyway?”

  He raised his brow—at her cavalier tone? Of course, he didn’t know she had lost her respectability, too. Not that she’d be sharing all that information with him, not right now at least. “My mother. She withheld some crucial information, information that invalidates my claim to the title.”

  She waited, nodding at him to continue.

  His jaw clenched. “She pretended she was the first duchess’s cousin, not her sister. And then she married her sister’s widower, which is against the law.”

  “That’s a very odd law,” she remarked.

  He nodded in acquiescence. “Odd, yes, but also a law, which is the more important aspect of it.”

  She took a sip from her cup. “Do you get along with him? Your cousin?”

  He nodded. “I do. I suppose that makes it harder in some way.”

  “How?”

  He twisted his mouth in thought. “Thaddeus and I, we are as close as brothers, and yet we are totally different. He is, as you can see, a military man. And I?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes. And what are you, Mr. de Silva?”

  He met her gaze, and Ivy could see the frank honesty in his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I hope to find out.”

  “Maybe working at Miss Ivy’s will help,” she replied. At least she hoped so.

  He nodded as he took another sip. “I believe it will.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve never had to think about who I am before. It’s just been a fact. Like the blue sky, or that coffee is infinitely preferable to tea, and whiskey is even more preferable.”

  “Spoken like someone who has never had his opinion questioned,” she replied. A duke, second only to the royal family. And who would dare to argue with the royal family? “I might have to argue with you about the sky—you do know we live in London, don’t you?” She wrinkled her nose. “More often than not, the sky is gray.”

  “Ah, but if you drink enough whiskey, it is blue, my lady.”

  She felt herself stiffen. “I am Miss Ivy. Not ‘my lady.’”

  His eyebrows rose. “Duly noted.” He frowned. “I suppose I never have been questioned. Something I’ll have to learn.”

  “What else do you want to learn?” she asked.

  He downed his drink, then regarded her with a grin. Not the rakish smile she’d been expecting, but something less practiced. More enthusiastic. As though he couldn’t wait to share his thoughts with her.

  Only Octavia normally looked at her that way, and Octavia’s thoughts usually ran to how Octavia should be allowed to do whatever she wanted, no matter what Ivy said.

  She wondered what Mr. de Silva would do if he were allowed to do whatever he wanted.

  “So where do we start?” he asked, setting his cup on the table beside him. “With my employment?” he added in response to Ivy’s blank stare.

  Well, at least he wasn’t able to read her thoughts. She wished she could point out that she was a good card player after all, since he’d had no idea what she was thinking, but then that would require that she disclose what she was thinking, and she could barely allow herself to think it, much less say it.

  “Do you have a place to stay?” she blurted. Better than the alternative conversation. The one that involved them and his handsomeness and her enthusiasm for the same.

  “Pardon?”

  “A place to stay. You mentioned you’d be needing a place.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “I do. I was staying with a friend, but—” He clamped his lips together.

  Ivy took a deep breath. “You can stay here.”

  His eyebrows shot up. He took another swig from his cup. “Here? With you and your sister? That would be . . .” He paused, then downed the rest of the liquid, stret
ching forward to pluck the bottle from the table and pour more into his cup.

  Inappropriate, scandalous, indecent, wicked, and outrageous. “It would be, yes,” Ivy said. “But it is also practical. You are just setting out on your own, and it is clear it would be good to have someone on the premises besides me and Octavia. In case another situation like last night occurs. Although I would expect you to be armed with something else,” she added hastily.

  His lips curled into a wry smile. “A cribbage board is not what I would normally choose to hit someone on the head with, I promise. Are you certain? About me staying here? Because it would be an easy solution, but it would also be—”

  He excelled in leaving out the words that would tarnish her reputation.

  “Yes. It would. But since I have no expectations, it is not relevant.” She wanted to be as clear as possible about that; she was not in the market for a husband. She did not want him thinking anything of the kind.

  What she wanted was someone far more difficult to find, a person who could help her with the club’s success.

  He looked as though he wanted to ask about that, but shook his head instead. “Then I accept.” He winced. “Does that mean my room will be the one I woke up in?”

  She gave him a commiserating look. “Yes, unfortunately. You and Mrs. Buttercup.”

  “Mrs. Buttercup?”

  “Yes, the doll on the shelf. Missing an eye?”

  “Ah, yes.” He finished his whiskey, then rose. “Please inform Mrs. Buttercup I will take possession of the room in a few hours.” He held his arm out to her. “Meanwhile, should we go elaborate on our discussion from last night?”

  She stood also, taking his arm. Of course her insides did a traitorous flip. But his arm felt so solid, who could blame her traitorous insides?

  “Tell me more about your relative. The imposing one who seemed as though he wanted to issue you some orders. Which,” she added, looking up at him with a wry grin, “it appeared you would not take.”

  “I only take orders from my boss,” he replied, accompanying his words with a rakish wink.

  Oh. So much for not thinking things she shouldn’t. And he hadn’t answered her question. But he had made her feel entirely too aware of their unusual situation.

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Not to mention that wink.

  Not because he didn’t want to take orders from his boss; he did. But that also summoned tantalizing images of taking orders from a woman—specifically, her.

  What would she ask him to do, if she took that power?

  Stop it, Sebastian, he chided himself. She might find him charming, because everyone did, but that didn’t mean anything more. Nor should it; it would be entirely inappropriate for him to dally with his boss.

  Although the word dally was intriguing.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, then winced as he realized those words made him think of even more inappropriate things.

  When he’d been a duke, such thoughts had been natural. Appropriate. Practically ducal. But now that he was supposed to be a simple man earning his living, defining himself by what he could do, not who he was, those salacious thoughts and images were not suitable.

  “We’re going to the main room,” she replied, nothing in her voice indicating her thoughts had gone where his had.

  Thank goodness, he assured himself.

  “I need to move the damaged table out of the way, and I thought you could help me,” she continued. “And I could list all the games we offer at Miss Ivy’s.”

  Games. He’d like to play some games. With her.

  Damn it.

  “You already know about roulette and baccarat,” she began, speaking in that businesslike tone that nonetheless entirely piqued his nonbusinesslike interest. “We also offer craps, faro, blackjack. On Monday nights we offer whist only—we found whist players don’t like the noise associated with the other games, and they do end up spending a lot of money, so it is worth it to restrict the game to only that.”

  “Have you had other nights where the play is limited to a certain game?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ve considered it, but I wouldn’t know what game to offer.”

  He shrugged. “What game makes the house the most money?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I should have thought of that.” She tilted her head in thought. “Oh, but I did! Mr. de Silva, I am not new to this business.”

  He deserved that rebuke. He needed to go beyond the rudimentary to impress this woman, he knew that already. Was his brain up to the task?

  Well, if not, at least it felt like a challenge. A goal. Something he relished in his current frame of mind.

  “Of course. My apologies.”

  She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be so sharp. It’s just that other people, other men, have come to Miss Ivy’s to tell me everything I am doing wrong, and suggested that if I only had a man assisting me, the club would be much more successful.”

  Sebastian felt himself start to bristle. But then he was overtaken by curiosity. “So what made you offer me the position? When you had so many others clamoring for it?”

  “Your ideas are different. And you didn’t posit them in a way that condescended to me or implied that only you could implement them.” She grinned. “Plus you did foil that miscreant quite handily.”

  “Ah. So because I treated you as an equal in thought and whacked someone with a cribbage board I deserve a position?”

  She gave a wry smile. “Odd that it would be a former duke, of all things, who should impress me with his equality. And skill with an unusual weapon.” She dipped into a curtsy, a mocking expression on her face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “I’m not that any longer.” He couldn’t help his sharp tone. I’m not anything any longer.

  She rose, regarding him with a skeptical look. “It is bound to be noticed, you know. If you work here. People from your world do patronize Miss Ivy’s. Which you know yourself because you yourself came here.”

  She had a point, he had to admit.

  “You’re going to have to get accustomed to it. To this,” she said, spreading her hands out to indicate the club. “If you own the situation, nobody can get the best of you about it.” She paused, then grinned again. “Your Grace.”

  Sebastian raised one of his haughtiest eyebrows in response. To which she just laughed. He held his hands up in defeat. “Fine. I’ll work on tempering my response.”

  “Excellent, Your Grace,” she teased. Her eyes gleamed with laughter, her mouth was smiling, and all he wanted to do was kiss her.

  Her new employee was nearly—nearly—as prickly as Ivy herself. It was a relief, honestly, to have to deal with someone who wasn’t entirely pleasant.

  Her staff, with the exception of her hotheaded Irish chef, were all accommodating, sharing their thoughts but never speaking up to Ivy. Octavia was her own situation, of course, but she wasn’t—yet—working at the club.

  Which left Mr. de Silva. Her very own duke.

  She couldn’t resist teasing him. Not only because it was delightful fun, but also because she’d been speaking the truth—he would have to negotiate people who knew who he was, or had been, in the club. And he couldn’t very well speak to them in that frosty, dismissive tone of voice. Not if he wanted to keep his position.

  Plus it was a good early test of how they would work together—he needed to be able to listen to her, and follow her orders, if they were going to make this work.

  Whatever this was. She still had no clue why she had so impetuously asked him to work for her, except that it felt right. A business person had no business, so to speak, being impetuous. Especially not a female business person, whose strength of character was even more scrutinized than any random man who might have opened a gambling club.

  But she couldn’t and wouldn’t spend any more time thinking about her latest employee. They were here to work. To roll up their sleeves and figure out how to make Miss
Ivy’s even more successful.

  She wondered what his forearms looked like. What with the rolled-up sleeves and all.

  Stop that, Ivy.

  “Right. Well, so those are the games we offer,” she continued, making certain she was speaking in her usual measured tone.

  He was regarding her with an odd expression—had she upset him with her teasing?

  No, it didn’t seem like that. His gaze was focused on her mouth, and she felt self-conscious, licking her suddenly dry lips. His gaze sharpened at that, and her insides knew with certainty—even if she herself refused to admit it—just what he had been thinking about.

  “And I think the first and easiest of your ideas to implement is to have an anonymous evening,” she continued, hoping she didn’t sound flustered.

  “Masks so that nobody knows who the others are?” He spoke in a low tone, one that resonated throughout her body. “So that anybody is as equal as the other?” He stepped toward her, his gaze still on her mouth. She trembled, but not from fear—fear she understood, and knew how to combat. Henry had shown her a few moves to disable a man if he posed a threat. She would have unleashed them the evening before, aided by her weaponized broom, if Mr. de Silva hadn’t deployed his cribbage board.

  It was a very different emotion from fear. Something that she had only just started to feel, and it had—not coincidentally—made its appearance when he had.

  “A duke could play a game with a lady not from his world and nobody would be the wiser?” he added. She was not imagining the silky tone of his voice, how it had lowered so that only she could hear it.

  Not that there was anybody else in the room, anyway. They were entirely and thoroughly alone.

  They were entirely and thoroughly alone.

  Because she was his employer, and he was her employee, and she had just met him.

  Oh my Lord. What was she even thinking?

  Entirely inappropriate, Ivy, she reproved herself. Not to mention it seemed as though flirting was in his blood—he didn’t mean anything by it. So if, theoretically, she were to launch herself in his general mouth area, he would likely be completely astonished and tell her he did not want to kiss her, despite his flirtatious tone.