Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  “Well,” she said, relieved that she sounded like her usual self, “yes, we will definitely schedule in a masked evening. Your first task will be to write up a plan for how to let the patrons know as well as people who might not have thought of Miss Ivy’s as a place for their gambling custom.”

  “Certainly.” He sounded as though he were offended—had she done or said something?

  Although that should not matter, not when he was working for her.

  “And there’s the table.”

  “Don’t you have anybody else here who could help me move it?” he asked.

  “Because I am female?” she said, feeling her temper start to rise. There were far too many instances of people doubting her because she was a woman. She did not want him to start off his tenure as her employee doing the same.

  “No,” he replied in a mild tone. “Because you are the boss. You shouldn’t have to be doing manual labor. That is one thing I know for certain, having been a boss of sorts myself.”

  Oh. Of course.

  “No, it’s just me,” she said as she walked to one end of the table. “Besides which,” she added in a wry tone, “the owner of a gambling house has a much less lofty status than a duke.” She frowned as she looked down at the surface of the table. The stain had darkened, and the table would need to be entirely re-covered, damn it. “I’d just had this done,” she said in a mournful tone as she placed her hands under the edge.

  He went to the other end and looked at her. “Perhaps we can take this as an opportunity. Maybe choose a different color for the table? Make it a special privilege to be sat here?”

  “The whole point of Miss Ivy’s is that everyone is equal,” she said, unable to keep herself from sounding aggravated. It didn’t seem to bother him, however; he just grinned in reply.

  “Lift,” she ordered, and then they started to carry the table toward the door that led to her office, both of them shuffling under the weight.

  “But some are more equal than others,” he replied with a twist of his lips.

  “That makes no sense, and you know it,” she retorted.

  “But what if their bonus equality comes through merit? Perhaps they’ve won a tremendous amount at the club?”

  “So why would we reward them? We want them to lose, after all.”

  They were now through the door, and Ivy felt the strain in her arms. She regretted not waiting until there was another worker there, but her stubbornness was stronger than her muscles.

  “The point is, you could make something distinctive. We can figure out what it will all mean later, but I think you should consider doing some things differently.”

  “I—” she began.

  “You already do things differently,” he interrupted. “Here, let’s slide the table against that wall.”

  They were just outside her office, thankfully, since her arms were starting to tremble.

  “Fine,” she said, letting him guide the table inside.

  He maneuvered it so it took as little room as possible, and she let go with an exhale of relief.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, gesturing for her to sit, “you already do things differently. I apologize, I wasn’t saying things clearly. I think that what you have here is an opportunity to continue your work by questioning everything.”

  She sat down, her posture completely inappropriate for a lady of her previous position, but completely appropriate for how exhausted she was. “Question everything?”

  “Yes, like that!” he replied.

  She laughed in response. “I didn’t mean that to be as clever as it sounded. I was actually asking.”

  He sat down also, crossing one long, lean leg over the other. “But that’s exactly what I mean. To ask instead of accept. To push forward instead of settle.”

  She considered his words. “I suppose that is what I have always done,” she said slowly. “I never thought about it before.”

  “Nor did I,” he said in a rueful tone.

  Question everything. He’d never done that before—he’d known, and accepted, that he was the heir to a dukedom. Then he’d known and accepted that he was able to charm anybody into giving him what he wanted: sweets and toys when he was younger, kisses and more as he got older. Then he was the duke, and everything was even easier, even though he’d been determined to be the best kind of duke.

  Now everything was harder. And it was important for him to do as he’d advised her to—question, push forward, and try to improve.

  Dukes weren’t expected to improve. They were just expected to duke.

  But illegitimate men who had no idea how they were going to survive—well, they either had to figure it out or slink back to become an encumbrance on their relatives.

  Not that he had an opinion about his options or anything.

  “What are you questioning now?” she asked.

  He wasn’t surprised she was asking; in the short time he’d known her, he’d seen she was remarkably observant.

  So he had observed her strong observational skills.

  Which was not only redundant, but another thing he’d never done before.

  “I was thinking about the turn of events that led me here,” he replied.

  “Do you miss it?”

  He snorted. “It’s only been a few days, of course I miss it. It’s the most privileged position one can have. I’d be an idiot not to miss it.”

  “Oh,” she said in a soft voice. “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to imply it was a stupid question.”

  “You didn’t have to imply it, your tone indicated it.” At least she was back to using a teasing tone.

  “I suppose it did.” He paused. “It will be difficult to lose the habits of being a duke, even though I’ve lost the dukedom.”

  “You mean the arrogant tone and the assumption that a duke is always correct?”

  “Ouch,” he replied with a mock grimace. “Tell me what you really think of me.” His tone grew serious. “But yes. It’s not as simple as losing everything,” he continued, shaking his head at his own insouciance, “it’s a matter of finding who you are.”

  Finding who you are.

  The words resonated in the air around them, and he found himself staring at her, drinking in her wide-open eyes and sincere expression. She obviously knew who she was, and that was obviously different from who she was before.

  That was his goal now. He had a purpose, a mission, that was more than just mere survival.

  He just hoped he’d like himself as much as he had before.

  “So tell me—unless there is something else we need to be doing,” he added hastily, “who are you? There has to be a story here.” He gestured around them. “Because this is not where one would expect to find someone who is obviously a lady.”

  “Obviously was,” she retorted, stressing the second word. “I am Miss Ivy now, anything I was before is left in the past.”

  “Were you also a duke who lost his title?” he said, giving her a sly look.

  His teasing had the effect of lightening her affect. She acknowledged the question with an incline of her head, then seemed to consider her answer. And then not give him what he wanted, after all.

  Something he was going to have to become accustomed to. Something he had never been accustomed to before.

  “We do have things to do, Mr. de Silva. Much as I would love to regale you with the story of how I came to be Miss Ivy, and the history of the gambling house in general.” Her neutral tone belied her words.

  She stood suddenly, and he bolted upright as well, keenly aware that he would have to follow her lead—follow her orders—if he wanted to keep this position.

  And what other position would you like? a voice asked in his head.

  That is not appropriate. She is my boss, my employer, and I cannot jeopardize my position by embarking on a relationship with inevitable heartbreak.

  Because his affairs usually ended when
he got bored, or found somebody else more intriguing, leaving the lady wishing he could offer more. He was never rude to the ladies, but he was definite in stating that the ending was just that—an ending.

  Although he wasn’t certain that would be the case here—she was far more intelligent than his previous amours, and she was also clearly independent, and would be more likely to break things off if there was the slightest hitch. She had to be even more aware of their unusual circumstances than he.

  “I want to introduce you to the staff,” she said, picking up what appeared to be a ledger from her desk and sliding a pencil behind her ear.

  He had to admit he found that delightfully endearing.

  “Of course.” He swept his hand toward the door. “Lead the way, boss.”

  “Follow me, Your Grace,” she replied.

  Chapter Eight

  Ivy walked swiftly down the hallway and back into the main gaming room. A few of her staff were already there, even though Miss Ivy’s would be closed for a few more hours. They’d been doing that almost since the club opened.

  When she’d asked why, Samuel and the others had replied that they wanted to ensure the experience at Miss Ivy’s was the most satisfying of any gambling house in London, so that meant making certain the temperature was perfect, the chairs and tables were clean and comfortable, and the play ran smoothly.

  Preparing all of that took time.

  On the other side of the room was the entrance to the kitchen, where Mac was already terrorizing his own band of incredibly loyal servants. Ivy left the menus up to him, as much because he was so stubborn he would just make what he wanted to no matter what she said, as because what he chose to create was inevitably delicious.

  “Good day, Miss Ivy,” Samuel said, pausing in his work. His eyes narrowed at seeing Mr. de Silva.

  “Good day, Samuel,” she replied. She glanced to Henry, who had just walked in. His eyes also narrowed at seeing her newest employee.

  Of course they’d be suspicious of him—he was clearly from the Society they catered to, not from their world. Her employees considered anyone like Mr. de Silva just a mark, not a person who could possibly offer any value beyond how much they could lose in an evening.

  “Samuel, Henry, I’ll make the official introduction at the meeting before the club opens tonight, but for now, I want to introduce Mr. de Silva. He’ll be assisting me with some new ideas for the club.”

  “What’s wrong with the old ideas?” Samuel asked, not taking Mr. de Silva’s outstretched hand.

  “Nothing is wrong with them, that is why we’re going to add more.” Mr. de Silva spoke before Ivy could, his tone mild in contrast to Samuel’s belligerent one. “Miss Ivy’s has already embarked on a bold idea—that of having anyone welcome in the door, regardless of who they are. As long as they have enough money, they can game. But Miss Ivy and I were talking and thinking about ways we could emphasize that equality to make it seem more exclusive to game here.”

  “So a gambling house that is exclusive while still allowing anyone in?”

  Ivy nearly laughed at Henry’s skeptical expression. Although she appreciated his ability to identify an oxymoron.

  “Precisely,” Mr. de Silva replied, an easy smile on his face. “Miss Ivy will explain it more when we’ve figured out the details.”

  “Humph,” Samuel said, looking Mr. de Silva up and down. He glanced to Ivy. “I trust you know what you’re doing, Miss Ivy,” he said. He jerked his chin at Mr. de Silva. “Just so anyone else knows that if there’s something off about someone, we’ll take pains to remove that person.”

  The threat and the promise were crystal clear. Ivy would be annoyed if she also wasn’t incredibly honored that her staff was so protective.

  “I can see why Miss Ivy values you so much.” Mr. de Silva didn’t raise his voice or become defensive, both of which must have been difficult for a recent duke.

  “We’ll see you at the meeting,” Henry said, taking Samuel’s arm and leading him toward the kitchen.

  Ivy watched them walk away, Henry speaking into Samuel’s ear as Samuel glanced back at them.

  “It’s a lucky thing I am confident of my ideas,” Mr. de Silva said after a moment. She felt him come to stand beside her, and she looked up into his face as he spoke.

  His gaze was focused on the two men, so she had a chance to look at him a little more closely. There was stubble on his face, and she wondered if he even knew how to shave himself, given that he must have left a valet behind.

  And then followed that up with the idea that perhaps she should ask him if he wanted her to help him.

  The thought made her breath hitch.

  And then she practically seized when she realized that his lack of a valet might also mean he wouldn’t know how to dress himself. And perhaps he might need assistance with that also.

  She was such a terrible boss to him already—thinking inappropriate things whenever she was in his general vicinity.

  But at least she could console herself with the fact that, thanks to her poker face, he would never know what she was thinking.

  Unless she did something that would tip him off.

  She would never do that. Never. And meanwhile, he had just said something, and instead of replying, she’d begun thinking about razors and the planes of his face, and how he might need help getting into—or out of—his shirt.

  “They are very protective,” she said. He looked at her quizzically, then nodded in understanding. Of course she’d taken so very long to answer he probably forgot what he’d said. “Just remember that when you decide to become a gambling-house spy,” she said, shaking her finger at him.

  He chuckled in response.

  Sebastian shifted on his feet, then straightened his shoulders. What stance should one take when one was trying to look entirely competent but nonthreatening?

  He had no idea. He’d never had to look nonthreatening before. Or, to be honest, entirely competent. He just was.

  “You’re looking very fierce.” Miss Octavia had popped up on his left side, leaning in to whisper in his ear. She was taller than her sister and was more beautiful than pretty. If he were a complete cad, he would have tried to flirt with her. But he was not, and besides, she was his boss’s younger sister. He’d gotten enough warning from his friends about their sisters to know that a sister was completely out-of-bounds, romantically. Not to mention she was entirely too young.

  “I was trying to look nonthreatening,” he said in a low tone.

  The staff of the gambling club were filing into the main room, most of them giving him curious glances. Miss Ivy was engrossed in a conversation with a large red-faced man, who Sebastian assumed was the chef; he wore an apron, and carried a large wooden spoon, which he kept gesticulating with.

  “You are failing miserably,” Miss Octavia replied. She turned to face him, then put her hands on his shoulders. “Here, put those down a little.” He jumped at her touch, at which she rolled her eyes and pushed harder. “And maybe smile a little bit?”

  He complied.

  “No, not like that!” she exclaimed. “You look positively menacing.” She stepped back, tilting her head to look at him. “That must be the aftereffect of being a duke. A former duke,” she amended hastily. She waved her hands vaguely toward him. “Just think of something mildly pleasant. Like a lukewarm pudding, or perhaps a tree with its leaves just starting to fall.”

  “A tree? A lukewarm pudding?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Those are certainly evocative images.”

  She beamed. “You think so? I am considering being a novelist. Ivy says she wants me to have a respectable future”—and her frown indicated what she thought about that—“but I want some adventure.” She glanced over at her sister, who had finished with the chef and was walking toward them. “I think Ivy should have some adventure, too.” She looked up at him, mischief in her gaze. “Don’t you?” Her intent was perfectly clear.

  Sebastian had never wanted to be a diplom
at, navigating difficult conversational territory, but he desperately wished he had diplomatic skills now. At least he was a good card player, so he wouldn’t reveal what he was thinking in response to Miss Octavia’s question.

  Miss Octavia would either be shocked or delighted at where his thoughts had gone. He wasn’t certain which he’d prefer.

  “Everyone, I have an announcement.”

  Thankfully, Ivy spoke before he had to come up with something. Though he couldn’t stop his brain from thinking about the kinds of adventure he’d like to lead Miss Ivy into—things involving gambling tables, and cards, and very specific and unusual wagers.

  He forced himself to think of lukewarm pudding as Miss Ivy continued speaking.

  It wasn’t helping.

  “I have asked Mr. de Silva to join us to help grow our business.”

  He didn’t have to look around to see the many skeptical expressions on the staff’s faces.

  “And he and I will be working together to implement some exciting new features for Miss Ivy’s.” She stopped speaking, then looked at each of her staff members in turn, as though she was reminding them who was in charge.

  He respected that. If he had still been a duke, he would have stolen the gesture to enforce his authority.

  “Does anyone have any ques—?” Only her words were lost as the door to the outside was flung open, revealing Ana Maria and his dogs, Byron and Keats. The latter two hurled themselves across the floor to jump on him, barking enthusiastically.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard Ana Maria yell from across the room. She wore a colorful ensemble that made her look as delightfully frothy as any other young lady in Society. Bravo, he thought. “Come back, Byron! Keats!” She ran across the room, then pulled up short as she spotted Sebastian.

  “Down,” Sebastian ordered, and the two obeyed, both of them gazing up at him adoringly.