Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  He had no idea how much rent cost, how much food cost, how much even a new razor cost. Which reminded him that his razor was getting worn, and he must be looking ragged.

  Thank goodness he did know how to shave, or else he’d have had to ask her to assist him.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “It depends on my duties, I suppose.” As though he had a clue what he was talking about.

  She frowned at him. Had she figured out he had no clue?

  “Shall we say thirty pounds a year?”

  He’d spent four pounds on a hat for Ana Maria two weeks ago. She’d protested, but he’d insisted, telling her the cost was less than he spent on a good bottle of whiskey.

  The disparity between the two was striking.

  And at this rate, his future goal of investing was so far off in the future he might have expired by then.

  “Seems fair.” Even though it didn’t. Because if a hat or alcohol could cost a month’s wages, what would a suit of clothes cost? Or a horse? How would he be able to live on that?

  Just like everybody else who isn’t a duke does.

  “I would pay you more,” she continued, “but I accounted for the rent you won’t be paying us. Should you find you wish to move elsewhere, I will adjust accordingly. And I presume you’ll be taking your meals with us, as well? We provide meals for the staff on the nights we know will be especially busy.”

  Living with her. Taking meals with her. It was essential, at least according to her, that he maintain a distance. And yet they would be together now nearly all the time.

  He’d have to develop a hobby to keep him out of the house when he wasn’t working.

  Byron and Keats were going to get plenty of walking until he figured that hobby out.

  “Well,” she said, “now that that is settled, I want to implement the Masked Evening as soon as possible—say next week? Does that give you enough time to prepare?”

  Preparing meant buying masks and letting the customers know. That didn’t seem too difficult, although he knew there were likely to be unanticipated problems.

  “Yes.” He spoke with a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel. But he was going to have to grow accustomed to pretending to know what he was doing until he actually did.

  Speaking of which— “Can we agree to a bonus incentive?”

  She regarded him quizzically.

  “If,” he said, his thoughts running furiously fast, “if I am able to draw in the type of customers you wouldn’t have thought attainable, could you perhaps consider additional monies?”

  She twisted her mouth in thought. “That might work. Let me speak with Henry about it and see what kind of parameters we can set up.” She arched her brow. “And may I say I admire your boldness to ask for more when you’ve barely begun working.”

  “Uh—” he began, only to stop speaking as he saw her laughing face.

  “It’s fine, you wouldn’t know unless you asked. And you’re correct, there are likely to be people I couldn’t have lured into the club alone.”

  He felt a deep sense of satisfaction—he had a goal, one he was working toward. If his goal took ten years, or twenty? At least he would be looking forward.

  “But meanwhile,” she said, “you should meet with Mac.”

  He shook his head in confusion.

  “The chef.”

  Oh. The large red-faced man. Sebastian hoped he wasn’t as anti-Sebastian as Samuel and Henry were.

  “To discuss the menu for that evening. We should have food that looks like other food—sort of a delicious nod to the evening’s theme.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” he said in surprise.

  “I have them, occasionally,” she replied dryly. “Such as when I opened this club, or when I hired you. Although that remains to be seen,” she added with a smirk.

  “It will be.” He rose, leaning over to take his work back. “I will be on the floor at night to observe and help out when required, and I’ll be working on the Masked Evening during the days. I might not see you at meals.”

  “Oh, of course.” Her face was expressionless. Did that mean it bothered her? Or did it not bother her?

  He might’ve misspoken when he’d told her she must be a terrible card player. He couldn’t read her at all.

  But damned if he didn’t want to kiss her again. His hand still prickled from where he’d touched her. His scalp tingled from her fingers. He could find somebody else to kiss, he knew he only needed his charm and looks to acquire that, but he strongly suspected it wouldn’t be the same.

  He wanted to kiss her.

  Octavia burst into Ivy’s office, slamming the door behind her. Ivy had spent as little time in the house as possible since that day she kissed Mr. de Silva, so she hadn’t seen her sister very much. She’d even missed their regular afternoon tea appointment a few times, and the other times, she’d gulped her share down and rushed off claiming work.

  “Good afternoon to you, too, sister,” Ivy said in a mild tone.

  Octavia stomped toward Ivy’s desk, then plopped down into the chair in front of it. “Do you mind telling me what is going on with you?”

  Ivy tensed. “What do you mean?”

  Her sister rolled her eyes. “As though you don’t know. You’ve been cranky for several days now, this is not like you.”

  Nor is kissing my employees, and yet here I am, she thought.

  “Business is engrossing,” Ivy replied, shuffling some of the papers on her desk.

  Octavia slapped her hand on top of them. “Stop that. I know you’re not that busy, not so busy you have to be actively unpleasant.”

  Ivy drew her brows together in a frown. “Actively unpleasant?” She hadn’t realized. “If so, I apologize.”

  “Not if so. It is so.” Octavia settled her hands in her lap. “I accept your apology.”

  Ivy exhaled, then picked up her pencil and held it in a manner that clearly indicated she was ready to get back to work. “So if you don’t mind . . . ?”

  “I do mind. You have to tell me why.” Octavia leaned forward, narrowing her gaze. “I don’t think it is such a stretch to think it has something to do with Sebastian.”

  Sebastian. Her sister had grown accustomed to calling him by his first name immediately, and used it constantly. Sebastian, would you want to take Byron and Keats for a walk? Sebastian, pass me the butter. Sebastian, did you see the patron last night? She was irked you weren’t her dealer.

  But Ivy hadn’t. She couldn’t. Because to admit that kind of familiarity would lead to other familiar things. Things that kept her lying awake in her bed at night. Things that her imagination ran wild with, meaning Ivy found it impossible to sleep. Impossible to sleep—that was it. An all-purpose excuse.

  “I’ve had some trouble sleeping as of late. I am sorry.” She tried to imbue her tone with the right combination of sorrow and fatigue.

  “It’s not that.” Octavia’s firm words meant that her attempt had failed. “I wish you could allow yourself to enjoy something, Ivy.”

  “Is that why you urged Mr. de Silva to bring some fun into my life?”

  “He told you that? I would not have thought he’d be so bold.” Octavia sounded admiring. “But yes.” She held her hands out as she explained. “We have a rare opportunity here, Ivy. We have a gentleman, a very handsome, charming gentleman, in residence in our house. It would be a disservice not to utilize him to his utmost ability.”

  Ivy gawked at her sister. “Utilize him to his—? Octavia, he’s not a tool.”

  “No, he’s a man.” Octavia accompanied her words with a smirk. As though she knew that Ivy was already keenly aware of that. “And you are a woman.”

  “So are you!” Ivy wished she had thought before she’d spoken. She didn’t want her sister ensnared by all of Mr. de Silva’s flirtatious charm.

  Octavia rolled her eyes. Again. “I see him as a friend. Perhaps a friendly cousin. He is too old for me,” she said scornfully.

  Thank goodness
. Although that just meant that Octavia believed he wasn’t too old for Ivy.

  “Just try to get yourself out of this grouchy mood,” Octavia said, rising. She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “I promised Sebastian we would go out with the dogs now. We’ve been exploring London together. Until now, he’s only seen the areas a duke would see.”

  “What areas are you showing him?” Ivy asked in alarm.

  Octavia made a tsking noise. “It’s not as though I am taking him anywhere more disreputable than a gambling house. But he wanted to get some new linen and get some whiskey.” She shrugged. “He didn’t know where people, regular people, went to purchase those items. So I showed him.”

  Linens and whiskey. The necessities for a former duke, now gambling-house employee.

  “Well. Thank you for that.”

  “So you’ll consider what I said? About being less unpleasant?”

  Leave it to her sister not to sugarcoat her words.

  “I will.”

  Octavia grinned. “Maybe have some fun, even?”

  “Get out of my office,” Ivy replied, gesturing to the door. Her tone was stern, but she couldn’t help but smile.

  A week later, and his desire for her hadn’t abated. And her expression and treatment of him remained coolly distant, as was appropriate for an employer and her employee.

  It was frustrating as hell.

  “Taste.”

  Mac didn’t wait for Sebastian to respond before shoving something into his mouth. Thankfully, Sebastian knew that all of Mac’s food was delicious, so he didn’t hesitate to start chewing.

  “Mm,” he said, nodding at the chef. He and Mac had found common ground on dogs and the running of the British government, so the two had become friends within a short period of time.

  Thank God, because Samuel and Henry were only now just beginning to thaw. He’d nearly thanked them for their not-so-friendly advice, since their words rang in his brain anytime he was working—reminding him that he was on unfamiliar ground, and that he had to prove himself.

  Mac didn’t seem to judge anyone as long as they liked his food, and Sebastian liked his food quite a lot.

  “What is it?” he asked when he could speak again.

  Mac grinned in delight. “It’s duck and quince pie. It’s like a meat pie, only it’s actually stuffed with duck and quince.”

  “Hence the name,” Sebastian said dryly.

  “You may not have noticed, Your Grace,” Mac said, fully aware it would annoy Sebastian, “but the people on the streets often buy meat pies from vendors. They are generally foul tasting, using meat I wouldn’t give to your dogs.”

  “Well, since I caught you feeding sirloin to Byron the other day, that is not much of a condemnation.”

  Mac waved his large hand in dismissal. “The point is, it looks like one thing and tastes like another.”

  “Perfect for the evening. Miss Ivy will be pleased her idea was so successful.”

  Mac had already perfected the recipe for lobster cakes disguised as biscuits, and pastries masquerading as cheddar cheese, so the duck and quince pie would just about finish the special selections for the Masked Evening.

  “Miss Ivy!” Mac called, leaning to one side to peer over Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian forced himself not to turn to look at her; it was difficult enough to share a living and working space with her, as he often discovered himself staring at her when he hadn’t realized it. If he could just not stare at her when he did realize it, perhaps she wouldn’t notice he was obsessed.

  He wasn’t obsessed. No, not that. He just wished to speak with her, perhaps discover if his memory was playing tricks on him—was her mouth that delectable? Her curves that luscious?

  But instead he was relegated to staring at her like he was an urchin peeking into a kitchen window.

  “Good evening, Mac. Good evening,” she said to him. She hadn’t said his name since he’d asked her and Octavia to call him Sebastian. She found myriad solutions to avoid addressing him at all.

  Was it possible she was just as obsessed with him?

  His past duke self would have assumed she was. But now, now that he wasn’t who he thought he was, and things were entirely different, he wasn’t certain. Now that he was working for a young lady instead of working to get a young lady into bed, well, that was an entirely different situation.

  “Are we ready for this evening?”

  The question was rhetorical, since she knew full well they were—she’d ensured it, with her lists and her reminders and her ability to focus on any potential weaknesses.

  He admired it. She would make an excellent duke, what with all the managing and negotiating one had to do in that position.

  He’d ventured out to meet with some of the people from his old life, and after the initial awkwardness about the scandal of his title, he had gotten their commitment to stop by, fulfilling his promise of bringing more well-heeled and important people into the club. He and Ivy had agreed to terms on a bonus, and both had been working furiously hard in preparation.

  “We are absolutely ready, Miss Ivy.” In contrast to her, he always said her name. Whether it was a rebuke of her not giving him permission to call her by her Christian name, as her sister had, or a reminder to himself of their professional relationship, he didn’t know. He did know that every time he said her name, her expression changed, such a fleeting frown on her face he’d thought he was imagining it the first few times.

  But no. For some reason, his calling her Miss Ivy irked her. So of course he did it as often as possible.

  “Taste this.” Mac held the other half of the pie out to her, and she took it, popping the whole bit into her mouth. She chewed, nodding in approval. “It’s very good,” she said, licking her lips to retrieve an errant crumb.

  Damn it. He wished seeing that didn’t make his cock twitch. Thinking about other places she could lick, were she so inclined.

  Though she wasn’t. She’d made that clear with her words directly following the kiss, and by her behavior in the week since.

  Her sister, however, was as friendly as Miss Ivy was distant. Sebastian had found himself asking questions about their life before coming to London, before opening the club. Octavia was an open book except for when it came to how her older sister settled on opening a gambling club in the first place. But he heard all about Ivy’s teaching lessons to Octavia, since their father couldn’t seem to hire a proper governess; the various scrapes from which Ivy rescued her sister; and how much Octavia did not wish to go live in a country cottage.

  Sebastian found himself sympathizing with Miss Ivy, who was clearly trying to keep her younger sister contained, even though that sister was equally determined not to be so.

  He wished they were friendly enough for him to tell her so. But anytime their conversation threatened to move beyond a professional relationship, she suddenly announced she had somewhere else to be.

  He strongly suspected she did not always have somewhere else to be.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ivy suppressed a sigh as she glanced over at him. It appeared he did indeed know how to shave himself, his smooth skin revealing the sharp angles of his face.

  She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that kiss. And she knew, she just knew, he hadn’t been able to stop either. She could tell, from the way he would look at her—hungrily, as though he wanted one thing, and that thing was her.

  It excited her, to be honest. As well as terrified her; she was enough of a savvy London inhabitant to know some of what happened between a man and a woman. She’d had to learn caution walking around the streets by herself, since a gambling club owner did not have the same responsibility to keep a maid with her at all times. And she’d seen some of that activity in certain areas—a woman on her knees in front of a gentleman, his head thrown back, his expression one of deep ecstasy.

  She was curious. And she wanted to stop being so skittish about it all. She was a young London woman, not a noble lady wh
o had to watch every aspect of her behavior. He would leave as soon as he’d had enough of this life anyway; she didn’t want to regret not taking advantage of his presence while he was here.

  Plus Octavia had urged her to have fun. She couldn’t disappoint her sister, could she?

  “Could you come with me to my office?” she asked him. He looked as though he was startled by her request. Likely because she’d managed not to spend more than a few minutes alone with him since their kiss.

  But damn it, she needed to clear the air. She wasn’t an innocent girl who had time to spend conjuring up dreams of a perfect romance. She was a businesswoman who had to get on with things.

  “Certainly, Miss Ivy.”

  She felt her mouth twist at hearing him say her name so formally. She knew he did it to bother her, she could tell by the smirk on his face. But in some contrary way—and she hadn’t realized until now that she was contrary—that pleased her, because it meant that he cared about her reaction. She wasn’t just a kiss that had happened a week ago and was now receding into the distance.

  Plus—and she should be ashamed, but she absolutely wasn’t—she knew that regardless of what his female habits were before, he hadn’t been with anyone else since. She knew because he was working all the time, and if he wasn’t working, he was sleeping or out walking his dogs with Octavia.

  Ivy was relieved that Octavia had adopted him as a sort of big brother rather than treating him as someone to be flirted with. They went walking for an hour every day, and each time Octavia returned with a fresh bit of information about her new employee—he was very fond of his sister, he liked the work he was doing, he was frustrated with not knowing how to do his own laundry.

  “Is there something wrong?” he asked as they walked down the hallway to her office.

  She didn’t reply, just gestured for him to enter and then shut the door behind him. “Sit down, if you would.”