Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

“I promise,” Ivy said, before Octavia could speak, “that I will never keep you in the dark again about anything. As long as you promise that you will never do anything to put yourself in danger.”

  “I promise,” Octavia said.

  “Are you happy here?”

  Sebastian started at hearing Octavia’s voice. He’d slept surprisingly well and had gotten up earlier than the rest of the household, taking Byron and Keats for an early morning walk.

  Carter greeted him with a freshly made cup of coffee, and he was making notes on the Masked Evening. There were things that had worked well, and he was generally pleased with the results, but he knew there were tweaks that could be made to improve the experience.

  It kept his mind from wandering to what she had said, and how she must have felt. He had, as she’d said, jeopardized her livelihood, and that was unacceptable. For him as well as her. When he’d been a duke, none of that would have mattered; he could have tossed enough money to salvage the situation, or he wouldn’t have noticed it was a problem in the first place.

  But he had to be a lot more considerate now that he was not a duke. Something he would have argued with before—he’d never considered himself a selfish person, necessarily, but he’d never done anything for anybody else if it didn’t also benefit himself. Even championing Ana Maria had reaped rewards, because she was his emotional resource in the household, and he hadn’t wanted to lose that.

  “Sebastian?” Octavia sounded impatient. Of course, he hadn’t answered her question.

  “Give me a moment. It’s not as though you asked me if I wanted tea.”

  She snorted. “I know what the answer to that would be. A very condescending no.” She peered at his cup. “Besides which, you already have coffee.”

  “Am I happy?” Sebastian repeated. He turned to look at Octavia, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you asking me that? Does your sister think I am not? I do not want to leave here.” Especially not now, not when he had so much to prove. To her and to himself.

  “No, should Ivy be involved in the discussion? You sound worried.” Octavia’s tone was mischievous. He’d never dealt with such a challenging lady before—that is, not one he wasn’t sexually involved with. Ana Maria was far more staid than Sebastian was, whereas Octavia . . . well, it was clear how headstrong and determined she was. No wonder Ivy was so concerned about her younger sister.

  “No, she should not be involved in the discussion,” he rebuked. “Am I happy?”

  “You know, if you say it a few more times, I am certain the answer will come to you. Tell me, were you this befuddled by questions when you were a duke?” She shrugged. “Never mind, likely you were, it’s just that nobody told you.”

  “I was not!” Sebastian retorted, knowing she was teasing him, but still unable to resist the bait.

  “Answer the question.”

  “Yes, I will. And—yes.” And it was true, wasn’t it? He hadn’t thought much about it. Or he had, but he had thought about it in terms of what he had lost, not what he had gained. But he had gained—a purpose, a home of sorts, friends. Family, since he thought of Octavia as his irksome little sister.

  “Excellent.” She sounded smug.

  “Why are you asking all of a sudden?”

  Another shrug. “I asked Ivy last night, and it took her a bit to reply—you two have that in common—but she said she was, as well. And sounded nearly as surprised as you did. Another thing you have in common.”

  That smug tone again. He knew Octavia harbored not-so-secret wishes for him and her sister, her knowing looks and occasional smirks had told him that. But he didn’t want her to get her hopes up for their future, especially after last night.

  “Your sister and I—it’s complicated.” Octavia rolled her eyes, as though that was obvious. “I like her, and I like working with her. But we’re too different, we’re—”

  “You’re so similar!” Octavia expostulated. “You’re both clever, you undervalue yourselves, and you are surprisingly fun to be around.”

  “Thank you, I think?” Sebastian shook his head. “I have never been accused of undervaluing myself, by the way. If anything, most would say I think too highly of myself.”

  “When you were a duke, doing your duke things, I suppose that was probably true. But ever since you started working here, you’ve been surprisingly thoughtful. As though you were aware that this was all new to you, and you didn’t want to presume. Undervaluing, as I said.”

  “None of that means anything in terms of me and Miss Ivy.” He spoke in his most forbidding tone, the one that he used to use as duke when he’d been forced to bring someone to heel.

  She waved her hand in dismissal. Apparently she did not speak Forbidding Duke. “I was just thinking, though, that if you and she were to marry then she’d give up her ludicrous idea of buying a cottage at the seaside.” Her disgusted tone made him laugh. “We could all stay here, and you two could run the club.”

  If you and she were to marry. He hadn’t considered that possibility, not since she’d said she never wanted to be married. But that was before. Before they’d kissed, before they’d started playing their game, before any of it.

  Damn it. He couldn’t think about that now. Even though that was all he wanted to think about now. He tried to keep his tone light when he spoke again. “What would you be doing in this remarkable fantasy of yours?”

  “I’d be the hostess. Ivy is good at it, but she does not enjoy speaking with people as much as I do. I would be able to convince all of them to spend more money while you two were off somewhere counting it.”

  “Have you talked to your sister? Not about the two of us,” he added hastily, “but about your own aspirations?”

  “I have.” Her expression grew more somber. “She said I should be free to make my own choices, but she reminded me that there are risks to everything.”

  He could hear her saying it, too. Tilting her head up proudly as she spoke, the physical embodiment of a woman who had taken a risk—taken several risks—and had emerged triumphant.

  He admired her. Her future wasn’t stripped away from her as his was; she had a course she could have taken, a course that most people would have accepted. Instead, she had forged her own path, not letting bad luck—literally—decide anything for her.

  Whereas he? He had been sailing along happily enough until his future was yanked away with a few letters by a duplicitous mother.

  What would he do if presented with a real choice? What would he do if he could create his own choice? With a future that would be acceptable versus one that was fraught with peril?

  That was an interesting question. One he hoped Octavia wouldn’t ask him, since he wasn’t sure how he would answer. He knew how he hoped he would answer, but it was impossible to know a thing, he’d realized, until you were in the thick of it.

  If he were to prove himself to be the person he hoped he was, he would have to find a real choice so he would know for certain. A real choice that would tell him—and the people who cared for him—what he valued most.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Can I come in?”

  Ivy raised her head, her traitorous heart catching as she saw him. It had been over a week since the incident, and while they hadn’t avoided each other as they had before, they hadn’t spoken alone since then. She’d noticed he had kept himself perfectly in line, even though there had been some customers who had attempted to lure him into an argument.

  What was it about people that made them want to cause that kind of trouble? She suspected that it was natural human behavior coupled with who he had been—his arrogance was tempered now, but it was still there. Imagine how insufferable some people found him when he was the duke, wielding his authority as lightly as if he was turning over a card.

  He was dressed in an immaculate suit, and she wondered if he had pressed it himself, or—more likely—if he had cajoled Carter or Octavia or one of the club staff to take care of it for him.

  “Please.”


  She gestured to the chair in front of her, folding her hands on the desk surface as he took his seat.

  For a moment—a long moment—he regarded her intently. As though he was trying to read her mind.

  I don’t know my own mind, so you’ll have no luck, she thought ruefully.

  “Can I take you out today?”

  She blinked, startled. “Take me out? Where?” She gestured to her desk, to the room in general. “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “You always have work to do. What about fun? Didn’t your sister mention how you didn’t have enough fun?”

  Ivy felt her cheeks heat as she recalled what “fun” they had engaged in. No more of that; she was his employer, and she needed to prove she could maintain a calm mien. As opposed to, say, stroking his penis through his trousers. Among other things.

  “I think I’ve had enough fun,” she replied, trying to make herself sound stern and in command. Instead, however, she sounded wistful. Recalling how it all felt?

  “We can do or not do whatever you like,” he said, his gaze still intent on her face, his tone low and earnest. Not as though he was trying to charm her into something, but as though he actually wanted this. Whatever this was. “I thought we might visit some bookshops. Perhaps have a cup of tea at a café.”

  Books and tea?

  “Are you running a fever? You are offering to drink tea?”

  He grinned, crossing one long leg over the other. “I know that might seem odd, given my forthright opinion on the beverage.” His expression grew serious. “But I miss you, Ivy. Not just—” And he gesticulated between them, his meaning clear. She felt herself flush even more. “I miss talking to you. I know you said eventually you wanted to take a cottage somewhere and read books and drink tea. And while it doesn’t sound ideal to me, if it sounds ideal to you, I want you to get the chance to prepare. You’ll need plenty of books if you’re going to live there for the rest of your life.”

  Ivy’s breath hitched at his words. The rest of your life. Before, when she’d wanted to escape and keep Octavia safe, it had sounded wonderful.

  Now, however?

  She had to admit it sounded boring. Admit it to herself only, though, since Octavia would get that smug look on her face and he—well, he might draw the wrong conclusion about what she wanted. She’d told him she would never get married when they’d first met, that she had no expectations. No matter how delightful their interludes were, they both knew they were temporary. She couldn’t do anything to make him question that.

  “Books and tea,” she repeated, rising from her chair. “I’ll get my wrap, and we can go out. Samuel will welcome the chance to open the club without me. He has been pressing me to relinquish some of the day-to-day duties.”

  “As I have,” he murmured, getting up from his own chair as she walked by him. So close she could smell his scent, the faint warm odor of freshly pressed wool.

  She missed him, too. Not just that, although now that she had experienced that, she missed it very much. But she missed him, the camaraderie they shared, the ability to analyze any situation quickly and come up with a clever summation.

  Octavia was interested in the club, but she was interested in the day-to-day workings of it, not what would make it a success or a failure over the long term. He was the only person thus far who she’d sensed had as much global understanding of what it meant. Samuel came close, but Samuel hadn’t much experience with the aristocracy, and didn’t understand what it would take to make them loyal customers.

  Sebastian did. Far more than she, and she was of the world also.

  If she had to work with him, just work with him, doing none of the other things, she would be satisfied. She would have to be, especially since she would have to keep herself in check. He could likely find someone else to sate his appetite—had he already?—but she already knew she would not enter into such a relationship lightly, and she was too busy to entertain the prospect, anyway.

  If only—

  But the scenarios she was dreaming of would require that they meet outside of the club, beyond the employer/employee relationship, and it was inconceivable to think that a powerful duke would have ever treated her as an equal.

  He treated her as an employer now, not as an equal. It didn’t seem as if they would ever be able to bridge the great divide between them.

  “Where to?” she asked, taking his arm. He glanced down, only to frown when her hat obscured his view of her face.

  “I’ve only been to the bookshop a few streets away,” she continued, her words floating up from underneath that stupid hat. “It has a limited selection.” She tilted her head to look at him. Much better. “It would increase sales if the proprietor rotated his stock more frequently, or at least cleaned more often. There are books there that clearly haven’t been touched in years, judging from the dust. It does not offer a pleasant experience.”

  He smiled down at her. “You can’t stop yourself from thinking about business, can you? Perhaps you should consider opening a bookshop near your little cottage when this is all a memory.”

  “Humph,” she replied, glancing away as though uncomfortable. Interesting.

  “I thought I’d take us to Hatchards. You haven’t been there, have you?”

  She shook her head. “No, though I’ve heard of it.”

  “And then tea. All the tea we can buy, and I will drink it.”

  She laughed. “It’s not as though it is my most fervent hope that you drink tea, by the way. I find it rather endearing, honestly, that you loathe it so much.”

  “What is your most fervent hope?” He regretted the words as soon as they emerged from his mouth. He knew what his most fervent hope was, and it involved neither books nor tea. Damn it. He was trying to treat her as a friend, not as a lover. And yet here he was, asking her questions that might lead to a disconcerting place.

  She exhaled, squeezing his arm as they walked. “I can’t answer that,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Can’t or won’t?

  Does it matter?

  “The shop is just over there on the next street,” he said, congratulating himself for not speaking the words aloud.

  “Ah,” she replied in a stiff tone of voice.

  Hatchards was busy, and Sebastian and Ivy were separated nearly right away. She wanted to purchase some novels for Octavia, while he was hoping to find something to give Ana Maria. She’d received so few presents in her life that it was a joy to give her something as simple as a new handkerchief. Thankfully, since that was likely now all that he could afford.

  He scanned the volumes on the shelves, shaking his head in dissatisfaction as he read the titles. Ana Maria had no need of books that purported to teach her how to live a righteous life; if anything, he wished there was a book that would give her instruction on how to misbehave.

  Likely Hatchards was not the right establishment to find that kind of book. And it would be odd for her brother to give it to her, anyway.

  Scratch that idea.

  He browsed through a few more aisles, grimacing when he saw the collected works of Plato, Aristotle, and the other boring philosophers who thought they were better than everyone else.

  He had thought he was better than everyone, too, and yet it turned out that he was entirely wrong.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, drawing a book from the shelf. Its illustrated cover featured a young woman wearing plain clothing, carrying a broom and a mop, a cap on top of her head. But the artist had given her a delighted expression, and there were curls escaping from the cap while an older woman with a witch’s hat atop her head looked on, a fond expression on her face. “Cinderella!”

  It was almost too perfect. He grinned as he tucked it under his arm, anticipating the look on Ana Maria’s face when he gave it to her.

  Perhaps he’d save it for the night of her party, since it seemed she was determined to have him there. At least he’d have a purpose, and he could borrow it to read if the ballroom and the guests b
ecame unbearable.

  “Oh, she’ll love this one,” Ivy murmured to herself as she plucked a book from the shelf. The title, Count Peccadillo and the Lost Hours, was written in garish red letters, a few trickles appearing to indicate blood dripping from some of the letters.

  “There you are.” Sebastian walked to her side, peering over her shoulder at the book. “That looks about right for Octavia I’d say.” He sounded amused.

  “Sebby!”

  Ivy and Sebastian turned at the sound of the lady’s voice. Mr. de Silva’s sister stood in the aisle, a wide smile on her face.

  She wore a purple cloak that ended halfway down, the skirts of her dark pink gown showing underneath. The cloak had black military-style frogs closing it, and the gown was ornamented by wide black bands of shiny fabric running vertically along the bottom. The entire effect was certainly remarkable, but it suited the lady’s overall joyous demeanor. Ivy couldn’t help but return the smile.

  “Ana Maria,” Sebastian replied, sounding stiff. “Miss Ivy, may I present my sister, Lady Ana Maria? Ana Maria, this is Miss Ivy.”

  Lady Ana Maria extended her hand for Ivy to shake.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Ivy. Perhaps we might actually have a conversation, now that I am not occupied with Sebastian’s dogs.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Lady Ana Maria clapped her hands together and glanced between the two. “And you are both here, this is perfect!”

  “Ana . . .” Sebastian began in a tone of warning.

  “Hush.” Lady Ana Maria spoke in an older sister tone of voice, one Ivy knew well herself. She shot a pointed look toward her brother, who immediately closed his mouth. “This is between me and the lady. Miss Ivy, I would like to personally invite you to my coming-out party. That is, I am well overage for a debutante, but I never got to . . .” she said, her expression regretful. “Anyway, I am finally having one, and Sebastian promised he would be in attendance. I would love it if you and your sister could come, as well.”

  “I don’t think—” Sebastian tried again.