Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  “Are you all right?” His tone didn’t sound as though he thought the worst of her; if anything, it was solicitous.

  Oh, lovely, he must think she was an idiot. An idiot who happened to be married to him.

  “I—I am fine,” she managed to say in a nearly normal tone of voice. Which was to say, without expressing any emotion whatsoever. If Margaret were here, perhaps Isabella could have released some of the feelings racing around her, like a strong gust of wind playing havoc with a handful of ribbons.

  And that was an idiotic image, too. Maybe she was an idiot. After all, the only thing that had ever been cultivated was her and her ability to pour tea without pouring it on herself.

  She and Margaret had had governesses, but Isabella’s schooling had always come second to her duchess training.

  “If you wish to visit your parents, of course we can,” Nicholas continued. She wished he were still holding her hand. She wished she could just crawl right inside him so he could hold her forever.

  And was she so little of a person herself she needed another person to make her strong?

  The very thought made her straighten in her seat and take a few deep breaths.

  “I’m relieved to hear you breathing. I was worried you might expire, and that would be awkward to explain.”

  She smothered a laugh, glancing around to make sure nobody had heard him. Or her, for that matter.

  “We’re alone, princess. You can laugh if you want to.” His voice was deep, its lowest tones seeming as though it were sending something down her spine, all the way to her toes.

  “I am fine,” she said stiffly, wishing she could just express herself. Just once.

  She felt him sigh next to her, and felt more of an idiot than before. What was wrong with her? Oh—nothing. And everything. She was perfect, the perfect daughter, the perfect debutante, the perfect duchess.

  The perfect dunce.

  “I do not wish to visit my parents,” she blurted out, so fast and so quick it sounded like Idonotwishtovisitmyparents.

  He made an amused noise and shook his head, sending a few blond strands tumbling forward. Not that she noticed. Not that she itched to sweep them back and let her fingers linger there.

  Not any of those things. The ribbons twirled and spun inside her head, and she wished she could just shake herself free of all this fancy.

  “We agree on at least one thing, wife,” he replied, a dry, amused tone in his voice.

  And then she did laugh. Granted, it was more of a chuckle, but it indicated humor, at least.

  “I wonder,” she began, pushing herself to speak, “what else we might have in common.”

  He did look at her then, a hint of curiosity—and flirtation?—in his steady gaze. “Perhaps you could tell me what you like.”

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I liked your story last night. I liked playing cards.” I did not necessarily like sleeping on my own, but then again, I don’t know that I’d like doing whatever it is married couples do.

  “That is an excellent start,” he said. “How do you feel about rainy days?” He spoke as though the question was of the utmost importance.

  She answered just as solemnly. “I find them to be quite wet. But not entirely unpleasant.”

  “As do I.” He took her hand again, threading his fingers through hers. “I believe that the basis of a good marriage—at least so I have observed—is that the husband and wife have things in common, or things on which they can politely disagree.”

  His hand was so warm. She felt anchored there with him, as though it were just the two of them in the world, as though she would follow wherever he led her, as long as he still held her hand.

  It was a dangerous feeling, and not one she’d ever experienced before.

  Even he didn’t know what he was saying. But at least she’d lost that frozen look from before, and her fingers in his felt right. Even though as soon as he touched her, his thoughts immediately turned to touching her elsewhere.

  Although to be honest, his thoughts were pretty much there even if she was standing at the other end of Buckingham Palace encased in ice.

  “What do you like?” she asked. He could tell, now, the difference between her very polite Society voice and her somewhat polite conversational voice. And was grateful that he merited the latter.

  Which then of course made him wonder what her voice would sound like in the throes of passion—if she begged for him to touch her, or if she told him what she liked in bed.

  And so much for not getting an erection in public. He shifted on the carriage seat, hoping she wouldn’t notice and get frightened again.

  “I don’t think anyone has asked me that before,” she said. “Except for my sister.”

  Ah, now that was a very different tone indeed—when she mentioned her sister, her voice got softer, more filled with emotion.

  “So you like your sister, I presume?” He would give her the easy answers, to start with, and then hopefully proceed to more difficult—not to say harder—ones: Do you like it when I touch you here? What position is best for you?

  Can we do it again?

  “I do.” She sounded more confident. “Her name is Margaret, I believe you met her during our wedding.”

  Nicholas searched his mind for images of women at his wedding who weren’t his wife, and found a few bobbing up in his memory. “Is she dark-haired? And was sitting with your parents?”

  “Yes, that’s she. She’s my best friend as well as my sister.”

  “Perhaps we should invite her to a dinner party, even though we won’t be asking your parents.”

  She let out a shocked gasp and held her hand up to her mouth to smother it. “Oh, my goodness, and wouldn’t that make my parents furious.” She paused, then shook her head. “But we can’t, Margaret is still there at home with them, I wouldn’t want to cause her any problems.”

  From the way she spoke, it sounded as though there were already problems. Not that he’d had a high opinion of his in-laws, based on their manipulation of him; but it now appeared he and his wife had that in common as well.

  “But you still haven’t answered my question,” she said, her tone returning to the more polite conversational tone. “What do you like?”

  Up to now, I couldn’t answer that question in polite company, he thought. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud or chagrined to admit that. “I like good wine, and carriage rides, and you already know—since I’ve confessed it—I like reading serials in the paper. My brother doesn’t even know that about me.” Because Griff would never miss an opportunity to tease him about it, and he got enough jabs from Griff about his lack of seriousness as it was.

  But when there were women, and punching, and wine to be enjoyed, who had time for seriousness?

  Of course, that was before one had inexplicably inherited a title that required one suddenly become responsible. As well as become married.

  And suddenly they were having a conversation, a real conversation as people did who were thrown together for—well, for eternity.

  “I like carriage rides, thank goodness, because wouldn’t that be awkward if I said I didn’t, and here we are?” she asked, uncurling her fingers from his and gesturing to the horses.

  His wife might have, if he was not mistaken, almost made a joke!

  “And wine?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t had much, my mother doesn’t think it looks proper for a young lady to imbibe too much.”

  While Isabella’s mother had a point—some of Nicholas’s wildest adventures were after having a few glasses of wine—he didn’t like how that sounded. As though her mother had constrained her.

  He began speaking in a deliberately pompous tone. “Now that you are a respectable married woman, I expect you to have no fewer than two glasses with dinner. And maybe—if you are feeling daring—a glass of sherry after.”

  She shook her head, as though it were an automatic response, then paused and met his eyes, her gaze direct and intense
. “I think I should do just that, husband. And other things that were not allowed when I was a young unmarried lady.” Only just as she said that, she must have realized what it sounded like, and her whole face turned a bright shade of pink, and her eyes widened.

  She looked adorable, and he absolutely, positively could not laugh at her.

  “We will make a list, then,” he said in as neutral a tone as possible, given that he, too, was thinking of all the things that were now allowed for a young lady who was married—to him. “Of everything you weren’t allowed to do before, and we will tick them off as we do them.”

  She smiled, and the color in her face lessened just a bit. Thank goodness. “That sounds like a lovely way to begin a marriage, Nicholas. Thank you,” she said, taking his hand in hers and turning his palm up so she could place her fingers in it. “Let’s begin this evening.”

  Epigraph

  From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:

  “Why don’t you speak of them?” She trembled as she spoke, hoping he wouldn’t hit her. Or banish her. Or take her off to some dark dungeon.

  Only that kind of thing only happened in stories, didn’t it?

  Well—didn’t it?

  “Of whom?”

  She exhaled, as irked by his deliberate obtuseness as relieved he hadn’t done any of those other things. Except the dungeon; that might be fun to visit.

  “Your parents. Your family. Who are you?”

  He leaped up from his chair at that, striding over to kneel in front of her. He put his palms on either side of her head face and leaned in so closely she could see the pores on his nose his individual eyelashes.

  “I am yours.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 11

  “Thank you, Robinson, that will be all.” Isabella took the brush from her maid and gestured to the door. She wouldn’t expect him for at least another twenty minutes or so, but what if he arrived early? And what if he thought she wasn’t welcoming enough, because her maid was here? Not that Robinson hadn’t been there the previous evening, but that was before she’d known what to expect. What he would expect.

  Although everything about marriage so far was entirely unexpected, at least to her. Presumably—and hopefully—to him, as well, since she didn’t think he’d been married before.

  Robinson curtseyed, a knowing look on her face. Isabella wished she could tell the woman it wasn’t that, even though she barely knew what that was—which of course was the problem in the first place.

  “Sleep well, Your Grace,” Robinson said as she opened the door and left, closing it softly behind her.

  What if he had been married before? What if his wife had died, and he had loved her desperately, and that was why he couldn’t bring himself to do anything with her?

  But then if that were so, how could he have the reputation he did?

  And now she was back to thinking it was just she. From what Margaret said, he seemed to have no trouble doing that (again, whatever that was) with a multitude of women, with the exception of his wife.

  “Good evening, Isabella.”

  She jumped in her chair, flinging the brush into the air. He snagged it, mid-flight, then bowed as he presented it back to her.

  “Thank you. I—I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He grinned, and a few strands of that errant hair fell over his eyes. How could messy hair make someone look more attractive? And yet, she had the proof right here. “I would hope not, or I would have to say you had a remarkable interpretation of an appropriate greeting.” His grin faded. “And I would imagine you are nothing if not appropriate, at all times.”

  Was she imagining it, or did he sound disappointed? That she wasn’t appropriate all the time? What kind of man had she married?

  Oh yes. The kind that liked telling quirky stories, and snuck up on people, and who looked even more attractive if his hair was disheveled.

  So she seemed to have married a stealthy storyteller who did just fine not owning a brush.

  “I could be inappropriate, if that is what you wish,” Isabella said, deliberately not looking at the bed. Not looking at him, either, in case her thoughts showed on her face.

  She heard a quick intake of breath, then a gusty exhale, and then he did what he’d done the night before—knelt in front of her, only now he rested his forearms on her thighs as he took her hands in his. The weight felt right, and she wished she could feel all of him on her. All of his weight, making her feel every single inch of his body imprinted on hers.

  She swallowed, in her thoughts as well as in reality, as she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her face. She had to look at him then.

  And what she saw in his eyes—well, she wasn’t sure any man had ever looked at her like that. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t even know if she liked it or not. Just that it was . . . different.

  “Listen to me, and know this, Isabella.” He paused. “Wife.” He glanced down at their entwined fingers. “I want you to be who you are. Not who you think you should be, or who you think I want you to be.”

  She felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

  “It might end up that we—well, that we find we don’t have that much in common after all. But one thing we should have in common is that both of us should be free to be whoever we truly are.”

  She barely restrained herself from asking him, Who am I? She’d asked herself the same question, and if she didn’t know, how would it be possible for him to have an answer?

  “Isabella?” His voice was soft, but his grip tightened on her fingers, as though he was concerned about her.

  Not only did he not want to do that with her, he thought she was some sort of fragile flower who required kneeling in front of, and soft voices and reassurances of being true to oneself.

  Whatever that was.

  She drew her hands away and straightened in the chair, looking off into the corner as though it was far more fascinating than her husband.

  It was not. Not at all.

  In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was fascinated by him. But fascinated or not, she was sitting here, not speaking, while he knelt in front of her, his fragile flower, and she couldn’t have that any longer. “I am fine. I am me,” she added, feeling incredibly ridiculous for saying that.

  He uttered a soft snort and rose, then held his hand out to her. “Come, I believe I have a story to tell.”

  She stood and let him lead her to the bed. Where, apparently, there were stories to be told. Even if nothing else would happen there.

  Nicholas didn’t think he was making much sense. The first problem was that she was just so damn gorgeous, and more than half of his mind was transfixed with just looking at her. The entirety of his penis was definitely focused on her, and his fingers—well, probably at least eight of them itched to touch her, to find out if the skin all over her body was as soft as her hands. The other two just wanted to watch. Not that fingers watched, but he couldn’t parse all that out right now, not when his mind—and all the rest of him—was in such a muddle.

  The second problem was that he’d never had to talk much to women to get them into bed, and he hadn’t really wanted them anywhere else.

  But her? She was his wife, and even if she weren’t, she was different. He wanted to know her, to find out what she thought about things, things as banal as the weather, and what kind of wine she might end up liking, if she liked it at all, and what she actually thought of her parents, and if she thought less of him for liking melodramatic stories, or what kinds of stories she might like. If she liked them at all.

  But meanwhile, she was on the bed, and he got himself up there, too, sitting close but not too close to her, but close enough that her scent wafted into his nose and somehow, of course it did, that made him even harder.

  It was a good thing he was a gentleman, or he’d be taking her hard and fast right now.

  He’d never chafed so much at being a gentleman. But mo
re than taking her, he wanted her to give herself to him, and that would only happen if he wooed her.

  If he stayed gentlemanly, even though many parts of him were objecting to that.

  “What kind of story would you like to hear?” he asked, shifting so as to try to hide the obvious interest his penis had in her.

  She looked down, lacing her fingers together in her lap. At least she wasn’t looking at his lap. “Whatever story you wish to tell.”

  A silence, with Nicholas about to speak when she finally, finally spoke again. “That is, I think I would like to hear a story. About you.” And then she turned her head to look at him, her dark eyes revealing a warmth he had glimpsed only in a few fleeting seconds.

  “And what about me?” He reviewed his stories and came to the speedy conclusion that perhaps two and a half of them were appropriate.

  She offered a shy half smile. “Tell me something you and your brother—Gruff?—did together when you were little.”

  Nicholas laughed as he leaned over to nudge her shoulder with his. “Griff. Although Gruff might be a better descriptor, especially if I happen to interrupt his studies.”

  “Griff. That’s right. Please don’t tell him I called him that,” she said, her tone taking on a hesitancy that made him angry. Not at her, but at whomever had so chided her that she couldn’t even joke.

  Drink wine and be able to laugh at something. Two goals that, if he were able to accomplish those, might find him closer to getting to know, truly know, his wife.

  And then—but he couldn’t think about that, he had to think about childhood and something amusing he could tell her.

  As opposed to, say, telling her just how much he wanted her, how he was desperate to see the shape of her underneath her delicate nightclothes.

  Or how much he wanted her to see what was underneath his not-as-delicate nightclothes.

  None of that.

  Nicholas shoved all that away and began speaking. “Griff, as you may have surmised, is the more studious brother, and he needed to be lured away from his books. So I would learn just enough details of some history event and then suggest we go act it out, and see what would happen.”