Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  “I am fine, Miller. I want a bath.”

  Nicholas sat on the bed and began to undo his cravat, toeing his shoes off as he did.

  “Let me assist, Your Grace,” Miller said, getting down on the carpet.

  Nicholas waved his foot at him. “No, please, just get me a bath. I can take care of my clothing.” Of course he felt immediately bad when he saw how Miller’s face fell. Given that all the man had to do was take care of Nicholas’s clothing and getting dressed and such, and that Nicholas had effectively told him not to do his job—well, no wonder he looked disappointed.

  “But now that I think of it, perhaps you could help me.” Miller’s face brightened, and he went to work, divesting Nicholas of his clothing faster than Nicholas could, even with an incentive such as a willing, naked woman in his bed.

  He couldn’t think of that. Shouldn’t think of that, especially with his valet in the room. He didn’t even want to think of what Miller would think if he—well, he couldn’t think of that, either.

  “Here, Your Grace,” Miller said, holding up a dressing gown so Nicholas just had to slide his arms in. “I’ll ask about a bath right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Miller left and Nicholas allowed himself to spread out flat on the bed, his arms splayed wide, looking up at the ceiling.

  How had he gotten into this situation?

  Oh, right. He’d been the next in line for a dukedom, somehow, and had gotten it, and a wife, in the space of two weeks.

  It could have happened to anybody.

  At that thought, Nicholas chuckled ruefully. But also grateful it had been he who had become the duke, and married her, and not some awful man who would have taken advantage of her.

  He had to keep that in mind, so that he didn’t end up being the awful man.

  It seemed only a few minutes later that Nicholas was lowering his naked and sore body into the tub in his sitting room. The steam gathered in a cloud above the water, and he braced himself for the heat.

  “Thank you, Miller, that will be all.” He did not want his valet to watch him bathe, of all things.

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” From Miller’s tone, it sounded as though his valet had no desire to watch him bathe, either. And who said the aristocracy and their servants were constantly at odds? He and Miller were in total agreement.

  “The towel is just over here,” Miller gestured to a long, low bureau upon which rested, expectedly enough, a towel. Nicholas had a moment’s thought that perhaps dukes were supposed to be blindly oblivious to things, which was why their servants pointed them out so often, but then realized his servants were just ensuring their master had everything he needed so he wouldn’t bother them overly much.

  He didn’t blame them. He hated to be bothered himself.

  “Thank you.”

  Miller nodded and left.

  Nicholas had his arms draped over the sides of the tub, which was actually large enough for his frame. He’d never been able to take a bath without having his legs bent at an awkward angle so his body could be wet.

  There were some advantages to being a duke, then.

  He grabbed the soap and began to lather it in his hands, his thoughts wandering beyond her and their situation to other things he had to take care of. He’d had a reprieve of a few weeks as he got ready for his wedding and sorted out some of the paperwork—or rather, Griff had—but he knew that there were things he would have to deal with, as the duke, very soon.

  That would be far less interesting than dealing with his wife, but far less fraught with potential danger. His business dealings might falter if he made the wrong decision, but they wouldn’t be irrevocably damaged.

  But meanwhile, he and his still untouched bride were to have their first at-home, and her parents were coming, as was—likely—all of Society intent on seeing what the new duke looked like.

  In which case he should stop thinking and get to washing.

  “Isabella,” he said in that low tone that seemed to send a shiver down her spine. That or the room was cold.

  She glanced over at the fire currently burning merrily in the fireplace. No, the room was not cold. It was he.

  “When do you expect them to arrive?”

  She didn’t need to ask who “them” was. She’d been fretting about it since Margaret told her, which was silly since she’d seen them every day of her entire life until three days ago.

  She glanced up at the large clock in the corner. “Not too long now. Mother prides herself on being punctual.”

  “Would you like some time alone with your mother?” He spoke in a neutral tone of voice, but she felt as though she could tell what he was thinking—Please don’t say yes, that woman is a bad influence on you, I don’t wish to be married to anybody remotely like her.

  Or perhaps that was just she.

  “No, thank you.” She couldn’t repress an involuntary shudder. Something she thought he saw as well, judging by how his eyes narrowed.

  She wished she didn’t feel so helpless—maybe if she were more confident and self-assured he wouldn’t have rejected her. Was it possible he didn’t find her attractive because she was so needy and trembling?

  She straightened her spine and met his gaze. She could be the woman he must want, someone capable and strong and self-possessed. The duchess she’d trained for years to be. “Thank you for your concern, Nicholas, but I am fine.” Perhaps if she said it enough they would both believe it.

  He opened his mouth as though to reply, then shook his head and turned his back to her, going to stand by the fire.

  And then it didn’t matter that the room was warm, she felt suddenly chilled. As though someone had dropped an ice cube down her back, and she was required not to react.

  “Your Grace, Your Grace?” Renning’s voice made Isabella jump.

  “Yes, Renning?” Nicholas sounded nearly as cool as Isabella felt.

  “Your Grace’s parents are here. The Earl and Countess of Grosston,” he clarified.

  Nicholas glanced quickly at Isabella, then nodded at Renning. “Please send them in. And bring tea.”

  In just a few moments, it seemed, Isabella’s parents and Margaret were seated in the receiving room, Isabella’s breathing had increased, and she had a tense ache in her belly.

  In other words, it felt precisely as it had before she was married, only now there was a gorgeous six-foot-tall duke who was part of the scene as well.

  Her parents walked in, her mother with that superior look of disdain she’d perfected likely long before Isabella had even been born. Did she have to practice in the mirror first? Or did it just come naturally?

  Her mother’s expression eased as she glanced around the room, which was as sumptuous as any newly minted duke could expect. The carpet, while not as thick as the one in Isabella’s room, was opulently colored, lavishly overflowing with flowers and vines and other designs. The sofas—there were three of them—were all suitably fragile and precious-looking, as though only the most deserving person could sit down without breaking the furniture.

  Naturally, her mother chose the most fragile-looking sofa to sit on, while her father sat in a chair adjacent. Isabella held their breath until it appeared the furniture would hold.

  “Isabella, you and the duke will be holding a ball.” It was not even close to a question. Perhaps closer to a proclamation.

  Isabella glanced at her mother, then at Nicholas, who’d placed himself—and his large frame—next to the fireplace, his arm resting casually on the mantel.

  But Isabella thought she saw his mouth tighten, and his fist curl, and she had a brief, panicked thought that he would punch her mother. Well, the first thought was panicked; the second thought that crossed her mind might have been wishful.

  “We will consider it.” He spoke in a firm voice as though the topic was finished.

  Isabella felt a sharp pride that he, at least, was not cowed by her mother.

  “Particularly since the former duke—the duke that
was—is going about London telling anyone who will listen that he is the rightful owner of the title. If you wish to keep your name out of the papers, and yourself out of the courts, you will work on making friends in powerful places,” her father added. Apparently not realizing the topic had been concluded.

  “And what if he does?” Now Nicholas sounded nearly as pompous and full of himself as the duke that was had.

  “It might not matter to you now,” Isabella’s mother said with a sniff, “although it should. Because this would be your first official appearance as husband and wife, and as duke and duchess. These things cannot be overestimated.” She sniffed again, as though she couldn’t believe she had to continue laying out just how important this was. “And what about your children? If there is any breath of scandal when they are born, they might suffer.” A pause as Isabella steadfastly concentrated on not meeting Nicholas’s gaze. “And if there is scandal attached to your family, it will attach to ours. And Margaret will suffer.”

  Everyone turned to look at Margaret, whose eyes widened. “I promise you, I will not be suffering. No matter what that other duke does.” She caught Isabella’s eye and winked, so quickly Isabella thought she might have imagined it. What was her sister up to?

  “I would like to present Isabella as my bride, and so perhaps a ball is the way to do it.” He paused. “If that would not be too much work for you?” His comment was directed at Isabella, but her mother responded.

  “Of course it is not. Isabella knows everything there is to know about running a great house, and that includes the proper way to have a party.”

  She did. That was one area she absolutely knew—how best to entertain so it was clear that the entertaining person was by far the most magnificent person, but also to ensure none of the guests felt slighted. It was a very delicate matter, and she knew she was even better at it than her mother was.

  Not that being better than her mother at something was admirable; her mother was pitiful in the areas of empathy, simple kindness, and a desire to help her fellow man. Unless it benefited her or her family (and even then it depended which members of the family), she didn’t bother.

  “Then I shall leave everything to my very capable bride.” Nicholas’s tone was warmer than before, and Isabella felt an answering warmth.

  Although by this time her temperature had gone up and down so much she felt feverish.

  “I will assist Isabella, naturally.” Again, not a question, or even anything other than a proclamation.

  But it seemed Nicholas did not entirely understand her mother’s tone. “I don’t think Isabella requires any help. In fact,” he said, pushing away from the mantelpiece and coming to stand next to her, “I think it is best if she does it all on her own. We don’t want anyone saying my duchess is anything less than entirely capable, do we? That would definitely cause a scandal.”

  Isabella felt her eyes widen as Margaret smothered a giggle.

  “If that is what you wish, Your Grace.” Her mother’s tone was clipped.

  But it didn’t appear that that bothered Nicholas at all. “Excellent! And I am wondering where Renning went with that tea.” Nicholas placed his hand on Isabella’s shoulder for just a moment, then went and yanked on the pull to summon a servant. The door opened immediately, revealing the butler in question holding a large silver tray.

  “Your Grace, I apologize for the delay, but Cook had just made biscuits, and she wanted to send them here directly from the oven.”

  And, yes, there were the most delicious aromas coming from the tray, which Renning brought into the room and set down on the table in front of the biggest sofa. Isabella and her mother both moved instinctively to the teapot, but Isabella’s mother halted as she saw her daughter’s movement.

  “That is right, I had forgotten. Now you are the mistress of your own household, you will be pouring tea.” If only that pronouncement and the subsequent scrutiny didn’t make her so nervous.

  Not so nervous she wouldn’t perform impeccably, she never made a misstep, but nervous enough that her insides fluttered and she wasn’t certain she would be able to enjoy any of the biscuits Cook had sent up.

  And she didn’t know how he took his tea. That might seem minor, but if her mother saw she didn’t even know how her new husband took his tea, what else might her mother suspect she didn’t know?

  All of a sudden, she felt frozen. More chilled than before, as though she had been thrust into an ice house and left on her own. She concentrated on taking a deep breath, but it felt as though she could only draw quick, hurried breaths.

  “Isabella, today I will take my tea differently than usual,” Nicholas spoke in an entirely casual tone, but she knew he had somehow realized what was going through her mind and was taking pity on her.

  “Yes?” she asked, poised to pour out the tea.

  His mouth quirked up in a smile, so quick she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at his mouth. A habit she did not wish to break. “Yes, I would like milk and just one teaspoon of sugar.”

  He leaned toward her and kissed her, gently, on the cheek. “You are sweet enough for me,” he said in a tone that was audible to everyone, yet still managed to sound intimate.

  Isabella felt herself start to blush.

  And wished that he really felt that way.

  Epigraph

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

  “Thank goodness you’ve gotten away!” Those were the first words Jane heard as she entered her parents’ house. Uttered by her family’s housekeeper, who had been with the family so long she was family herself.

  “I didn’t get away, Mary,” Jane said, feeling suddenly irritated. “I left. The two things are quite different.”

  “Never mind, dearie, just let me take your cloak and bring you to see your mother. She hasn’t been the same since you married that gentleman.” Mary said “gentleman” the way other people might say “snake.”

  If her mother felt that way about her marrying him—why had she let it happen?

  Jane took in the house, with all its familiar trappings. The worn cupboard, where her favorite cup was. The stone floor in the kitchen, leading to the dark wood of the hallway and the more presentable rooms. The cloaks hanging suspended on hooks in the entryway.

  And yet even though she’d thought of how all she wanted was to return home, she couldn’t suppress a sigh as she thought about him, and what he’d looked like as she left.

  And she wished she hadn’t left after all.

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 15

  “It was such a surprise when we heard the news, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas had no idea what the name of the woman addressing him was, just that she was dressed in something that made her look like an upside-down pudding, and that she kept fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  He wanted to offer her a handkerchief to fish out whatever it was in her eye, perhaps that would make her stop. Because he was a married man, even though he was celibate for the first time since that first time, back when he was seventeen years old or so.

  It was ironic, but if he had to wait for Isabella to want him, he would. Even if it meant he went without sex for a month. He just hoped it wouldn’t be for a year.

  The lady—because she was a lady, even if her eyelashes were untoward—sat on one of the couches, a tiny plate holding a cookie in one hand and a fan in the other. She was just one of the many members of the highest society who had come to call today, and there was a low buzz of conversation in the room and many covert glances cast at him, and at Isabella.

  “The news that I was the duke, or that I had gotten married? Or both?” He didn’t really care about the answer, but he knew he had to make conversation, and he couldn’t say what was on his mind—how he’d felt watching as Isabella and her parents conversed, how he’d noticed her whole body stiffening and her demeanor growing more and more rigid with every passing moment.

  So he
might as well make banal comments until they were alone, and he could try to draw her out, discover what would melt his ice princess’s heart.

  “Your Grace, you are so clever!” the lady exclaimed, tapping him on the arm with her fan.

  Nicholas had been accused of many things, especially by ladies, but never of being clever. He would have to tell Griff what she’d said.

  “My lady,” he replied, bowing. He looked over the lady’s head and found Isabella, who was seated at the other end of the room. “My wife requires my attention, if you will excuse me?” he said, even though Isabella hadn’t even looked at him. She was conversing with another unidentified lady, the expression on her face faultlessly polite.

  “Certainly, Your Grace,” the lady replied, but Nicholas barely registered her words.

  “Nicholas.” A hand gripped his arm, and he had a momentary response of wanting to punch the hand’s owner, only then he recalled he was in the drawing room, not the boxing ring.

  Plus it was Griff. Well, not that he wouldn’t—and hadn’t—punched his brother in the past, but this wasn’t the place.

  “What is it?” he said, still keeping his eyes on Isabella. She’d met his gaze and her lips curved up in her most polite smile.

  He hated that smile. At least when it was directed to him. He wanted to see her smile only at him, not give him the look she bestowed on any idiot who crossed her path.

  He wanted her to want him.

  “I have some business matters to discuss with you.” Griff sounded more serious than usual, so it must have been important. Of course, with Griff “important” could mean nearly anything—like when one of the maids had accidentally scorched his lucky cravat while ironing, the one that he’d worn taking all his exams. Or when he’d gotten only the second highest mark in his class.

  But Griff’s cravat looked fine, and he wasn’t in school at the moment, so likely it was something actually important.

  “Come to my study,” Nicholas said, nodding to Isabella to let her know he was leaving the room. She nodded in reply, her expression entirely serene.