Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  He felt . . . flummoxed at not knowing what to say, or how to talk to her.

  “I wanted to know if you would care to go riding with me this afternoon. If your other engagements are not too pressing.” He glanced around the ballroom, which was suitably enormous. It was wallpapered in a patterned cream, and there were chandeliers every six feet or so. The floor was so shiny he could almost see his reflection, and it looked, to his unskilled eye, like they could have the ball this evening and have the house be entirely ready. But he knew, from overhearing her morning conversations with the staff, that this was far from the case.

  “If you would like.”

  He closed the distance between them in just a few quick strides. “I did not say I demand it, Isabella.” He stood close to her, wishing she would just fall into his arms or something. Anything. “I asked if you wished to go. If you do not, tell me.”

  They stood there, staring at each other, he quashing the urge to just pick her up and throw her over his shoulder, she thinking—well, he couldn’t tell. Her expression was as serene as ever, except he could see a tiny tic at her jaw.

  And now he was reviewing minute facial movements just to gauge how his wife was feeling. What kind of mess had he gotten himself into?

  After what felt like an hour (but again, was likely only a minute) she opened her mouth to speak. “I would like to go riding, Nicholas, if you can wait for another half an hour.”

  He wanted to throw his arms up in the air in joy that she actually said what she wanted and asked for an alteration to the plan.

  Instead he bowed, nearly knocking his forehead into hers since he’d stood so close to her. “I will return in half an hour,” he said.

  “Half an hour,” she repeated, already turning away to resume her task.

  “The green riding habit, Your Grace?” Robinson began to pull the garment from the wardrobe without waiting for Isabella’s reply.

  “No, actually.” Robinson’s hand stilled. “I want the black one.” She’d gotten it a few years ago, when her father’s sister had died. It was severe, matching its color, and it had been the only bright spot, ironically enough, through the entire period of mourning. It fit her like a glove, it made her feel strong, not pretty, and it didn’t have any fussiness about it.

  In other words, it was not a pink gown designed for a duchess.

  “Certainly.” Robinson drew the habit out and shook it off the hanger. “Should I dress your hair differently, Your Grace? To better match the habit?”

  Isabella glanced in the mirror. Her hair was in its carefully coiffed curls. “No, I don’t want to keep the duke waiting.” She’d said half an hour, and it was just that now. She had meant to finish earlier, but then Renning had informed her of an issue with the napkins, then Cook had come to consult with a last-minute swap of hors d’oeuvres.

  So now she was rushing to get ready, desperate to be with him for just a bit, but worried that he’d find her lacking.

  Not that she needed to worry that he didn’t like kissing; he’d proven that in the days subsequent to their first kiss. He now rushed through the stories he told her, like a child gobbling dinner to get to dessert, although he was far from a child.

  She could definitely tell he was all man. And that part, the part she wasn’t supposed to notice, as a lady, but should be conversant with, as a wife, was definitely enjoying the kissing as well. She could tell that, even though she knew very little about the thing. It. The appendage in question.

  “If I could—” Robinson said, gesturing to Isabella’s gown.

  “Oh, of course.” So now she would be late to go riding with him because she was thinking of him. And his—whatever. She was an idiot.

  Robinson undid the laces, and Isabella stepped out from the gown and waited as her maid readied the habit for her to put on.

  So many times she’d had to stop herself from just blurting out what was on her mind: Why haven’t we done more than this?, but again, she worried that he’d give her an answer she wasn’t strong enough to hear. Not strong enough yet.

  But each day she lived here, she felt the long shadows of her upbringing recede just a bit, each decision she made on her own making her feel as though she weren’t the helpless duchess flower she’d been bred to be.

  Not that she was solving mathematical puzzles or conquering new lands; she was deciding on guest lists and querying her cook about whether they could serve angels on horseback (they could not, it was not oyster season).

  “There, Your Grace.” She hadn’t noticed, but somehow Robinson had managed to get her entirely dressed.

  “And your hat, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.” Isabella glanced in the mirror as she put the hat on. It was encircled by a gauzy black ribbon, the only adornment of the entire ensemble.

  She looked severe. Almost mean.

  She loved it.

  “Nicholas, sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Nicholas turned as she descended the stairs. And swallowed, because the woman approaching him was very different from the one he’d gotten accustomed to seeing.

  This woman—this tall, elegant, remote woman—was dressed entirely in black, but she didn’t look as though she were in mourning. She looked, in fact, as though she were in triumph, as though she were on her way to conquer a country or two or perhaps sentence some hardened criminals to death.

  Perhaps even enact the deaths herself, with one fierce glance.

  And while it was, to say the least, unusual to see her that way, it wasn’t unpleasant.

  The opposite, in fact.

  But who was he fooling? He would have found her attractive if she were wearing a burlap sack.

  “I can wait for as long as you need,” Nicholas replied, taking her hand to lead her down the last few steps. And wasn’t that an unfortunate truth; he would wait until she was ready, which was definitely going to be longer than it was for him to be ready. Since he’d been ready since the first time he saw her, in her father’s drawing room, when it wasn’t entirely clear they would have to get married.

  Although that had been acquisitive lust; he’d wanted to have her, to make her his, but he hadn’t known anything more about her than that she was the most spectacularly beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Now that he knew her, he knew he’d have to wait.

  Agony, but the eventual result would be worth it, he knew. If they ever got there, that is.

  He couldn’t think about that, or he might end up punching more than an opponent; the side of a ship, perhaps, or maybe he’d go bang his head against the sidewalk for a few hours.

  “Are we going to the park?” she asked as she walked to the door. He followed, glancing to where her shape was clearly delineated by the close cut of the riding habit.

  He wanted to suggest they do nothing but ride horses forever.

  “If that pleases you,” he said.

  She spun on her heel to face him, coming within six inches of his face. If Renning and the footmen hadn’t been there, he would have kissed her then and there.

  “I do not wish to do what pleases me,” she said, in clear imitation of his earlier words. “Do you wish to do it, or not? I know what I want.”

  Please say me, a voice howled, deep in that primal want part of his brain. Which was getting to be the majority of his brain lately. He probably had seven percent allocated for drain irrigation, another twelve percent for remembering the names of all his new holdings, and four percent for keeping track of the events in the serial he was reading.

  Which left seventy-seven percent for thoughts about what he and his wife could do together.

  “I thought we would start in the park, and then see where we wished to go.”

  That seventy-seven percent was quite good at reading things into the most innocuous of statements. Right now, it was seeing “start in the park” as “begin kissing,” and “we wished to go” ending up as “him on top of her, bringing her to climax.”

  He could definitely
not tell Griff about this spurt of his imagination.

  “Sounds like a wonderful plan.” Oh, maybe she had parts of her brain thinking about that as well.

  Or he was just doomed to forever be thinking about his wife that way when she was only thinking about him this way.

  It was no surprise Nicholas was an excellent horseman; he was clearly fit, she’d felt the strength and hardness of his muscles whenever he’d put his arm around her. She’d allowed herself to touch his chest, very lightly, of course, when they’d kissed.

  Not to mention the constant boxing. That had to do something more to him than just send him home with cuts.

  She hadn’t expected, however, to get such a visceral, almost carnal, thrill at how he rode; his strong body almost one with the powerful horse, with him clearly in command of the beast.

  “Do you want to race?” she asked him after they’d been trotting at a reasonable pace for about fifteen minutes. They were in a more remote section of the park, one not meant to see and be seen in; just ahead she spotted a copse of trees that looked as though one could get lost in there.

  She would like that, to get lost with him.

  He turned his head to look at her, and she caught the glint of sly humor in his gaze. “It is not a question of if I want to race, it is if you—”

  “Fine, then, we’re off!” she said, cutting him off as she spurred her horse on. She caught him by surprise, and was ahead of him for about a minute before she heard him at her back, only to pass her with apparent ease.

  “And when I win,” he called back, but she couldn’t hear the rest of his words because, sadly for her, he was too far ahead.

  He kept riding until he reached the trees, and had come to a stop by the time she arrived, his horse even having had enough time to start cropping the grass.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said, a smug grin on his handsome face.

  Isabella tilted her head up in an imperious pose. “One wishes to arrive just late enough to make the other party aware that he is lacking her presence.”

  His smile changed to something more . . . serious. If a smile could be serious, which she didn’t think was possible.

  “I would wait forever for you, princess,” he said in that low voice that made her insides tremble. “And speaking of waiting,” he continued, leaping off his horse with an enviable grace, “I’ve been thinking of what I will demand as my prize for winning the race.”

  He strode over to her and leaned against her horse, staring up at her face. “I want you to tell me more of what you want.”

  Judging by his expression, Isabella now knew absolutely and positively that not only did he like kissing her, he was also nearly as interested as she was in the things that might happen after.

  She felt her body start to react, almost before her brain did, her breasts feeling as though they were fuller, her body aware of its every movement, and precisely where he was in relation to her.

  “Should I tell you here?” She barely recognized her own voice, it sounded so husky.

  A knowing smile crept onto his mouth. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at it, even though his beautiful eyes were just above, and as worthy of her attention.

  But his mouth. She’d dreamed about that mouth.

  And her attention was warranted, since that mouth opened to speak. “Not here. Not until tonight, when we’re alone together. Then you can tell me what you want.”

  She resisted the urge to demand what time it was now, and how much longer they would have to wait, feeling the shivers of anticipation flow throughout her body.

  Tonight. If she could just think of the words, she could tell him. Tonight.

  Epigraph

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

  Not surprisingly, nobody answered their calls.

  Jane and Catherine kept shouting intermittently, just because they’d been in the habit of doing so and couldn’t seem to stop. Only there was no answer. Just birds or squirrels or some other woodland creatures scampering off because they were startled.

  Jane glanced up at the sky, which was showing signs of darkening. And she hadn’t thought the slightest about where they would sleep.

  “Over there, my lady,” Catherine said, gesturing to where a few plumes of smoke curled up into the clouds.

  “Remind me to give you a rise in wages, Catherine,” Jane muttered as she urged her horse, who began to trot toward the signs of life.

  “Give me a rise, my lady,” Catherine replied, a cheeky grin on her face.

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 20

  Nicholas bolted from his room as soon as Miller had helped him with his robe. He would have normally told Miller just to leave him be, but now that he was about to claim his prize—sort of—he wanted to savor the moment.

  So he forced himself to patiently wait as Miller helped him remove his clothing, folding everything just so, and then got him into his nightshirt. He even waited as Miller fussed about which robe would be best, given that one was older but that one was warmer.

  “Whichever you prefer,” Nicholas said, willing himself not to yell at his valet. It wasn’t Miller’s fault he’d had a cockstand since she’d asked, “Shall I tell you here?” It had been difficult enough not to say yes, and toss her onto the grass.

  Not very ducal of him. Not even very gentlemanly, in fact.

  “Isabella?” He pushed her door open without waiting for a reply.

  And there she sat, as usual, at her dressing table, her lady’s maid holding her brush. But there was something different about her face.

  Or maybe he was just hoping there was.

  But she seemed—strong, nearly as strong as she’d appeared while they were riding and she had on that black riding habit.

  Only now, now she was wearing some sort of frilly night rail with loads of lace and some random ribbons and what seemed to be an entire window curtain’s worth of material.

  She should have looked ludicrous, like an overdecorated cake. But instead she looked— He couldn’t find the words. His imagination had left him, just when he needed it most.

  And he was gaping. “You look lovely,” he said at last, not even caring that her lady’s maid was still in the room. Not the best words, but at least he’d been able to form some sort of sentence.

  She spoke without taking her eyes off him. “You may go, Robinson.”

  Robinson walked past him, giving a quick bow, but he barely noticed. Except noticing that she was gone. Thank God.

  “Come,” she said, standing as she held her hand out to him. They walked the now familiar path to her bed, then both sat, assuming their usual positions—with her tucked into his shoulder, his fingers on her upper arm.

  “I’ve been thinking about what we spoke about all day,” she said, after a moment. He tried to keep his breaths even, since it felt as though he wanted to hold his breath or breathe hard, and he didn’t think either would be useful.

  Unless he wanted either to faint from lack of oxygen or to sound like a panting dog. Then, perhaps, he could choose one of those courses.

  “And what do you think?”

  Damn it, he was holding his breath. Hopefully she wouldn’t take too long to speak again.

  “I would like to do more than just kiss you. I want to discover what is next. With you,” she clarified, as though he might think she was about to go run off with some other man and “do more” with him.

  The very thought—theoretical though it was—made Nicholas want to punch something.

  “And what would you like to do?” he asked. He needed to find out precisely what she meant, so he didn’t scare her. Forever.

  “That is the problem,” she said in a frustrated tone. “I don’t know what is next, so I don’t know what to ask for.”

  “Ah, I see.” Nicholas tilted his head back against the headboard. “Well, I think the first thing would be for you to become more familiar with our bodies.” He removed his a
rm from around her and drew his shirt up over his head, tossing it wherever it landed.

  After all, he was a duke, and dukes weren’t required to fold their clothing. Even though a tiny part of him felt badly for Miller or Robinson or whoever would be tasked with picking up all the strewed clothing he hoped to, well, strew tonight.

  “Oh!” she said, her eyes wide as her gaze traveled all over him, from his face to his shoulders, down his chest, quickly lower, then just as quickly back up again. “Can I—?” and she reached her fingers out before she could finish her sentence and put them on his chest, so lightly it felt like a whisper.

  Even though he felt the impact of her touch all over his body.

  “Is this—?” Apparently she was now incapable of finishing her thought, which was fine, because he was having issues with that himself.

  She placed her palm flat on his chest, and held it there, her fingers splayed, her expression—well, he wasn’t sure what she was feeling, since she looked so shocked. But not necessarily in a bad way. Or in a good way.

  Damn it, now he couldn’t even process his thoughts in his head. And of the two of them, he was presumed to know what he was doing.

  “You feel so different than I do,” she said, seemingly able to complete a sentence. Even though he doubted he could say anything at the moment. She smoothed her palm over his skin, and each place she touched felt as though it had been electrified. “It’s very hard,” she mused, catching her lower lip in her teeth.

  Oh, princess, if you only knew, he thought.

  It wasn’t as though she were precisely in the dark about what a man with no shirt looked like. Although, actually, she really had only seen shirtless laborers working in the fields when she’d been riding in her family’s carriage, so she hadn’t gotten a close look. So perhaps she was in the dark about it.

  Although, thank goodness, her room was lit with candles so she wasn’t actually in the dark and could see what she was touching.