Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  I am not perfect, she wanted to yell. To him, as well as to herself.

  “Yes. Precisely.” She deliberately looked away and put another lump of sugar in her tea, even though it already had enough. Just so she could feel what it was like to do something unexpected.

  Pathetic, really, that putting an extra lump of sugar in one’s tea was unexpected, but she had to take tiny steps. Or tiny punches. The question was, did he really mean what he’d said? What he’d seemed to promise, last night, and the other nights when he’d encouraged her to say what she wanted?

  “You haven’t said if you would. Will you teach me how to box, Nicholas?”

  Of all the things she could have asked, he would never have thought of this question. Perhaps he was, indeed, lacking in imagination, as Griff said. But the thought of her—his lovely, fragile, beautiful wife—getting into a ring, allowing anyone near her perfect features, was enough to make him want to punch somebody himself. Even if that somebody was she.

  “Uh . . .” he stammered, watching as her expression changed from one of mere curiosity to something darker.

  “You don’t want me to say what I want, then,” she said, glancing away from him as she poured more tea into her cup.

  “I’ll teach you, you just—you just surprised me.” He sounded lame. He sounded as though he were lying. He sounded as though he didn’t want her to say what she wanted, even though he’d been encouraging her to do so almost from the first moment they were wed.

  “You needn’t.” She had that icily polite tone to her voice, the one she used with everyone but her sister. The one he hated.

  “I will.”

  She shrugged, as though she didn’t believe him, but was too polite to call him on his subterfuge. “After the ball, we will see.”

  “After the ball,” he repeated, knowing full well she was doubting his promise.

  “Speaking of which,” she said, still in that falsely bright tone, which he continued to loathe, “I will be collecting Margaret so she can help me decide which gown to choose.” A pause, then she turned her gaze to him. “Unless you wish to decide?”

  It was a challenge, he knew that, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what precisely she wanted. Did she want his advice, or did she want him to allow her to choose on her own? If he did offer an opinion, how could he trust that she wouldn’t just go with that because that was what he wanted, not what she really wanted?

  Women—especially wives, especially this wife—were very complicated, he was discovering.

  “Uh,” he said again, feeling as uncertain as before, only now with an entirely new topic, “perhaps you and Margaret should go on your own. I trust you will choose what is best.”

  Her expression froze. “You trust I will choose what is best?” she repeated. He winced at how it sounded when she said it.

  But damn it, he had no clue what to say now. He should probably just stop talking.

  “Uh, yes.” He speared the other half of the sausage from his plate and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Now, oddly enough, she looked as though she were going to laugh. But at least it was better than an icy glare.

  “I will see you later then?” he said, after he’d swallowed.

  She inclined her head, apparently not even wasting the breath to speak.

  And Nicholas felt as he never had before around a woman. And didn’t like it at all.

  Epigraph

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

  “Are you the witch?” Jane winced as she realized just how blunt she’d sounded. Thankfully the woman—the witch, as it happened—didn’t seem to mind.

  “I am, as long as you’re the one with the money,” she replied, cackling after she spoke.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” Jane said, gesturing to Catherine. Her maid reached into her gown and drew out the purse Jane had made sure to bring, appropriately stuffed with coins. Catherine handed it to her mistress, who dug her fingers in and extracted a handful of coins.

  “Is this enough?” she said, holding her hand out to the witch.

  The woman nodded, picking only half of the money from Jane’s palm, then folded Jane’s fingers over the remainder. “More than enough. What can I do for you, my lady?”

  “I need to find my husband,” Jane replied. “Before he is lost entirely.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 23

  The dressmaker’s felt like a refuge, if only a refuge from her increasingly muddled thoughts. Half of her had wanted to find him and confront him about—well, about all sorts of things, none of which she could put her finger on now—while the other half wanted to go fling herself onto her bed and cry.

  And the other half, which she knew perfectly well was a mathematical impossibility, wanted to find him and finish what they’d started.

  But she had a gown to choose. All part of being a duchess about to give a ball.

  “Are you decided then?” Margaret stroked the fabric of one of the gowns—the less pink one—and turned to Isabella.

  “I think so. This one, please,” she said, pointing to the more pink gown. The dressmaker beamed, as though Isabella had chosen what she herself had been hoping for.

  Join the queue, Isabella thought sourly. First there was Nicholas trying to pretend he really wanted her opinion and her choices, when all he wanted was for her to choose him, and now the modiste was smiling as though Isabella was brilliant in her gown selection when all she was doing was what was expected.

  Hmph.

  “It is quite pink,” Margaret said in a skeptical voice. At least one person wasn’t urging her to make a choice that was their choice. “Don’t you like this one?”

  Then again, Margaret was like the rest of them. Not that she could blame any of them; of course one wanted one’s opinions and choices to matter, but not at the expense of another person’s choice and opinions. Not that Margaret was doing that, so perhaps her sister could escape Isabella’s ire.

  “It is very pink,” Isabella agreed, schooling her features to keep from revealing her true opinion. She would just see what he had to say about this.

  It was entirely irrational to be grumpy that he would likely approve of this gown—after all, she did look lovely in it. It was a suitable color for a recently married young woman, and she had told him she wanted to make her own choice.

  But a part of her—an irrational, emotional, heretofore unknown part of her—wanted him to see through her disguise to what she really felt and thought.

  How could a man bring her such ecstasy, as he had the previous night, and yet still not really know her?

  Maybe this was the animalistic beast part of marriage her mother had warned her about. That a husband could seem to be all that was lovely and correct and frankly delightful, only to discover that he didn’t really care after all. Except for the things that affected him.

  “If that is what you want,” Margaret said, but not as though she were secretly judging her sister. Just as though she’d accepted that was what Isabella wanted. “We need to find some ribbons for your hair, don’t we?”

  “Never mind that. What are you wearing?”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “Do you know, I don’t believe anyone has ever asked me that before.”

  Isabella felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Really? I never did?”

  Margaret shook her head, but not as though it was a problem. Her sister was too accepting. Isabella was too accepting as well. Something she planned to change. Was changing.

  But meanwhile, she would not stop listening, especially if it was to her sister.

  “Whenever there is—was—an event, the only concern would be what you were wearing. I generally just got to choose what I wanted out of the things the countess would allow. Which was generally white, off-white, and occasionally cream,” she said with a smirk. “I wish I could just dress in black all the time,” she added with a grin.

  “So if someone—say, your now lofty ol
der sister—were to ask you what you wanted to wear, what would you answer?”

  It felt good—and entirely new—not to first think about what anybody else would say about it. Well, except for Margaret, whose opinion was the only one that mattered.

  Although Isabella would have to object if Margaret wished to wear olive or yellow. Both of those colors would look horrible with Margaret’s coloring.

  “What would I wish to wear?” Margaret’s expression was wondrous, as though entertaining all sorts of intriguing possibilities, and Isabella felt an old, familiar stab of anxiety. Anxiety that Margaret would want something unsuitable, or untoward, or inappropriate. Or black.

  But that was just the old Isabella worrying. The new Isabella—the one that had come into being just that morning—wasn’t worried about anything.

  Except, possibly, that she was wrong about her husband when she’d thought she might be able to trust him.

  “I would love a gown in this,” Margaret said, putting her fingers on a bolt of blue satin. It was the blue of a summer twilight, and would look marvelous with Margaret’s coloring, even if it wasn’t precisely appropriate for her age and station.

  “Excellent,” Isabella said quickly, nodding to the dressmaker. “My sister will need her gown tomorrow as well. I presume that will not be a problem?” She raised one eyebrow, feeling terribly guilty at employing her duchess-ish station, but also knowing that otherwise Margaret wouldn’t get her gown in time. “I will pay double the amount for your trouble,” she added. Money went a long way to soothing people’s ruffled feathers.

  “Of course, Your Grace,” the woman replied, the smile on her face a reassuring sign that Isabella’s money was indeed overcoming the imposition.

  “Thank you.” For once, Margaret didn’t sound like her own exuberant self. She spoke in a subdued tone, but then her lips curled into an extravagant smile, and she launched herself at her sister, hugging her so tightly Isabella’s corset cut into her side. “That is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  Isabella immediately felt horrible that one gown was enough to provoke this response, but knew that Margaret was speaking the truth. She’d never been in a position to do anything for her sister before, and there was simply nobody else who cared enough about Margaret to do anything. Their parents certainly didn’t. “You’re welcome, Margie,” she said, using the nickname she’d called her sister for the first few years of her life.

  All the paperwork was laid out, neatly, on his desk, with Griff discussing each piece in turn, making Nicholas’s head ache. Or ache more, that is.

  “Where are you, Nick?” Griff asked, waving one of the many papers they were reviewing in front of his brother’s face.

  Not in bed with her, he thought, shaking his head to try to dislodge any thought that wasn’t of ducal documents and legal papers proving he was the rightful duke.

  He hated paperwork at the best of times, and this was definitely not the best of times. What had been the issue this morning? What had made her go from soft, willing, orgasmic woman to the nearly frowning, distant female he’d seen at breakfast?

  “Sorry, Griff. Tell me again, where is that parish record?” Nicholas made a helpless gesture over the papers.

  “Here, you idiot.” Griff thrust a different paper, this one clearly well-aged, under Nicholas’s nose. He sneezed, but Griff snatched it away before he could ruin it.

  “Nice, Nick,” his brother said dryly. “We’re sorry, my lords, but we cannot prove that the Duke of Gage is actually the duke because someone saw fit to blow his nose on the document.”

  “I did not!” Nicholas replied. Was everyone grouchy at him today? Perhaps by tomorrow things would return to usual. Griff would—well, Griff would speak to him this way, as he always did, but she would be pleasant. Amenable. Preferably while naked in bed.

  With that happy thought in his brain, Nicholas returned to his work with renewed energy, agreeing to purchase new farm equipment for one of his holdings, signing some bills promising payment, and at last understanding the legal basis for the claim that the former Duke of Gage was not, actually, the Duke of Gage.

  It was a productive day, even if it was less naked and not as full of fucking as Nicholas would have wished.

  But there was always the nighttime.

  He entered immediately after knocking, but tonight she wasn’t at her dressing table. Nor was her maid in attendance.

  Nor, unfortunately, was she disrobed and in bed.

  “Good evening, Isabella.” He strode over to where she sat, on one of the cozy pink sofas, and sat down next to her. She placed a bookmark in the pages of her book, closed it, laid it down on the table beside where she sat, and then looked at him. Without speaking.

  “Good evening, Nicholas,” she said, at last. “I trust you had a pleasant day? I could ring for tea, and you could tell me all about it.” Her expression—damn it, she wore that frozen societal expression he’d seen when they were entertaining callers. As if he were only a caller, and not the man who’d brought her to climax for the very first time not twenty-four hours ago in this room.

  He felt something tighten inside, and he gritted his teeth. And immediately felt like the worst kind of man, since her eyes widened at the sight and she flinched. Flinched! As though he were going to hit her or yell at her or something.

  But weren’t you? a small voice asked inside his head, Weren’t you just thinking about upbraiding her for not being grateful for your attentions the prior evening? Weren’t you going to demand the respect due a husband?

  But that was what he should expect, damn it. He was her husband. She was his wife. And as such, she should welcome him in her bedroom, in her life, whenever he chose to come into it. Them. Whatever.

  After all, he hadn’t mistreated her. He’d done the opposite, in fact; he’d wooed her, he’d listened to her, he’d told her stories, he’d shared parts of himself he hadn’t shared with anyone before, not even Griff.

  “Tea?” she repeated, her hand poised above the bell. It almost looked as though she were daring him to call her bluff—if ringing for tea was a bluff—and he stared at her for a long moment, wondering what the hell had possibly gone wrong. What was going wrong now, of all times, when they should be continuing their sexual and marital explorations, hopefully bringing everything to its natural conclusion. Instead she was fully clothed sitting on a sofa, giving him a look she would bestow on a mere acquaintance.

  “No thank you. I find I am not hungry. I will leave you to your rest, Isabella, since the ball is tomorrow. Perhaps there we will find a moment to have a beverage together then.”

  That last part didn’t come out as scathing as he’d wished, but it seemed to have its proper impact, since her face paled and she put the bell down quickly on the table.

  “Good night, Nicholas,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face.

  There were so many things that rushed through his mind—What did I do? Are you all right? Don’t you want to feel as good as you did last night?—but he didn’t say any of them.

  Instead, he bowed. “Good night.” And walked out the door to make the twenty-three-step walk to his own bedroom.

  Epigraph

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

  “Do you have an item of his? A piece of clothing, or something that meant something to him?” the witch asked, as though Jane would be gallivanting all over the country with a bundle of the prince’s possessions.

  “No.”

  The witch frowned. That was not the answer she wanted, clearly.

  “She means something to him,” Catherine interjected. And then pointed at Jane, just in case it wasn’t clear who “she” was. “The princess. She means everything to him.”

  The witch glanced from Catherine to Jane and then smiled. “Of course. You will just have to do one thing for me then, my lady.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 24

  Of course she fel
t terrible as the door shut behind him. She even rose halfway off the sofa to go to him, to beg him to come back, to say that she didn’t mean to be so cold, so—so rude.

  But when she thought about it, she had meant all of it. She had said, and done, what she wanted, as he’d asked. As he’d insisted, several times.

  So he could not be angry with her because she had spoken her mind.

  Except he very clearly was. Which, she presumed when she thought about it some more, was his right, just as it was her right to want something herself and be disappointed that she wouldn’t get it.

  Being imperfect was far more honest than being perfect all the time, even if it was also far more difficult.

  “Hmph,” she muttered, getting up to yank on the bellpull for Robinson. She was still dressed, after all; she’d deliberately stayed in her clothing rather than change so she wouldn’t be tempted by the thought of resuming the kissing and—and the other things, she couldn’t even say the words in her mind, that they’d been doing. Not that she wasn’t tempted, she truly was. He’d strode in, a warm, knowing smile on his face when he saw her, and she’d nearly succumbed then and there. He could have undressed her himself, if what Margaret had heard about him was true.

  But then she’d reminded herself about how he’d faltered at doing what she wanted, even though it was a minor thing. Because what if the next time she expressed her wants it was something truly important? And he denied her?

  She needed to know now what kind of marriage she was in, what he would—and would not—do for her.

  “I am being entirely selfish,” she said, going to sit at her dressing table. Saying it aloud, even if it was just to herself, made it feel as though it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Yes, she was being imperfect in her selfishness, but that was preferable to being perfect and unselfish, to always do what someone else wanted, to wear what they thought was best, to act and behave in a way that wasn’t her.

  It felt so odd, as though some mischievous and cantankerous woman had taken over Isabella’s brain. But perhaps this was really she, she just didn’t recognize herself yet.