Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  She would have to get dressed quickly and then figure out the most efficient method of transportation—she couldn’t see Margaret jumping on a horse and taking off by herself, so she must have left by coach, somehow.

  Coaches would be slower, by necessity, than a single horse, so at least they had a benefit there. Although she and Nicholas would also be in a coach, but a private one wouldn’t have to stop as often.

  Though the thought of her sister being alone on a public coach made her ill. So she wouldn’t think about it. She took her dressing gown off and flung it to the floor, striding past Nicholas on the way to her wardrobe.

  “I can’t talk you—”

  “No,” Isabella interrupted, yanking open the door to her wardrobe. “Ring the bell for Robinson, please.”

  “Fine.” He rang the bell as she glanced inside the wardrobe. “Then I’m coming with you. I care about your sister,” he said. “And if anything were to happen to you—” His words trailed off, but Isabella knew he did care, that he wouldn’t say it if he didn’t feel it. She knew that about him, at least. So there was that, even if she wasn’t certain he cared enough. But not fighting her on going out in the middle of the night to look for her sister was a step in the right direction.

  It was better than how most any other man in this situation would behave, she knew that, too.

  Was it part of her selfish imperfection that she was no longer content to settle? That she wanted to live for herself as much as it seemed Margaret was?

  She had no idea what the answers to those questions were, but she did know her sister was out there on her own, and needed rescuing. Everything else would wait.

  An hour later Nicholas was fully clothed and sitting with his wife in a carriage. Not the scenario he’d been hoping for that evening. They’d talked it through, and decided that taking the coach was the more prudent action; when they found Margaret (neither of them was entertaining the thought that they might not find her), they would need to do something to rescue her reputation, so likely that would mean taking her to one of Nicholas’s estates, none of which he’d even visited.

  Of course he’d also had to listen as his mother-in-law demanded that Isabella stay in town, that they summon a policeman or someone else in authority to go hunt for her sister. As though something so important should be left to the next morning and to a stranger.

  And when he’d found out why Margaret left—that her parents were bartering her to a loathsome man who had already fixated on her sister—it made Nicholas determined to find her and do whatever he could to help her, if only to keep her from being under her parents’ control.

  Small wonder that Isabella valued herself so little, if this was who had raised her.

  Plus if the authorities were told of Margaret’s disappearance, her reputation would be ruined permanently. That was the only thing that had persuaded the earl and countess eventually—not Isabella’s clear worry for her sister, or the fact that their daughter had run off into the night in the first place—and so they agreed to return home to wait for word as Isabella and Nicholas went out to search themselves.

  They’d taken only the coachman and the groom Michael. There would be no need to dress formally, or even bring that many items of clothing, so they left Robinson and Miller behind.

  That was definitely Nicholas’s doing; he wanted to be the one to undress Isabella. Having to head off in the middle of the night to hunt for a missing relative could have its benefits, after all.

  It was another hour later, and they were in the coach. Isabella’s expression hadn’t altered from the one of concern that was now making her frown. Even frowning, she was still lovely. “What did the footman say?”

  Nicholas leaned forward and took her hand. “You’ve asked that at least four times already.” He smiled as he spoke to let her know he wasn’t complaining. Just aware. And that he could count.

  He spoke slowly, not to insult her, but to ensure she could absorb it all. “I’ll repeat precisely what he told me. Your sister returned home with your parents, told them good night, went upstairs for approximately half an hour, then came back downstairs and told the footman she and her maid were going onto the balcony to watch the meteor shower. The poor man had no idea if there was a meteor shower or anything, and there wasn’t much he could do or say anyway, so that was the last time anyone saw them. That was at about three o’clock in the morning, and your parents came to our door at just about half past four, I believe.”

  She nodded, biting her lip. “At least she had her maid with her. At least she’s not alone. I wish she had said more in her note. But at least we know she wasn’t kidnapped.”

  Dear Earl, Countess, and Isabella:

  I am off to the country. Don’t worry about me, I will be fine. I have money, I have future employment, and I have my maid.

  What I don’t have, and what I will not have, is Lord Collingwood for a husband.

  Not Yours,

  Margaret

  “Of course she had to be witty in her note,” Isabella said, a mingling of tears and laughter in her voice. “And thank goodness she left one, at least it gives us a clue about where she went, even though it took my parents forever to find it—she’s very clever.”

  “She is.” Nicholas got up to sit beside her. He put his arm around her, and drew her close. “She is very clever, and she will keep herself safe, you can trust her enough for that.”

  Isabella uttered a little snort at the word “trust.” “It seems as though I don’t trust anybody now—I trusted that Margaret wouldn’t do anything foolish, and yet she’s run away, and I trusted that you would share things with me, which you’ve promised to do, I know that, but I’m still not sure.” Her words trailed off, and Nicholas felt a tightening in his chest, a squeezing of his heart, for disappointing her.

  “Tell you what,” he said, after a moment. “As soon as we stop for the night we will start your boxing lessons.” Because it would be callous for him to want her to continue their intimacies, even though he was secretly wishing he were that callous.

  She glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “Are you certain you want me to have an opportunity to punch you?” She nudged him with her shoulder. “After all, I said some things that were not entirely pleasant.”

  “But what you said is what you felt. You were right, I asked you to tell me what you wanted, and that includes how you are feeling.” Who knew that telling the truth could be so complicated? “Besides which, if you can strike me, I deserve to be punched.”

  She grinned then, as though the prospect pleased her. “So you won’t be angry? To be bested by me?”

  He smiled down at her. Even in the dark coach, he could see her eyes sparkling with delight. “As I said, princess, if you can hit me, I deserve to be hit. We’ll start this afternoon, we’ll have to change out the horses by then anyway.”

  “I look forward to hitting you, then, Nicholas.” She leaned up and kissed him on the jaw. “In the nicest possible way, of course.”

  The thought crossed his mind that she’d already planted him a facer, in the emotional sense, at least. She was definitely more than how she appeared on the outside, and that was already spectacular.

  If only he could ensure he didn’t mess it up somehow, he might have a long and happy future. And hopefully he’d consummate his marriage before he was too old to do so.

  Epigraph

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

  “Why are we returning home?” Catherine asked.

  Jane urged her horse to go just a bit faster. “He trusted me enough to let me go. I have to do the same. If I am right, he will be at the castle when we return.”

  “And if you are wrong?”

  Jane took a deep breath. “Then my heart will be broken.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 26

  “Protect your body.” Nicholas stood opposite her in the small bedroom of the inn. They’d traveled for most of the
day, but had stopped at three o’clock to swap out the horses and find a place to spend the night. They’d eaten, and walked around the village, asking a few people if they’d seen a coach passing through. No one had, but a few of them knew the route of the closest coach, and Nicholas and Isabella had plans to chase that coach down the next day.

  Since it was a mail coach, it would by necessity move much slower than a private coach, and Nicholas had every expectation they would find Margaret soon. There were only a few places in the country Margaret was familiar with, Isabella had explained, and since she hadn’t taken a private conveyance, she would be limited in her direction.

  The footman and coachman were downstairs in the public room. She and Nicholas had taken a glass of wine together there as well, which reminded Isabella that she still had so much to learn about herself, about her likes and dislikes. She liked the wine well enough, but much preferred how it made her feel after finishing the glass.

  Later, when everything was fine again, she would experiment some more.

  And now they were back upstairs, with Nicholas doing what he’d promised, beginning to show her the rudiments of boxing.

  She’d heard of ladies boxing before, but usually the reports had been told by scandalized members of society, who couldn’t believe that a lady would so demean herself to indulge in something so physical.

  Which made Isabella want to point to childbirth, since from what she knew about it, that was likely one of the most physical things a person—specifically a lady—could do.

  But meanwhile, her husband had stripped to the waist, which was its own distraction, and she’d removed all of her clothing except for her chemise, for more ease of movement, Nicholas had said, but judging by the look in his eye it wasn’t just for that.

  “Like this?” Isabella asked, trying to position her fists as Nicholas had them. He looked for a moment, then got a sly smile on his face and moved to stand in back of her. He wrapped his arms around her and took ahold of her wrists, one in each hand.

  “Like this,” he said, positioning her arms in front of her body. His chest was pressed up against her back, and she could feel the damp heat of his body. It wasn’t unpleasant. The opposite, in fact.

  And of course since he had been moving about, and was sweating, he smelled like he had before, one of the first times he’d arrived home from boxing. She inhaled, trying not to make an audible sniff, feeling both appalled and intrigued by her reaction to his scent.

  “Did you just smell me?”

  Apparently her inaudible sniff was, in fact, audible.

  “Um—yes?” she said. She turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s just so different from how I smell. I like it,” she admitted, twining her fingers in his hair. Of course some of it had fallen forward into his face, which just made him look more rakish.

  He laughed. “The more I know you, Isabella, the more you surprise me.”

  “I promise always to surprise you, Nicholas,” Isabella replied, a wicked thought crossing her mind as she spoke. She removed one of her hands, wound it up into a fist, and punched him, right in the stomach.

  “Ouch!” He held his hand to where she’d hit him and glared up at her through the strands of fallen hair. “Nice work,” he added, a grin on his face.

  She giggled, then put her fists up into boxing position. “And now you can see if you can get any hits in. It might not be possible, given your expertise in comparison to mine.”

  He snorted and raised his own hands. “You mean your element of surprise. That’s gone, Your Grace, you are going to have to rely on your pugilistic skill.” His fist moved so fast it was a blur, ending up on her arm. He only tapped her, but it stung nonetheless. Her pride, that is. He had barely touched her.

  “Hmph,” she said.

  “That’s it, keep your hands up. Protect your body.” He lowered his fists and regarded her over them, a look of desire in his eyes. “Because it is well worth protecting.” And then his gaze traveled from her face, all the way down to her feet, and back up again. She felt a tingle everywhere he looked, which meant that by the time he was done, she felt as though she had been jolted by a bolt of lightning. Or Nicholas, whichever was more electric.

  “You are not playing fair,” she complained, trying to hit him before he returned to his fighting stance. Not fast enough—her fist went right past his body into the air.

  “I could say the same of you, princess, since here you are in barely anything, your hair tumbling down your back, your feet bare, alone with your husband in a bedroom at night, taunting me with your . . .” and he paused as she started to blush, wondering how he would finish his sentence, “. . . quickness.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” She planted her feet again and assumed the stance he’d shown her. She felt so different, and yet still so her; was this a product of selfish imperfection? How did she ever think being perfect was . . . perfection?

  She far preferred this messy, sweaty, sensual, irrational way of being. Perhaps especially because of him, but not only because of him. That, too, felt important—that she did something because of her own thoughts and feelings, not because she wished to please him or be who she thought he might want.

  Even though she knew, judging by the look in his eye, that he wanted her very much. And, she thought, she might want him just as much.

  But the new selfish, imperfect Isabella was first going to see if she could possibly land another punch.

  “That’s it. Keep your hands up. Don’t let me predict where you’ll be.” And wasn’t that prophetic, Nicholas thought. She stood in front of him, clad only in her chemise, a thin glisten of sweat on her brow, her cheeks flushed from the exercise, her eyes bright as she tried to find a way to penetrate his defenses.

  Little did she know—or perhaps she did know, judging by how she’d verbally sparred with him—that she already had. He had admired her before, had desired her from the moment he met her, but he hadn’t appreciated her various parts. The part that was hesitant and confident, sometimes within moments of each other, the part that could throw a party for the whole of Society and have it be perfect, the part that asked for what she wanted, and demanded to know why he hadn’t confided in her.

  All of her parts, in fact. He loved her.

  Why hadn’t he realized that before? Oh right. He’d never been in love before. Not even when he’d first discovered women, figured out that their soft curves brought him pleasure, and he knew precisely the way to bring them pleasure as well.

  He had known all that going into this marriage, with her, but he hadn’t known what it would be like to join with a woman when he also loved her.

  Not that he knew that precisely now, but he was hoping he would know that very soon. He didn’t know how he could tell, but there was something in the way she was looking at him, the way she was speaking to him, that let him know that not only was she not afraid of him any longer, or what they might do together, but that she wanted it.

  She’d just need to say it. To say what she wanted, and hopefully what she might want would be him.

  Meanwhile, he would have to hold back his own desires so she would come to him because that’s what she wanted—not what she thought he might want. Or need, given how overwhelming the need to possess her had grown.

  “What I’m not precisely clear on,” he said as he dodged another one of her strikes, “is why your parents felt they had to betroth your sister to Lord Collingwood in the first place. He’s not the duke, unless someone has forgotten to tell me something”—at which point he winked to let her know he was teasing—“and from what I know about him, he is thoroughly unpleasant.”

  Isabella dropped her hands. “You don’t know? You can’t even guess?”

  Well, now he felt stupid. But—“No,” he replied. He had promised to be truthful, open, and honest, hadn’t he? Even if he ended up looking like an idiot? “I have no idea.”

  She furrowed her brow and looked at him for one long moment
. At least, it felt like a long moment. “They made a deal with him,” she said, spreading her hands wide in front of her body. “If he would stop pursuing the matter in court, the matter of his wanting the title back, they would marry her to him and probably give him money. It seems that while he held the title he managed to make some money, and my parents want him to share his acumen. At the price of Margaret.”

  His mouth dropped open. “I had no idea.” And then froze as another thought struck him. “I didn’t ask them for that, you know that, don’t you?”

  Her expression tightened. “Of course I knew that, if I had even thought it, would I be here with you now?”

  “Oh. Right.” He reached out and cupped her jaw, leaning in close. “If you did think it, though, I could see why you were so eager to hit me.”

  She laughed, as he’d meant her to, and now their mouths were close together and he could lean in and kiss her—he knew she wouldn’t rebuff him, her eyes were on his mouth, and he knew that look well—but he wouldn’t.

  He wouldn’t.

  Would he?

  Damn it. He closed the space between them and let his mouth hover over hers, not kissing her, not yet, but right there so there was no mistaking what he intended to do. What he wanted to do. More to the point, what he wanted her to do.

  Oh, thank God. She tilted her face to his and pressed her lips to his, placing her hands on his arms as though to hold him in place. As though he would want to be anywhere else but here.

  What about the bed? a traitorous voice whispered.

  Fine, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here, if here meant kissing her.

  Her lips were so soft, and she opened her mouth and her tongue darted inside his mouth, sending a shock of feeling straight to his—well, not just his penis, but his entire body, in fact. Had he ever felt like this with any other woman? He didn’t even want to ponder the question, since thinking about other women—even as they related to her—was not thinking about her.