Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  Making love. The phrase caught him short, but that was it, wasn’t it? He’d made love to her. Not had sexual relations, or even consummated their marriage, even though they’d also done that, but they’d made love.

  God, he really was maudlin.

  “Anyway, where was I?” he asked, glad she couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “Nowhere. You hadn’t started,” she said in a dry voice.

  “Oh. Well.” When had he started? It had been so long ago. “Well, I think the first time I actually hit anybody was when someone was mocking Griff. He didn’t used to be the confident gentleman you know now.”

  “You don’t say,” she interrupted in that dry tone, and he chuckled.

  “And when we were younger, there were some boys who thought that because Griff was quiet, and liked to read, that he was different. That is, he was different, but they seemed to think it was unfortunate that he was different.” He shrugged, as though it weren’t important. “I made them see it was unfortunate that they found him so.”

  She turned more into him and put her arm across his chest to his side. “You’re a protector. First Griff, then me.” Her voice held a warm tone that indicated her admiration, not to mention her surprise.

  “What did I protect you from?”

  She hesitated. “You.”

  “Oh.” The thought that she needed protection, even from him, made him want to roar and claim ownership of her, even if it was against himself. Which made no sense at all, but then again, being in love didn’t make sense, either. And he was that as well.

  “And then it just felt right.” It was hard to explain. Like that other activity he liked doing so much—he hoped she wouldn’t ask him why he so enjoyed that, or he would know he had done something wrong the night before and would also, likely, be unable to come up with an answer anyway.

  “I think Margaret protected me,” she said after a few moments. “I never realized it before, but with her always taking the brunt of our parents’ disapproval, it meant I was the perfect one.” It didn’t sound as though that was something to be admired. “And then when I was gone, when they had gotten me married off to a duke”—at which point she poked him in the side—“they didn’t need her around any longer. Don’t need her around, that is.” She sounded so sad and disappointed and as far away from the perfect ice princess voice she used in public that it made him happy, even though she was so sad. Which was a horrible contradiction, but there it was.

  He was not always a wonderful person, he’d known that about himself for a long time.

  “We have about half an hour yet,” he said, even though he had no idea if that was true. Anything to distract her from her pain. “How about I tell you a story?”

  She ran her hand over his stomach and then back to his side again. As though he were now the cat that needed petting. “I would like that, thank you.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat, feeling silly, but also feeling as though this was what she needed. And therefore what he would provide.

  If only she’d asked for—well, he couldn’t let his thoughts go there. “Once upon a time,” he began.

  He couldn’t stop laughing at her outraged expression as he finished the story. “You expect me to believe that the evil witch was actually the hero in disguise?” She whacked his arm. “How did he fool the entire court?”

  He grinned at her mock indignation. “By wearing a dress, of course. You, of all people, should know that what you wear is ninety percent of what people perceive about you.” He kissed her head. “Such as when you put on that ferociously pink dress to wear to our ball, knowing it looked lovely on you, but also knowing that it was what people were expecting you to wear. Whereas when you wore that black habit to go riding . . .”

  He paused. “What?” she asked.

  “Well, you did not look at all as I’d been led to believe.”

  “And that was . . . all right?”

  He made a tsking noise. “I cannot believe you still have to ask that. It was glorious to see, you descending the stairs like a fearsome dark goddess rather than the princess I’d married. I knew then, even though I couldn’t actually say it to myself properly, that there was more to you than what you present.”

  “Yes, there is, isn’t there?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  He should tell her now, and if it was under normal circumstances, he would. I love you. Three little words to say, three enormous words to reveal. But these were extraordinary circumstances, and he wanted to wait until he had her full attention.

  You’re nervous, a voice whispered inside himself. Well, of course he was. He’d never told a woman he loved her before. He hadn’t even thought it before. He hadn’t even thought he would be thinking it before. So naturally he was nervous.

  And besides, it appeared that they were nearing the inn where the coach might be. So he couldn’t tell her, not now. Later, he would definitely tell her.

  Isabella spotted Margaret descending from the mail coach just as their coach pulled into the yard of the public house. She had opened the door even before the coach came to a complete stop, and was out of the carriage within seconds, running to her sister. “Margaret!” she called, and her sister turned, an enormous smile lighting up her face.

  “Isabella, you found me!” she said in a delighted voice. “I was hoping it would be you, and not the earl and countess.” She peered past Isabella to where Nicholas was getting out of the coach. “And you brought your handsome husband along, too. Even better!” she said.

  “You sound as though you just went shopping and needed retrieving,” Isabella said in a stern tone. Wonderful, she sounded like their mother. Not who she wanted to model herself after. Ever.

  But at least Margaret looked the same as she had a few days ago, definitely not as though she’d been through some horrific experience. Isabella felt a pang of resentment that her sister had so gleefully run off and looked just fine, still. And then felt immediately guilty for having wished Margaret had gone through some suffering.

  Goodness, she was a bundle of contradictions. Not perfect now, was she?

  Which just made her smile, adding yet another contradiction.

  “What were you thinking, running off like that? Your sister was beside herself with worry,” Nicholas said as he walked up to them.

  Margaret glanced between the two of them, not looking at all contrite. “Well, I knew I would be fine. I brought Annie with me and I have plenty of money and I knew you would find me eventually.” She frowned. “Look, can we discuss this all not in public? I feel as though we might be attracting a crowd.” And sure enough, some of the mail coach passengers were lingering close by, no doubt intrigued by the private coach and its occupants.

  “Come along,” Isabella said, tugging Margaret by the arm into the inn. “A private room, please,” she said to the innkeeper in her most imperious duchess-like manner.

  It worked; the man bowed and led them to a small room. The three of them went in and Nicholas shut the door.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Nicholas asked.

  Isabella held her hand up to him. “I would like to speak to her first, please,” she said. Nicholas made a motion as though to leave, but she shook her head. “You can stay.” She looked at Margaret. “Why didn’t you just come to me? We could have solved this without you running off and causing so much worry.”

  Margaret sat down, emitting a huff of frustration. “I knew you would want to sacrifice yourself for me, and I couldn’t—can’t have that. I know your first instinct would be to want to take me into your home, or worse, have just the two of us go off together somewhere until we could solve the problem, and that wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve just gotten married,” she said, as though Isabella didn’t know that herself already, “you didn’t even take a honeymoon, for goodness’ sake, so if you are to have any kind of chance of happiness, you need to be on your own, not have your sister hanging around.”

  As she spoke, Isabella felt—w
as it anger? Yes, it was, and even as she thought about it, the anger grew from a tiny seed to a full-blown flower. If there was a flower of anger, that is.

  “How dare you presume so much?” she replied. Margaret’s eyes widened in surprise. She’d never seen Isabella’s flower of anger before; hardly surprising since Isabella had never grown one before. “That I would sacrifice myself for you. How can you be so selfish to think I would do that for you?” She tapped her chest. “I am important, Margaret, just as important as you, and I have to say that I love you, but I am not a martyr.”

  Margaret put her chin up. “Just as you weren’t a martyr to marry the duke in the first place?” She stepped forward so she was within a foot of Isabella. “Tell me that you didn’t just sacrifice yourself because of our parents, who informed you that you would be marrying a duke, it didn’t matter which one. And you did, didn’t you?” She glanced toward Nicholas. “Thank goodness it was this duke, not that one, but you still would have done it—wouldn’t you?”

  Out of the corner of her eye Isabella saw Nicholas stiffen, but she couldn’t—no, she wouldn’t—take time to reassure him now.

  “It wouldn’t be a sacrifice to have you in my home, Margaret,” she said in a soft voice. “But I know what you’re saying.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And you’re not wrong. I did marry Nicholas because of our parents.” She darted a quick look at him. “And he married me for the same reason, because someone told him he had to. Does that make him weak?” She shook her head before Margaret—or Nicholas, for that matter—could respond. “No, that makes both of us responsible. If we hadn’t done what we did, people’s livelihoods would be in jeopardy. Neither of us has ever seen our parents when they’re thwarted—and that’s probably for a good reason. Can you imagine what they would have done if I hadn’t agreed?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “We could have found a way out of this that didn’t rest on you just running off with only your maid. That was irresponsible and reckless, Margaret.”

  Margaret pondered that for a moment, then nodded her head slowly. “It was. You’re right. I apologize, Isabella, Nicholas,” she said, looking at them each in turn. “If I had been in your position—that is, I was in your position, faced with a marriage I didn’t want, and I didn’t think I had any choice.”

  “You always have a choice.” Nicholas spoke, his voice rough and raw. It hurt to have had to admit she hadn’t wanted to marry him. Not that he didn’t know that already, but to be reminded of it now, on the day after, of all things. That must have been hard to hear. But she’d promised him the truth, always, hadn’t she?

  But she couldn’t spend time on that now, not with her sister here, and found. And not yet safe. “We’ll take you to one of Nicholas’s estates, I’m sure there is one around here somewhere, and then we’ll—”

  “No,” Margaret interrupted. “I don’t want my reputation to be salvaged. I want to be ruined. That’s the only way I can be free, don’t you see that? You couldn’t have done it, I know that, but I can.” Her expression turned rueful. “And I should tell you, I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.” She paused, and Isabella felt her chest constrict. What had Margaret been lying about?

  “I am the Lady of Mystery,” she said at last.

  “The what?” Isabella replied, confused.

  She heard Nicholas begin to chuckle. “Of course you are! A Lady of Mystery! Your sister here is the author of those serials that I read to you. The Princess and the Scoundrel? You also wrote that other one, The Dangers of Dancing with a Dragon. That was a good one,” he said in a reminiscent tone.

  “Never mind that now,” Isabella said in an impatient tone. “What does it matter that you are a writer?”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “It matters because my writing provides income, which means I won’t be dependent on anyone. It means I can do what I want, and it means that I will threaten to reveal my identity if the earl and countess try to force me to come back.”

  “Oh.” Of course. Unlike Isabella, who was merely a decorative object, Margaret seemed to have actual skills. “So now what?”

  Margaret shrugged. “I suppose we return and I tell the earl and countess there is no way I will ever marry that awful man, or anybody they want me to. When I marry—if I marry—I want the man to be of my choosing, not theirs.”

  Margaret’s words hung in the air as though floating above Isabella’s head, reminding her that she hadn’t had the same choice.

  “Could you excuse us, Margaret?” She had to talk to him alone. Now, while the words were there, and what she wanted to say was burning so bright on her tongue she thought she might burst.

  “Don’t go further than the main room, though,” Isabella warned as Margaret made to depart.

  “I won’t,” Margaret replied, casting a curious glance between Isabella and Nicholas.

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  There was a moment of silence as Isabella gathered her thoughts. “You said, just now, that you always have a choice,” she began. She turned to look at him, meeting his gaze. He looked . . . hesitant, not at all the way she was used to seeing him. “And I didn’t think I did when they told me I had to marry you.” She raised her chin. “But now I think it is only truthful to tell you. If I had to choose now, I would choose you.”

  He moved as though to go to her, and she held her hand up. “No, wait, just a moment. I want to give you that choice as well.” She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes. “You didn’t ask to be married to me, either, only here we are. I have to tell you, I have to be truthful with you. I love you, Nicholas,” she said, and she saw him draw a sharp breath, “and I love you enough that I don’t want you to be with me out of obligation. Obviously we can’t undo our—our union, but if you choose to live your life separately without me, I would respect that.” Not that she could bear to see him with another woman, but she wouldn’t have to—she would be off living in the country somewhere, perhaps escaping to wherever Margaret was, ironically enough.

  “Are you actually asking me to make a choice, Isabella?” he replied. “Because there isn’t one. No, we didn’t come into this marriage willingly, but I am unwilling to give up on it. I love you, too, Isabella, which I should have told you last night. Or this afternoon.” His lips curled into a wry grin. “That is not the first mistake I have ever made, princess, nor will it be the last.”

  “You’re not perfect either, then,” Isabella replied, and then she moved to him, stepping into his arms, feeling his warmth, his love, surround her.

  “We can be imperfect together, my love,” he said, lifting her chin with his fingers and kissing her.

  Epigraph

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

  “Prince?” It was idiotic of her to call for him as soon as she entered the castle’s courtyard, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Yes?” Oh, it was he. He stood just past the huge gates, his hair disheveled, his clothes messed, his face dirty.

  She’d never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life.

  She leapt off her horse and ran to him, his arms stretching out to enfold her. She buried her face in his shoulder as he held her tight. He smelled like sweat and horse and dust, if dust smelled.

  “What is your name?” she mumbled.

  He drew away, looking down at her with a puzzled expression. “What?”

  “Your name. What is it?”

  He laughed, his hand going to push her hair away from her face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, pulling her back into his arms.

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Epilogue

  “Lord Collingwood?” Isabella called out his name as she entered the coffeehouse. It was not normally a place for a lady, much less a duchess, but she had business here, like all the men who were currently sitting at the tables, earnestly discussing whatever it was they were discussing.

  She saw him turn his head in recognitio
n, and then he rose, planting his hands on his hips. His lips curled up into an unpleasant smile. Likely as not he did not have a pleasant smile in the first place, but still. It chilled her heart.

  Nicholas had wanted to do this himself, but she had insisted she be the one, and so he stood just behind her. Letting her do this, knowing how important it was to her. As though she didn’t love him enough already.

  Michael the groom and John Coachman (his name was John, she’d asked) were waiting outside with the carriage.

  “What can I help you with, Your Grace?” He spoke the honorific in a disdainful and yet leering way. Very adroit of him, she had to admit.

  “I understand that you have put it about that my sister was not suitable to be your wife.” She shook with her anger. Margaret didn’t care, or at least she said she didn’t care, that she was just happy she wasn’t marrying the “loathsome toad,” but it was still gossip being spread about her sister. Thankfully it seemed the Queen hadn’t heard about it. “When the reality is that my sister refused to marry you. And further . . .” And here she glanced back at Nicholas, as though to assure herself he was there. He was, of course he was. “. . . that my husband’s brother discovered some interesting accounting you’d done while you’d been the duke.”

  He raised his chin. “Your point?”

  He was not making this easy, was he? Well, of course he wouldn’t. He’d had his title taken, his marriage put off, and Griff had discovered enough financial misdoings to force him to stop the legal proceedings, so Lord Collingwood was in a tough spot.

  If she were in his position, she’d be upset as well. But she wasn’t, and he had said some things about Margaret that weren’t to be borne.

  Hence what she had convinced Nicholas to let her do.

  Thwack! She drew her fist back, kept her aim true, and hit him, right on the jaw, right where she’d planned. His head snapped back, and his mouth and eyes were wide with surprise.