He liked the way she spoke so confidently about the painting, about the colors and the lady and even what would happen to the dragon remains. It was all so different from the conversations he usually had with—well, anybody.
“Your Grace!” He turned as he heard the words, knowing it was hardly likely that there was another duke hanging about the National Gallery.
“Good afternoon,” he said, nodding to the group of ladies, all of whom he recognized from various functions, although he wasn’t quite certain of their names.
The tallest one, a Lady Dearwood, he thought he recalled, stepped out from the crowd and smiled at him. “Are you a fan of the visual arts, Your Grace?” She gestured to the group. “We are here for our monthly visit, we come once a month”—as the phrase “monthly visit” would imply, Lasham thought—“to gaze upon the majestic beauty of the pictures and become inspired in our own artistic efforts.” She leaned forward, as though confiding in him. He resisted the urge to draw back. “We are all amateur daubists, you see, Your Grace.”
“I see,” Lasham replied, wishing he hadn’t given in to his desire to visit the gallery today himself. Not if it meant encountering a young lady who made him want to do something wrong—not that he knew what that would be—and another group of women who couldn’t just call themselves painters, they had to be “amateur daubists.”
But if he hadn’t come, he wouldn’t have heard her talk about the Tintoretto so intriguingly. He wished it were possible to ask a lady to walk with him through a museum without immediately causing comment—if not from the lady herself, then from anyone who happened to see them—so he could see what she thought of the other works on display. The Titian, the Rubens, the Claudes.
“Are you a painter yourself, Your Grace?” Lady Dearwood’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Just as well, it wasn’t as though he could actually have any of the things he’d been imagining.
“No, I just—” How to say it without sounding as though he were as insufferably pompous as Lady Margaret no doubt thought he was, although these ladies might be pleased at how ducal his approbation—or lack thereof—was. “I appreciate art.” And left his words sitting there, hanging awkwardly in the air between them.
Wonderful, Lasham, he thought. No wonder he usually kept silent in company beyond the minimum of polite conversation. He was clearly terrible at saying anything without sounding like a prig, a snob, or a . . . or a duke.
Although he had managed to utter a few sentences to her without having any of that happen.
“As do we!” Lady Dearwood exclaimed. She patted him on the arm with one gloved hand, her enormous skirts brushing his legs. He resisted the temptation to step farther away. “Please say you will join our artish excursion, Your Grace? It would be an honor.”
And a chore, Lasham thought as he nodded, holding his arm out for Lady Dearwood to take. Those damn skirts making him nearly stumble.
Margaret hadn’t meant to keep track of where he was; it was just that he was so—so present, and large, and very definitely male, and he seemed to loom in the corner of her eye, even though that sounded entirely odd, and she kept feeling this prickling awareness of him. Only every time she happened to very casually and surreptitiously glance his way he was most definitely not looking at her, but at something else. Anyone else, in fact.
But it was hard not to notice him, especially since he was the large black center of some sort of lady bouquet, with women arranged on either side of him, in back, and one in front who seemed to be clearing the way of interlopers.
“This one, Your Grace,” the one on his left arm declaimed as they drew up to a bland landscape scene, “this one makes one’s heart yearn. Don’t you think?” The lady—Margaret thought it might be Miss Edwards, she always bet too much on long shots and got conservative when she had a winning hand—did some sort of eyelash-batting in his general direction, only of course he couldn’t see it, since she was on his blind side.
Margaret didn’t think Miss Edwards would appreciate that if she pointed it out. But the thought of doing so did make her chuckle.
“Yearn, yes, Miss Edwards,” the duke replied, still using his I-have-barely-ever-spoken-to-another-human-being tone he used with her. Had he ever had a normal conversation? Or, worse yet, was this his normal conversation?
Lady Dearwood—it was hard not to notice her, the lady was so tall, and wearing some sort of cascading ruffly dress that doubtless looked good at some point, just not on a woman who more resembled an Amazon—had hold of his other arm and drew him away from the painting, a pointed sniff indicating what she thought of Miss Edwards and her yearning.
And then he did meet her gaze.
“Your Grace!”
He’d known where she was the minute he stepped into the large room. Not that she drew attention to herself, or was dressed outrageously, or was talking loudly, or anything.
She just—what had he thought the night before? Of course. She sparkled. It almost seemed there was a nimbus around her head, which was ridiculous and definitely put paid to the idea that he had no imagination. Here he was, imagining her as some sort of astral body, or heavenly creature, when all she was was a plainspoken lady who was most definitely not impressed with him. And yet—and yet she had said “Your Grace” with such authority, as though she wanted to speak to him.
And since the entire room was silent, no doubt waiting for his reply, it seemed that everyone wanted him to speak to her. If only to answer.
“Yes, Lady Margaret?”
She moved closer, her eyes locked on his face, looking right at him, a sly smile on her lips. Very few people ever just looked directly at him as she was; normally they focused intently on his one eye, or darted glances back and forth between his patch and his eye, the movements getting more frantic the more uncomfortable they became. But she—she just kept her gaze on him, looking at him as though he were a normal man.
Albeit a man who had a title, an eye patch, and the company of no fewer than seven “amateur daubists.”
“I am ready to be escorted to my carriage.” She addressed the ladies surrounding him. “The duke was kind enough to offer to do so when my maid was taken ill,” and here she looked down and made some sort of gesture that implied she was a helpless creature, when Lasham already knew she was nothing of the sort, “and he said I should find him when I was finished.”
She paused and returned to looking at him, and he could have sworn she winked. As though they were two regular people sharing a joke, not a very confused duke and a sprightly, sparkling woman who appeared intent on removing him from where he was.
Rescuing him. That was what she was doing, wasn’t it? She had seen his discomfort and was responding to it with a clever subterfuge that would extricate him from the situation without his having to be rude, which he definitely would never be, or having to endure hours more of the yearning and the daubing and whatever else the Monthly Ladies’ Meeting Every Month Group decided to discuss.
“Of course, Lady Margaret. I am so pleased to be of service.” He removed the lady from his left arm, then Lady Dearwood on his right, making a small bow to each of them in turn.
And then he looked at her, his rescuer, and wanted to kiss her, he was so grateful. Although that was not all of why he wanted to kiss her, although he hadn’t quite realized just how much he wished he could until this very moment.
But instead of doing anything so shocking he just waited as she slid her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, which he’d presented to her as though it were a present, instead of her offering him the gift of escape.
Escape. He wished he actually could.
They walked slowly to the exit; he felt the weight of all the other ladies’ stares as they moved, unable to see her face because of the enormous bonnet she was wearing. Thank goodness men didn’t wear bonnets, or he wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.
Wouldn’t be able to see the sycophants bowing in front of him, the gossips talking about him behind his
back, see the way everyone changed their attitude simply because he was a duke.
Perhaps he should start wearing a bonnet after all.
His arm, and it seemed his entire body, was rigid as they walked to the exit of the gallery. What had seemed like a lark to Margaret now held much more weight, as though this meant something, which of course it didn’t. She’d seen his distress, she’d figured out the reason—she hoped—and she’d done something about it.
“You did wish to leave, didn’t you?” she asked in a low voice as they kept walking. Please let him say yes, or otherwise she would feel like the most managing kind of female.
Not that she wasn’t, but she’d already managed a few things today, namely to do with her next deadline and a contribution to the women she was trying to help, and she didn’t know if there was a quota and she’d have to be less managing tomorrow.
She didn’t think that would be possible.
“Yes, thank you. You came to my rescue, just as St. George did,” he said, his voice sounding relieved.
She exhaled. “Whew, thank goodness. Because I know I don’t know you, and perhaps you like being the object of all that attention. Only . . .” And she paused and tightened her grip on his arm—his very hard, muscled arm she couldn’t help but notice. “From what you said the night before, it seems as though that is the last thing you want. To be the object of attention.”
The duke tipped his hat to a lady entering the gallery, then held the door open for Margaret to step outside. He held his arm out for her again. “I don’t know if I would say that is the last thing I would want, Lady Margaret,” he replied, his low, resonant voice sounding so intensely male it made her insides flutter, just a bit, “but it would have to be in the top five.”
“What would be the other four?” she asked, allowing a flirtatious tone to creep into her voice. Because of course she still found him immensely attractive, and there was nothing wrong with flirting, even though the object of flirtation might be the dullest duke she’d ever met.
But since she’d only ever met two, and the other one was married to her sister, she couldn’t really say she had much basis for comparison.
And he might be the dullest duke but he was also—no offense to her brother-in-law—the most attractive duke she’d ever encountered.
“To sing in public, to be forced to drink inferior wine, to tell a joke and have no one laugh, and,” he said, glancing her way quickly, then returning to looking straight ahead, “to wear one of your bonnets.” He paused, and then the amused tone was gone entirely. “That is to say, not that your bonnet is unattractive, on the contrary, it is quite lovely, as bonnets go, only I wouldn’t—that is, I couldn’t—”
She took pity on him, even though she couldn’t help laughing. “I understand precisely, Your Grace. My bonnet is fine for me, but not for you. I will bear that in mind before I ask you to don any of my clothing.”
And then she felt herself start to blush, because if he was wearing her clothing then what was she wearing? And then she thought about how he’d have to remove some of his clothing to put hers on, and then he’d be naked, as she’d thought about him before, and goodness knew that she didn’t doubt he’d rival all the statues she’d ever seen, but it would be he, and that would be entirely awkward.
She really wished she didn’t have such a vivid imagination.
“Thank you.” His voice was as luscious as the rest of him, Margaret thought—low, and rich, and resonant, and its timbre sent a little shiver through her. “You did rescue me, and I am very grateful.”
“You are welcome.” They stood at the bottom of the stairs, and Margaret glanced down the line of waiting carriages until she spotted hers. “Ah, there is my carriage.” She spotted Annie’s head popping out of the window, no doubt growing more and more impatient for her mistress to stop “gawking at them pictures,” and go do something useful. Like take a nap or have a cup of tea or any of the myriad things Annie thought were more useful than viewing art.
“Allow me to escort you the rest of the way,” he said, not waiting for a reply, but drawing her arm through his again and starting to walk. What did it say about her that while she did not like being told what to do, she did like it when he took such masterful command?
She probably did not want to examine that too closely.
“Thank you. You know,” she said in a thoughtful tone, “you should probably visit the gallery earlier in the day so as to avoid such situations as you just encountered. Ladies such as those seldom rise before noon, and then it takes them at least an hour or two to dress, and more time to gather themselves sufficiently to venture outdoors.”
“Do you generally visit earlier?”
Oh. She hadn’t thought he’d think—well, at least she hoped he didn’t think she was one of those types of ladies, the kind who was angling for attention. Although he had asked.
“I am not nearly as regular as that, Your Grace.” She shrugged. “I arrive when I do,” which made it sound as though she were flighty. Which she was not. Managing, yes, but flighty, no.
“Ah.” Did he sound disappointed? Could it be that he actually wanted to be in her company again? She forced herself not to ask just that, because she didn’t want to embarrass the poor gentleman again, and she already knew he was entirely proper and would likely think she was being shockingly forward.
“Would you like to meet again at the gallery?” And then there was the fact that she was shockingly forward, and she just didn’t care. And if he did want to meet her here at some point in the future, why shouldn’t they do just that? She’d already shocked Society once, it wasn’t as though she could ruin herself again. Or, she thought as she glanced over at the duke, perhaps she could. He was so very attractive.
“Uh, well, that would be pleasant.” He sounded as rigid and proper as he had the night before, but Margaret could already tell it wasn’t so much that he was an absolute stick-in-the-mud as that he was just uncomfortable. Maybe there was something to the Piratical Duke and his Very Proper Demeanor after all.
Damn it, and now she was intrigued, and she couldn’t afford more distraction from her deadlines and her work among the unfortunate women she’d been helping. She almost wanted to reprimand him for being so attractive and layered, only then he would be utterly confused and no doubt shy away from any contact with her. And, damnation, she didn’t want that.
She wanted the opposite, in fact.
“Excellent, Your Grace,” she said, using a tone that she would employ if she were, for example, trying to persuade a bear or some other enormous solitary beast to keep her company.
Not that she was in the habit of such things, of course. But she couldn’t help but think of her first impression of him, as a solid, and solidly handsome, force that might be able to move mountains, if it were so inclined, or make things happen that seemed impossible.
It remained to be seen if the reality of the duke could live up to Margaret’s now very active imagination.
And luckily she was very interested in being the one to see it.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
The moan of pain—and Georgiana could tell whatever it was was in pain, that much was clear, even if she couldn’t ascertain who, or maybe even what, was making the noise—was closer now, and she walked with more confident steps, knowing that whatever it was wouldn’t be able to
hurt her.
At least she hoped not.
She walked for at least ten minutes, stopping every so often to listen for the moans, which were growing fainter.
“Hold on, help is on the way,” she called, feeling incredibly foolish but not able to stop herself. She didn’t think the moans were made by a human, which meant it couldn’t understand her, so why was she trying to reassure some sort of beast? Also, she couldn’t ignore the prickling feeling that although whatever it was might be in pain now, it might also be hungry, and she might be dinner.
There were a lot of b
ad “mights” in there.
But she kept walking, knowing that if she were in pain in the woods she would want someone—or something—to hear her and try to help.
Chapter 3
Lasham felt himself wince as he recalled what he’d said to her, the lady of sparkles. “Wear your bonnet,” or some such nonsense, something that managed to make him seem bizarre and insulting all at the same time.
Perhaps for his next trick he could tell her she was stupid and not worth his time. Or would that be too subtle?
“Lash!” He jerked his head up, forgetting bonnets—thank goodness—for just a moment as he heard his friend Jamie’s voice. The man himself soon appeared in Lasham’s line of vision, a wide grin on his face.
“What are you doing in London?” Lasham asked, shaking his friend’s hand. Unlike Lasham, Jamie thought London wasn’t busy enough, and was usually traveling in some distant land, only returning home when his mother demanded she be able to see her only son.
Jamie shrugged, his movements precise and elegant. “I got bored of not speaking the language.” He made a show of looking Lasham up and down, one eyebrow raised. “You are looking as forbidding as usual.” He reached out and tapped his finger on Lasham’s eye patch—the only person from whom Lasham would even come close to tolerating such behavior. “It’s a pity you won’t travel with me, Lash. Your appearance would scare even the most recalcitrant individual into handing over their treasures.”
Jamie didn’t just see the sights when he traveled; he had developed a robust trade in art, tracking down items in the most remote places and selling them to fellow British folk who weren’t as brave as he in venturing beyond their own world. He didn’t need the money but it seemed that he did need the danger. Something Lasham envied—he wished he could join his friend on one of his adventures, but then he’d be neglecting his responsibilities.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 3