And thinking about all that made her realize just how shallow she was being. She resolved to forget about the Piratical Duke altogether, since he clearly was not interested in anything to do with her.
Lasham strode out of the National Gallery at a furious pace. Furious in terms of how quickly he was walking, and also furious with—with her, and himself, and anything and anyone who could make him question just who he was and the rightness of what he was doing.
Doing what wasn’t right had simply never occurred to him. And he could blame that on his parents, both in raising him as they did and then having the misfortune of dying when he was too young to balance the responsibility.
But it wasn’t just that. It was he, as well. Who he was, and who he’d become.
He nodded at a few people who were attempting to greet him, but didn’t slow his steps, just walked out to his carriage—which was waiting for him, of course, since a duke’s carriage was given precedence as the duke himself was, and he never had to wait for any conveyance.
He leaped in and slammed the door behind him, not waiting for his footman. He sat stiffly on the carriage seat, clenching his jaw and feeling as though someone were encasing him in a vicious embrace.
But nobody was, were they? He was alone. He had just rejected someone so thoroughly it was likely she would never speak to him again, and all because he hadn’t wanted the temptation of what she offered. The chance that he could do things differently.
The carriage began to move, back to his house—it wasn’t a home—and he felt the rage and frustration curl through him. He lifted his hand, made it into a fist, and punched the door of the carriage until his knuckles bled.
“If I may, Your Grace.” His valet brushed something off of Lasham’s shoulder and then stepped back, a satisfied expression on his face. “If I might be allowed to say so, Your Grace, you look unexceptional. Perfect for the evening.” Unexceptional. Perfect. Boring.
He’d spent the hours since rushing out of the National Gallery reviewing the latest contracts he’d received for his holdings, consulting with his cook for a dinner he was to give for members of the House of Lords also in favor of passing a certain bill, and then he’d had tea, by himself, in his study with his books.
Boring. Necessary as well—he wasn’t foolishly falling on his ducal sword of propriety—but boring.
Would it be possible to engage in more interesting pursuits and not neglect his duties, as she’d seemed to suggest?
Not that she would be available for anything of the sort, not now, not when he’d made his discomfort with her viewpoint so thoroughly known.
He wished he knew how he could apologize without necessarily telling her he was wrong—not that he wasn’t, he was, but—and here he nearly smiled at the irony of it—there were shades of gray in his wrongness, and he didn’t think he would be able to properly explain himself, not without somehow making it worse.
Especially since she was adept at words herself. An author, one whose serials were hugely popular. He’d read a few of them himself, before he’d met her, and he’d been drawn into her stories, been able to escape his own concerns for the moments he’d read her work.
How could he possibly say anything that would make any sense to someone who handled words and stories and grand moments as she did?
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“Good evening, my lord. A delightful party, isn’t it?”
“It is. Excuse me, I am going to sample some of Lady Marcham’s cook’s cakes.”
“Of course, enjoy yourself.”
Lasham stood at the side of the ballroom, as he usually did, studiously looking over everyone’s heads so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact. Although that hadn’t stopped anyone from addressing him. Thankfully, they seemed to find him as dull as he found them, and generally moved along once his polite disinterest was fully engaged.
Going out was a recent necessity, since it seemed—much to his horror—that his fellow lords only supported bills when they had an acquaintance with the individual behind the bill. He wouldn’t be so selfish as to stay at home when there were good works to be done.
He’d arrived punctually half an hour past the stated time, he’d exchanged pleasantries with his host and hostess, he’d sipped weak punch and nodded at all his acquaintances.
And that had taken all of fifteen minutes, but he couldn’t leave for at least another twenty minutes or he would be seen as rude.
“Lash!”
He turned abruptly at the sound of Jamie’s voice. Of course his friend would have found a way to finagle an invitation, even though he’d just arrived in town and, as far as Lasham knew, had never met the Marchams.
Jamie stood next to him, on his good side, of course, since his friend was always conscious of just what and how well Lasham could see.
“I knew you’d be here. That’s actually the only reason I wanted to come.”
“To see me? You could have called at my house, I was there all afternoon.” Doing boring things while being boring and wishing I weren’t so boring.
“Yes, I could have, but I was otherwise engaged,” Jamie said with a wink.
Jamie had clearly not spent the afternoon being boring. At least, for the lady’s sake, Lasham hoped not.
“And now that you’ve found me, what did you want?” Lasham shook his head in frustration. “Not that I am not delighted to see you, that is. I didn’t mean it to sound so. That is—”
Jamie held his hand up, a grin on his face. “I know what you mean. You are pleased to see me, you cannot wait until you can leave this event, and you want to know what I am about. Isn’t that right?”
Lasham exhaled. “Yes. Precisely.”
“Well, it’s just that I was hoping you could drop me at my lodgings this evening. I haven’t yet secured a carriage, since Mother’s is being repainted or something. You’d think the woman would be certain to keep all of the things I might possibly require at the ready in case I visit.” Jamie spoke in a mock-outraged tone that showed just how much he cared for his mother.
“Since you told her you were coming, of course,” Lasham replied dryly.
“I barely ever know when I am arriving, so of course not.” Jamie paused and folded his arms over his chest. “Still and all, unless I wish to hail a hansom, which I don’t, I have no way of returning home tonight.”
“If it means we can leave soon, I would drive you to Scotland,” Lasham said.
“Ha! I knew I could depend on you. And your misanthropy.”
Lasham drew himself up to his full height. Which meant, since Jamie was nearly as tall as he, that he was eye-to-nose with his friend. “I am not misanthropic, merely . . .” What was he? Why did he have only one good friend in life? And a good friend who frequently left town? What did that say about him?
And why couldn’t he seem to just . . . get over it, the way Jamie would, if he were in the same situation.
Although Jamie would never be accused of being boring or stiff or proper, that was for certain.
“I know, I know, don’t get all stiff about it,” Jamie replied. “Let’s go, I don’t think I can stand to look at your solemn party face any longer.”
They said goodbye to their hosts, then asked a footman to bring them their cloaks. They stood just outside the entryway to the ballroom, Jamie eyeing all the ladies who walked in and out, and Lasham watching his friend, wondering why things seemed so easy for Jamie.
And then feeling like an idiot because life was not hard for him, not at all. He was a duke, he had more money than he knew what to do with, he was healthy, he did the right thing at all the right times, and—
And he was miserable in company, had just insulted one of the only women who had ever intrigued him, and even his best friend had implied he was dull.
“Who is that creature?” Jamie’s words snapped him out of his introspection.
And then made him wish he could crawl back into it.
“That’s Lady Margaret Sawford,” Lasham heard himself reply. “She is the sister of the Duchess of Gage, and is A Lady of Mystery.”
Lady Margaret spoke to a footman, no doubt also calling for her outer garment, then thankfully turned to speak to someone at the other end of the room. She wore a gown similar to those of all the other young ladies in the room, but on her, the wide skirts, the narrow waist, and even the puffy sleeves looked special. Sparkling. He’d never had cause to notice a lady’s clothing before, but when she was wearing it, he somehow couldn’t take his eyes off it. And her.
“It’s no mystery how lovely she is,” Jamie said, making Lasham wish he could simultaneously roll his eyes at his friend and punch him in the face.
“A Lady of Mystery. The author of those newspaper serials.”
“Oh! Not that I’ve read the serials—been out of town, you know—but that makes much more sense than you suddenly developing a penchant for florid prose.”
At least Jamie didn’t explicitly say that Lasham had no imagination. Oh right, he’d already basically told him that earlier that day. No doubt Jamie would think repeating his opinion would be as dull as Lasham was.
“Introduce me.”
“No,” Lasham said in nearly a snarl.
Jamie arched his eyebrows and gave Lasham a knowing look. “Ah, so that is it, is it?”
Lasham closed his eye and exhaled, concentrating on breathing deeply so he wouldn’t act on what he most wanted to do. Which was deny everything, punch the wall—again—and also ask Jamie for advice on how to grovel well enough so that a certain young lady would forgive him and remain his friendly acquaintance.
The footman arrived with their cloaks before Lasham could do any of the things on his list. He strode out of the Marchams’ house without glancing in her direction—at least not that she would be able to tell—and got into his carriage, only exhaling when the footman had shut the door behind Jamie.
“What are you going to do about her?”
Lasham didn’t even bother trying to say he had no idea who his friend was talking about.
“Nothing. There is nothing I can do.”
Jamie uttered a snort. “I can think of plenty of things,” he began, only to stop speaking as Lasham’s hand clamped over his mouth.
“Shut. Up.”
“Fine,” it sounded like he replied, only of course his word was muffled through Lasham’s palm.
He withdrew his hand and folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t look over, but he could tell Jamie was staring at him.
“I can’t,” he began. “I don’t even know what I’d want if I could.”
Thankfully, Jamie did not pipe up with a helpful list of suggestions.
“I met her a few evenings ago, and she was—she was refreshingly honest.” He shrugged, not able to even put the words together. “I wish I had the facility of making friends easily. She seemed as though she would be a good friend to have. Only I—”
“You did something to turn her against you.”
Lasham felt the burn of frustration coil through his chest. “Not exactly, but it’s that—well, I can’t make it right.”
There was a long pause. Surprising, given Jamie’s usual habit of saying all the things that were on his mind. “You can make anything right if you want to.” Jamie’s tone was nothing that Lasham had ever heard him use before—pensive, almost, even though prior to this moment he would have sworn Jamie didn’t have a pensive bone in his body.
And prior to a few days ago, Lasham would have said he was relatively satisfied with his life. Certainly he didn’t always like the attention that being a duke brought, but it was balanced against the good he was doing for his extended family, his tenants, the citizens whose laws he enacted.
But now he knew—or at least he thought he knew—it wasn’t enough.
It was almost as though he had punched himself in the gut; he felt it roil in his belly, the whatever emotion it was coursing through him like a strong liquor.
The only question was, did he want to stay drunk or get sober?
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Why are you here? Why aren’t you frightened?” The dragon spoke in a low rumble, wisps of steam escaping from his mouth and his nostrils.
It should have been surprising that the dragon could speak, but then again, it was even more surprising that there was a dragon in the first place, so Georgiana didn’t fuss about the details of the apparently living dragon.
Now if he weren’t able to fly, well, then she might quibble.
“You need help,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And I am actually quite frightened, only I cannot deny help to anyone just because I might be a bit fearful.”
The dragon exhaled, closing his eyes and seeming to sink farther into the earth. “It’s no use anyway. I don’t have the energy to survive, much less to devour you.”
Georgiana knew enough not to ask if he would devour her if he had the energy. Instead, she ran her palm along the ridges of the dragon’s back, feeling for the injuries.
And then the dragon roared.
Chapter 5
“Thank you, Lady Marcham, it was a lovely party.” Margaret nodded at her hostess, then smiled at the footman who’d arrived with her cloak.
She hadn’t meant to leave so early, but she’d gotten an urgent message from one of the women she was trying to help—she’d been waylaid by a grumpy footman who’d seemed irked that he had to ferry messages to guests when he could be standing in the room looking important.
Apparently the woman’s sister’s husband had been drinking again, and was making threats to both of the sisters. They were barricaded in their lodgings, but the police wouldn’t come because it was a domestic matter, and the women were too poor to pay anyone else to help them.
Margaret wished, sometimes, she wasn’t so softhearted and observant. If she had been less of the former, she wouldn’t have done anything when she’d been the latter. But since it was practically her job to notice people, and relationships, and how humanity interacted, it would be disingenuous and morally reprehensible of her to ignore the things she observed.
Which was why she was heading to Soho, if not the worst neighborhood in London, definitely among the top five. Escorted by her sharp-tongued maid Annie, her coachman who was another one of her rescues, and that was all.
She was grateful she had gotten her brother-in-law to show her a few boxing moves—not that she could knock anyone out, but she knew where to hit a man, and also knew how to best get out of the way if someone was intent on hitting her.
Thus far, she had not had to use the knowledge, but she was armed with it—or fisted with it, she thought with a smirk—and while she hoped she wouldn’t ever have to put it in practice, there was something quite appealing about hitting someone who was intent on hurting you.
“Where we off to now, then?” Annie said as Margaret got into the carriage.
“How did you know we’re not just going home?” Honestly, she should teach Annie how to play cards; the woman was downright frightening with how she was able to predict things.
“Because it’s early, you’ve got that set look on your face, and I saw some sort of grimy fellow come up not fifteen minutes ago with a note, and then a footman darted inside with it. You should write me as one of them detectives in your serials, you should.”
“I do not write mystery stories, Annie; my nom de plume is A Lady of Mystery. Not the same thing.”
“Fine, just ignore me then,” Annie said with a wave of her hand, nearly as regal as the Queen herself.
“Yes, we’re going to help the Banner sisters. You remember, the ones who do that nice lacework? The younger sister’s husband is a brute, and apparently he’s been drinking again.”
“So we’re going in there to stop him, a grown, drunk man.” To call Annie’s tone of voice dubious was to be optimistic in the description.
Margaret pulled the ed
ges of her cloak more tightly around herself. “Well, yes.”
“And you’re probably going to take the women out of their lodgings and bring them to that house, and then to the Agency.” A sniff. Margaret had already had an earful about the Quality Employment Agency, and how “fings were never gonna be right, no matter how hard people try” many times before. It couldn’t make her stop trying, not if it meant one woman was saved from a terrible fate. And she knew Annie secretly felt that way, too—she just couldn’t admit to being quite as charitable as she actually was. It was only luck that Annie hadn’t had to rely on the Agency for employment—her aunt had served in Margaret’s parents’ household, and recommended her niece for employment when Margaret needed a lady’s maid. Her parents hadn’t cared who had been hired, just that Isabella did not have to lend out her own servant to dress Margaret. “And we’ll be getting them out if that man doesn’t end up killing one or more of us.”
“Uh—yes?” Margaret said, wondering if her idea was actually as ludicrous as it sounded when told through Annie’s view.
“Well, we’d better make sure we’re well fortified, then,” Annie said, withdrawing a small bottle from her own cloak. She unstoppered it, took a drink, then handed it to Margaret.
“Goodness, Annie, I didn’t know you had this,” Margaret said, taking the flask in her hand. She took a sniff and coughed.
“It’s a good thing I do,” Annie said. “We’re both going to need as much help as we can get, and when all else fails, we can always muster up some Dutch courage.”
Margaret chuckled and took a swig from the bottle. It burned going down, a fiery path that immediately helped fire up her resolve.
Annie tucked the flask back into her cloak and nodded at her mistress. “Now we’re ready.”
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Margaret murmured.
“This is the house, my lady,” John Coachman said in his broad London accent. He’d been with Margaret for nearly all of the two years since she’d left her parents’ home—she’d found him wandering the road after getting let go from a glue factory. She figured he had some experience with horses, given where glue came from, and so she hired him on as her coachman. The Agency didn’t, at the moment, offer employment for men, so she was grateful she’d actually needed someone when she found him.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 5