One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  Finally she closed her mouth, but continued to glare at him.

  And then he felt all her words tumbling around him like a collapsing heap of bricks, pelting him so sharply they nearly hurt. The fury and frustration he’d felt earlier that day came roaring back, and he spoke without thinking. “Do you know what it is like, Lady Margaret, to be gawked at and appraised every single moment you are within sight of anyone?” He swept his gaze down her body. “You do not.” He expelled the breath from his lungs. “To be judged constantly by what you could do for someone, not who you could be to someone.” He turned his back to her, the height of rudeness, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care, not at that moment.

  Besides, she had already flouted propriety by arriving at his house at so late an hour, likely only accompanied by the order-giving maid.

  “That doesn’t explain why you followed me,” she said in a somewhat milder, but still angry tone. “And why you were so dismissive earlier.”

  How could he explain to her when he couldn’t explain it to himself?

  He turned back around, spreading his arms out. “I don’t know, Lady Margaret. Believe me, I wanted not to have done it as soon as I did.” He shook his head in frustration. “Look at me.” And then realized what he’d said. “No, don’t look at me. Too many people do.” Now the fury was back, crashing harder against his pent-up resentment. Resentment against himself, mostly, but at her for daring to make him question his choices thus far. And finding the answers lacking. “But if I hadn’t been there tonight, what would have happened? You would have subdued that drunkard who was already fighting with two women? With what, your beauty?”

  Her eyes went wide at that last sentence, and he could swear he’d surprised her. Hadn’t she looked at herself?

  “Whereas you were able to defeat him with your appearance, you’re saying?” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know who’s been looking at you, Your Grace, but you’re beautiful also.” She laughed at his expression, which must have looked as though he’d been punched in the head. Or blindsided.

  Which was absolutely not funny, given that he was partially blind, but then it did make him want to laugh.

  That was it. She made him want to laugh, to talk about things, to feel other than how he felt most of the time. He had no idea what to make of that. Or of her. Or of anything, for that matter.

  “I am not beautiful,” he replied stiffly. And awkwardly. As though nobody had ever paid him a compliment before. Which they hadn’t, at least never in terms of his appearance.

  She drew nearer, an appraising gleam in her eyes. “Oh, but you are, Your Grace.” In a mirror image of what he had done earlier, she raised her hand to his cheek, but held it suspended there as though waiting for his permission.

  He closed his eye and braced himself for it.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said, her voice soft and questioning, her hand poised in the air, still not touching him.

  He looked at her then and felt the fury melt into something else, something that made him walk a step forward and take her hand in his, his other hand on her arm, to draw her close to him, to lower his mouth to hers and to kiss her.

  To taste her, to capture some of her essence, her sparkle, to feel what it must be like to be so—so her.

  She didn’t push him away. Didn’t slap him, or demand he marry her, or mock him for daring to touch her with his imperfect self.

  Instead she placed her arms around his neck and held him to her, her soft mouth moving on his, her fingers caressing his neck.

  Not as though he were a monster. Or even a duke.

  Just as though he were a man.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “Fine,” Georgiana grumbled as she trudged her way back out through the woods. “See if I come help the next time a dragon is roaring.”

  She chuckled at that, of course, because the most exciting thing that had happened to her—until today—was the annual fair that took place in their village, and that was only exciting because her father insisted on buying her a new hair ribbon.

  A new hair ribbon did not come close to equaling finding a living dragon.

  But even a hair ribbon—new or otherwise—would never make her a beautiful princess. She had to admit to being hurt by the dragon’s comment, even though he was definitely not even close to beautiful himself.

  Except there was something awe-inspiring about such a creature.

  And he was not even close to being awed by her.

  She had just resolved to wipe the whole matter from her mind when she heard another sickening roar.

  Chapter 7

  At first, Margaret was so startled she didn’t know what to do. If she were one of her heroines, prepared for any kind of situation, she certainly would—unfortunately, in Margaret’s books he would be the villain, and her heroine would be screaming for help from the trustworthy hero. Who would not be nearly as intriguing as he.

  But then, as his mouth, his firm, gorgeous, masculine mouth descended on hers, she knew exactly what to do.

  Which was wrap her arms around his neck and hold him closer. After all, if he was kissing her, he wasn’t talking, and thus far, she’d found his conversation to be lacking in comparison to his appearance.

  But his kissing. Goodness, it was wonderful. He used just the right amount of pressure and held her as though she were both precious and a strong woman—how did he do that?—and the contrast of his smooth, tender mouth with the stubble above his lip and how strong he felt when he was holding her and, oh my, she was surprised she hadn’t swooned yet.

  There was time for swooning, of course, but right now she’d rather be kissing him.

  She wove her fingers through his hair, feeling the silky strands caress her skin. Another contrast to the huge, strong body that was right there, although not absolutely right there, not where things were starting to respond in an interesting way.

  That would bear thinking about as well, but again, not while he was kissing her.

  And then he leaped back, as though she’d breathed fire on him or something, his eyes—no, his eye—wide and startled, his entire attitude that of someone who’d just done something he couldn’t believe he’d done.

  That would make two of them, then. Although she was guessing she was the only one who wished they could do it again, and very soon.

  “My lady, I must apologize, I don’t know what . . .” He paused, and ran his hand over his face and down his chest.

  Rather as Margaret would like to do as well, although this was likely not the time to bring it up.

  “I provoked you,” Margaret said with a shrug. She stepped away from him and went and sat on the sofa. “It happens.”

  His expression tightened. “So this kind of thing has happened to you before? Happens often, in fact?”

  She wanted to say, Yes, it happens all the time, men just leap on me and start kissing my mouth, just to see what he’d do. Hm. Maybe she would, if only it would persuade him to kiss her again. She put her hand up to her mouth to cover her smile.

  “Because you are so irresistible, gentlemen cannot help themselves when they are around you?” He stepped closer, and now she could see how his jaw was set and the pulse at his neck was beating a furious rhythm.

  Or it would just make him talk more, and that was perhaps the last thing she wanted to happen.

  “No, of course it doesn’t happen all the time,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “At least, not this specific reaction.” She frowned in thought. “I do tend to aggravate people, but they generally don’t kiss me in response.”

  A muscle ticked at his jaw. At some point, she would likely inform him he certainly appeared to have quite a temper. But not now. She wasn’t that brazen. At least she didn’t think so.

  “I didn’t mean to kiss you, my lady,” he said stiffly. He wasn’t looking at her any longer; instead, he appeared to be studying the door. Perhaps hoping she would soon make u
se of it?

  “So it just . . . happened?” she said, stressing the last word in imitation of him.

  Then he did look at her, and finally, finally it seemed he was calming down a bit. At least he didn’t appear as though he were about to go on a murderous rampage. Maybe a nonmurderous one, but definitely there was no killing involved.

  “I deserved that,” he said in a much lower tone. “I don’t—” and then he shook his head. “There’s nothing I can say that will fix this.” He looked at her again, his mouth curling up just a bit, enough to hint at a smile. “I believe we’ve established you don’t wish to marry me, which is the only proper response I could have to having done what I did.” He paused. “You—you don’t wish to marry me, do you?”

  He sounded so concerned Margaret couldn’t keep herself from laughing. “No, of course not. Thank you for the offer, though.” The thought crossed her mind that her parents would disown her again if they knew she’d turned down a duke, no less. It was a good thing she could be disowned only once.

  “Well. That’s settled then.” He crossed his arms over his chest, only not in the predatory way he’d done when he’d appeared so unexpectedly, but this time as though he were protecting himself. From her?

  She placed her palms on her legs and rose, smoothing the skirts of her gown as she did so. “Well, I should be on my way. Except that you never did answer why you happened to be there to save me,” and at that she couldn’t help but roll her eyes, “but I suppose that is one of the mysteries of life. Rather like A Lady of Mystery,” she added, unable to keep herself from making the reference.

  Only perhaps she shouldn’t have. His gaze narrowed, and now those folded arms had altered so they did look rather threatening. How did he do that? Was he tightening his muscles?

  And what was wrong with her that she wished she could go over there and feel them for herself?

  “You shouldn’t be going to those neighborhoods, Lady Margaret. It’s not safe, even if you do have a bossy lady’s maid to accompany you,” and now she thought he had rolled his eyes—eye—but she was too outraged that he would dare to bring it up again, after all this, to notice.

  “I shouldn’t be involving myself in other people’s hardships, you’re saying?” and she took a few steps to get closer to him, feeling herself fairly bristling. “And what have you done—oh!” she said, bringing her fingers up to her mouth. “But that’s it!”

  “What’s it?” he asked, understandably confused. She hadn’t finished her thought, after all. It would be as if she stopped writing mid-sentence.

  “You can do something for me,” she said in a triumphant tone of voice. “Since you are so concerned for my safety.” He did owe her, and he did look as he did. And you do want to spend time in his company. “You can escort me to those neighborhoods, as you call them, when I am needed.” She looked him up and down. It was definitely an enjoyable view. “You can come along and look frightening, I will do what needs to be done, and you won’t have to worry about my safety. And it will relieve your guilt about having accosted me just now,” although she really did wish he were in the mood for more accosting.

  He didn’t reply, just stared back at her, his mouth hanging open just enough to let her know he was entirely speechless.

  Although this way of getting him to be quiet was far less fun than the other way. But less potentially damaging to her reputation.

  “Well?” she prompted. She hadn’t counted on him being slow to comprehend; he’d seemed to understand enough when they were at the museum.

  “It wouldn’t be proper,” he said, returning to that stiff tone of voice she was coming to loathe.

  “No, of course it wouldn’t,” she said with a sigh of exasperation. “That’s precisely the point of why I want you to come. It’s not proper to do, I am going to do it, and you can make it less dangerous for me. It isn’t as though I need escorting to safe neighborhoods, after all. Those I can manage on my own.” She inhaled as she thought about what she could say to convince him. “You always do what is proper.” Except now, when you just kissed me, she wanted to add, only she didn’t because she thought he might insist on marrying her after all, and neither of them wanted that. “Your escorting me makes it more proper than if I were to go alone.”

  He appeared to be considering it. Now for the closing paragraph. It was crucial she do this well, as when she wrote the final part of each serial. “And,” she said, spreading her hands out, “it is not as though you can labor under any kind of misapprehension for my motivation in wanting to keep company with you. It is not as though I wish to marry you, after all. Far from it,” she added under her breath.

  Even though part of her was asking if it would be so bad to be married to someone who was so attractive to look at and who could startle people with his very presence.

  But that was a dangerous thought.

  Not least of which was that he would speak every so often, and likely as not, he would find some way to irritate her.

  “Oh. I see.” He sounded—disappointed? Had she somehow hurt his feelings by letting him know she didn’t want to marry him as much as he didn’t wish to marry her?

  Men. She’d be better off just making the fictional men in her life do what she wanted, since she had thus far had very little luck with the real ones.

  “Well, then,” he said, still stiffly, but less so, “then yes. If I can be of help in your foolhardy venture, I will assist you.”

  Margaret smiled, feeling a warm sense of relief flood over her. “See? That wasn’t so bad. And to think you are in this situation because of something that just . . . happened,” she said with a smirk.

  He gave a tight smile in response.

  “And if you would like, I did enjoy looking at art with you—that would be a perfect place to meet as well. We can rendezvous at the National Gallery or the Royal Academy or somewhere public and entirely respectable, and then we can take ourselves off to my foolhardy pursuit.”

  “Venture,” he corrected.

  “ ‘Pursuit’ sounds so much more exciting,” Margaret replied. ‘Venture’ sounds like something people embark on, like a great ship traveling for a long time with nothing to do. ‘Pursuit’ is something you can actively do.”

  His mouth twisted in a rueful grin. “Why do I have the feeling, Lady Margaret, that you will be writing the lines of my life from now on?”

  Margaret’s heart thudded in her chest. If she were writing his life, she wouldn’t be giving him any dialogue. She’d find something else for him to do.

  The question she couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer was what, precisely, that thing would be.

  He had kissed her. He had really gone ahead, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

  What was more remarkable was that she had kissed him back.

  He had apologized, but he couldn’t feel sorry for it—he felt alive, and on edge, and curious, but not sorry. And he hadn’t apologized for the earlier thing, the time when he really did regret what he’d done.

  And now he’d gotten roped into accompanying her to places no young lady and no proper duke would go, just because he had kissed her.

  He could have said no; there wouldn’t have been any consequences. He knew she didn’t want to marry him. He didn’t want to marry her. She had no hold over him.

  So why did he say yes?

  He exhaled as he pondered it. Just two nights ago, the night they’d met, he’d been dissatisfied with his life and what he was doing with it. And he’d had no idea how to change that.

  And then he’d met her, and now he had some idea, although it wasn’t necessarily the most proper one, the one most suited to his position.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it?

  This—this task, odd and improper though it was, made him feel as though he had more of a purpose. As though he was wanted for who he was, not what he was.

  Just in the same way that she had kissed him. As a man.

  Not as a duke, not as an oddity, not
as anything but who he was. Or who he might be.

  And he wished he could kiss her again. What would he be doing if he had gone ahead and done more?

  He allowed his mind to wander, just for a moment, to consider what it would be like to have her as a bed partner; she would doubtless continue to make fun of him, and ask questions, and laugh, and he wouldn’t mind, not if it meant he could share the joke and get the chance to run his hands all over her warm, naked body.

  He had a healthy sexual appetite but it was seldom practical or the right thing to indulge it whenever he felt like it, so it had been some time since he had been with a woman. And now, though it felt as though she’d awakened some sexual beast inside, it wouldn’t be right to go find another woman upon whom to slake his urges.

  Perhaps he had finally discovered his imagination, because his mind was certainly full of what he’d like to do to her.

  Although now, alone with her in a room well after midnight, was likely not the best time to discover he did, indeed, have an imagination.

  Especially since she’d said something, and he hadn’t heard her. “What did you say?”

  A knowing smile was on her lips, as though she was well aware of what was distracting him. Hopefully she wasn’t; hopefully that was just his guilty conscience and surprisingly vigorous imagination. “We will meet tomorrow at the Royal Academy, then.”

  Lasham pushed all thoughts of bed and Lady Margaret aside—or most of the thoughts, at least—and nodded in agreement.

  “Three o’clock?”

  He frowned. “I should check with my secretary, let me send a message tomorrow.”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” She smiled mischievously. “Although if you cannot make our appointment, I will still continue on my way back to Soho. Or wherever I am needed.”

  Aggravating woman. He wished he could just lock her in one of the bedrooms upstairs and—no, no, of course he didn’t wish to do that. Where had that thought come from?

  Maybe having an imagination was not all he had hoped for. Or imagined, if he were being remarkably devoid of imagination.