“Thank you,” she said. His expression seemed to indicate that the duke had spoken to him about her, and she wondered just what he had said—that she had execrable taste in art, that she insisted on venturing into less savory parts of London, that—that he had kissed her.
He wouldn’t have told her friend that, would he?
She wouldn’t have thought so, but on the other hand, the gentleman was looking at her as though he knew something. Hopefully he just looked at everyone like that.
“The dance is beginning, Lady Margaret. Shall we?” The duke held his arm out, and Margaret curled her fingers around it, hoping she didn’t audibly gasp at the strength she felt.
Thankfully, it was a waltz. Because if she was going to dance where she seldom danced, and dance with him, no less, of course it had to be a waltz.
A lesser dance—the quadrille or the schottische, for example—would have meant she spent less time in his arms, which would be . . . less optimal.
The music began, and he drew her into his arms, his hand at her waist, the other hand holding hers.
At first he didn’t speak. He kept his gaze locked on her face, however, and she felt as though his expression was communicating something, if she could just figure out what it was.
He would make an excellent cardplayer.
“I do not dance often.” That stiff voice again, only she didn’t dislike it as much. It seemed as though his words were being pulled out of him, as though he didn’t quite know how to converse all the time.
Perhaps she should write his dialogue after all.
“Neither do I,” she replied. She glanced over his shoulder at all the whirling couples on the dance floor with them, ladies with enormous skirts that looked as though they were being tossed about by windswept seas. The gentlemen, most of them with enormous mustaches, were much drabber, but no less impressive.
It was a lovely sight. Although probably she only thought that because she was on the dance floor with him.
“Do you not dance because you prefer not to?” Now he sounded as though he was worried she really didn’t want to dance with him.
If she were a different type of woman, she would tease him with the possibility that she didn’t like to dance, and was doing it only because she felt obligated to. Because he’d asked her. But she could never be that cruel, especially not to someone like him.
Not that she knew him as well as that sounded. Although by now she could admit that she would like to. Know him better, that is.
“I do not dance, in general, because I do not want to dance with the gentlemen who ask me.” She tilted her head. “But I find I very much like to dance with you.”
He smiled—a real smile, not one of those tight grimaces that she’d seen more times than she’d cared to already.
“I find I wish to dance with you, also.” He raised his eyebrow. “Does that mean I am behaving too gentlemanly for your taste?” The way he said it, in that low tone, made her stomach churn and tingles run up and down her spine.
“Well,” she said, thinking it might be time after all to try that flirtatious tone, “I am not sure. What would ungentlemanly-like behavior look like if we were here, and not out where you had to look all frightening?”
He smiled almost wickedly at her, and the tingles burst into full-blown shivers. Oh my.
“Let’s see what I can do to make me more ungentlemanly in your eyes then. We can consider this our first adventure.”
And he took his hand off her waist, keeping a tight hold on her other hand, and strode toward the terrace windows, her following along behind, her heart in her throat, and other parts of her all shivery to find out what he might do.
This was likely the most spontaneous thing he had ever done, and it was all because of her. If he hadn’t met her, he’d still be standing in that ballroom, a glass of wine in his hand, wishing he weren’t there.
And now he wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.
He hadn’t even known he’d had the thought to request her assistance with adventuring—whatever that might entail—until the words had spilled out of him, and as he’d said it, he had felt as though it was the most true thing he had ever said.
Of course, that was after she’d told him to stop being so gentlemanly, which had made him furious in any number of ways.
He wasn’t furious any longer—that had subsided as soon as they’d struck their bargain—but definitely bothered. Wanting to tell her how he felt, but he couldn’t find the words. As usual.
He led her onto the terrace, then pulled her to the far end. There was a surprisingly bright moon—for London, at least—and he could see her face, lifted up to his, her dark eyes catching the light. She literally sparkled this evening, little stars caught in her hair, her gown the deep blue of a late evening sky.
She was beautiful. She was alight with who she was, confident, and lovely, and radiant. He wanted to capture some of her light, take it home with him to draw out and look at in the darkness.
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. “Well,” she asked in a soft whisper, “what ungentlemanly-like behavior did you wish to show me?”
He froze, not sure just what to do. That is, he knew what he wanted to do, but also knew he absolutely should not.
A moment. Another. And then—
Then she raised her arms, slid them around her neck, and raised her face, placing her lips on his. “Show me,” she murmured against his mouth.
Lasham pulled her to him, a fierce charge of emotion, and lust, and want, and need coursing through him.
He slid his palms down her back, let his hands grip her waist, drawing her body in closer to his. It wasn’t enough, it could never be enough, but he allowed himself to savor this, this moment, the carnality of their mouths touching, his hands on her body, her hands—well, she had hold of his arms and was digging her fingers into his muscles as though she, too, couldn’t get enough.
He didn’t know that a mere kiss could be so spectacular. He wondered if it was she, or they, or just that he was tired of being reserved, and measured, and finally was allowing himself to let go.
He licked at the seam of her mouth and she opened with a sigh. His tongue made entrance, and she tangled her tongue with his, giving as well as getting, an equal partner in the kiss.
He drew her in tighter, her breasts now pressed against his body, all soft and full and wonderful.
He drew his hand up her side, just there, just below the curve of her breast, stroking his fingers on the fabric of her gown, tasting her sweet lips, touching her body, wanting her.
She had moved her hands also, now reaching into his jacket and sliding her fingers down his chest, gripping the edges of his waistcoat to bring him closer.
The thought crossed his mind that if they were closer, she might be behind him.
She made a soft humming sound, deep and low in her throat, and his cock pulsed, wanting out, wanting into her, wanting, wanting, wanting.
This was going too fast, too soon, and he didn’t know if he could handle the rush of emotions, of feelings that were sweeping over him.
He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead on the top of her head, his whole body shuddering as he gasped for air.
“That was an excellent demonstration, Your Grace,” she said in a soft voice before she drew away and left him, alone and hard and wanting, on the terrace.
Feeling as though the adventure had just begun.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“The dragon is mine,” the princess said, still in that same flat tone. Georgiana had to wonder if the woman had any emotion at all.
“He is not,” she replied heatedly. “I doubt you even know his name!”
“And you do?” the princess replied. This time, her tone was more emotional, only the emotion was one of scorn.
“I—I do not,” Georgiana admitted. “But that is hardly the point. If he is yours, as you say he is, then you should know more about him than
that he is a dragon, and you have just sent an arrow through him.”
The princess shrugged. “I am a princess, and princesses always have dragons. There is one here, so he must be mine.”
“What can I do to make you leave him alone? To let him do what he wants, in his own dragon way?”
The princess smiled. Again, it was not a warm emotion, as it would be on another person’s face, but more as though it was something she had been told to do, not that she actually felt it.
“That is a good question,” she said slowly.
Chapter 11
“Hello?” Margaret called, Annie shutting the door of the Agency behind them as they entered the offices.
The open room was plain, but tidy. Paperwork was filed in an open bookshelf on one wall, while there was a battered desk on another. A few chairs sat at right angles in front of the desk.
Carolyn Ames, one of the Agency’s proprietors, strode in from the back room, a warm smile on her face. “Margaret, and Annie, so lovely to see you!” She clasped Margaret’s hands in both of hers and held them for a moment before shaking Annie’s hand.
“Good morning, Carolyn,” Margaret replied. “I stopped in to see if the Banner sisters had come by?”
Carolyn gestured for the women to sit, then went and sat behind the desk. She steepled her fingers and nodded. “Yes, and we were able to place both of them nearly right away. They do excellent work, thank you for sending them along.”
Carolyn was older than Margaret, in her mid-thirties perhaps, and her engaging expression and confident manner made her seem so alive. She hadn’t always been so vibrant, as Margaret knew; Carolyn had been taken in, as so many young ladies were, by a smooth-tongued gentleman who deserted her when she got into trouble. The Agency was a direct result of that encounter, with Carolyn determined to help women whose pasts might make it difficult for them to find work. They didn’t take just anybody; all the workers hired out by the Agency were tested and proven worthy by the Agency owners. Margaret had sent a few women to the Agency whose skills were lacking, and so they were given training before being sent out for work.
“And how are you? You look tired,” Carolyn said, narrowing her gaze at Margaret.
Annie made a harrumphing sound, which Margaret ignored. She couldn’t very well tell either one of them that she hadn’t gotten enough sleep because she’d been lying awake thinking about that kiss, out on the terrace where anyone could have seen them.
What was he doing, being so reckless? She knew what she was doing; she was already ruined, a scandalous woman returned to London and living on her own, with no chaperone beyond a busybody maid and a household full of people who’d been discarded. As she had been.
But he had so much more at stake, as he’d made sure to point out to her—yes, he was a man, so he could get away with far more than she could, but there were limits to what Society would tolerate.
And being caught kissing a scandalously reckless woman on the Purseleys’ terrace would definitely qualify as something that would not be tolerated. A very bad sort of adventure, in fact.
She’d relived every moment of the kiss, from how warm his mouth felt on hers, to how hard his chest felt under her fingers, to how close he’d come to touching her breast as he held her side.
She wished he had touched her breast, come to think of it. She got fairly weak-kneed just thinking about what that would feel like—his strong, capable fingers on her, caressing her flesh, making her tingle all over with each touch.
“My lady?” Carolyn’s voice intruded in her salacious thoughts. Of course, now was not the time to be having said salacious thoughts. That time would be, in fact, never. She couldn’t risk it happening again, not for her sake, but for his. He was clearly over his head with what was happening between them, and she knew full well he had no wish to be married to her, given his reaction the first time they’d kissed.
But on the other hand, there’d been a second time. So perhaps she should just let him make his own decisions. She didn’t have to manage everyone’s lives, did she? Just the unfortunate women who couldn’t seem to manage their own, at least for a short period.
Thus settled, she was able to turn her attention to Carolyn and the Agency and what she could do to help.
“You going to tell me, or what?” Annie asked as they left the Agency.
Margaret sighed. The woman would not stop until she knew, would she? No doubt she would take the credit for it, since she’d ensured Margaret was as lovely as it was possible for her to be.
“Can we wait until we are home again?” Margaret gestured to the sidewalk. “It is not as though we have privacy here.”
“All I want to know is when you’re going to see the duke again,” Annie said in an aggrieved tone. “It’s not a government secret or anything, is it?”
Was it possible for a heart to sing? Because if it was, Margaret’s heart was doing some sort of glissando right now. Annie didn’t know what had occurred between the two of them the night before—she was just concerned with when Margaret would see the duke again.
She realized she had no clue what the duke’s first name was. He was the Duke of Lasham, yes, but was he a William? A Samuel? An Aloysius? She would have to visit Isabella and look him up in Debrett’s to find out.
Although now that she thought about it, that seemed as though she were interested. And she didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all to herself, that she was actually interested.
So his first name would remain a mystery, for now, at least.
“We didn’t make another appointment for an engagement, if that is what you are asking,” Margaret said in as prim a voice as she could manage. Which was not very prim. “You know I only go to those neighborhoods when I’ve heard there is trouble, and I haven’t heard of any lately. I assume there is some—there always is,” she said with a sigh, “but I don’t wish to put myself into danger stupidly, just so I can rescue someone who may not wish to leave.”
“So you don’t know when you’re seeing him again?”
Leave it to Annie to get to the gist of the matter right away. Never mind that Margaret was set on helping unfortunate women, or that it wasn’t appropriate for her to be spending time nearly unattended with the duke—Annie liked him, or more to the point, liked seeing him with Margaret, and so that was the purpose of her questions.
Thank goodness she had no clue about the kiss. Margaret could just imagine how little peace she’d get if her maid had that bit of information.
She would have to be discreet for her sake as well as for his, then.
“Your Grace, the stack of papers to your left are the ones which require attending. The ones on the right are those that are most urgently in need of being attended to.”
Lasham leaned back in his chair and regarded his secretary. “So you’re saying that there are no papers that do not require my attention.” He spoke in a flat tone. He was grateful Mr. Meecham had gotten accustomed enough, both to his manner and to his visage, that he no longer started at anything his employer might do or say.
“Yes, Your Grace. That is what I am saying.”
Lasham drew the top paper off the pile and placed it on the desk in front of him.
Having frequently stated our reasons for zealously espousing the great principles of Reform . . .
“And this one is the most important of the attention-requiring ones?” he asked, scanning the rest of it quickly.
“Yes, sir. This matter is to be presented in front of the House of Lords in a few days, and I thought you should be prepared.”
“Prepared for the espousal of radical ideas, am I right, Meecham?”
“Precisely so, Your Grace.” Meecham was deeply opinionated on the matters concerning land, farming, and a living wage, and Lasham found his advice invaluable. His peers might want to keep things the way they were because it was more convenient for them, but Lasham definitely did not.
Which spoke to his personal affairs as well, didn’t it? Altho
ugh he should probably not think of the word “affair” in context of Lady Margaret. That was too tempting a scenario.
But the truth was, he wanted a change. A change in his own life, a change in others’ lives, change that would mean better things for everyone.
And, he had to admit, he wanted to change the circumstance of not having seen Lady Margaret in fewer items of clothing. Perhaps he could start by unbuttoning her gloves, one tiny pearl button at a time.
And then taking his button-undoing prowess to her gown, which he would unbutton not quite as slowly.
But he definitely should not be thinking on that, not with Meecham in the room. There was only so much a secretary would tolerate for the sake of his employer; having said employer getting lost in a lust-filled haze of imagination was definitely not within the bounds.
“What is the gist of it?” Lasham waved his hand at the taller stack of papers. “Unless you want me to be sitting here reading things for the next three years, you’re going to have to summarize.”
“In summary, Your Grace,” his secretary began, “these people will be bringing some issues concerning their livelihood to you and your peers.”
“Oh, is that all?” Lasham remarked dryly. “Well, let’s put that one aside and get to work on the rest. I’ll review the document later, it sounds as though it is an important one.”
“It is,” Meecham agreed in a vehement tone of voice.
Hours later, and Lasham was finally able to say he was done with all the papers Meecham had presented. For today, at least.
Tomorrow would bring another stack of papers, no less urgent, and Lasham felt the crush of his responsibility as though it were a weight placed on top of his chest.
He’d had the weight on his chest since he was fifteen. It had been his constant companion, except when he was with Jamie, and now when he was with her.
He’d known her for only a few days, and already he wanted to know her more. More intimately, yes, he was a man, but also just know her more.
He wanted to know just what made her so brave, brave enough to tell her parents no. He wanted to know why she was so determined to help those women. Not that they shouldn’t be helped, of course, but it was usually up to people like him to make a difference, not single young ladies of dubious reputation.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 11