One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  He wondered when he’d see her again—they hadn’t arranged anything the last time they’d seen each other. But since the last time they’d seen each other had been when they had kissed, out on the Purseleys’ terrace, that hadn’t left a lot of opportunity for rendezvous arrangement.

  There was a knock on the door, and for a brief moment, Lasham had to wonder if his very thinking about her had conjured her here.

  “Your Grace?” Williams, his butler, paused just inside Lasham’s study. Not her, then. The butler for whom he’d rung. Why was he so disappointed?

  “Yes, thank you, Williams. I would like a cup of tea.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Williams made to leave the room, but the door opened wider, showing Jamie’s face, and then his entire self walked into the room.

  “Not tea, Lash.” He walked to the server with the glasses and brandy, picking up a bottle, unstoppering it, and then pouring it, all in one fluid motion.

  “Tea, Williams.” Lasham made a dismissive gesture, and his butler withdrew.

  “Here.” Jamie handed him a glass half full of brandy, then made himself another, much fuller glass. He flopped on the sofa next to Lasham, crossing his ankle over his knee. “I missed you at the party last night. Last thing I saw of you was you dancing with the disreputable Lady Margaret.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Lasham bit out.

  “I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to get a rise out of you. And I did! Cheers to me,” Jamie said, holding his glass up in salute. He took a healthy swallow and shook his head. “Damn, Lash, but being a duke has its privileges. This is the finest brandy I’ve had on this side of the channel.”

  Being a duke has its privileges.

  If he were free—if he were able to do what he wanted, he would go to Lady Margaret right now and make some sort of indecent proposition. About buttons, and laughter, and impropriety.

  “Lash?” Jamie’s voice, less lively now, intruded on his thoughts. “You don’t seem like yourself.” Jamie took a swig from his glass. “Not that not being like yourself is necessarily a bad thing, mind you. If you were less like yourself you’d be doing something you shouldn’t be.”

  That Jamie had come so close to saying what was on Lasham’s mind was eerie. And thought-provoking. What would she say? How would he say it? What would it mean?

  “What would you do if you were doing something you shouldn’t be doing?” Lasham returned, taking a sip from his glass. The brandy was fine; it slid down his throat with a warm burn.

  He should resolve to drink more brandy as well, if he was making changes for the better in his life.

  “I always do things I shouldn’t,” Jamie said with a wink. He leaned his head back against the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. “But if we are talking seriously, I would want to create something.” He sat straight up and looked at Lasham. “I collect and sell antiques, and antiquities, and basically anything anybody wants to buy.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d like to be the creator for once.”

  Lasham nodded, taking another sip, a larger one this time, from his glass. The warmth was akin to what it felt like to hold her in his arms, but it was much more acceptable in his Society.

  And didn’t that say something about the Society in which he lived, that it was far more respectable for him to get—well, drunk as a lord—than for him to hold a lovely woman in his arms for longer than the prescribed time?

  He shook his head and drained the glass, setting it on the table beside the sofa.

  The door opened, startling both Jamie and Lasham.

  Williams entered, holding a silver tray. Tea.

  “You know, Williams,” Lasham said, standing to retrieve the glass, “I don’t think I will need tea this evening.”

  “Excellent choice, Your Grace,” Jamie said in a stentorian tone. Lasham shot him a warning look, then glanced back at Williams.

  “Will you need anything more, Your Grace?” Williams asked.

  “No, thank you.” Lasham refilled his glass. “Thank you for bringing the tea, do go ahead and have some. It shouldn’t go to waste just because I find I don’t want it.”

  Williams bowed, at least as much as he could, given that he was still holding the tray. “Certainly, Your Grace. Good evening, Your Grace.”

  He walked out and closed the door behind him as Lasham sat back on the sofa, cradling his glass in his hand.

  “Jamie, I want to ask your advice on something.”

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “What—what do you want?” Georgiana asked. The dragon had stilled under her hand, and she hoped he wasn’t on his way to dying. She could feel his breath, hear the soft sigh of it, but otherwise, the dragon was absolutely immobile.

  The princess tilted her head. “What any princess wants, I suppose.”

  Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Since I am not a princess, nor have I ever met one, you are going to have to let me know what a princess wants.”

  The princess’s expression turned grumpy. Apparently princesses did not want to be asked to clarify things.

  “I want a prince.”

  Georgiana’s heart sank.

  Chapter 12

  Margaret slid the letter under her breakfast plate. It had been sitting at her seat when she arrived, and she hoped Annie hadn’t been in and spotted it.

  Of course it was from him. It had a ducal seal, and the paper was a lovely heavy weight that made Margaret envious. She wrote on cheap, flimsy paper, because it would be far too indulgent to get the more expensive kind—not when there were other places that needed her funds, plus she wrote a lot; it felt wasteful.

  But as she ran her fingers over the stock, she felt a pang of pure envy. This was what it was like to be him—to use the best paper, the kind that felt sumptuous. To be able to just send someone around with a message, not wait for the post or anything.

  She swallowed and glanced around the empty room. Just in case Annie was lurking nearby. Blessedly, she was not.

  She drew the envelope out, and slid her finger under the seal to undo it. The paper within was a lighter cream, and his writing—because it had to be his, she hoped he wouldn’t dictate a short note to a secretary, that would be ludicrous, even for a duke—was all black slashes, as though he were under the grip of some emotion.

  Well, of course he was. As was she.

  That second kiss—well, that had been splendid. Far better than any of the kisses she’d ever had before, not that they were numerous, and even better than the first one she’d had with him.

  Would they keep improving, if they kept on? And would she just die of bliss by the eleventh one or so?

  She shook her head at her foolishness. This was not getting the note read, was it?

  Lady Margaret:

  I hope you will join me at the Royal Academy to view some paintings of real people. Perhaps around three o’clock again?

  Yours,

  Lasham

  That was—short but charming. Perhaps the opposite of him, since he was nothing but tall and somewhat brusque and, now that she knew him better, awkward.

  It warmed her heart, that he’d been thoughtful enough to think about what she might be interested in seeing.

  Even if what she was really interested in seeing was more of the duke. In many ways.

  She shook her head at herself again. She really had to stop being so—well, so lustful when it came to him. She’d never viewed anyone with so much interest before, and it was aggravating, since it occupied perhaps a tenth of her brain at all times, and she knew full well that tenth would probably be put to better use with thinking about her next bit of writing, or how she could help more people who needed it, or anything but what he might look like with his clothing off.

  It was hopeless. That seemed to be what she was set on thinking about.

  She was just beginning to ponder if he would or would not have hair on his chest when the door opened. Annie bustled in, and Margaret quic
kly slid the note under the plate again.

  Unfortunately for her, Annie’s eyes were as sharp as her wit. “You got something from him, then?”

  Why did Margaret even bother trying to keep a secret? And why wasn’t Annie the one out there playing cards, when clearly she could ferret out any kind of mystery?

  “Yes, I did.” Margaret withdrew it from under the plate. She brushed a few toast crumbs off the parchment. “He’s asked if we can meet at the Royal Academy again today.”

  Annie rolled her eyes and made a harrumphing sound at the same time. Her lady’s maid was remarkably skilled. “More of those paintings, no thank you.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Of course I’ll be waiting in the carriage, so you’ll be alone with him.”

  “In a public place, Annie,” Margaret returned dryly. At least she hoped neither one of them would get so swept away by their—whatever they were feeling—that they would make a kissing spectacle of themselves out in public.

  Although that did sound rather fun, and exactly the opposite of what the duke would ever do. Just imagining his face if she even mentioned it was enough to make her laugh.

  She was there early, of course. She spotted his carriage as she descended from hers. He was early also. That shouldn’t have made her all warm inside, but it did.

  She strode up the steps to the academy, her heart beating just a bit faster in anticipation of seeing him again. It was ridiculous that she had barely met him, and yet had this reaction to him.

  It was just a momentary fascination, she reassured herself. Just wait until you’ve known him for a month or more, his intrinsic dullness will trump whatever you think you see in him.

  Only a part of her—probably that part that was interested in seeing him unclothed—wondered if she would be even more fascinated the longer she knew him.

  She walked into the building and spotted him right away. Her chest tightened, her breath caught, and she wanted to run right up to him and fling her arms around his neck.

  Oh dear. She was in so much trouble.

  “Lady Margaret.” Lasham exhaled as she walked toward him, a wide smile on her face. How could she just demonstrate her emotion so—so exuberantly? He envied it, as he envied how she seemed to be able to act on what she wanted to do, and speak what she wanted to say.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Her brown eyes, like the rest of her, sparkled. “You promised to show me some people today, I believe?” She hooked her arm through his. “Shall we?”

  Lasham nodded and began to walk, acutely conscious of her fingers on his forearm, her skirts brushing against his legs.

  “It was very thoughtful of you to find paintings with figures in them.” She laughed. “Although perhaps it is not so thoughtful as an act of self-preservation, given how derisive I was about those nonpeopled paintings.”

  “You weren’t.” He stumbled over his words, as usual. “That is, you expressed your opinion, and I expressed mine. That is how you think things should be, do you not? With people saying what they mean, and what they want, and all of that?”

  What would you do if you could do anything you wanted?

  “That is what I think.” She sounded surprised. At what? That she’d thought those things? That he’d noticed?

  “And I thought”—oh, Jamie, I hope you are right—“that it would be pleasant for both of us to view art together.”

  “View art?” she repeated, and he could tell she wasn’t thinking about anything as innocuous as viewing art at all, but that other thing. The kiss.

  “Yes, exactly.” He tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible—he’d seen how she reacted when he withdrew, and he didn’t want to do that with her, make her get that disappointed expression on her face.

  “You are right, Your Grace,” she said in a more natural tone of voice. “It would be pleasant for us to view art together. It is excellent that you thought of it.” A pause. “It will be an adventure.”

  Something within him eased when he heard her words, as though a string had loosened, one he hadn’t known was pulled tightly inside.

  They walked to the gallery Lasham had been to only a few times—since, as he’d told her, he much preferred landscape paintings. Seeing people, even on canvas, far too often reminded him that he wasn’t comfortable looking at people, and more importantly, that they weren’t comfortable looking at him.

  They walked into the room, a wide-open gallery with paintings hung one on top of the other, faces just staring out from their canvases. At him.

  Which was a remarkably solipsistic thing for him to think, no matter who he was. These people were likely impressed with their own importance, what with having sat for a portrait and all, and were not concerned with impressing a duke who had but one eye to his name and a wealth of discomfort in the presence of others.

  “Oh, she looks like fun, doesn’t she?” Lady Margaret said, disengaging herself from his arm and going to stand in front of a painting. Lasham walked up behind her, noting how even her clothing was vibrant—he’d seen in her in a few shades of blue before, but today she wore green, the verdant green of the stalk of a crocus newly emerging from the cold earth after a long winter. As exuberant, as optimistic, and as wonderful to see as the brightest ray of sunshine.

  If nothing else, his imagination was being awakened.

  And thankfully, her bonnet was less grandiose than it had been the other time here, so he could see her lively face. He wished it were possible for her just to remove it entirely, but that was perhaps too shocking even for her.

  “She does look like fun,” Lasham said, only his gaze was on her, not the painting, and he smiled to share the compliment with her.

  And then—then she blushed, but didn’t look away from his gaze. Something in her eyes softened, and for a moment it seemed as though she were going to lift her head up to be kissed again, only of course they were in public, not to mention the hundreds of eyes gazing down at them from the walls.

  “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice, not bothering to pretend she hadn’t understood. He found that so refreshing in her, that she could just understand things and then respond appropriately.

  Too many people pretended ignorance if it meant they would have to do something unpleasant, or if they were being coy. Not her. She was as wide-open about who she was as—well, as he was not.

  He turned to look at the fun woman, and had to smile—the woman in the portrait did indeed look as though she had a wonderful joke she was dying to share. Her lips were curved into an irrepressible smile, her eyes crinkled at the corners as though she were smothering a laugh.

  She sat at a table, a book and a glass of wine in front of her, and the scene was so cozy and so precisely what Lasham wished for himself that he couldn’t help but utter a groan of want. Of wanting.

  “Did you just moan?” Lady Margaret asked, raising one delightfully arched eyebrow. Her expression mirrored the portrait lady’s, her lips quirked up into a grin, her brown eyes sparkling.

  “I—I might have,” Lasham replied. He rubbed his jaw. “If I did, it was entirely unconscious, I assure you.”

  “Why?” She tilted her head and regarded him with frank curiosity.

  He gestured to the portrait. “She just looks so pleased with herself and with her life. I think I have to say I am envious of her.”

  She didn’t laugh, not as Jamie would have laughed to hear him say anything that would imply his situation was less than ideal. Because he knew full well it was ideal, ideal for someone, just not for him.

  But since he was the one who had it, he knew he would make the best of it. As he’d always done. As he would continue to do.

  “Perhaps she has a partner in adventure,” she said in a whisper, one that shot straight to his groin. And his brain, but also his groin.

  He concentrated on the brain part of the reaction. “I wonder if she has just eaten far too many ices.” He frowned in thought. “Although I don’t think they had ices then, did they?”

&n
bsp; “They had the sixteenth-century equivalent, then.” She leaned closer in to him, and her fresh, delightful scent tickled his nose. “It is easy to think of our ancestors as being dull as sticks, but they lived as we do. They laughed, and loved, and ate too much roasted rabbit, or whatever, and drank too much mead and likely didn’t always keep their silly clothing on.”

  Lasham chuckled. “And here I thought my predecessors were all as proper and dull as I am.”

  She tilted her face up and glared at him. “You are not dull, Your Grace.” Her expression eased. “You might be a bit . . . proper, but you are not dull, I assure you.”

  It would be disingenuous to ask himself why that warmed him so much.

  She continued, “It is just that you should intersperse all the correct things with some things that are not not correct, if you know what I mean, but are more fun. Like an adventure,” she said with a complicit look.

  Now he had to shake his head for a different reason. “Not not correct? Perhaps I won’t ask you to write my dialogue after all.”

  She chuckled. “I can see why. Not not correct is not a very good way to put it, is it.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “Continue to do all the things you should, and add in things you would. That is all. Is that clearer?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  “It is.” He took her arm and walked to stand in front of another painting. This one was much less fun, but no less interesting. It depicted a gentleman of some years standing in front of a horse wearing clothing from a hundred years previous, a proud expression on his heavy features.

  “He appears to be inordinately pleased with himself for something, doesn’t he?” she asked. She kept her arm in his. He felt his throat tighten at her nearness.

  “He does seem to be one of those men who believes he has done everything right in the world, and no one would dare tell him otherwise.” Lasham looked more closely at the portrait. “Although I believe I would have to quibble with his facial hair.” He drew back. “He looks like a walrus.”