One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  She burst out laughing and clapped her hand over her mouth. “He does, doesn’t he? So many men look just like that, I am so glad you do not have any kind of fuss on your face.” She tapped her finger on her lips. “But why don’t you? I mean, you do everything that is correct, and current men’s fashion dictates that you have some sort of growth. Why don’t you?”

  He ran his hand over his jaw again, feeling the day’s stubble under his palm. “I thought that with this going on already”—he gestured to his eye patch—“that having more on my face would be too distracting. I have enough people either staring rudely or looking away in shock to want to add another element there.”

  She seemed to be absorbing what he’d said, processing it through what he surmised was her remarkable brain. “I know what that is like.” She grimaced. “That is, not as much as you, obviously, but when my scandal first appeared, it seemed as though people either wanted to stare at me, or definitely not even look in my direction. Plus my sister is a duchess, and she is always getting stared at.” She shivered. “No wonder you try to keep yourself from enduring that kind of scrutiny.” She glanced around, then raised her gloved fingers to his face. Then glared at her hand and dropped it, removing her glove and bringing her ungloved fingers to his face. “I like how it feels far better than if you had something there.”

  He looked around, too, panicking that they would be seen, that there would be a scandal, that he would have to marry her, when she so obviously did not want that. Thankfully no one was in their room, and so he raised his own hand and placed it on top of hers.

  “I like how it feels when you do that,” he said in a low murmur, his entire body feeling as though it had been infused with energy.

  “I do, too,” she whispered, and he leaned to her, almost unconsciously so, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

  Her lips lifted slightly, but she put her fingers on his mouth. “Not here, not where anyone could see.” A moment as she thought. “Why don’t you escort me home, Your Grace?”

  “Didn’t you arrive in your own—oh!” Lasham said, feeling as though he were possibly the slowest-thinking man in England. “Yes, I would be happy to.”

  He nodded to the gentleman in the portrait, made sure she was holding his arm, and walked swiftly to the exit.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “Where do you suppose I will be able to find a prince?” Georgiana asked. She waved her hand in the air. “It is not as though one is always tripping over them or something.”

  The princess shrugged. “You asked what it would take, and I answered.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I want a prince. I suggest you go find one before the dragon dies.”

  Georgiana wanted to hit the princess, but that would only get her into more trouble. “Will you stay with him and get him water and make sure he doesn’t die?”

  How she could trust this woman to do anything, she wasn’t sure, but she knew that if she didn’t do something to help, the dragon would die. And it would be her fault.

  The princess considered. “I will, provided you return with a prince within twenty-four hours.”

  Georgiana blew out an exasperated breath. “Of course you would have to give me a deadline,” she said in an aggrieved tone.

  “It wouldn’t be any fun if there weren’t one, would it?” the princess asked.

  “I suppose not,” Georgiana replied in a grumpy voice.

  Chapter 13

  She had really just suggested something so shocking. She knew she was scandalous, but she hadn’t actually performed scandal that often before—besides spurning the man whom she didn’t want, and who didn’t want her, the most shocking thing she’d done was set pen to paper.

  And that activity did not involve another person, a mad dash to a carriage, and the potential for some kissing.

  But oh, she couldn’t regret it. He knew how she felt, and what she expected of him, and vice versa, and so anything that happened now would just be—enjoyable.

  He was walking so quickly she had some difficulty keeping up with him, but she did, nearly breaking into a run to keep up with his long-legged stride. She wouldn’t have asked him to slow down, not when she was also so interested in reaching their destination.

  Where something would happen. Something shocking, and scandalous, and that would involve skin. She appreciated the alliteration, even in the throes of committing some shockingly scandalous sin. Of some sort.

  She couldn’t slow down enough to laugh at herself, but she was feeling rather clever at the moment.

  Clever and desirous, and desired, and intrigued, and all sorts of things a young single woman in the company of a not so proper duke after all should not be feeling. And yet, she was.

  They left the building and descended the steps, the duke’s enormous and impressive carriage right in front of them, Margaret’s less grand carriage at the far end. She darted a glance at it, then reluctantly disengaged from the duke’s arm. “I’ll just go tell them to go home without me,” she said. “It would be so impolite just to leave them here while you drive me home.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought of that,” the duke replied. “Should I escort you?”

  Margaret was shaking her head even before he’d finished his sentence. “No, I don’t want—that is, no. I’ll return in just a moment.”

  He nodded, and she scurried down the street.

  “Annie!” Margaret opened the door to the carriage before her coachman could descend from his seat. She poked her head into the interior and smothered a giggle as Annie woke from what appeared to be a sound nap.

  “What? What is it?” Annie said, blinking.

  “The duke is driving me home in his carriage, and so I want you two to return home without me.”

  That woke her maid up. “Driving you home? What a lovely idea, so grand for the duke to have thought of it.”

  Margaret didn’t inform her maid that it was she who’d thought of it. The woman wanted things for her mistress, but she likely wouldn’t approve of how forward she was being. Of how forward she was about to be, in fact.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” She smiled brightly, at which point Annie’s eyes narrowed. Oh dear. She tried to dim her smile, so her maid wouldn’t know she was planning on something entirely nefarious and delightful.

  “I will see you at home shortly then,” she said, giving a brisk nod before turning back to walk down the street to the duke’s carriage. Walking very quickly, in fact, so that Annie wouldn’t come barreling after her, determined to know what her mistress’s intentions were toward the duke.

  Because Margaret could safely say that they were entirely unrespectable. Whether he had the same intentions, she would be finding out shortly.

  He stood holding the door to the carriage open, looking so entirely large, and gorgeous, and dangerous, that it gave her a chill. And determination.

  “Can you drive me using the St. James’s Park route?” she asked, conscious that his coachman was likely within earshot.

  He frowned in confusion. “But that is in the opposite—oh!” he said, his expression clearing as he realized what she was saying. “Yes, excellent. I have been wanting to see some, uh, flowers,” he added awkwardly. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but just ended up shaking his head and glancing upward, as though he were exasperated with himself.

  She thought he was rather adorable, if one could be adorable being over six feet in height with an eye patch and an occasionally intimidating manner.

  “That’s settled then,” Margaret said, taking his hand as she got into the carriage. He gave instructions to his coachman, then vaulted up to sit beside her. Her insides got all quivery.

  As was appropriate when one was in an enclosed carriage with a Piratical Duke.

  The carriage was more than spacious enough for the two of them, but it did seem as though he were everywhere. His presence imbued the air, made her feel as though she were breathless, but in an entirel
y delicious way.

  “Your Grace, I know this is—this is untoward,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the air.

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  “But I know you feel as I do, and a more permanent attachment isn’t desirable.” She paused, then took a deep breath and spoke before she could consider what she was about to say. Because she really wanted to say it, only she knew she shouldn’t.

  “But even so, it seems that there is something less permanent that would be . . . pleasant,” she said, using the same word that he had when talking about viewing art together.

  Only she wasn’t talking about viewing art now, was she? This was something else, something so shocking even she couldn’t believe she was suggesting it. And yet what was the point of being scandalously ruined if one couldn’t enjoy it?

  The duke didn’t speak for a moment, and she wondered if he would just stop the carriage and toss her out onto the street for being so forward. For being so like her.

  And then he turned to her, the intensity of his gaze making her shiver even more.

  “Yes, Lady Margaret. That is a very pleasant idea,” he said, before gathering her in his arms and placing his mouth on hers.

  Her mouth was so warm, Lasham felt as though he’d been scorched as soon as he kissed her. That fire spread throughout his entire body until he felt enveloped in it, enveloped by her, her sparkle, her warmth of spirit, her beauty, and her humor.

  It wouldn’t have been the same if it weren’t she—he had kissed enough women in the past to know the difference, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy kissing another woman again.

  But he wouldn’t think about any of that, not right now, not when her lips were opening, her tongue slipping into his mouth, her hands around his neck, her fingers in his hair.

  And she was kissing him just as thoroughly as he was kissing her. As though she had an equal partnership in the kiss. Which she did; she’d asked for it, had wanted him, even though this situation was entirely inappropriate and improper and everything else he’d never been.

  And why hadn’t he done anything like this ever before?

  Of course. The stakes were too high, the reward too low, only this, this risk was well worth whatever might happen. Because he had his palms on her arms, holding her to him, their bodies twisted in the seat but somehow connecting in all—well, most—of the places he wished to touch her.

  His hand had somehow made it to her waist, and he gripped her tightly, feeling the soft curves of her underneath all her layers. Or so he imagined; it was difficult to feel just what was Margaret and what was fabric, only his now quite lively imagination knew that somewhere there was her body, and that was enough to make him harden and long for the chance to see her, to touch her as she deserved to be touched, with passion, and caring, and desire.

  She had withdrawn her hands from around his neck and had placed them on his side as well, stroking up and down underneath his coat, close, but not close enough.

  He broke the kiss and put his hands to his waistcoat, undoing the buttons as swiftly as he ever had, yanking his shirt from where it was tucked into his trousers, pulling it out so she—if she wanted—could place her hands directly onto his skin.

  Oh, how he hoped she wanted to. He craved the contact, wanted to feel her fingers on him, to caress his skin, to honor his body with her touch.

  She smiled, a joyfully wicked grin on her face, then slid her fingers under his shirt and ran them over his bare skin. “Just a bit of hair,” she said in a low murmur as her fingers traversed his chest.

  He couldn’t help but gasp. She kept looking at him as she explored every inch of skin she could reach. His erect cock strained against the front of his trousers, but his shirt hung over so it was unlikely that she would notice.

  Not that he would mind if she noticed; he was far past that kind of embarrassment, and he thought he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t be embarrassed, either. Likely amused, or pleased, or curious. But not embarrassed.

  She shifted in the seat so she was facing him more directly, then lifted her face to his in a clear signal.

  And he kissed her again, drawing her tight against his body, relishing how her hands were touching him, enjoying the small noises she was making in the back of her throat.

  This was very pleasant indeed, he thought with a rare burst of humor. This was definitely the most pleasant carriage ride he’d ever had.

  My goodness, but when the duke was intent on something, he was absolutely and totally intent. The first two times they’d kissed, well that had been lovely, of course, but nothing in comparison to this. That first time he was likely just overset with emotion, and needed to show what he was feeling. The second time was on the terrace, and she’d tempted him into it, but this—this, when he knew full well what he was doing, and they were doing it together, and he was taking the lead, at least in terms of clothing removal, well—it was stupendous. And she was delighted that he had decided that it was crucial that she be able to feel her fingers on his skin, since she had just been thinking the exact same thing.

  His chest felt as magnificent as she had imagined, and she wished she could peer under his shirt and take a good look as well. He was all ridges and muscles and firm skin with an intriguing trail of hair that led to where she knew things got even more intriguing.

  She could tell he liked what she was doing also—not just because he was murmuring the occasional moan into her mouth, but because of the way he was moving his body, as though he wished he could be even closer, even though they were as close as two people could be to each other in a moving carriage with clothing on.

  That thought brought a whole new range of possibilities to Margaret’s vivid imagination. But if she thought too hard about all of that, she wouldn’t be able to enjoy all of this, and she really, really wanted to.

  So she told her imagination to wander away for a while, just for the time when she was kissing the most gloriously handsome, and handsomely rakish, man of her acquaintance and had the added bonus of having her bare hands on his bare skin.

  “Mmph,” she murmured, reaching around him to the small of his back, which wasn’t small at all, but just as large and solid and hard as the rest of him.

  Goodness, men and women were really quite different in many more ways than she had even suspected. Her imagination had definitely not prepared her for what it might feel like to touch someone like him, nor had it even imagined that her breasts would feel full, her nipples would harden, and other parts of her would just ache with some sort of nameless longing.

  They kissed for another few minutes, then the carriage slowed, and they pulled apart, not guiltily, but with the awareness that this—whatever this was—would by necessity (and carriage travel time) be over.

  The duke’s gaze was still intent on her, and she could see his eyelid droop over his eye, heavy-lidded with something she knew had to do with her.

  That felt nearly as wonderful as the kiss itself, that she could have such an effect on him. On him, the owner of the driest, most bombastic tone in existence, to be so stirred up by the scandalous Lady Margaret.

  And she had to admit he had stirred her as well. “I had no idea,” she began, then shook her head, placing her fingers on her swollen mouth.

  “No idea what?” he said in a ragged whisper. He was all disheveled, his shirt still untucked, his waistcoat hanging open, his usually immaculate hair rumpled where she—she!—had rumpled it.

  “That it—that this—” She made an ineffectual gesture in the carriage.

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Oh, so you’re saying this doesn’t just happen all the time to you?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “No, Your Grace, it doesn’t.” She leaned forward and gave him another kiss, this one a soft one, just because his mouth was over there and hers was here, and she didn’t like the distance. “What’s your given name, anyway?” she asked in a whisper.

  She could have swor
n he closed his eye for a moment, as though embarrassed. “You don’t know already?”

  “No, I don’t.” She sniffed in mock disdain. “It is not as though I went through Debrett’s just as soon as we met”—even though I was tempted to—“and you are just referred to as Your Grace, not Lord James or Lord Michael or Lord Aloysius. It isn’t Aloysius, is it?” she asked hopefully.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face, and then she knew that earlier look was embarrassment.

  “Is it Mortimer?” she said softly. She picked up his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “Archibald? Silas?” Silence. “Uriah?”

  “Vortigern.” His voice was so low she wasn’t certain she had heard it correctly.

  “Pardon?”

  He cleared his throat and dropped her hand. “Vortigern,” he said in a louder tone.

  She felt her eyes widen and the laughter start, and she tried her best not to laugh, but he was over there looking all rueful and sheepish, as though it were his fault he had a ridiculous-sounding name, and she wanted to poke him and tell him he could let himself relax every so often, it was only a name, and a title, and a position in Society.

  In which case, no wonder he couldn’t relax. No wonder he’d welcomed this interlude; it wasn’t real, none of it was real, they would exit the carriage, and their lives would go on as before, and they would continue being acquaintances, because she knew that if she allowed it to happen again, she—and her heart—would be in so much trouble, because he could not be involved with her. He’d said as much, so had she, and they had agreed.

  If only that didn’t make her feel so forlorn, as though she’d found something wonderful and secret, only if the secret got out it wouldn’t be wonderful, and it wouldn’t be possible to keep it a secret, and so it all had to stop being wonderful right now. Before it wasn’t.