One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  That was the last thing he wanted to be, was it? Perfectly respectable. He’d done that for over thirty years of his life, and look where that had gotten him—awkwardness in Society, a profound sense of duty, and one friend. Not much to say about a life.

  There was the truth that he had helped people, many people, people who depended on the dukedom for their livelihoods. But he could continue to do all of that and still have fun, couldn’t he?

  He hoped so.

  He bowed. “Thank you, Lady Dearwood, for the invitation. I will speak with my secretary about my engagements and see if I can manage it.” Which was as oblique a refusal as he could muster.

  It seemed the lady did not speak Oblique Duke. She positively beamed at him. “Wonderful! We meet next Wednesday at ten o’clock.”

  He bowed again. Still not speaking.

  She blinked a few times, then patted her hair in a self-conscious motion. “And so if you will excuse me, Your Grace, I must go check on the refreshments.”

  Thank goodness. He didn’t bother about watching Lady Dearwood make her departure, he was far too busy seeing if he could see Margaret.

  And felt his heart rate speed up when he spied her.

  She was literally glorious, wearing a gown that appeared to be sun-drenched, the most vivid yellow he’d ever seen, her whole presence seeming to truly sparkle.

  His eyes drank her in, from the top of her lustrous brown hair to her feet, clad in cream-colored slippers with some sort of embroidery.

  Spending more than the allotted time on her figure, the curve of her upper breasts showing above the gown’s neckline. His mouth went dry as he realized that, depending on what would happen that night, he might actually touch her there.

  Later on, when they were alone. What would her breasts feel like in his hands? How would they taste?

  He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. It was one thing to be seen calmly appraising the gathering—he did that every time he went out—but to be seen regarding a lady with what was clearly desire was not to be, in fact, desired.

  But he truly wanted to touch her, as she had touched him. She’d seemed to like what she’d felt, as well—he hadn’t mistaken her soft sigh of satisfaction when her fingers trailed over his skin.

  And how she had pressed her body into his as they kissed.

  This was not helping him gather his control.

  He swallowed and made his way to her.

  She owed him an adventure, after all.

  He was here, approaching her. She could feel it, even though she didn’t see him. She’d heard him announced, and her chest had immediately tightened, but she hadn’t turned around to see him, not yet. It would hurt to do what she knew she had to, and she didn’t want to get swept up in just how damnably attractive and intriguing she found him.

  “Lady Margaret.” Even his voice—well, especially his voice—made her shiver.

  She turned around to face him, taking a deep breath as she did.

  Yes. Still remarkably handsome. And tall. And large and imposing and altogether making her feel weak-kneed. Until recently, she hadn’t realized her standing was so dependent on those two somewhat knobby items.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.” Excellent. So far they were following what she’d written, only he spoke first, and he hadn’t said good evening, so maybe not so close to what she’d written.

  A tremor went through her as she realized that life, unlike her writing, was unscripted.

  And they were both still here, just looking at each other, not speaking. Maybe if they never spoke she wouldn’t have to say anything. Since that would be the literal embodiment of not speaking, wouldn’t it?

  She was so foolish. And so far gone.

  How could she have thought it wouldn’t hurt, seeing him? Knowing what she was going to say?

  Her heart was not irretrievably lost, but it was definitely in need of a map in order to return home to her chest.

  She cleared her throat. “Might we speak, Your Grace?”

  His lips twisted. “That is what we are doing now, is it not?”

  Damn him and his intelligent observational skills.

  “Yes, but perhaps you might accompany me to get a glass of . . . something?” Not that enormous glass of wine, not yet—she had to be clearheaded to do what she was going to do, and she didn’t trust herself not to launch herself at him if she was the slightest bit disguised.

  “Of course.” He held his arm out, and she placed her fingers on it, squeezing to feel the strength in his arm before remembering she absolutely should not be doing that. Not now.

  They walked to the side of the room, a few curious glances cast at them. She lifted her chin, as much to keep from meeting anyone’s eyes as to announce she, for one, was not frightened by the Piratical Duke.

  Intrigued, attracted to, and wanting to know so much more about, yes, but not frightened.

  Those thoughts were absolutely not helping.

  He stood by her side as she asked for a glass of punch from the footman, then plucked the glass from her hand and held his arm out again, all without a word.

  How odd was it that she was intensely attracted to someone for whom words were not his primary way of communicating?

  He walked purposefully to the doors leading out to the garden, waiting as she gathered her skirts and stepped over the threshold.

  She stopped and let go of his arm, still in view of the partygoers, but not within earshot. He glanced back into the room and took her elbow in his hand, pulling her to the side so they could not be easily seen.

  She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. His gaze tracked the movement, and she felt her knees buckle. Again.

  He put her glass down on the ground. Where she might end up if she didn’t try to wrestle control of her heart, and her knees, and all the parts that seemed to want to . . . do things with him. Which were all of them.

  “You haven’t sent a note.” His expression tightened. “I would have expected you would have contacted me, given how we last parted.”

  Oh, you mean how I had my hands on you, and you were kissing me as though you wished to devour me? That last parting?

  “And you could not send a note to me?” Margaret hadn’t realized, not until she said it, that she had been hoping for something from him, some indication that what happened was not only wonderful but important.

  He straightened. “It would not have been appropriate, my lady.”

  She burst out laughing, but not in humor. “Because what happened was so appropriate, Your Grace?”

  He shook his head, as though in frustration. “You see, this is precisely why I did not send a note to you. I cannot adequately explain myself, not even in conversation.” He stripped off the glove of his right hand, then did the same to hers. And took her hand in his, their bare skin touching.

  She wanted to swoon, but swooning would mean she was unconscious and couldn’t enjoy this moment.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  That was not in the script.

  Margaret stared down at their entwined fingers. “I’ve missed you as well,” she said in a soft voice.

  Neither was that.

  His hand tightened. “So will you still accompany me on adventures?” He sounded so—so wanting, it made her chest tight.

  Definitely not in the script.

  This was why she needed an editor. And at this moment, the editor was she. And she wasn’t sure these words were what should be said, but they were what felt right.

  “Yes, I would,” she said, then stepped closer and lifted her face to his.

  He wasn’t sure what she wanted to speak with him about, and now he didn’t want her to speak, not now when they were kissing. Her speaking and their continuing to kiss would be at odds with each other, and right now he would have to say he preferred the latter.

  She sighed into his mouth, and he licked her lips, at which she opened and he thrust his tongue inside.

  Her tongue met his, with as
much enthusiasm he could wish for, and she seemed to inch forward so that they were touching at several crucial points of their bodies—mouths, hands on arms, chest against chest, and of course his cock pushed up against her skirts, the slight pressure made more delicious because it was all so forbidden.

  And then her hands crept under his jacket, slid along his rib cage, her fingers touching and pressing and caressing.

  In the past, when he’d kissed a woman, it had felt as though she were surrendering to him, allowing him to make advances while she remained stable.

  But Margaret, as he knew she would, was not surrendering. She was attacking, each glide and press of her mouth another maneuver, her hands now going to his back, pulling him closer into her, so close it almost felt as though they were one—albeit one who wore far too much clothing for the occasion.

  If they weren’t in the company of no fewer than two hundred of their peers—literally—he would ask her to remove some.

  God, she felt good. Her curves pressed softly into his body, and every place of contact sent a ripple of pleasure through him. His hands were now at her waist, holding her to him, and he could feel how her breath was coming faster and faster, her breasts pushing into him with each ragged inhale.

  And then she broke the kiss, pulling away from him, her eyes as sparkling as the candles from inside the ballroom. “We should leave,” she said in a low, husky voice.

  “Yes, we should.” He didn’t even think about propriety, or how they would manage to leave without anybody seeing them, or how he’d just arrived and the Duke of Lasham never failed to stay at least half an hour for such events, and that he was with her, not only A Lady of Mystery, but also apparently A Lady of Scandal.

  He just wanted to go somewhere with her where he could remove some of her clothing, and then she could remove his. A very equitable arrangement, he thought.

  “I’ll go first and collect my wrap. Meet me in front in about ten minutes? I’ll send my carriage home and you can take me.” She glanced up at him, not coyly, but with frank desire in her gaze. She was remarkable. He had never met a woman who was just so—so honest. So determinedly and assuredly her.

  “Yes, I’ll—take you.” He felt himself wince at just what he’d said. Because it was entirely what he wanted to do, and yet not at all what he should be saying to a woman, even this remarkable one whose gown was nearly as bright as her eyes.

  She didn’t seem to notice, however, just gave him a knowing smile and glided back into the ballroom.

  And now what was he supposed to do? He glanced around the now empty terrace. Should he just wait here? What if someone walked out and engaged him in conversation, making him late, and then she’d think he wasn’t coming to meet her? Or if someone started talking to her while he was delayed, and then he made his escape only to see her with someone who shouldn’t know they were—well, whatever they were going to do together.

  And when had he become this awkward thing who didn’t know what to do with himself?

  Ah, of course. He could answer that, even if he didn’t know where he should be standing at this exact moment. Forever. He had been this awkward for as long as he could recall, from first being sent off to school and then at his family’s various homes, and in the House of Lords.

  Always wondering just where he fit in, knowing he did, of course, because of what he was, but never because of who he was.

  Was that changing? Was she changing him?

  Likely not questions he was in any condition to answer, given that all he wanted to do was to be alone with her where perhaps they could continue what they’d started out here.

  He took a deep breath, smoothed his jacket, and strode purposefully to the front door.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  At first, Georgiana wasn’t able to move the princess, not at all. It seemed the princess was as much strength as she was beauty, which made Georgiana wonder at the fairness of it all.

  But then Georgiana felt the princess’s grip slipping, and she gritted her teeth and dug her heels in, pushing the princess with her shoulders.

  She had to ignore the gasps and groans of the dragon, for fear she would get distracted by his pain, which would then result in worse pain for him. Better to ignore him and try to get the princess away.

  At last the princess made a very unprincesslike groan and fell onto the ground, releasing her hold on the dragon.

  And the blood started to spurt from his side while Georgiana frantically tried to find something to stanch the wound.

  Chapter 16

  She had not said anything from her carefully written script after all, with the exception of “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  Instead, she’d told him she’d missed him, of all things, and then she had told him—using her actions, and not her words—that she wanted to be kissed again.

  What was she thinking?

  Well, she couldn’t answer that, but she knew what she was not thinking—anything sensible. Because thinking sensibly would mean not going to gather her wrap, smile at the footman as he helped her put it on, then walk calmly to the door as though she were not about to leave with the Piratical Duke who couldn’t Express Himself Except Through Action. Capitals inferred.

  Once outside, she glanced down the long line of waiting carriages, spotting hers nearly at the end.

  “Might I go call your carriage, my lady?” a footman asked.

  She didn’t want to put the poor servant into the position of having to listen to Annie’s reply if she sent the message that she would be making her own way home.

  “No, thank you, I will just step down there for a moment.” And she gave him a quick smile, then marched off as though it were customary for ladies to walk unescorted to their carriage several hundred feet away.

  It was not customary. Not at all. But nothing about this was, nor had been, since she’d told her parents she would absolutely not be marrying the Collingwood, and that furthermore she was the author of that serial that pitted fantastical dangerous creatures against averagely fine heroines.

  So perhaps she should grow . . . accustomed to the uncustomary. Such as leaving a party early to take a very large, very handsome duke on an adventure.

  She smiled to herself, picked up her skirts, and ran down the line of carriages until she reached hers.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. She’d spoken to his coachman as he’d entered, and then she’d darted around to the other side so that no one would see her entering.

  So he had no idea where they were headed, or how long it would take, or anything about it except that they were in the carriage together, alone, and he couldn’t stop playing the scenarios of everything that could possibly happen between them.

  And he’d thought he had no imagination. He had plenty, especially when it came to picturing her in a bed, eyes warm with desire and passion, a sheet wrapped carelessly around her naked form.

  Her running her hands over him, her fingers touching his skin, his muscles, his cock. Especially his cock.

  He strangled a groan in his throat as he thought about it. He didn’t think they would be ending up there, no matter how much his imagination truly wished for it. There was a limit to just how scandalous she could be, wasn’t there?

  Maybe there wasn’t. Oh Lord, what if there wasn’t?

  “It is an adventure, Your Grace,” she replied in a mischievous tone. “And isn’t the anticipation of such a treat, the not knowing just what will happen, nearly as fun as the adventure itself?”

  She spoke as though he had experience with not knowing exactly what would happen, when, and how. He did not.

  The last time he hadn’t anticipated something was when his parents had died, and that was not something he wished to discuss.

  Since then, he had been in command. In charge. It felt . . . odd, for him not to know precisely what was to occur, but it did not feel unpleasant.

  It felt freeing, actually. He couldn’t recall
any time when he had been able to just let go, to give over the chore of responsibility to someone else.

  “Thank you.” He reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. But then he didn’t want to rest their hands on her thigh, for fear she would think he was being too presumptuous, and he certainly didn’t want to put their clasped hands on his thigh, not when that area was so close to his erection, which hadn’t subsided since they’d entered the carriage.

  So for a few moments, their hands were suspended in the air between them, until she gave a soft laugh and tilted her face up to his as she put their hands on his thigh after all. So close to there, and yet not close at all, at least not close enough.

  “Why are you thanking me?” she said in a whisper. She punctuated her question by placing a soft kiss on his jaw.

  Lasham swallowed. How to explain it, when he wasn’t sure himself?

  “It’s—it’s that you didn’t laugh at me.”

  She drew back, her brows knitting together. “For telling me what your name is?”

  He shook his head and held her hand more tightly. “Not that. Well, yes that, but that is not what I meant.” He exhaled. “That you didn’t laugh when I asked for an adventure.”

  And didn’t he sound lonely?

  Although he was, wasn’t he? That was what part of this was all about—that with the exception of Jamie, who was seldom in England, he didn’t have friends. Nobody to laugh with, to talk with, to look at art with.

  Nobody to kiss, either. That he wanted to laugh with, talk with, look at art with, and kiss her was stupendous.

  Even if it couldn’t last more than a few weeks, maybe a month, before the gossips started talking and they would have to make an irrevocable break.

  “I would never laugh at you,” she said in a fierce tone. “Unless you were to tell a very funny story.” She paused. “Do you tell funny stories, Your Grace?”

  He had to laugh at that, ironically, because no, if there was a person who was least likely to tell a funny story it was he. “Not as far as I know, Lady Margaret. I might have inadvertently,” especially when out in company when he felt stupidly uncomfortable, “but I assure you, not on purpose.”