“We will have to introduce you to the art of telling amusing anecdotes, then,” she said. “Consider it to be a future adventure.”
“We’re here,” Margaret said as she glanced out the window of the carriage. The coachman had looked startled when she told him where they wished to go, but thankfully—and probably understandably—a duke’s coachman did not question anything, not even when it was not the duke issuing the orders.
They waited until the coachman opened the door, then Margaret stepped down onto the pavement and waited for the duke—Vortigern—to alight as well.
They stood in front of a large, shabby building that was ablaze with lights, a few people standing in front of it, rousing, lively music leaking out.
“This is a—a dance hall?” It was understandable that he was confused. She doubted he’d ever seen a dance hall, much less ever gone to one.
“Yes.” She took his hand and drew him forward. “This is Caldwell’s, my favorite one.” And the one that was respectable for a lady to go to.
“You’ve come here before?” Now he sounded shocked. Although why he would be, when she’d just brought him here, didn’t make sense. Because why would she take him somewhere on an adventure when she didn’t know in advance that it would be an adventure?
He probably hadn’t thought it through enough.
“I have.” She turned to look at him. “The women I help, they like to have fun, and I have attended with some of them.” She couldn’t help the defiant tone that crept into her voice—what if he judged her harshly for going somewhere no female of her station would?
But that was true of the neighborhoods he’d promised to accompany her to, and he hadn’t balked at that. It just must be his propriety emerging at precisely the wrong time.
“Come in, then,” she said, then stopped and frowned at him. “No, wait, first we must muss you up a bit.”
She reached for his cravat and undid it, sliding it from around his neck. His throat was strong, the base of his neck sprinkled with a few dark hairs. She swallowed at the sight, wishing she could just lean up into him and lick him there, right at the hollow of his throat.
She squelched that impulse—there was only so much adventuring he was likely able to handle, after all—and put her hand up to his head, running her fingers through his hair and making it less tidy.
Then she returned to his collar and tugged at it so it was slightly askew.
She stepped back and surveyed him. “You look more appropriate for where we’re going.” She tucked his cravat into her pocket. “And if anyone asks who you are, just growl. Anything but actually speak because your voice will give the game away.”
He arched his eyebrow at her. “So this is a game?” The way he said “game” made her shiver. As though he were looking forward to playing.
“Yes,” she said with a decisive nod. “A game to have fun without anyone finding out who you are, and what it might possibly mean”— she lowered her voice and tried to sound serious—“for the Duke of Lasham to be seen patronizing a dance hall where anyone could see him.”
He gave her an appraising glance. “And what about you? Do we need to muss you as well?”
She felt her cheeks start to burn. “Ah, no. They will all just assume I am your—your”—and then she waved her hands in the air until finally she was able to say it—“your mistress, and you are very generous to clothe me so well.”
“My mistress,” he said in a flat tone. Was he upset? Had she pushed him too far into adventuring?
After a moment, another, of fraught silence, he spoke again. “Well, then, let us go in and play this game.”
He held his arm out for her, a nearly roguish smile on his lips, and she felt her insides relax as he escorted her into the building, dropping a few coins into the hands of the man selling admission at the entrance. All without saying a word.
The music was of course a lot louder inside, and it was almost impossible to hear one another. Likely a good thing, given that she thought he shouldn’t speak at all. He nodded to the dance floor, then back at her, lifting his eyebrow in a silent question.
She smiled back and nodded, taking his arm and leading him right into the middle of all the dancers.
The music was lively, and boisterous, making up in energy and volume what it lacked in precision. It seemed she knew the dance, since she took his hands in hers and began to move, laughing as he attempted to follow along.
As he’d told her, he did not enjoy dancing. It was far too likely that someone would come along and smash into his blind side, and he was so much larger than any of his partners it wasn’t very pleasant for him to dance with anyone. He danced when he had no other choice—an excess of debutantes, for example, or some woeful spinster he felt sorry for—and gritted his teeth throughout the exercise.
But this was different. Entirely different.
For one thing, they were not waltzing. Or, it seemed, performing any kind of choreographed dance. Instead, they were moving to the music along with all the other couples on the floor, bumping into one another, smiling, laughing, and continuing on.
Then there was the fact that she smiled up at him, nonstop, her expression one of absolute and total joy.
As though there was no other place she’d rather be, and nothing else she’d rather be doing.
And he found to his surprise, once he thought about it, that he felt the same.
The song went on for a few more minutes, and Lasham discovered there were some sort of steps being performed, although not with precision. He found himself navigating the crowd better than at the beginning, and her approving expression made him warm all over.
Never mind that the vigorous dancing was making her cheeks flush and her bosom move interestingly. And that their hands—bare, again, since wearing gloves would have made them stand out from the crowd—were clasped. He gripped her tightly, enjoying the moments when their bodies brushed against each other in a movement of the dance, enjoying when he could see how happy she was, flinging her head back at times and laughing, or otherwise just meeting his gaze with a mischievous grin on her face.
The music stopped, and they stood on the dance floor, just looking at each other, him knowing he was smiling like an idiot. But not caring.
The music began again, a different tune but similarly lively, and they started to dance again, both now grinning at each other. They were better moving together already, anticipating each other’s movements and dancing more or less in time to the music.
Had he ever had so much fun?
He didn’t think so. Not so much undiluted fun, unsullied by anything other than what this was—no alcohol, or bets, or sexual congress.
Although that last item was something he should not be thinking about. Because if he started to think about how much fun sexual congress with her might be, he would embarrass himself in front of all these people he didn’t know. And who didn’t know him.
With that thought, he maneuvered them to the corner of the room, finding it a lot easier to avoid collisions with others than when they’d first started dancing.
And stepped behind a row of chairs, next to a pillar, relatively unseen.
At which point he tucked her into the corner, grabbed hold of her waist, and gathered her to him so he could kiss her senseless.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“It won’t work, you know.” The princess spoke in that same flat tone.
Georgiana merely shook her head. She drew up the skirt of her gown and tore a strip of fabric from the bottom. She crumpled it all up into a ball and placed it against the wound, hoping to help the blood clot.
Did dragons’ blood clot, anyway?
“He’ll need more than what you can give him.” Now the princess’s tone was downright scornful. At least she was exhibiting some emotion.
“Well, if you know so much, why aren’t you helping him?”
The princess shrugged. “I told you, I need a prince.
None of the dragons I’ve encountered have produced one.”
Georgiana glared at her. “You don’t need a prince. You don’t need anybody. You’re strong, beautiful, and probably not terribly stupid. You just need yourself.” She gestured to the dragon, whose eyes were shut. “And you need to help him, because helping others is what makes us human. Even if it is helping a dragon,” she muttered.
The princess’s expression froze, and her eyes widened.
“Oh. I see,” she said slowly, wonderingly, “maybe I don’t need a prince after all?”
Chapter 17
He was kissing her. Again. But this time he was in total command, and she just . . . surrendered to the kiss, reveling in how he seemed to want to devour her. His hands started at her waist, but quickly slid up her ribs, his thumbs extending to just below the curve of her breasts.
Please, move them up, she sent a silent plea.
And he must have heard her, because he drew his thumbs over her nipples, just there, even as he pressed closer into her, pushing her back against the wall, his entire body touching hers, his fingers just where she wanted them, his lips on hers, his tongue deep in her mouth.
It was all-consuming, and entirely wonderful, and she never, ever wanted it to stop.
She put her hands on his side, rubbing her palms up and down, then sliding around to his backside and then, far more tentatively than she wanted, she put her hands there, on the firm round globes of his arse, pulling him into her even more.
That must have done something to him, since he groaned, low and deep in his throat, almost the growl she’d told him to display if asked any questions.
But she wasn’t asking any questions now, not only because her mouth was otherwise occupied—thank goodness—but also she was, for once, not sure what she’d want the answer to be.
Shall we go somewhere so you can ravage me thoroughly was not quite what she wanted to ask. Not quite.
Shall we go somewhere so you can remove all of your clothing and I can see precisely what you look like underneath, thereby ruining all viewings of marble statues—and any future husband—for me forever?
Or just please take me, now, make me forget everything but your skin, your kiss, and how I feel when you touch me.
The thoughts catapulted in her mind, making her start, and she shoved his chest, pushing him away, feeling how her heart was racing.
He gazed down at her, his expression intense and dazed. “I—I am sorry,” he said in that terrible stilted way he had.
And she felt sorry for him, and angry that he could get her so wrought up, and upset with herself for wishing to succumb to everything with him, when she absolutely shouldn’t, and for bringing him here in the first place, not to mention making him look even more ridiculously handsome by mussing him up and removing his cravat.
Making her want to lick his throat.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked, still in that odd tone, and it hurt to hear him like that, to know, as she thought she did now, that he was stunned and hesitant inside all that grand dukeliness of his. That he was as unsure of himself as anybody who wasn’t a duke, who wasn’t tall, and handsome, and wealthy, and intelligent, and who didn’t appreciate art.
Who wasn’t he.
What had happened to make him so unsure? The writer in her wanted to know, but the woman in her—the one whose mouth was bruised from his kiss, whose body shook with longing of some sort or another—wanted to persuade him that he was valuable, that he was deserving of lo— No, not that, she thought quickly, she couldn’t allow herself even to think that.
“I don’t want to leave.” Her hand was still on his chest, and she watched as her fingers slid down, sliding over the buttons of his waistcoat, feeling his chest rise and fall with his rapid breathing. “I just”—never want to stop kissing you, and that frightens me, so I stopped kissing you, since apparently I make no sense whatsoever—“I like this,” she said, gesturing between them, “quite a lot, but I don’t want you to be put into a position where there is scandal, and this”—she gestured again—“is scandalous.”
He regarded her for a few silent moments, and even though the music was still loud, it felt as though she could hear him thinking.
“You’re scared of this,” he said. Did he sound angry? She couldn’t tell. She opened her mouth to argue, only to snap it shut again because he was right.
He glanced away, over her head. “I don’t blame you. I’m scared as well.” He looked back at her. “I’ve never had this—this intensity with anyone before.” His lips twisted into a rueful grin. “Except with my friend Jamie, the one you met, and I definitely do not engage in this sort of activity with him.”
“The thing is,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “it does scare me. You scare me,” and then she raised her head to look at him, already knowing what he’d likely be thinking she meant, only she didn’t mean that, not at all, “but not because you’re a duke and have an eye patch and are generally tall and large and intimidating.”
“Why do I scare you, then?” he asked in that low, velvet voice. The one that made her shiver. The way he seemed to always make her shiver now.
“You scare me because I know we cannot, that this cannot, continue, and I’m already devastated that it can’t. We both know that our . . . friendship can’t be forever. I don’t want you to risk anything because of this.”
“What would I be risking?” he asked, again in a voice so low it seemed to send a rumble through her chest.
“The chance for happiness,” she replied, dropping her gaze to the floor.
The chance for happiness.
Until she said it, until it dangled in the air between them, he hadn’t even thought about happiness as an attainable goal.
What was happiness? Was it knowing that the world, the tiny corner you inhabited, was marginally better because of your actions? Was it spending time with a good friend drinking whiskey?
Was it discovering the hidden joy in dancing among a group of strangers at a place you would never have gone to on your own?
Or was it kissing someone so thoroughly that you forgot who you were, even as you were acutely aware of every single thing about her?
That wasn’t happiness, none of it. It was—well, it was satisfaction, and comfort, and desire, but it wasn’t happiness.
He knew, as his throat tightened, that he had no clue what happiness was.
She was still regarding him, allowing him to process the thoughts her words had triggered in his brain. He appreciated that she didn’t rush him, didn’t make him say something when he wasn’t ready yet to say it.
“I don’t know if I know what happiness is,” he said, lowering his mouth to her ear so she could hear him. He had his hand on her bare shoulder, the other hand on her arm, and they were nearly embracing again. He felt the warmth and vibrancy and sheer sparkle of her as though it were a tangible thing, nestled among the skirts of her gown and spilling out with every one of her movements.
He felt her swallow, he was that close to her. “That is so sad,” she said, then added, “Vortigern.”
He hadn’t heard his name spoken by anyone but her in years. For so long, his name had sounded ridiculous, and he’d actively dissuaded anybody from using it, but now it didn’t sound ridiculous. Not at all. It sounded as though it meant something special to her, as though saying it meant more than what she could say.
Like him, he thought ruefully. He couldn’t say what he meant and he had to rely on actions, on gestures, on what he didn’t say to convey what he meant.
And now he was glad he hadn’t let anyone use his name. It was hers to use, hers alone, and he wanted to hear it more often on her lips.
“There is a difference between not knowing what happiness is and not being happy, though, you understand,” he said, gripping her shoulder more tightly to punctuate his words. “I might have been happy. I am, I suppose, sometimes.” When I am with you. “I just am not certain what it is, precisely. Or how to recognize
it when it occurs to me.”
She drew back from him, her mouth curling into a warm, soft smile. “That is why we are adventuring, is it not? Happiness is an adventure. Does this,” she said, gesturing to the hall behind them, still filled with dancing couples and loud music and chatter and common folk, “make you happy?”
He glanced over her head at the hall, then returned his gaze back to her and slid his hand down her arm to take her hand in his. “It does,” he replied, hoping she understood precisely what he was trying to say.
Even if he wasn’t entirely certain.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
Georgiana looked at the princess, knowing her mouth was hanging open, and she probably looked exceedingly dim-witted.
“Did you not know that before?” Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Because I am just a smithy’s daughter, and I definitely know I don’t need anyone. What did your princess training consist of, anyway?”
The princess shrugged. Now Georgiana could see that her flat mien was likely born out of a taught sense of superiority, of a discomfort with the world that wasn’t princess-ish, and Georgiana wasn’t in quite as much awe as she was before. Not quite.
“I learned what we all learned—how to tell if a pea is under your mattress, how to discern a prince from a pauper, how to sniff in disdain.”
“Ah.” Georgiana tried not to show how appalled she was. “So your treating this dragon as you did—that was just part of your training?”
The princess nodded, absentmindedly stroking her bow. “We were told to shoot dragons and wait for princes.”
“I think it’s time for a new lesson,” Georgiana replied.
Chapter 18
She was in so much trouble. His expression as he admitted he didn’t know what happiness was, the exuberant way he’d let himself move during their dance, and the way he’d taken her, steered her, to the corner of the room so he could kiss her senseless—well, all of that made her more than weak-kneed. It made her heart weak. Or strong, depending on how you looked at it.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 16