She smirked. “Yes, outside and everything. Perhaps one day, or rather night, we will come to dance under the stars.” And then she had to laugh at how dumbfounded he looked. Yet also feel a pang that he was so far removed from real life that this kind of possibility seemed so distant.
“Lady, over here!” a voice called, and she and the duke both turned to look. A young man, likely no older than seventeen, stood behind a cart, smoke pluming out of the top. “I’ve got sausages to keep your stomach from growling,” he said.
She looked at him, one brow raised. “Is your stomach growling?” she asked.
“Most definitely,” he replied, and took her arm to lead her toward the cart.
After the sausage, and consuming some ale from another vendor, they wandered about the gardens, nodding at the various people they encountered, but were mostly just silent, both of them lost within their thoughts.
The adventure had distracted her for a little while, but now she was left with the reality of her situation—spending time with someone she’d stupidly fallen in love with, who made her happy, who had been quite clear about where he saw any of this going.
And it was only a matter of time before people started to talk—yes, it was unlikely that anybody they knew would be here, or at Caldwell’s Dance Hall, but she knew the possibility existed.
But thus far she hadn’t been very successful in breaking off whatever this was; in fact, she’d only found herself more immersed in it when she did try, so perhaps she should just try not to think about it.
Which she well knew would be impossible for her.
“This is delightful,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. They were standing in front of a flying balloon, now deflated, but they could see the balloon’s brightly colored stripes and examine the basket that would hold the hardy travelers.
Not that Margaret wanted to be of their number; she was adventurous, but not foolhardy, at least not in terms of going aloft.
“I wonder if we could take a ride,” he continued. Apparently the duke had no such concern about the possibility of falling straight out of the sky, as she did.
“You might take a ride, if you wish,” Margaret replied. “I cannot even contemplate going up without feeling shaky.” Which was also what she could say about having fallen in love with him and confronting those gentlemen at the pub—all of it made her shaky, and anxious, and worried, although definitely not for the same reasons.
“You and yer lady wish to go up, then?” A man in a striped suit, nearly matching the balloon, stood up as he spoke, having been directly behind the basket. Margaret jumped at his voice.
“My lady does not wish to, but I do,” the duke said.
She couldn’t help but be surprised at how excited he sounded. This, from the man who’d never done anything as exciting as dancing outside, now he wanted to ascend into the clouds?
That gave her hope for him, but also despair for her, since she would not be a part of his ascent, either literally now, or later on, when he was able to find happiness.
Writers should not fall in love, she thought sourly. We are always to come up with the most gruesome metaphors for our own lives.
“You fell in love with him?” Isabella asked, her voice full of amazement. A day later, and she could still see how thrilled he’d been to ride in that balloon. And how sadly real it had been to watch him drift out of sight.
Margaret nodded. She’d arrived at her sister’s town house nearly thirty minutes earlier, but had spent that time cooing over baby Victoria and eating all the biscuits that were served for tea.
Margaret had even swatted her sister’s hand away when she was about to reach for one. Isabella leaped back, then burst into laughter, and had begged Margaret to talk about it. The falling in love part, not the biscuit part.
They were in Isabella’s sitting room, adjacent to her bedroom. It was very quiet, especially because Isabella’s husband was out at the boxing gym “pummeling someone,” Isabella had said with a wave of her hand.
Isabella had recently done renovations, changing the room’s colors from a mélange of pinks to pale greens and blues. It was lovely, and Isabella was rightfully proud of what she’d done.
Plus, she’d informed a surprised Margaret, she didn’t like the color pink.
“What do you want me to tell you?” Margaret said through a mouthful of biscuit.
“Everything. From the beginning, please.”
So she had. Victoria had gone to sleep, since her aunt’s romantic travails weren’t enough to keep her entertained, and Isabella had just let Margaret talk, only interrupting to ask the important questions.
“He went ballooning? That sounds so reckless. Is that how he lost his eye? Not ballooning, but something equally reckless?”
Margaret froze, a biscuit—maybe her seventh?—halfway to her mouth. “I don’t know! I haven’t asked him yet. He hasn’t told me, either.” She returned the biscuit to the plate and dropped her head into her hands. “This is hopeless. I am hopeless.” She raised her head and stared at Isabella. “I did the one thing I specifically knew I should not do. And now what?” She shook her head. “Pathetic.”
Isabella leaned forward and patted her sister’s hand. “Not pathetic, Margie. If there is one thing being in love has taught me, it is that it is never pathetic.” Her mouth twisted up into a half smile. “Hopeless, perhaps. But not pathetic.”
Margaret couldn’t help it, her sister’s words made her laugh, although she still felt as though she’d been punched in the heart. Sadly, she could not blame that feeling on all the biscuits she’d consumed.
“What are you going to do about it?” Her sister sounded so—so practical, as though being in love meant you could do something about it. Of course, when you looked as beautiful as Isabella, chances were good that you could do something about it.
Margaret was nothing close to Isabella in looks. But, she thought, he does think I am attractive. He said so, and she knew full well it was difficult for him to say things, so if had said it—well, it must be doubly true. If having an opinion could be doubled, that is.
But more than his possibly wanting her was the reality that she did not want to be a duchess, much as she loved her sister and her irascible brother-in-law. Especially the duchess to a duke whose responsibilities required him to stay out of gossip’s way, and definitely not have a wife who had caused scandal in the past and would likely do so again, despite any of her best efforts.
She would never curtail her work among the women she helped, nor did she particularly want to give up writing. Yes, it could feel as though it were a chore at times, but she did love doing it, and she got great joy out of having done it, and by making people happy.
Even she knew a duchess couldn’t continue to write a serial for a vulgar newspaper. At least she didn’t think so, not without scandal. What would the Queen say about something like that, anyway?
She didn’t think the Queen would be in favor of it, that was for certain.
And it wasn’t as though he showed any signs of being in love with her; he was concerned for her, he did admit to wanting to kiss her, but that wasn’t love. Because if it was, gentlemen were in love with a different woman nearly every day, if not every hour.
There was nothing for it but to keep her feelings to herself. Not something she was normally accustomed to doing.
Speaking of which, her sister was still waiting for her reply. Her feelings.
“I am going to do nothing about it.” She glanced over at the sleeping Victoria. “You’ll have to endure your spinster aunt, Lady Victoria.” Because while she could keep her feelings from him, it wasn’t as though she could easily swap them over to anyone else.
“Don’t assign yourself to spinsterhood too quickly,” her sister said with a pointed look. “Even you cannot predict the future, much as you might like to.”
The idea that things might not end up as she thought they should made her shudder, and shiver, in two entirely contrasting rea
ctions.
“It is your deal, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret nodded as though she knew that already, and picked up the cards, shuffling them with a practiced hand.
She’d come to the Dearwoods that night to make up for being so . . . distracted of late. She still had funds for what she wanted, no needed to do, but going to that pub and seeing those men had made her see that there was more to her mission than just helping some women escape their circumstances.
If she wanted to make a change, a real change, she would have to engage the men of the households also. And that would mean placing more people with the Quality Employment Agency, or finding another place that could help them, if the men weren’t trained for the types of positions the Agency generally had open.
The Dearwoods were pleasant people, and the company they kept was generally pleasant as well. It was unlikely she would run into Lord Colling-
wood, for example, who seemed to be running with a racier crowd since losing his ducal title to her brother-in-law. That was a relief.
But the duke wasn’t here, either, even though he absolutely did not run with a racy crowd, unless she was a racy crowd. Perhaps she was. And it was getting late, so he likely wasn’t going to be here. She should be relieved at that as well, since she didn’t want to have to pretend she wasn’t in love with him to his face. She’d rather just pretend at home, to Annie, or to herself when she was looking in the mirror practicing looking not in love.
She looked very much in love, unfortunately. It was only when she’d thought up a terrible story about a great herd of vultures coming to rip out her heart if she kept loving him that her expression changed.
But at least that gave her an idea for her next piece of writing.
She frowned, and shook her head.
“Is something wrong, Lady Margaret?”
Nothing falling out of love wouldn’t fix. “I am fine, Lord Gantrey, thank you.”
Lord Gantrey patted her hand, leaning forward to speak in a stage whisper. “Is my favorite cardsharp distracted by something?”
Margaret forced herself to smile, not that it was too difficult, since Lord Gantrey was such a nice person. She nearly felt bad about always winning when they played, only he could afford it, and she knew it brought him joy, especially on the very rare occasions he won a hand or two.
But she was distracted. And being distracted by love was no way to acquire enough funds to keep on with her endeavors. And since she was not interested in marrying money, she would have to keep on supporting herself, which meant she couldn’t get distracted.
Even she didn’t think she could write herself successfully out of this one. Especially not within a reasonable period of time.
“The Duke of Lasham.”
Well, that was not going to help her distraction. She did not look up at his arrival, instead sorting her cards—again—as though they would have a different result if she went by suit, not number.
They did not. She had a bad hand in reality, and what was more, she had a bad hand in life. Although that sounded ludicrously dramatic, as though she were starving on the streets or something.
She was not. She was lucky, truly lucky, to be born into her station in life. It was just unlucky that no matter what station a woman had been born into, she was constrained by her gender.
Men could do what they wanted. They could offer and expect to be accepted by a lady who had no wish to marry them, they could make their living at gambling if they wanted without being derided for it, they could go wherever they wanted to without fear of assault.
“Does anyone know how he lost his eye?” The woman to the right of her, a Miss Simpson, asked in a low voice. “He looks so fearsome, I swear he looks like something out of a nightmare.”
Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut again. That was the common perception of him, and she had even had it herself, back when she thought his fearsome appearance was the most interesting thing about him.
Now she knew better. Much better, unfortunately for her, not to mention her heart.
“I heard it was a duel over a lady,” Lord Gantrey said. “But he’s never spoken about it.”
A duel over a lady. She had always assumed it was a wartime injury. What if it was over a lady? What if he’d never gotten over her?
She should be happy, then. It meant he wouldn’t go fall in love with her as ridiculously as she had fallen in love with him. It should make her happy.
But it absolutely did not. Instead, it caused a churn of emotions inside her, primarily jealousy, and she wanted to simultaneously demand he tell her the lady’s name and also go punch the lady herself for not staying by his side.
“No wonder he hasn’t married,” Miss Simpson said with a sniff. “Who could stand to look at him? Imagine what is under that eye patch?”
Now Margaret just wanted to punch Miss Simpson.
Really, she was getting to be as bad as her brother-in-law the duke, who seemed to like going around hitting people.
She glanced at her hand, knowing there was no way she could win anyway. She nodded and smiled at everyone around her—with the exception of Miss Simpson—and laid her cards down on the table. “Excuse me, everyone. I must be on my way, I have promised to see my sister, the Duchess of Gage, this evening.”
A total lie, but no one would call her on it, especially when a ducal title was invoked. She felt her mouth twist into a sour smile at the thought. A duke was so important that every move he made, every eye he happened to lose, was discussed and debated and nearly held as a public forum.
Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with a plain mister? Even a lower-titled aristocrat might have been doable. A baronet, or an earl’s third son.
But no. She had to go and fall in love with a duke. If she had fallen in love with Prince Albert, she couldn’t have chosen any worse. Although if she had fallen in love with Prince Albert, she would have had Queen Victoria to contend with.
As it was, she just had to contend with her scandal, his responsibility, her responsibility, and the minor fact that as far as he knew, they were just adventuring together. Not falling in love. Not doing anything more than whatever they were doing, in fact.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“You should be able to wear some of my father’s clothing, you are of a size,” Georgiana said, glancing back at him as they walked through the forest.
“Won’t your father wonder why you are bringing home a man who has no clothing of his own?” Little puffs of smoke accompanied each word, and she wondered if they would eventually dissipate, or if she’d have to come up with another lie—something not involving the words “former” and “dragon” to explain the oddity of his breath.
Georgiana gave a rueful laugh. “My father has long ago accepted that I am, as you so succinctly said, not a princess. I have done many odd things in the past, although I have not as yet brought home naked strangers.”
“I am not naked,” the man pointed out. He drew her cloak more tightly around himself. “I am wearing a garment now, which is much more than I’ve ever worn before.”
Georgiana halted in her steps, turning around to face him. “You were a dragon before; I don’t believe dragons wear any clothing. Men do.” She looked him up and down. “And you need more than you have on.”
He shrugged. “If you say so, not a princess. If you say so.”
They kept walking, Georgiana’s chest getting tighter and tighter with each step.
Chapter 25
He couldn’t stay away from her. Even the day before, when he’d been up above her, in the sky in the balloon, he’d kept his eye on her, watching as she became a dot on the ground.
The feeling of flight had been wonderful, but couldn’t compare to what it felt like when he was holding her. When she was holding him.
He’d thought she might be in attendance here, and he’d felt his chest ease when he spotted her in the crowd—tonight she wore
green, a dark, jewellike hue that looked black in certain angles of the light.
Not that he was studying her from all angles, or anything.
Even though he absolutely was.
She had those star things pinned in her hair again tonight, and a necklace that sparkled as well. But nothing to compare with the sparkling essence of her, the thing that made him want to go to her and capture it, and her, in his arms, never to let her go.
That was very dangerous thinking.
“Your Grace, we are so grateful you could make it,” Lady Dearwood said. The woman was so tall she could look him straight in the eye, which made him feel even more awkward. Most people had to crane up to look at him, so they weren’t confronted by his lack of sight so directly.
But Lady Dearwood didn’t seem at all bothered by it, judging by the self-satisfied expression on her face. Of course, he thought she had a few daughters lying around, and a duke, even a duke with one eye, would be a good catch for one of them. One wife, one eye. A good match.
“Thank you for the invitation,” Lasham replied. “It is a lovely night for a party, isn’t it?”
Lady Dearwood’s expression faltered. In truth, it was raining quite hard, so much so that Lasham’s feet were squeaking because of the water that had gotten into his shoes on the short walk from the carriage to the house.
“It is, Your Grace,” she said firmly. Apparently she’d decided it was better to agree with the duke than debate how “a lovely night” would be defined.
“And this is a lovely party,” he continued, deliberately using the same word so as to make his entire opinion suspect in her eyes.
When had he gotten so devious? And more to the point, why hadn’t he started before? It was fun to watch Lady Dearwood wrestle with the information that he had just provided—that he categorized a rainy evening and an evening party into the same description, which must mean . . .
He saw when she gave up parsing it. “Your Grace, the beverage table is over there, and of course I can summon someone to fetch a glass, if you could tell me what you prefer.”
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 21