“Thank you, my lady.” He glanced over to see Margaret had gotten up from the table she’d been sitting at, and was making her way through the crowd, looking as though she were heading toward the terrace.
Even though it was raining. Did she think it was a lovely night also?
“Excuse me, I do think I will go get something to drink.” He didn’t wait for whatever she was going to say next because it wouldn’t be anything that would enable him to reach Margaret faster.
He cut her off just before she arrived at the table with all the beverages. “Lady Margaret.”
He saw her swallow before she looked at him. What had he done? Had something changed?
The look in her eyes made him want to take her in his arms immediately, despite all the people here, despite the scandal, despite the fact that he didn’t know what she was feeling. Except, it seemed, hurt.
“What is wrong?”
She shook her head, biting her lip. Up close he could see the signs of strain in her face, the flush of emotion staining her cheeks.
“Nothing.” She heaved an exasperated breath. “A few things. But nothing I cannot take care of myself.”
“Something to drink, my lady?” The footman in attendance at the table interrupted what he had been about to say. Which was probably good, since he didn’t know what he was going to say. As usual.
“Yes, thank you, I would like a glass of champagne.”
“I too,” Lasham said.
He nodded to the terrace. “Were you going outside?”
She blinked and looked in that direction. “Isn’t it raining?”
He shrugged. “That just means there won’t be anyone else out there.”
She laughed, and he felt something ease as her expression lightened. “You have a point, but I don’t wish to get rained on.”
“But I want to know what is bothering you. Perhaps I can help you.” He spoke in a gruff voice, unaccustomed to saying precisely what was on his mind. Usually he mangled it somehow, but this time, what he’d said was what he meant.
“Thank you.” She took a sip from her glass, then eyed it, shrugged, and downed the whole thing. “Let us go where we can talk in private.”
He drank his glass down as well, then winked at her. With his one good eye, which just probably appeared that he was twitching, so perhaps he hadn’t thought that through entirely. “Can you go to my house? Say in ten minutes?”
She arched a brow, looking as though she were planning an adventure, which made his body react in ways that were not appropriate for a public setting.
Which made it even more imperative that he get her alone. Besides which, he had some of Jamie’s advice rattling around in his brain, and he wanted to test his newfound knowledge.
“Yes, Your Grace. I will see you at your house very soon.”
She placed the empty glass on the table, dipped a curtsey, and made her way through the crowd to the exit.
Lasham watched her go, resisting the urge to accompany her, since that would not be avoiding the gossip they needed to avoid, especially now that Lord Collingwood was sniffing around.
It didn’t feel right that they had to pretend, but the alternative—not pretending—was something she’d adamantly said she was against. And he was, too, wasn’t he?
Maybe he wasn’t after all. Maybe he should think about what might happen, should try to write the ending to this story himself.
If she were writing this story, she would have the duke take her into his arms, profess his undying love, and offer marriage to her.
But this wasn’t a story, it was her life. And while the fairy-tale ending sounded good, it wouldn’t help what would happen afterward—the scandal, the responsibility, the eventual disappointment when neither one of them could do what they truly wished to.
This was a better solution, she told herself as she got into her carriage. Something with an end, not a happy end, necessarily, but a finish. A finality. A close to this period of her life.
Annie was seated inside, doing some sort of knitting, although Margaret suspected she just borrowed some of the work from any of the young ladies whom Margaret had helped, since Margaret had yet to see Annie actually produce something.
“We going home so early?” Annie said, straightening in the seat.
And here is where it would get . . . difficult.
“You are. I am headed elsewhere.” She tried to speak in as firm a tone as possible to dissuade Annie’s questions, only she knew, even before Annie spoke, that it would be no good.
“Elsewhere?” Annie’s tone was arch. “Elsewhere like to a certain duke’s house? That kind of elsewhere? And you won’t be needing your maid there, will you?” She leaned forward, her gaze locked on Margaret’s face. “What have you two been doing, anyway?” Her expression became outraged. “And what you have not been telling me?”
“I will tell you when I can. Right now, I don’t even know, it’s just—it’s just that he is kind, and has been helping me with the women, and I know you wanted me to have more protection, and he has been splendid. And all he asked for in return is that I show him some adventure.”
Annie’s eyebrows rose up so much on her face they were in danger of getting lost in her hairline. “Show him some adventure? Is that what the young gentlemen are calling it these days?”
“Oh my gosh, no, not that,” Margaret replied, feeling her cheeks start to burn. “I took him to the dance hall,” where we kissed, “and we’ve been to the museums,” where we almost kissed, “and he makes sure I get home safely in his carriage,” where we frequently kiss.
“Ah.” Annie seemed somewhat assuaged by all the details. But her next words made Margaret speechless for once in her life.
“So you’ve gone and fallen in love with him, haven’t you?” She shook her head as she folded up her knitting. “You know that there aren’t very many happy endings in life. Your sister had one, but it was a close call. And the chances of you finding love with your own duke are even more reduced. You know the odds, you gamble against them enough.”
Margaret sighed, wishing Annie weren’t quite so perceptive. And likely correct. “I have, Annie, and I know that nothing can come of it. But I do like him, and he does enjoy my company, and I need his help, at least until we get more assistance for those women.”
Annie narrowed her gaze at her mistress. “So you’re going to keep on doing what you’re doing, feeling what you’re feeling, until you have to give it all up, aren’t you?” She sighed. “It’s not as though I can say anything to change your mind. Just be careful, mind.”
It was the same admonition she’d given Margaret a few weeks ago, and it still held true. But how could Margaret be careful when she was too busy being in love?
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Did you want to be a man?” she asked after an hour or so of walking. He followed along behind, but not so far behind she couldn’t see his bare leg from the corner of her eye.
It was very disconcerting.
“No,” he said plainly.
“Oh.” There wasn’t much more she could say about that, was there?
“Did you ever want to be anything other than you are?” he asked.
She heard herself snort. “Besides someone who didn’t have to go into the forest where she might encounter strange and possibly deadly creatures? No.”
“Then why did you ask me if I wanted to be a man? Isn’t being a dragon enough?” He didn’t sound as though he were offended, just as though he was curious.
She considered it. “I suppose it is.”
“So why do you want something else?”
That was a very good question.
Chapter 26
“Your Grace, the lady is here.” The butler didn’t sound precisely approving, but then again, he didn’t sound disapproving, so perhaps he was just neutral.
And why did she care about what the butler thought, anyway? Oh, of course, because she cared wha
t people thought in general, which was why she was currently gambling her way through the best houses in London Society to give lower types of people a better chance at life. So being dismissive of a mere servant would be hypocritical of her.
Vortigern was waiting for her at the door to his library, where so many wonderful things had happened. She felt a shiver of excitement as she walked in after leaving her cloak with the potentially disapproving butler.
“Tea, please,” Vortigern said as he closed the door behind them. He didn’t pause, he just drew her into his arms and held her. She immediately felt calmer, and yet also more apprehensive—because if this was what she needed to be calm, then what would she do in six months? Or three? When whatever this was was over?
“You’re shaking,” he said. He withdrew his grasp of her, but took her hand and led her over to the sofa. Their sofa.
Margaret sat down, still not looking at him. Not because she didn’t want to see his face, because of course she did, but because she wasn’t certain she had mastered the I-am-absolutely-not-in-love-with-you expression she’d been working on, and she didn’t want to ruin the evening with that revelation right away.
“I am fine.” She smoothed an errant piece of hair behind her ear. “I think it is the delayed reaction to confronting those gentlemen, and realizing there is so much more to be done.” A lie, but she couldn’t exactly tell the truth, could she?
“Not by you,” he said in a fierce tone of voice.
That startled her enough to look directly into his eye. “Why not me?”
He took her hands in his, holding them firmly as though to emphasize his point. “Not entirely by you, I mean to say. I am working with my secretary to craft some new bills that might ease some of the suffering in those places. Make it easier for mothers to find work and not have to abandon their children.” He shook his head. “It’s easy to be discouraged, there is so much to do, but it has to be done. You’ve shown me that.”
“Thank you.”
They sat silent for a few moments, him still holding her hand. A knock at the door made them leap away, and Margaret regretted the feeling of commonality, of companionship, she’d just felt.
“Come in,” Vortigern called.
The butler entered, bearing a silver salver with all sorts of tea things. He laid them on the table in front of the sofa, adjusting a saucer here, a sugar bowl there, until he rose and nodded. “Will that be all, Your Grace?” he asked, not looking at Margaret.
“Yes, thank you,” Vortigern replied.
The butler nodded again, then left, only pausing to ensure the door was thoroughly and shockingly closed.
“Tea again?” Margaret said. “And here I thought all unmarried dukes sat about drinking liquor a lady should not even know about when they were on their own. You are disabusing me of my exciting notions, Your Grace.”
His hands froze over the teapot, and he looked up at her, a knowing smile on his face. A smile that, if she was not mistaken, meant that there would be touching and more happening very soon.
And she was all in favor of it.
Still watching her, he removed his cravat with one hand, tossing it to the ground. Her eyes drank in the bare expanse of his throat, the way his body seemed poised to pounce. Preferably on her.
“Come here, Margaret,” he said, leaning back against the sofa. His eye was on her mouth and she knew in that moment that he was going to kiss her, and what was even more wonderful was that she was going to kiss him as well—kiss the man she loved.
She’d always wanted to know what that would feel like, and had resigned herself to having to imagine it. Imagine the flutter in her heart, the quickening pulse, the overwhelming rush of emotion that would flood her when she was in the arms of the man she loved.
But now she could find out for herself, a writer’s most direct way of figuring out how to convey it in prose, and she wished she were doing all this for the sake of her writing, only she wasn’t. That was just a lovely side effect, one that would hopefully impact her sales in the future.
He waited for her, as though he could read her mind and see the tumult of thoughts therein. Only she hoped he couldn’t, or he might not wish to kiss her at all—they’d agreed, this was part of the adventure, not part of a life plan.
She leaned into him and pressed her mouth against his. And knew immediately it was entirely different.
This was something special, something new and fresh kindling inside her. They were alone, they were well aware of what they were doing, were going to do, and it was spectacular.
She reached up to his neck, putting her hand on the bare expanse of skin where his cravat normally was. It felt strong, and smooth, and she slid her fingers around to the back of his head, pushing them into his hair.
His hands were on her shoulders, but his thumbs were on the top of her chest, the part not covered by her gown, and they were stroking her skin, creating fiery trails wherever they touched. All of a sudden she felt consumed by it, the burning need for something more, no matter what that more was.
And she was fairly certain she did know what that more was.
Was she really contemplating doing that more?
She would have to say she was.
His fingers were sliding over her upper chest now, and then he stopped kissing her mouth, instead lowering his head to her neck and kissing her there, then moving to her collarbone, then farther down, and then, oh then, his fingers were sliding the fabric of her gown aside, and then her chemise, and he plunged his hand down into her bodice, his fingers finding her nipple and rubbing.
She twisted, arching to get her body closer to his, although any closer and he would be behind her, but she wasn’t thinking logically. Wasn’t thinking at all, not with his clever fingers pulling and stroking her nipple, his mouth sucking on her skin, her hands holding him to her.
She pushed at his legs so she could ease herself down the sofa, wanting to be beneath him, to feel all of his largeness on top of her, making her unable to move, unable to see anything but him.
He obliged, sweeping his hand over her hip and arranging her on the sofa, then easing down on top of her. He raised his head and met her gaze. “I am not too heavy, am I?” he asked, that tender hesitancy in his voice.
“No, please,” she said in a pleading voice. “Please.” She wasn’t quite sure what she was asking for, just that she wanted him, all of him, on her and around her and—and yes, inside her.
Dear Lord. This might happen.
His gaze was focused on her gown, his expression considering. Was he thinking she was forward? Well, she was, so she couldn’t argue with him there. Was he thinking they were making an enormous mistake?
Dear Lord, she hoped not.
“I am wondering how best to remove your gown,” he said at last. He looked up at her. “Because if I don’t remove it properly, I might just rip it, and then how would you explain that to your very inquisitive maid?”
She shivered at the forcefulness of his words. Odd how she loathed being told what to do, and yet she was willing to do whatever he wanted.
Well, provided whatever he wanted was more of this.
She turned onto her side, trying not to think of what they must look like now—her underneath him, but not entirely, with a leg sprawled out from the sofa, her arms waving in the air now that she wasn’t holding him to her. “You can unbutton me,” she said, turning her head toward the back of her gown.
“Oh, I can,” he said with assurance. Where had the Awkward Duke gone? This duke looked and sounded utterly confident, his fingers going to the top of her gown and beginning to undo the buttons.
A few buttons down, and then his mouth was there, kissing her back through her chemise. And then he was finished with the unbuttoning—but hopefully not the kissing—and rose, pulling her with him.
They stood facing each other, she knowing her cheeks were flushed, seeing the same flush on his cheekbones. His eye blazed with the same fire she had felt sparking through her
, and his mouth—God, that gorgeous, lovely, absolutely kissable mouth—just seemed to beckon her. She leaned up and kissed him, then bit him very softly on his lower lip.
That seemed to surprise him, but not in a what-have-you-just-done way. More like “Well, that was fun, and now that has given me all sorts of interesting ideas,” judging by the way he was looking at her.
“Turn around,” he said in a growl, not waiting for her to react, but putting his hands on her waist and moving her so her back was facing him.
He put his hands on her shoulders and slid the gown down, drawing her arms from her sleeves and guiding the fabric so that it ended up in a pool at her feet. She followed his actions by undoing the laces of her corset, allowing it, too, to fall to the floor.
She felt totally exposed, of course, given that she was now standing only in her chemise, but also absolutely safe. She trusted him. And what’s more, she wanted this. All of it, no matter what the consequences.
No matter what the consequences? a voice chimed in her head.
Even that.
Really?
That voice again. And why did it sound so much like Annie?
Yes. Really.
Fine, then.
Margaret turned back around, instinctively holding her arms crossed over her breasts, but then lowered them slowly as she looked at him.
His gaze was devouring her, traveling from her face to lower down, then back again. The room was absolutely quiet, except for their breathing.
His breathing was a lot louder than hers. Somehow that pleased her in a self-satisfied, feminine way.
And in the spirit of wanting to undo him entirely—literally, not figuratively, since he was still entirely clothed, save for his cravat—she undid the tie of her chemise, then began to gather the fabric up from the bottom, drawing it up slowly but steadily.
“Shouldn’t you do something about your clothing?” she asked, the chemise now just at mid-thigh. A few inches more and he would be able to see there, that place that felt as though it were throbbing.
He swallowed, his gaze not wavering from her lower body, shrugging his coat off and flinging it behind him, then beginning to undo the buttons of his shirt.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 22