One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  He was an idiot. And, damn it, he wasn’t even her idiot. He was his own now, forever on his own, able to say what was on his mind—I suppose we ought to consider getting married—but unable to say what he felt, which was . . . He paused as he considered it.

  What did he feel?

  She challenged him.

  She intrigued him.

  She made him happy.

  So did that mean . . . ?

  Yes, damn it. He was in love with her. He loved her. He wanted to be with her forever and always, and he’d just ruined all of that because of his inability to say what he felt.

  Was there ever such a pathetic wretch?

  But wallowing in self-flagellation wasn’t going to solve his problems.

  What was? He thought for a moment, nodded once, then strode out of the room and headed up the stairs to his bedroom.

  Annie took one look at Margaret as she walked into the house and gathered Margaret in her arms, making clucking noises of comfort into her hair. “Let’s go to your room, sweet, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Margaret let Annie guide her upstairs, relieved that at least one person whom she loved also loved her in return.

  Which was inaccurate, of course, because her sister loved her as well, and her brother-in-law cared for her because of Isabella. So two and a half people loved her, which was likely more than other people had in their lives.

  Annie brought her into Margaret’s bedroom, then planted Margaret in the middle of the room and undressed her, not saying a word—thankfully—about how disarranged her clothing was, because it was obviously not up to Annie’s own standards.

  Annie finally spoke when Margaret was in her night rail, a cozy robe wrapped over her, and seated in her chair. “What is it?”

  Margaret bit her lip, trying to figure out just what to say.

  “You’re in love with him. Which I’d told you already.”

  Thank goodness Annie was so intuitive.

  “Yes. And he proposed.”

  Annie wasn’t that able to predict things, apparently, because her mouth dropped open in surprise. “And you said no?”

  Well, put that way, it did seem ridiculous. You loved someone, he asked you to spend the rest of your life with him, and you turned him down.

  “He doesn’t love me.”

  “Well, why did he ask you then?” Practical Annie.

  Margaret shrugged, feeling embarrassed and foolish. “He is a gentleman, and he thought that since—” She stopped, not sure just how to say it, or what to say, which was a rarity for her, since she always knew what to say. Until him.

  “Since you and he were adventuring?” Annie said with a significant tone to the final word.

  Margaret felt her face suffuse with color. “Yes.”

  “But if you love him, and obviously he feels something for you, else he wouldn’t be adventuring with you—why not say yes?”

  Very practical Annie. She would have had no problem agreeing to what the duke proposed, except— “Well, he didn’t precisely ask. He just said he ‘supposed we should consider getting married.’ ” She lowered her voice as she spoke his words, feeling the return of all the emotions she’d had when he’d said them: disappointment, sadness, frustration. Not the way one wished to feel when accepting a proposal.

  Annie’s eyebrows rose, and she nodded. “Ah, no wonder you look as you do. That is not a proposal, not the kind you deserve. If you had wanted to just consider getting married, you could have had Lord Collingwood. But you didn’t, and that caused enough trouble to make us stay away for two years. We won’t have to leave again, will we?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No, I don’t believe so. It is not as though the duke truly wishes to marry me; he just thought that was something he should do. He suggested, I declined, and now we are just back to our normal lives. Besides,” she said, drawing her robe tighter around herself, “I can’t leave now, not now that I’ve seen what needs to be done to help those women. And what would Lord Gantrey do, without me to lose to?” She tried to imbue her voice with a lighter tone, but it didn’t quite work.

  Annie wasn’t fooled, either. “I’m sorry, my lady.”

  There wasn’t much more to say, was there?

  But there was so much more to feel.

  And none of it good.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “How is it worse?” Bless her father for going straight to the heart of the problem. He and her sisters were all looking at her, waiting for an answer.

  “He’s not who he appears.”

  “What your daughter means, Georgiana’s father, is that I am not a half-clothed man in your daughter’s company.”

  “What are you then?”

  “The other person you really are, does he have more clothing?” Her youngest sister, of course, who always spoke what was on her mind.

  He laughed, and Georgiana jumped; she hadn’t heard him laugh before, she’d just heard him groan and mutter and tell her she was an unattractive not-princess.

  It was a good sound, one that seemed to flow through her whole body.

  “He’s a dragon,” she blurted out. “Not a man.”

  Chapter 28

  He saw her at her usual spot at the table, Lord Gantrey beside her, and Lord Collingwood seated opposite, which made him bristle. Because now he and Lord Collingwood had one more thing in common, having been rejected by her.

  She looked paler than usual, but no less beautiful. She was wearing another jewellike color, this time a burnt umber shade that made her dark hair and brown eyes seem to sparkle even more. As he watched, she frowned and tossed a card onto the pile in the middle of the table.

  “Why aren’t you with her instead of hiding out here in the corner of the room?” Leave it to Jamie to get to the heart of the matter.

  Lasham shrugged, feeling his jaw clamp tight.

  “Ah.” As though Jamie knew precisely what he was thinking—which he likely did, even if Lasham himself did not. “You did something to muck it all up, didn’t you?”

  Well, it did seem as though Jamie knew, then.

  “How are you going to make it right?” Jamie nodded in her direction. “You won’t find another woman who so suits you.”

  “How would you know?” It wasn’t as though Jamie had spent any time when the two of them were together.

  “Because you have been nearly happy, Lash.” Jamie’s voice was serious, markedly different from his usual bantering tone. “You wall yourself away in your house and your responsibilities, and that is all well and good, but you need to look for happiness. Lord knows it is in short enough supply,” he muttered. “And you have seemed nearly happy lately, and the only difference that I can see is her in your life.”

  “You’re correct. Only you’re also correct that I mucked it up, and I’m not sure I can make it right again.” He’d thought and thought, and come up with only a few ideas.

  “Have you told her how you feel?”

  Oh. Well, no, he hadn’t thought of that. Grand gestures, gifts, promises to let her stay the way she was, yes. But not how he felt.

  Jamie rolled his eyes at the expression on Lasham’s face. “You’re an idiot, Lash.”

  That was something he had thought of. Many times.

  “I suppose I should do just that, then.”

  Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “I look forward to greeting the Duchess of Lasham, provided you don’t mess this up.”

  Lasham swallowed, knowing it was entirely possible he would, but also just as determined that he wouldn’t.

  “My hand again, I believe.” Margaret scooped up the pile of coins on the table and drew them toward her.

  “It’s interesting how often the luck runs your way, my lady.” Lord Collingwood spoke in an insinuating tone, but then again, he always spoke that way, so perhaps he was not implying she was a cheater.

  “Nearly a miracle, one would say,” he added.

  So much for thi
nking he wasn’t implying anything.

  “Are you making an accusation, my lord?” she asked in a flat tone of voice. “Because if you are, please do come out and say it directly.”

  “Spoken like a writer, my lady. I do so enjoy your little scribblings,” Lord Collingwood said, this time with a sneer in his voice.

  He really was a repugnant person; she was beyond relieved neither she nor her sister had ended up married to him.

  Especially since her “little scribblings” enabled her to say no to his proposal.

  “Well?” This time she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling, something she saw he noticed, judging by the triumphant expression on his face.

  “Well, then, Lady Margaret, I have to say that I do believe your winning to be the result of more than luck.”

  Lord Gantrey, the lovely man, spluttered at her side. “That is a very serious accusation, my lord. The lady has remarkable luck, to be sure, but she is also a skilled player, one to whom I am proud to have lost more times than I care to admit.”

  The other players, as well as the onlookers, all chuckled, lightening the mood and dispersing the silence that Lord Collingwood’s comments had created.

  “You are too kind, my lord,” he replied. “Too kind,” he repeated, stressing the first word. “I stand by what I said—I believe Lady Margaret’s luck is too fortuitous to be merely luck.”

  Margaret felt her entire body starting to heat, as though someone had planted her in front of a blazing fireplace. Or in front of a terrible man who was determined to accuse her of something she had not done just because he was piqued by her, or her skill at cards, or how her sister had escaped him.

  She rose, placing her hands on the table to still their shaking. “If you will excuse me, I do not wish to remain here and be accused of cheating. Please continue your play without me. Perhaps your luck will improve.”

  Lord Gantrey rose as well, taking her hands in his. “My lady, I do not believe these accusations. But,” he said in a low murmur, “perhaps it would be best for you to stay away from the tables for a bit. Until Lord Collingwood’s temper has eased. He has had ill luck lately, and it is unfortunate that much of it has been at your and your family’s hands.”

  Of course. Now she had to stay away from doing the one thing that would give her freedom from people such as Lord Collingwood, because of his accusations. That was an irony she wished she did not have to contemplate. But none of that was Lord Gantrey’s fault.

  “Thank you, my lord, I am most grateful for your advice.” She nodded, then walked quickly from the room, not meeting anyone’s gaze as she left.

  All she had to do was get her cloak and get into her carriage. She could handle that without causing a scandal, couldn’t she?

  “Miss,” a voice called as she walked out of the house, her cloak wrapped tightly around herself.

  Margaret paused on the step, glancing around to see who might have spoken. It was not a cultured accent, and if it was one of the women she’d helped, that meant there was something wrong.

  Because of course there was something wrong, because everything was wrong.

  And wasn’t she the dramatic one. Worse than even one of her own heroines.

  “Miss, pardon me.” It was Sally, the woman who’d led them to where the rabble-rousers were drinking.

  It definitely meant there was something wrong.

  “What is it, Sally?” Margaret spoke in a low tone, glancing around to make sure nobody was about. No, nobody, of course not, since the party had just begun and Society wouldn’t be finished until well into the wee hours. “Come over here,” she said, drawing the other woman into the shadow cast by somebody’s carriage. Not his, she would have recognized it, and wasn’t she relieved he wasn’t here tonight to witness her latest disgrace?

  If he had been, he probably would have leaped in and tried to salvage her reputation, which just would have worsened it, because everyone would think things—things that were true, to be sure, but things—and then she would be the woman who had been accused of cheating and who had done things with the duke whom she wouldn’t be marrying.

  “It’s them men, miss. Some of them got drunk, and now they’re demanding that a few of the girls, the ones who work there, and who was just there having a pint, keep them company. You know, that way,” as though Margaret didn’t already have a crystal-clear idea of what was happening.

  Her throat tightened. Women who had nowhere to turn for help. Women who had no choice because of men’s superior strength.

  Women who couldn’t say no if they wanted to.

  “Let’s go, then,” she said, looking down the row of carriages for hers. Thankfully, it wasn’t too far down the line, and she took Sally’s arm and headed toward it, feeling her heart racing, as much at the thought of being able to help as at the danger the women were in.

  He’d watched as Lord Collingwood had said something to her, something that made her turn even paler, then bright red as an angry flush stained her cheeks. His hands had clenched into fists, and he’d been about to stride toward them to demand what was going on, only he knew, just as he knew his name was Vortigern, that she would not appreciate that. Would likely resent it, actually.

  So he watched as she spoke, then rose, her entire demeanor exhibiting fury and sadness and an almost tangible sense of desolation.

  Had he done that? That last part, that terribly alone part?

  In a selfish perhaps-she-does-care-for-me way, he hoped so. Maybe then he’d have a chance at happiness. With her.

  He followed when she left, and while he didn’t hear what the woman said who approached her, he knew it was nothing good, judging by their reactions. So when she went to her carriage, he went to his. And told his coachman to follow her at a discreet distance.

  Sally shared what she knew about what was happening while Margaret and Annie listened. It didn’t sound good, but then again, it didn’t sound as though anything had happened yet.

  “And then I thought that since we couldn’t go to ask anyone for help, and most of the men around are too scairt of that gang to do anything, that we’d come and ask you. I didn’t see that scary-looking fellow with you, though. It’d be better if he were here.”

  Margaret and Annie shared a glance. “It would be better, but he is not,” Margaret said at last. “And I cannot get him at this late hour.”

  Or at any time, she thought for a brief, heartrending moment before pushing the truth away.

  “We’ll have to do,” Annie said firmly. “We can’t leave those girls with them gents, not without trying to get them to stop.”

  “No, we can’t.” Margaret couldn’t bear the idea that any woman was frightened simply because of her gender. It wasn’t fair, not at all, and she wished she were a man, or at least had the strength and position of one, so she could walk in and scatter the crowd as easily as Vortig—that is, the duke could if he employed his looks, his attitude, and his resonant voice all at the same time.

  They arrived at the pub about ten minutes later, Margaret having secured her embroidery needles, even though she knew they wouldn’t actually be a deterrent to anybody who wished to harm her.

  Sally got out first, her expression tightening as she heard the ruckus from inside the pub.

  Annie and Margaret followed, all three of them walking quickly to the door. Margaret told John Coachman just to wait, to keep the horses ready, in case they needed to make a quick escape.

  Margaret took a deep breath, preparing for whatever would be on the other side.

  The sight that greeted them did not seem, at first, to be all that awful until Margaret saw the girls’ strained expressions and how the men had positioned the chairs so the girls would have to get through several of them to leave the room.

  And the feeling in the room was one of menace, made more so by the expression on a few of the men, who appeared to be getting drunk as well as angry. Not a good combination.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen,” Margaret said
brightly. As though she hadn’t just walked into a room filled with workingmen who were filled with gin and ire.

  “Oh, it’s the lady back again,” the large ringleader said with a sneer. His sneer was better than Lord Collingwood’s; she would have to tell that latter gentleman he might want to take lessons from this one.

  “Yes, and I have a duty to these women,” although to call them “women” when they were so clearly frightened girls felt wrong, but she didn’t want to edit herself at this moment.

  The man tilted back on his chair so it was on two legs. A clear demonstration of how little her presence was affecting him. “Go on home to your fancy life. We don’t want none of what you’re selling here. Do we, lads?”

  Most of the men nodded in agreement, and one of them kept his stare on her as he drew a terrified-looking woman against him.

  Margaret swallowed, feeling the embroidery needles tucked up against her forearm, knowing they were not going to help, not at all. Not against these men. Men who were likely desperate, and she couldn’t fault them for their desperation, but she could fault them for taking out their fury at their own powerlessness on these girls.

  “My lady, this doesn’t seem good,” Annie said, close in her ear.

  Annie had never been more accurate in her life. And yet still Margaret had to do something, to try to break through their anger just enough to get these girls out of immediate danger.

  “I don’t have a choice, Annie,” she replied in a quiet voice.

  Annie tugged on her sleeve. “You do. You don’t owe nobody here. We can walk out now, and we can find help, and send it in.”

  Margaret glanced to where the belligerent-looking leader was still canted back on his chair, holding a dram of whiskey to his mouth and drinking it as though it were water.

  “We don’t have the benefit of that kind of time.”

  Nobody was paying attention to them any longer, except the one who’d drawn the woman closer. He still stared at her, his lip curled in derision.

  She couldn’t blame him for his scorn; it wasn’t as though she were anything more than a lady and her lady’s maid, with a rail-thin coachman somewhere outside. Not to mention those embroidery needles.