One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  Perhaps she could just stitch what she wanted to say.

  “If I might, gentlemen,” Margaret began again, trying to keep her voice from trembling. Because if they did decide she was more than a nuisance? Things could be very unpleasant for her as well as every other woman in the room.

  The leader righted his chair again and stood, kicking his chair in back of him so it skittered against the wall.

  “Look here, miss. We don’t want trouble. But we also don’t want to hear what you have to say, can you understand that?” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet wide in a combative stance.

  “I can,” Margaret said. “I absolutely would not wish to listen to me speak, either, if it kept me from enjoying my evening. And if you just listen for a moment, you can return to your pints and your—your liquor.” She was doing a terrible job, she and Annie were only moments away from being tossed out, and that was the best scenario. She took a deep breath and continued, “Only some of these women are needed urgently, at this very moment.” She had no chance of persuading the men that they should allow the girls to leave, so she was going to have to make something up. She could do it, it was what she did for a living, wasn’t it?

  She wished she was able to plot this particular tale out as well as she did her serials. As it was, she was going to have to make something up on the spot.

  The leader took a few more steps closer, a skeptical expression on his face. “Where are they needed so urgently, then?”

  She put a bright smile on her face. “I am so glad you asked. The Quality Employment Agency has asked its workers to go to their office to—to take advantage of an emergency placement.” They all looked confused. No wonder, she had no idea what she was saying, either. “That is, there is an emergency, and the—the—”

  “The Duke of Lasham requires workers for jobs that begin tomorrow, and we are filling the positions now. And not only the women are wanted. There is work for the men among you as well, at least men who can take an honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work.”

  His voice resonated through the pub, seeming like it carried its own weight, as though she could reach up and touch it.

  She turned, blinking as she drank in the sight of him. He stood in the open door, framed by the light from the streetlamps, looking large, and omnipotent, and powerful. As a duke should be.

  There was a moment’s silence, then a clamor as the pub’s inhabitants all shouted their desire to work, to do whatever the duke wanted, accompanied by a scraping of chairs as people rose to get closer to the man who held their destiny—for the moment, at least—in his large, capable hands.

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze, nodding in acknowledgment of what he’d done. Of what he’d said.

  Thank you, she mouthed, and he nodded back, something in his expression making her squirm with—with something.

  Of course, you ninny, you’re still in love with him, a voice in her head said.

  Well, true enough, the more pragmatic voice agreed.

  And he might not care enough for her, but he’d done this. He’d followed her—again—and he’d rescued her—again—and this time, she could acknowledge, even without his prompting, that she’d needed rescuing.

  Lasham exhaled as the people crowded around him, wishing he could just push through them to her, but knowing his effort would be for naught if he didn’t see this thing through.

  He gestured to his coachman and footman to join him, glad that both were fairly large men who would appear to be an impediment, should the crowd grow unruly again.

  “Your Grace?” His coachman’s gaze was on the duke, but kept darting around, as though looking for trouble. Good man.

  “Yes, just take these people’s names and tell them all to report to the house tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp.” And in the meantime, he’d figure out what to do with all of them, now that he’d spoken. Meecham was bound to have some ideas, no doubt having something to do with equal work and rights and the like. He gave a mental shrug; it wasn’t anything he wasn’t in favor of already, and the process to get things implemented could be—no, always was—ridiculously slow, so if he could speed it along for a few people, out of the many who needed it? And save her in the process?

  So much the better.

  A part of him was furious with her for putting herself in danger again, but another part was proud of her for sticking to her resolution and facing the danger, even though it was, obviously, dangerous.

  He’d known what she was up to as soon as he saw where her carriage was headed, and he’d been grateful he’d kept the pistols in the coach, and even more grateful he hadn’t had to use them.

  “My lord, that is, Your Grace, thank you so much for this chance.” It was the woman who’d brought them here initially. “My girls, they are hard workers, they won’t disappoint you.”

  “I’m certain they won’t,” Lasham replied. “Just go see my man over there,” he said, gesturing to the coachman, now armed with a tablet and a pencil. He spread his hands to get their attention, then spoke again.

  “If everyone could just go give your names, and receive further instruction, then you can all go home for the evening. You’ll need to rest if you’re to work hard tomorrow,” he said, knowing that no matter what he and Meecham devised for them to do, that would be true.

  They shuffled about, the palpable energy and antagonism from just a few moments ago dissipating as the people dispersed, and he was finally able to go to her.

  “Margaret, I—”

  Her tone was flat, nearly brittle. “Yes, thank you for the rescue.” She lifted her chin. “I did require it, and it was very clever of you to follow me.”

  “That’s not why I did it.” He spoke in a low tone only she could hear.

  And she obviously did hear it—he saw her swallow, and take a deep breath, as though—as though she were bracing for something or relieved.

  He had no idea which.

  “Can you—that is, would you please come with me?” He held his breath, hoping she would at least give him this courtesy.

  And then the rest would be up to him.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  Her entire family looked at her for a long moment, then all three of them opened their respective mouths and howled. In laughter.

  At her.

  “A dragon?” Her father pointed one arm toward the man, holding the other over his stomach. “That man there?”

  “At least tell us something we can believe for a moment, Georgie,” Mary, her youngest sister, said.

  Georgiana glanced over at the man—she would have to find out if he had a name besides man-who-was-a-dragon—and rolled her eyes.

  He grimaced, opened his mouth, and flames shot out, scorching the sapling that her younger sister had planted a few years ago.

  “Does that prove it?” he asked, as the smoke settled.

  Chapter 29

  Damn it, but why did he still look so handsome? She hadn’t expected him to lose his height or his breadth or anything, but she’d hoped that some of what she had been feeling might be showing on his face as well.

  Instead, he was still handsome.

  “Please?” He gestured to her carriage and she paused, glancing back at Annie, whose expression was encouraging. She rolled her eyes at her extremely optimistic and misguided friend, but allowed him to help her into the carriage.

  He sat beside her, as he had those other times, and her body reacted immediately. To his warmth, his closeness, his very maleness inhabiting the coach. To him.

  “Well?” She had to break the silence, she was itching to ask him questions, even as she wanted to pretend to be as cool and collected as he was.

  “I followed you.”

  “Yes, I gathered that,” she said in a dry tone. “Since you appeared at the same place I was.” She paused. “Thank you. As I said.”

  “You’re welcome.” He shifted, and she felt his leg touch hers. Her
body sparked at the contact, and she had to push down the sharp rush of desire that flooded her. But she couldn’t think about that any longer, no matter what he might say now.

  Actually, because of what he might say. Maybe this time he would mention that since they both drew breath they had things in common, and shouldn’t they consider spending the rest of their lives together, just breathing?

  Or he could tell her that since he’d told her the secret to his first name—a secret anyone could discover, by the way—he was forced to marry her so she wouldn’t reveal it.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he began, then stopped abruptly.

  Now that opinion they actually did have in common.

  And then she laughed as she thought about it. “But you do, don’t you see?” She shook her head. “You just said the exact right thing to disperse that crowd.” And you said the exact wrong thing to get me to marry you, but perhaps that was the point.

  She felt him shake his head next to her. “Is that what I did? I thought I just wielded my power as a duke, as a man of means. It wasn’t what I said.”

  She softened at hearing how—how bleak he sounded. Especially as he said the last few words.

  Dear Lord, but she loved him. Even now, even after he’d taken her heart and made it feel all happy and warm and protected, and then trampled it so it broke into shards. Even now.

  She was definitely never using herself as a heroine, she knew that, since she didn’t want to write a woman who was still in love after being so treated.

  “You said the right thing.” She spoke in a soft voice, one that was meant to reassure, but seemed to have the opposite effect.

  “That’s even worse, then.” His tone was bitter, nearly savage in its intensity.

  Now she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know what he meant, much less how to respond.

  “I was eighteen.” His words sounded as though he were propelling them from his lungs. Forceful, quick, and urgent. “I was home from school, and feeling as though I were finally my own man. Finally feeling as though I could be a good duke after all.” He uttered a derisive snort. “Which I was not. Not then.”

  He laid his hand, palm up, on his thigh, and she took it without thinking. The warmth of it easing into other places they weren’t touching.

  “And I spent all evening drinking, alone, and then I decided I needed more wine. I went to the wine cellar, and popped open a bottle of champagne, and then this,” he said, raising their intertwined hands to gesture to his eye patch, “happened.”

  Margaret took a few moments to process what he’d said. “You—you weren’t in a battle? Or a duel?”

  He snorted again. “Nothing nearly as honorable as either of those things.”

  “You—you lost your eye to a champagne cork?”

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  “But—” What could she possibly say to such a revelation? “But that is so odd.”

  “You could say that,” he replied, and she couldn’t tell if he was upset or sarcastic or anything. “Although that odd event did result in my losing an eye. Peripheral vision. Depth perception. Those things.”

  “And all this time you haven’t told anyone? You’ve just let them wonder why?”

  She felt him shrug. “It isn’t important.” As he’d said before, when she’d asked.

  “But it is.” She curled her fingers around his as she tried to explain. “It isn’t just your title that makes you who you are. It’s—it’s how you carry yourself, and how you honor your position. It’s how you walk into a room as though you are daring anyone to ask about your eye, or anything else, for that matter.” And she hadn’t quite realized it until she’d said it aloud just how—how impressive he was. Even though he wasn’t able to say what he felt.

  Was she just hoping he hadn’t been able to say what he meant before? She couldn’t succumb to that tempting thought, or she’d never find out what he would say because she’d be too busy kissing him, inarticulate boor that he was.

  That part made her very angry. At herself.

  “Why would anyone want to know anything about me?” He sounded genuinely curious. “About me, that is, about Vortigern.”

  He didn’t know. He had no clue, did he, about how people saw him, and more specifically, what she felt about him. “Why wouldn’t they? They only wouldn’t if you made it impossible for them to know you. All they see is who you present. And it’s not Vortigern, the man who lost his eye through a careless—and you have to admit, almost humorous—youthful escapade. They see the duke, the man who holds his responsibilities with as much weight as he does his title.”

  “And you?” He spoke so softly, so hesitantly, she almost couldn’t hear him.

  “I don’t know anymore,” she replied, wishing it weren’t true.

  I don’t know anymore. The words resonated through his whole being, making him feel as though he’d been shot. Wounded, at least.

  If he didn’t get this right this time he would be doomed to be alone forever. No pressure, though. He drew a deep breath and tried to get it right.

  “I—” he began, only to stop as the coach slowed.

  Damn it. Now they were at his house, and he hadn’t said anything to let her know how he felt, what he felt, and he could see the rest of his life passing before him, alone, always missing her, and yet not able to—

  “May I come in?” she asked, poking him on the arm. Apparently he’d spent too long panicking about how he couldn’t speak to her that he couldn’t speak to her.

  An irony he did not appreciate.

  “Yes, of course.” He rapped on the roof to let his footman know to open the door, then waited as she descended, following her. Breathing her scent in quick, surreptitious sniffs that, if she caught him at it, would most definitely make her want to turn on her heel and march right back out again.

  Thankfully, she didn’t notice.

  “In here,” he said, escorting her into the room—their room—before turning to his butler—who hadn’t batted an eyelash; he should tell Meecham to make sure the man got a raise in pay—before asking for—

  For what? This wasn’t a social call, it was far too late and too odd for that. So tea was out. Neither could he offer her spirits, because then it would seem he was wanting to get her loosened up or something, and he certainly did not want to have it appear that he was trying to do that. Even though he wished she would loosen up, but it wouldn’t be because of him or his liquor, he knew that for certain.

  “That will be all,” he said at last, pulling the door shut behind them.

  And now they were alone. Together.

  As they had been just the night before, was it?

  And he’d so horribly mucked it up.

  “You were about to say?” she said as he turned back to her.

  He drew a deep breath.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  All three of her family members bore precisely the same expression: shock mixed with a smidge of awe.

  “Does that prove it?” Georgiana asked. “And if it does, can we move on to how we can help him?”

  “Help me how?” the dragon/man asked.

  Georgiana looked at him, feeling her mouth drop open, too. “Don’t you want to learn how to be a man?”

  His face twisted into a distasteful expression. “No, not at all. From what I can see, humans run around hurting one another. Dragons just eat and breathe fire and fly around.”

  Georgiana blinked. “So you’d rather be a dragon?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and so would you if you knew what it was like.”

  “Tell me, then,” Georgiana replied.

  Chapter 30

  “Tell me,” Margaret said, when he just stood there, gaping at her as though she’d sprouted an additional head.

  No, I’m just foolishly in love with you, she thought sourly.

  “Can we sit?” He didn’t wait for her reply, just took her arm and guided her to the sofa
—their sofa.

  She blushed as she remembered it, then felt the burning sting of his casual suggestion all over again.

  He waited for her to sit down, then placed himself at the opposite end of the sofa, a nearly precise repeat of the night they’d first met, back when she’d stumbled into that room looking for peace and found him.

  Who’d done the exact opposite of bringing her peace. Not that he’d brought her war, actually, but he had brought her longing, and desire, and passion, and hope, and intrigue, and disappointment.

  And here she was again.

  “Well?” It was harder to get him to speak than it was one of her reluctant heroes. Perhaps she should write his words for him.

  But then she would never know how he truly felt. If he truly felt at all, or just wanted her because she was convenient, even though she was anything but.

  “I can’t believe we were able to walk out of that pub without at least one person trying to punch me in the nose,” he said at last.

  “I might’ve myself, given enough time,” she said. He swallowed, the movement of his throat making his cravat move.

  She wished he’d take it off.

  No, she didn’t.

  Yes, she absolutely did.

  He laughed, that rare smile of his making her heart ache. “It is so much easier to say what you mean through your actions, isn’t it?” he said in a rueful tone of voice.

  She was about to voice her agreement when she thought of something.

  “It is,” she said, sliding over on the sofa to him. He watched her with a wary look in his eye. As though she might punch him. “Instead of asking you to tell me what you feel, how about I show you how I feel?” She smiled. “No words, I promise.”

  Because she knew him, didn’t she? She knew he would find the right words, eventually, but that his actions the other evening said what he might not even know himself. That this was important, this thing between them, and that even as he was likely berating himself—as she was berating him also, honestly—what he did, how he behaved, said more about what he meant than what he said.