“Dejanire,” he said slowly, stumbling over the name. “I know who Hercules is, but I don’t know who she is.” A pause, then a chuckle. “Then again, it looks as though he does, and that’s all that is important.”
Eleanor cleared her throat. “She is Hercules’s wife, only she accidentally kills him even though she was only trying to help.”
“This was them in happier times, then,” he said in a wry tone of voice.
She dared to glance over at him. Curious to see this man upon whom she’d fallen and was now, inexplicably, exchanging comments over a particularly salacious picture. And then immediately regretted that decision. He was close, so close she could see him clearly, and what she saw was just—well, overwhelming would be one word. Another word would be gorgeous. Overwhelmingly gorgeous would be how she could best sum him up.
He sprawled on the floor beside her, leaning casually on one elbow, a lock of long, tawny-gold hair falling forward onto the clean, strong lines of his face. He traced the lines of the engraving with his other hand. I should get up, Eleanor thought, not moving.
“You know a lot about these two. Though probably not as much about what they’re doing, judging by the color of your face,” he said matter-of-factly.
She felt herself blush even harder at his words. At the knowing expression on his face. At the knowledge he’d just pronounced she did not have. But that he, presumably, did. How did he do that? Look so casually at home, so assuredly confident even when sprawled out on the floor of a dusty bookshop?
“How did she kill him?” he continued. He didn’t make a move to get up, and neither did she. She knew she should, likely Cotswold was about to burst in and start exclaiming, but she found she couldn’t move. Like moments before when she’d fallen, it felt as though this movement was encased in honey, a sweet, languorous feeling imbuing her whole self. Her whole self that could not move.
“It’s complicated,” she said, giving in to this moment, whatever this moment was. She tilted her head back and looked at him straight on. Yes, definitely overwhelmingly gorgeous. It was too dark to discern what color his eyes were, but she’d have to imagine they were some sort of beguiling color. If colors beguiled.
She could say with certainty that they did. If they belonged to him.
“I believe Hercules was supposed to marry someone who was in love with someone else, and his wife tried to win him back, only he wasn’t in love with her, so she decided to make the best of it and gave the new wife something to ensure constancy, only it had poison on it and he died.” And that was why she was not trusted with explaining anything. She just made it sound like a muddle.
He shrugged. “Remind me never to get married.”
Married. What was she still doing on the floor?
She did scramble up then, grasping his shoulder without realizing she had to help her upright. He made a noise of protest, but then leaned back, long, long legs—how tall was he, anyway?—stretched out on the floor in front of him.
“I must go,” she said in a hurried voice, pushing her hair away from her face, tucking her spectacles back in her bag, then rubbing her hands together to rid her palms of the dust. Or perhaps wipe off how it felt to touch the paper, put her finger on that picture, that scene that was so—well, so whatever it was, just that it wasn’t proper for her to have seen, nor was he proper for her to have seen, what with her feeling breathless and tight in her clothing and awkward and melting and hot all at the same time.
Because of him. Or the fall, more likely, she assured herself. Even though he had braced the impact with his body so she’d felt not much more than a sharp bounce. It had to be the fall. It couldn’t be him and that picture and the way he’d asked if she’d seen anything of interest, as though she were selecting a piece of cake or something.
It couldn’t. Even though it absolutely was.
“But we were just getting acquainted,” he said, his tone faintly amused.
“Yours is not an acquaintance I wish to pursue,” Eleanor replied. She felt uncomfortable with how cold she sounded. At least until he laughed. Then she just felt embarrassed.
“Unfortunate. It seems we share a passion”—and he paused, letting the impact of the word roll through her—“for Greek mythology.”
That couldn’t be why he was looking at that picture. Nor could she accuse him of being interested for any other reason, because she had already done what no young lady in her position—whether literally on the floor or as a duke’s daughter—would do, given that she hadn’t immediately raised herself up and given him a haughty set-down.
Instead she’d stayed because she was intrigued.
By him, by the picture, by being alone in a dark room with a man who was overwhelmingly gorgeous.
And she definitely hadn’t even thought to put that on the list.
She was Lady Eleanor Howlett, she wasn’t supposed to be intrigued by anything. She was supposed to be proper, correct, respectable, and every other word that meant she was supposed to do precisely what she was supposed to and rescue her family’s reputation at the same time.
Not be intrigued by anything. Or anyone.
Lord Alexander Raybourn stayed on the floor for a few moments after the lady had left, his gaze idling on the spot where she’d been. Feeling the impact of her body on his as they fell, hearing the curiosity in her voice, even though he doubted she’d recognize it herself. But she’d been interested, despite what she’d presumably been told her entire life. He could recognize she was a lady, not just because of her appearance, which was exceedingly ladylike, but also because she spoke in the cultured tones of only the best females in society. He wished it weren’t his society, but it was.
He’d come to frequent Avery and Sons Booksellers because he’d discovered the shop sold items of a less respectable nature than most booksellers. The collection in the back room had books from a variety of traditions, from texts created by frustrated monks in ancient times to more recent books detailing just what types of positions people could get themselves into in pursuit of the height of ecstasy. He and the owner of the shop (not named Avery, oddly enough, but Woodson) had come to an agreement where Mr. Woodson would set aside any books that might hold particular interest to Alex.
Alex glanced down at the picture that had made the lady’s breath quicken and her words emerge equally breathlessly. It really was quite impressive how Hercules was holding his lady—his wife, she’d said—up pinioned on his cock, his arms her only support.
His mind immediately went, of course, to what it would look like if he were to try such a thing. With the lady who’d just been here. Unlike Hercules’s wife, the lady was wearing a voluminous amount of clothing, so the fabric would drape over the inappropriate parts. If anyone were to chance across them, it might appear that they were just standing together. Awfully close, to be sure, but just standing.
Of course when they started moving—or rather, when he started moving, thrusting into her—well, then everybody would be able to tell.
She had landed forcefully on him, but most of her parts were soft. Warm. And very womanly.
It was unfortunate she was a lady; if she had been a woman not of his class, perhaps he could have pursued the conversation into even more intriguing depths. Inquired as to her desire to attempt Hercules’s pose.
He shook his head regretfully, knowing he was already late to meet his brother and the rest of his far-too-respectable family. The family that barely tolerated him, but had to because if they didn’t, the scandal would be far worse than anything he had done. And he had done some scandalous things.
Some of which were pictured in this book.
He closed the book with a smile. He’d buy it to join the rest of his collection, a hidden part of him and his interests that made him chuckle whenever he thought of it—the Raybourn family unknowingly having a collection of erotic literature at their town house. His tiny rebellion against all that he was and was supposed to be.
He strode out to the m
ain area of the bookshop, noting that the lady had already made her escape. No doubt too horrified by what she’d seen to linger where she might encounter him again.
“Wrap this up, please, and send it to my address.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew some coins, more than enough to pay for the book. He tossed them onto the counter, and they were swiftly picked up by Mr. Woodson. “No need to write up a bill of sale, and please ensure the book is properly covered up. I don’t want to shock anyone with its contents,” he said with a wink, which Mr. Woodson returned.
At least, not shock anyone more than he just had. What the lady had seen was just one of the pictures in the book, but it would doubtless be more than enough to keep her awake at night, either in prurient interest or shock. Or both, Alex didn’t doubt.
“This is quite rare, my lord,” Mr. Woodson said in a low voice, touching the book’s cover. “I have had many gentlemen inquire about a possible translation for it. I don’t suppose you?”—and he glanced up at Alex, a questioning look in his eyes.
“I can’t speak Italian,” Alex said.
Mr. Woodson began wrapping the book. “That is unfortunate. I am not in the position myself, you understand, of locating a suitable translator. It would be altogether too precarious a position for me to be in.” He looked up again with a hopeful glance. “I don’t suppose you know anybody who speaks Italian?”
Alex shook his head. “Not anybody who could translate this for me with any kind of discretion.” His brother Bennett didn’t speak the language, and Bennett was the only person with whom Alex felt close enough to ask such a thing.
Although he would have enjoyed the conversation, his brother being the height of discretion while Alex was—was not.
“Well, thank you, my lord,” Mr. Woodson said, placing the book underneath the counter. “And I will send word ’round if I come across anything else. As you will, I assume?”
He and Mr. Woodson had a mutual agreement to let one another know about certain books that might have crossed their paths. Alex kept very few of them for his own collection, while Mr. Woodson relied on the sales of the books to keep the rest of his shop afloat.
It was Alex’s own peculiar brand of philanthropy, albeit of an obscene nature.
And he’d found he enjoyed having that purpose, odd and clandestine though it might be. Mr. Woodson was inordinately grateful, as well, which made Alexander feel . . . useful.
Alex left the shop and leapt into his brother’s curricle, feeling immediately stifled at the constraints. Of his position, of the curricle itself, of why he was here, and being tolerated by the rest of his family. Wishing he could just escape his responsibilities, but knowing he couldn’t leave Bennett on his own.
“You look unexceptionable,” Cotswold said, adjusting one of the ringlets that hung around Eleanor’s face.
I am sure I do, Eleanor thought. And that was the problem. She stared back at herself in the mirror. She was not overwhelmingly gorgeous. Not even whelmingly gorgeous. She was of average looks, heightened only because she was the eldest of the Duke of Marymount’s five daughters.
Four that were spoken of.
“I know that look,” her maid said. “It’s the look that means that you are grumbling about something in your head. You might as well share it. You know you can’t say anything in public, not without possibly causing a scandal.”
“If only I could cause a scandal,” Eleanor retorted. “Nobody expects me to do anything but what I am supposed to.” Even her list was remarkably staid.
Cotswold shrugged as she tugged on one of Eleanor’s sleeves. “I think you might want to consider causing a scandal. If only to get people’s minds off your sister.”
“You mean swap one scandalous daughter for another?” Eleanor chuckled. “Can you imagine Mother’s face if I did something like that? And what would I do anyway?” She grinned at Cotswold. “What if I decided to write lurid poetry and somehow people figured out it was me? Or if I stepped out onto the terrace with a handsome gentleman and kissed him?” She should definitely put some of those on her list. She smiled more broadly at the thought.
“Maybe you could run off with someone even more scandalous than a dancing instructor,” Cotswold said, her eyes twinkling. “Like your father’s second groom, the one with the”—and then she gestured to the sides of her head to indicate the man’s very large ears, giving him the distinctive nickname of “Pitcher.”
“Do you think Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is his favorite play?” Cotswold shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand. “‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’” She emphasized the last part with a waggle of her eyebrows. Her father would not approve of this use of eyebrow movement, certainly.
Cotswold groaned at the joke.
“Do you suppose I could have a word in someone’s ear about this whole scandal thing?” Eleanor said with a wink.
Cotswold snorted and shook her head. “I can’t keep up with you, my lady.” She gestured at Eleanor. “You’re done for now.”
Eleanor rose, her mood growing somber again. “Curse Della,” she muttered. Cotswold didn’t reply; there was nothing more to say on the subject. If her sister hadn’t been so foolish as to run off with someone so unsuitable, she wouldn’t have had to be shoring up the family’s reputation on her own seemingly average shoulders.
And even before Della had run off, the girls had all known they would have to be settled in marriage, since they were all only girls. When their father died, the title and all the holdings would go to their cousin Reginald, who was pleasant enough, but already had a wife and a brood of children. The only thing the Howlett ladies had in their favor were their substantial dowries.
It had been a distant prospect, back when they were all together. They’d each talked about finding a gentleman to marry, one who was kind, and handsome, and cared for them.
Not that Lord Carson was not a pleasant enough gentleman; he was very courteous, and had a respectable fortune, and was of moderate good looks.
It was only—well, he was average, like she. And she wasn’t being given a choice, not now when Della had made their reputations so precarious.
They would marry, and likely they would not argue. But neither would they spark together in passion, all outsized emotions, and she’d never feel what it would be like to practically vibrate with feelings, and wants, and pleasure.
For a moment, her mind drifted back to the gentleman from the bookshop. He certainly seemed outsized—literally, he’d been quite tall, as far as she could tell from his lounging position on the floor. And he had been passionate enough to find that book with those pictures and be looking at it in a bookshop. He was a gentleman—she’d been able to tell that from his clothing and manner of speaking. But he was an overwhelming gentleman. The kind that unmarried young ladies were not supposed to pay attention to, but did nonetheless. The kind that would ignite all sorts of feelings in a young woman’s breast.
The kind that was not even close to average.
If only she could have a few moments of sparking passion and outsizedness and overwhelmingness—then, perhaps, she could enter this average marriage with more than average expectations.
About the Author
MEGAN FRAMPTON writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction under the name Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son. You can visit her website at www.meganframpton.com. She tweets as @meganf and is at Facebook.com/meganframptonbooks.
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By Megan Frampton
Duke’s Daughters
Lady Be Bad
Lady Be Reckless
Dukes Behaving Badly
My Fair Duchess
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?
&
nbsp; One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild
No Groom at the Inn (novella)
Put Up Your Duke
When Good Earls Go Bad (novella)
The Duke’s Guide to Correct Behavior
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Lady Be Bad copyright © 2017 by Megan Frampton.
lady be reckless. Copyright © 2018 by Megan Frampton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-266665-9
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-266664-2
Cover illustration by Gregg Gulbronson
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
The Duke's Daughters_Lady Be Reckless Page 24