What a Difference a Duke Makes

by Lenora Bell

  The weight of his stare turned solid footing to quicksand. Good Lord, but he was handsome.

  And not in a foppish, bandboxy sort of way.

  In a manly, gruff-voiced, and wide-shouldered sort of way.

  “Out of the question.” He tapped his pen to the paper. “I never engage attractive, unmarried females. Too distracting for the footmen.”

  He considered her to be attractive? The novelty of the revelation momentarily stunned her to silence. She’d just been contemplating his inordinate beauty and . . . he felt the same way about her?

  Impossible. It must be just another reason to dismiss her.

  “I’ll wear wire-rimmed spectacles,” she offered.

  “Won’t help.”

  “White lace caps with long flaps over the ears.” She mimed pulling the flaps down and tying them under her chin.

  He frowned.

  “Voluminous smocks,” she tried. “Surely your footmen will be able to resist a bespectacled, freckled, cap-wearing spinster in a voluminous smock.”

  “Do stop badgering the girl, Edgar,” chided Lady India. “She’s from a reputable agency, is she not? And she can’t be any worse than the others. They’ve all been unqualified disasters.”

  Mari smiled gratefully and Lady India returned the smile, her violet eyes dancing with humor. Such familiar speech between the lady and the duke. They must be intimates.

  Mari cared not a whit if Lady India was one of the scarlet women Miss Dunkirk had whispered about with such disapproval. Right now the lady was her only ally, and Mari could use all the help she could get.

  “The children are always running away, Miss Perkins,” said Lady India.

  “I was told that the coachman has been sent to search the park,” said Mari.

  “They always find their way home.” A sliver of pride crept into the duke’s voice.

  “I wonder how they occupy themselves when they run away?” mused Lady India.

  “I mean to ascertain exactly that,” Mari said. “I’ll gain their confidence posthaste and report back. Give me one week’s trial, Your Grace.”

  He threw down his quill, rose abruptly, and slapped his hands down on either side of the desk. “Why are you still here, Perkins?”

  She took an involuntary step backward and stumbled as her hip encountered an obstruction. Flinging out an arm for support, she encountered a handle and held on tight.

  Unfortunately, the handle was attached to a large globe. Which was attached to . . . nothing.

  She staggered sideways, the globe crashed to the floor along with several other objects on the table. Her foot crunched down on something which seemed to rise up like a claw to trap her boot. She did an awkward, foot-shaking dance, attempting to keep her balance.

  A vicelike grip caught her by the waist and lifted her off the carpet.

  “Damnation, Perkins! You’ve crushed my engine.”

  The duke’s thumbs jabbed into her ribcage, making her breath come in short gasps.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she panted. “If you’ll just set me down . . .”

  “Can’t. It’s stuck around your boot.” He shook her by the waist in an attempt to dislodge whatever she’d stepped upon.

  Her boots dangled over the carpet, her right foot still surrounded by a heavy weight.

  Mari had to admit that her daring plan was not off to a promising start.

  Apparently she’d destroyed something precious to the duke and he might shake her to death in retribution.

  “Do you have to . . . agitate me . . . quite so hard?” she asked, through rattling teeth.

  He stopped shaking her and did something much, much worse.

  He shifted her weight in his arms, slung her over his shoulder, and began to march.

  The wriggling wisp of woman he held over his shoulder couldn’t weigh more than seven stone, soaking wet, yet Edgar could hardly fail to notice that her slender body was curved in all the best places.

  Soft breasts jounced against his back.

  A nicely rounded bottom squirmed beneath his palm.

  “Let me go!” squeaked the destructive Miss Perkins, pounding his lower back with her small fists.

  “Believe me, I want nothing more than for you to be gone, Perkins.”

  He already knew she wouldn’t do. Too young and inexperienced.

  Also, far too pretty.

  His late father’s appetite for comely servants had nauseated Edgar. He would never misuse his power or position in such a way, but why bring her into his home?

  Besides, the children would only chase her away.

  He strode to the hearth, clenching his jaw against the twinge of pain in his bad knee.

  Lowering his bundle of indignant female into a chair across from India, he sank to his good knee and caught Miss Perkins by the ankle.

  “Heavens!” she said, staring with startled eyes, as if transfixed by the sight of his hand up her skirts.

  “My, my,” said India with a chuckle. “This interview certainly took an unexpected turn.” She grinned at Edgar, her shoulders shaking with suppressed merriment.

  His sister always had enjoyed a good laugh at his expense.

  Miss Perkins attempted to jerk her foot away from his grasp and only succeeded in jabbing him in the thigh with a shattered piece of metal.

  “Hold still,” he said.

  “I hope you’re not injured, Miss Perkins?” India asked.

  The governess smoothed auburn curls back from her flushed and freckled cheeks.

  She certainly wasn’t a traditional beauty, but there was something arresting about her.

  Thick braided coils of hair the color of sunlight filtering through rubies. Golden brown freckles scattered across her cheeks and the bridge of her small straight nose.

  An unmistakably clever and challenging light in her blue eyes.

  “I’m unharmed . . . I think.” She ran her hands over her slim waist, setting her gown to rights and drawing his gaze to the curve of her small breasts, which had nearly been jostled out of her bodice by her upside-down journey.

  “Can’t say the same for my model engine.” Gripping the thin metal framework, Edgar attempted to ease the engine over the toe of her boot, but it was tangled in her bootlaces.

  He didn’t want to cut her trim, elegant calf. All of her was slender and elegant.

  Too slender.

  Had she eaten anything lately? She had a hungry look about her.

  He’d dined on meat pies for luncheon. If Miss Perkins had been there, he could have fed her some pastry, and then licked the crumbs from her fingers.

  Good God. Why was he thinking about licking the governess? He never had such uncontrolled thoughts.

  She must go. This instant.

  Free her boot from his ruined handiwork and send her on her way, to destroy someone else’s peace of mind.

  His sister caught his eye and grinned. She’d always possessed the uncanny ability to read his mind.

  “What is that thing, Your Grace? You called it an engine?” Miss Perkins bent her head to have a closer look. “Is it a toy for the children?”

  “It’s not a toy. It’s a small-scale model of one of my steam engines.”

  India chuckled, confound her. “You might call it a toy, Miss Perkins. He does love to play with his miniature engines. He’s planning an invasion, you see.”

  “Not an invasion,” he said. “A railway line that will connect London and Birmingham. I’ve invested heavily in the London, Coventry, and Birmingham Railway Company, one of two companies vying to build the railroad. My Vulcan Foundry Works will supply the steam-powered engines for the railway, and soon, I hope, for a consolidated fire brigade of London.”

  “You build engines?” she asked, with a puzzled wrinkle between her brows.

  Always the reaction he received. Dukes weren’t supposed to engage in trade.

  Even a governess knew as much.

  “I’m perfecting a design right now with my chief engineer for
a new version of a steam-powered fire engine that will be smaller in size and weight, while still generating far more pressure than the hand-pumped variety,” he explained.

  “Pray, don’t encourage him, Miss Perkins,” drawled India. “He’s quite passionate on the subject and we’ll be here until midnight having an exhausting conversation about exhaust pipes, molten metals, and all manner of ever-so-fascinating ramming and smelting techniques.”

  Molten. Ramming. The words echoed through the chamber.

  Miss Perkins’s cheeks flushed a deep pink.

  His hands were still under her skirts.

  End this swiftly.

  “The laces must be cut and the boot removed,” he said gruffly. “India.” He held out his hand and his sister provided the dagger she always kept in a leather holster at her side.

  “Oh,” squeaked Miss Perkins, at the sight of the knife. “Must you cut them?”

  His fingers closed around her calf, steadying her for his blade. The touch sent sparks running up his fingers, and fire licking along his spine.

  Their gazes locked. Her lips parted.

  He’d been so intent on his work, of late, with no time for female companionship.

  No time for soft, slender limbs. Blue eyes like oxidized copper.

  Her lower lip trembled when he raised the dagger. He made short work of her frayed bootlaces.

  Her corset laces would be much more fun to cut.

  Enough.

  He clenched his jaw. He was no profligate like the late duke.

  He wrenched the boot and the engine free and rose from the floor. Probably irreparably damaged, but he could try to bend it back into shape.

  Miss Perkins folded her foot under her skirts, and her hands in her lap. “I trust you’ll return my boot with expediency, Your Grace.”

  “And I trust that when you have both your boots, you’ll use them to walk out of my library with expediency, Perkins. Straight back to your agency where you will inform Trilby that I require an older, more experienced, and far less fragile-boned governess.”

  “Humph.” She gave an injured sniff. “I’m hardly fragile.”

  “Edgar,” chided India. “Surely you won’t send the poor thing away with cut bootlaces. You should purchase her new footwear, at the very least.”

  “They are my only remaining shoes,” said Miss Perkins. “My trunk was stolen by thieves this morning at the coaching inn.”

  “That’s not my fault, Perkins,” he growled. He couldn’t keep from growling. These inconvenient urges were making him feel out of sorts. One more thing in his life that he didn’t have any control over, it seemed.

  “How dreadful.” India clucked her tongue. “Well never mind. I’m sure you’ll be able to purchase an entire new wardrobe with Edgar’s very generous salary.”

  Now that was helpful.

  If his hands hadn’t been full of the shattered remains of his model engine, he might have throttled his meddlesome sister.

  “About my salary, Your Grace,” said Miss Perkins cheekily. “I’ll require five pounds over what Miss Dunkirk was to be paid.”

  She was bold, he’d give her that. “You expect thirty-five pounds per annum?” he asked skeptically.

  A momentary flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “I’m a bargain at any price,” she said.

  India gave Miss Perkins a delighted smile. “I’m quite sure you are.”

  “And I’ll want every other Thursday off,” Miss Perkins continued.

  “Only every other Thursday?” asked India.

  “That’s enough, India,” said Edgar warningly.

  “Oh, don’t be such a bear.” She turned to Miss Perkins. “He does bluster and growl but he’s quite harmless, really.”

  Miss Perkins nodded crisply. “Then it’s all settled. I’ll begin my post immediately.”

  “Nothing is settled, Perkins.” Edgar handed her back her boot.

  Somehow, the situation had run away from him. They were already in league, India and Miss Perkins. Conspiring to overthrow his dominion over his own household.

  Miss Perkins laced up the boot halfway and tied a knot in the shortened string. “I’ll just go and fetch the children home, then.” She rose from her chair and headed for the door.

  “Don’t move another inch, Perkins,” Edgar commanded. “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

  She tossed him a sunny smile. “Splendid. Then you agree to keep me on as governess? I shan’t disappoint you.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Then I may go and fetch the children?”

  He eyed her warily.

  India laughed. “I like you Mari-rhymes-with-starry. I think you’re precisely what this household requires.”

  The starry-eyed Miss Perkins was precisely what he did not require—a small, yet dangerous, bundle of crackling energy ready to burn through what little remained of his sanity.

  He was about to tell her as much when the door swung open and Mrs. Fairfield’s kindly face appeared. “Pardon, Your Grace, but the twins have returned and ’tis a constable who escorted them home.”

  He tensed. “They’re not in trouble, are they? Not injured in some way?” He’d have Miss Dunkirk’s hide if any mishap had befallen them. They’d always returned none the worse for wear after their little excursions in nearby Hyde Park.

  “Not a bit,” said Mrs. Fairfield. “Though I do believe the constable might have sustained a minor injury. Something to do with a sling and a stone.”

  “That sounds about right.” India laughed.

  “I’d better go and smooth things over.” Edgar started for the door.

  “Don’t move another inch, Your Grace,” commanded Miss Perkins. “Leave everything to me.”

  And she spun on her heel and marched for the door.

  Chapter 3

  “Did that female just order me to stay?” Edgar asked incredulously.

  “Like a foxhound in training.” India’s throaty chuckle reminded him of the dowager duchess, though he hadn’t heard his mother’s voice in many years.

  “Flame-haired, glib-tongued, peace-destroying baggage.”

  India’s grin widened. “So you noticed the color of her hair?”

  “One could hardly fail to notice such a hue.” He’d noticed more than her vibrant red locks. He’d been all too aware of her everything.

  The intelligent spark in her eyes.

  The impression she gave of constant movement, as if she were a flickering flame, licking at his library furniture as well as his composure.

  “Poor Michel.” India rose from her chair. “I didn’t know he suffered from night terrors. I’m sure Miss Perkins will set him to rights.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t hire her.”

  “And why not?”

  “You saw what she did to my model engine. Too troublesome.”

  And tempting. Far too tempting.

  “Footmen, eh?” India tilted her head. “I rather think it would be dukes she’d distract. Give her a chance. What can be the harm? You’re gentleman enough to resist a pretty face.” She laid her hand on his arm. “You’re not like Father.”

  “Precisely,” he said shortly. “I’m nothing like Father.” And never would be. Everything he did was done in opposition to that man’s cursed memory.

  The late duke had been a drunkard—Edgar never imbibed. His father had been a lecher with a taste for serving girls—Edgar would never make advances toward a servant.

  His father had believed a nobleman should never dirty his hands with trade, and almost ruined the family in the process. Edgar had rebuilt their fortune with his foundry.

  “Shall we see how Miss Perkins is faring with the constable?” asked India.

  “More like how the constable is faring with Miss Perkins.”

  As they descended the stairs, India paused. “Oh I almost forgot to tell you the other reason I visited today. You’re hosting an antiquities exhibition for me.”

  She dre
w a card from inside her jacket and handed it to him.

  His Grace the Duke of Banksford is pleased to extend an invitation to an evening exhibition of the antiquities discovered by Lady India Rochester on her recent expedition to the temple complex at Karnak . . .

  “I can’t host a society event here. You know that,” said Edgar.

  “You’re turning into a hermit. All you do is work on those engines. It might be diverting. Mrs. Fairfield would enjoy planning a party, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t want a herd of inquisitive antiquarians poking about my house.”

  “Well they’ve already accepted their invitations, so there’s nothing to be done,” she said breezily. “Oh look.” She pointed toward the entrance where the constable stood with his arms crossed over his leather belt. “Miss Perkins is lecturing the constable.”

  Indeed, the constable had a chagrined expression on his ruddy face, while Miss Perkins’s blue eyes blazed with cold fire. The children stood on either side of her skirts, and Mrs. Fairfield hovered nearby.

  “Poaching?” Miss Perkins exclaimed. “I must have misheard you.”

  “They was poaching, all right, miss,” said the constable. “Shooting pigeons in Hyde Park, bold as you please.”

  Adele jutted out her chin. “We weren’t poaching.”

  “We were hunting snakes,” explained Michel.

  “You shot a pigeon with your sling, young sir.” The constable leaned forward. “And you clipped my ear in the process.”

  “They are dreadfully sorry about that. Aren’t you, children?” asked Miss Perkins, bending to stare at first Michel and then Adele. “Apologize to the constable.”

  Michel scuffed the carpet with his boot. “I’m sorry for shooting you, sir. I was only trying to rescue our snake from that mean old pigeon. And I did it, too!”

  He reached into his pocket and extracted something slender and olive green in color.

  Something which proceeded to twine over his wrist and rear a shiny black head.

  “Snake!” shrieked Mrs. Fairfield, leaping with surprising alacrity onto one of the carved wooden chairs that decorated the entrance hall.

  The constable raised his stick. “’Ere now, what do you mean by waving that about in front of ladies?”