Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel

by Megan Frampton

  His father had been much the same, although Michael had to admit his father had far less of an imagination, content to keep things as they were, never wanting to speculate on something that might not be a certain bet.

  To Michael, that felt as though everything was doomed to mediocrity, and if there was one thing he did not wish to be, it was mediocre.

  He wanted to leave a lasting impression on the world, to strive to make it a different, better place. It was what he had promised to himself after his elder brother, the original heir, had died. He wouldn’t be content to be second-best in anything, even if he was the second son. That was why, instead of lolling about on his ducal sofa, he was engaged in progress and investigation and possible adventure.

  That was why he was encumbered with the most beautiful, and beautifully efficient, secretary he could imagine.

  And why he had to keep it that way, and not allow his now far too active imagination to wonder what other role she could play in his life.

  “Cheltam,” he said abruptly, not even realizing he had been planning to speak, “do you like this work?”

  It wasn’t something an ordinary employer would ask. But he knew well enough he wasn’t ordinary, and neither was she—she was extraordinary, in how she seemed to anticipate his every request, how she was able to refine and distill his thoughts into something that was nearly as good as what was in his brain. He’d never met anybody who had that capacity. It made him wonder what it would be like if he were to talk to her as he had never talked to anyone before. Not having seen the need before.

  But her. He wanted, no he craved, to know more about her.

  “I do, Your—Hadlow,” she said, placing her pen on the desk in a firm motion. She leaned back in her chair and assessed him as frankly as it felt he’d assessed her. Oddly, it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, he welcomed it. “You treat me as someone whose opinion is valued—”

  “That’s because I value it,” he said, interrupting.

  A rueful smile crossed her lips. “Not many people, especially men, would admit that. Or even think it, for that matter.” He saw her blink rapidly. “It is just one way in which you are very unusual, Your—Hadlow,” she corrected. “I am so grateful you offered me this position.”

  He didn’t want her gratitude. He didn’t want anyone to think he was doing something out of the goodness of his heart. He didn’t think he even had a heart.

  “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t doing an excellent job,” he muttered, almost feeling . . . embarrassed? He’d never felt this way in his entire life.

  She smiled again, this time openly, causing a warmth to develop somewhere in the middle of his chest.

  Maybe this was what it felt like when someone found another person who was of the same temperament and of similar intelligence. Perhaps this was the something he’d known he didn’t have. But this was also his secretary, a woman whom he paid, who was not in his social circle at all. He would never have met her if he hadn’t hired her. If he weren’t paying her to be here.

  Maybe this was yet another thing he could look at from the outside without understanding. He’d need to harden his nonexistent heart so he wouldn’t allow for the possibility of getting damaged in some way.

  She was opening her mouth to speak when he interrupted. “I’m going out tonight. You won’t be needed.” He didn’t have to try to use a clipped, impersonal tone. It was the tone he used most often, except when he spoke to his dog, who didn’t seem to like being told what to do.

  Similar to his master.

  “Of course,” she replied in a demure tone, the stain on her cheeks indicating her emotion, but nothing else about her betrayed any kind of reaction. Good. That was how it should be; he couldn’t have her come to care for him in any way other than as an employer. It was too dangerous for feelings to get involved. “I did not realize you had an engagement, I did not see it on the calendar.”

  He wanted to snap at her, to tell her he wasn’t constantly at home, by himself. Only he usually was, and he wanted to snap less than he wanted to lie. He’d only decided that day to accept the invitation since it had been too long since he’d put in an appearance in Society.

  Why did people find the need to just . . . talk about things nobody cared about? Incessantly? If he hadn’t come to realize that his peers wouldn’t support his endeavors in the House of Lords without having seen him at a social function every so often, he would gladly refuse to leave his house except to do things he wanted to do.

  But he had come to realize that, and even though it made him frustrated with people’s stupidity—as most things did—he forced himself to do it. For the betterment of the world, if not for his own personal happiness.

  “Your Grace, we are delighted to see you this evening.”

  Michael returned the comment with a tight smile. First of all, the wife of the man who’d spoken didn’t look delighted at all. If anything, she looked nervous, as though he was going to pronounce judgment on her party-giving skills and the guests she’d persuaded to join her this evening.

  Well, she wasn’t wrong, he was going to, but he certainly wasn’t going to share his thoughts with her. He’d found that people seldom wanted his thoughts, even though they said they did. He’d learned to temper his comments over the years.

  Second, he’d heard his host say the very same thing to the couple who’d been announced before him, which meant that the man was lying—he couldn’t possibly be delighted with each and every guest who’d shown up at his house. Surely there were a few—perhaps even Michael—that the lord didn’t particularly care for. Why would he say he was delighted if he wasn’t?

  Michael shook his head without replying, merely offering a bow and the remnants of that smile, glancing over the heads of his hosts to see the rest of the crowd.

  It appeared he’d arrived early, since thankfully there wasn’t the crush of bodies he’d come to dread when he made his few appearances. A row of chairs was placed against the back wall, mostly filled with older women whose lorgnettes and feathers waved in symmetrical disapproval. The dance floor had a few couples, while a trio of musicians played something that grated on Michael’s ears. The dancers appeared not to notice, however.

  He took a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray and sipped, enjoying the slide of the cold liquid down his throat. He took a larger sip and closed his eyes, savoring the brief moment of pleasure. The moments were always brief; someone or something usually came along to disturb him. It was only in small moments like these that he was able to find what he supposed most people called happiness.

  “Your Grace, do tell me how you like the flowers.”

  The small moment was made even smaller with the intrusion of his hostess, who seemed to have recovered herself enough to address him.

  He arched an eyebrow, wishing it didn’t bring him pleasure to see her visibly quail, and glanced to where she was pointing. Flowers. Yes, they were flowers.

  “They are flowers.” He spoke in his usual flat tone.

  “Uh,” the woman replied, her expression faltering. “Yes, they are. What do you think of them? Aren’t they glorious?”

  Why didn’t people just come out and say what they wanted him to say instead of making him work for it? Just once, he wanted someone to say, Your Grace, I want to hear you say my flowers are glorious. Go ahead, say it.

  “I suppose they are.” In her eyes, at least. In his they were just—flowers. The result of a plant’s need to draw attention to itself in order to procreate.

  Rather like some of the ladies and their brightly colored gowns.

  Flowers were much easier to understand than people.

  “Thank you.” She sounded as though she believed he’d thought the flowers glorious. Why was she so determined to lie to herself? To have him lie to her as well?

  He shifted awkwardly, taking another sip from his glass, wishing he were anywhere but here. At home, with Chester snoozing on the rug, reviewing something that made sense.r />
  Not here where people wanted him to say things that weren’t the truth, where he was stared at as though he were something to be regarded, not interacted with—not that he wanted interaction with any of these people. Not if it meant he had to lie, and feel uncomfortable. Why would anyone search that kind of thing out? And yet these people did, people of his world, who yet weren’t at all of his world. The world he inhabited, at least. One where people said what was on their minds, not for anything but to speak the truth. People who thought things out. People, in fact, who were like him.

  Not that he’d yet to meet anyone like him, which was likely why his best friend was his dog, who only spoke when he had something to say, usually involving a visitor to the door or a need for food. And why he spoke to his family so seldom.

  When could he leave? He shifted again, glancing up at the ceiling, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. Eye contact inevitably meant conversation. Conversation meant feigning interest in things he couldn’t see anyone should be interested in. Flowers, or the room, or the weather. Things just were, and discussing them didn’t help anybody.

  “Your Grace, if I—” It was his floral hostess again, and all of a sudden Michael couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Excuse me, I must be going,” he said, feeling as though he were propelled across the room and out of the door, a palpable relief flooding him as he spied one of the footmen holding the door open for him.

  Wishing he didn’t feel like such an anomaly.

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  39. Because they can only talk to their dog for so long before getting frustrated at the lack of response.

  Chapter 4

  “Cheltam, I think that is enough.” Michael rubbed his eyes as he glanced out the window, noting the sky had gone dark and the streetlamps were lit. He didn’t have an engagement this evening, thank goodness. Last night had been agony enough. “Is it seven o’clock already?” he asked, frowning at the clock in the corner as though it were its fault it was so late.

  She turned to look at the clock also. “It appears so, Your—Hadlow.” She turned back to him, her face showing concern. “I should find my daughter; I don’t want your staff to have to take care of her all the time.”

  “Why not?” Michael shrugged. “There are plenty of people here; they could surely watch out for a young girl. What is her name, anyway?”

  She straightened in her chair, a soft light coming into her eyes. “Gertrude. She is six years old, and very smart. At least I think so.”

  The pride and love she felt for her daughter seeped through her voice, and Michael felt a pang of longing. Odd, since he wasn’t aware he’d been lacking in the parental love area until she spoke. He didn’t think he’d ever heard either of his parents speak of him in such warm tones. Usually, they were congratulating him on some success or another, or reminding him of his duty to his title and family. The only memory he had of warmth in his family had been his brother, who’d had the temerity to die when Michael was four. He presumed that his brother had loved him, but since it had been thirty years since he’d felt any sort of affection at all, he wasn’t entirely sure. Just that the way she spoke about her daughter held an unfamiliar emotion that certainly seemed as though it was love.

  He wanted to know more about it. More about her.

  “We shall all dine together tonight.”

  Her eyes went wide. No wonder, since it was unusual for an employer to invite his secretary to dinner, much less a duke invite a widow and her offspring to partake in a meal. “That wouldn’t be—that is, thank you,” she said, no doubt noticing that he was about to remind her who he was in relation to her.

  Michael nodded. If he had to resort to ordering his paid employee to keep him company—well, he would do that. “Half an hour. That should give you sufficient time to prepare.” He watched as she rose, smoothing her skirts, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers itching with the urge to push those strands behind her ears himself.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Hadlow.” She lifted her chin. “It might be closer to forty-five minutes before we can get to the dining room. Gertrude needs to have her hair brushed and to change her clothes.”

  “I don’t care what she looks like,” Michael replied with a shrug.

  Her chin went higher. “But I do, and that is what is important.” She took a breath. “And if you will excuse me, I need to go locate her.” She walked out without waiting for his reply.

  Not that he had anything to reply; he was actually struck dumb, not having anyone ever saying their own opinion was more important than his.

  He shook his head as though to clear it, pulling one of the papers from the stack on his desk closer. But his mind wasn’t on what was written on it, but on her, and what she’d said, and how he felt now. Was he that much of a boor that he was discomfited by someone expressing their own opinion contrary to his?

  He had to admit he was. And he did not like it one bit. He would have to reflect on how he replied to people, how he let them know what he thought without making it imperative that they agree. Something he had never done before.

  “Gertrude?” Edwina walked down one of the hallways, peering into the corners, allowing a huff of frustration to escape her lips. Her daughter was an excellent hider, and she’d already been enthusing to her mother about all the excellent hiding places there were in the duke’s town house. Not surprising, given that there were likely over a thousand rooms. Or so it felt to Edwina.

  She hadn’t been in this part of the house yet. Also not surprising since the duke had been keeping her occupied in the study, leaving no time for exploring.

  “Surprise!” Gertrude popped out from behind a door, making Edwina shriek and Gertrude dissolve into giggles. She was accompanied by the duke’s dog, Chester, who’d quickly learned that Gertrude left a trail of tasty crumbs since she was always on the go, and always hungry.

  “You startled me, love,” Edwina said, when she could catch her breath. Her daughter beamed.

  “We waited for over half an hour, Mother,” Gertrude said, her eyes round with pride for having endured such a wait. “Chester kept wanting to leave, but I gave him the biscuits Cook had given me for a snack.”

  “You were very patient. How did you know I would even find you?”

  Gertrude shrugged. “I knew you wouldn’t let me be lost for very long.”

  That assumed confidence, the assuredness that her mother would always come find her, made Edwina feel fiercely proud, as proud as Gertrude was for having scared her mother. That was why working for the duke was worth it—because she was continuing to give her daughter that confidence.

  It was all worth it. Even adding in her discomfort at finding the duke just so remarkably attractive, so much so she felt almost squirmy in his presence.

  She would just have to endure it, for her daughter.

  What an incredible sacrifice, she thought. Having to tolerate being with one of the most charismatic, intriguing men she’d ever met for hours at a time. Edwina, you deserve sainthood.

  She nearly laughed aloud at the thought, but knew Gertrude would want to know why her mother was laughing, and Edwina couldn’t explain it.

  “The duke has invited us to dine with him this evening. I came to find you so we could both dress for dinner.”

  Gertrude’s eyes went even wider, if possible. She was so expressive, everything she ever felt showed on her face. Edwina hoped she never had to learn to temper her expressions as Edwina did—keeping herself guarded so as not to reveal what she was truly thinking.

  “Can I wear the white gown with the ribbons? Please, Mother?”

  Edwina smiled, taking Gertrude’s hand. “That is just what I was going to suggest. Let’s go get dressed.”

  They walked down the hall together, Chester following behind, Edwina’s heart filled to bursting with love for her daughter and relief that she had kept them together, despite her late husband, Gertrude’s father, having taken s
o little care that she even had to find employment.

  “Your Grace?” Edwina walked into the dining room, holding Gertrude’s hand. Chester had kept them company as well, Gertrude insisting on his being present while she dressed, even though Edwina worried he would mark up Gertrude’s white gown with his paws. But he seemed content to be gently scratched on the ears, and then he flopped down on the rug in front of the fireplace, watching them as they scurried to garb themselves appropriately.

  Gertrude’s white dress had a bright yellow sash, and one of the maids who was helping them dress found a yellow rose, which she tucked behind Gertrude’s ear, after stripping the thorns, of course.

  Edwina was in one of the gowns George had bought her—dark purple, it was made of a lustrous silk that seemed to shift colors in the light. Its bodice was low but not immodest, and it had touches of black ribbon ornamenting it. He’d thought it was too somber for her after he’d purchased it, but she secretly loved it, and was delighted she could wear it without seeing his frown.

  She had to be honest that she loved doing most anything now that he was gone. He hadn’t been a bad husband, beyond his financial mismanagement; but he hadn’t been interesting, or worthy of her love, or anything that made her want to be with him.

  He’d treated her likewise, as an ornament to be admired by his peers, but it never seemed to Edwina as though he actually knew her, knew what she liked, or even cared. She’d fulfilled the bargain of their marriage, always keeping herself as attractive as possible so he could preen in front of his friends, family, and business associates, but she had offered nothing more. And neither had he.

  That she had gotten Gertrude out of it all made it worthwhile, but she didn’t miss him. At all.