So scratch that. The man was irritatingly perfect.
“Yes, I have. She comes with excellent recommendations, she taught at the—”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Did I somehow give you the impression I cared about the person? If she meets your qualifications, it is nothing to me. As long as it means that your daughter will be properly cared for while under my roof, I don’t care if her governess walks on four legs and breaks into song every evening.”
That was so unexpected, and unexpectedly funny, she had no choice but to laugh, bringing her hand up to her mouth to try to contain her giggles.
He did not join her, however. He merely looked annoyed, as though he hadn’t realized just how ludicrous his words sounded.
When she was able to stop laughing, which was long after his expression had gone from annoyed to exasperated, she spoke. “I cannot thank you enough, Hadlow. For taking such an interest in my daughter.”
He frowned, as though embarrassed. “I don’t take an interest, I merely want to ensure my secretary—the only somewhat efficient one I’ve had in years—is going to stay in my employ.” He spoke gruffly, and she had to suppress yet another smile.
Did he really not know he was at all goodhearted? She shrugged as she realized it didn’t matter what he knew or didn’t know about himself—she had that knowledge, and it made her feel more relaxed around him, somehow. Knowing he had a bit of kindness tucked within himself, so hidden he didn’t recognize it.
It would be her little secret.
“What are we working on today?” She made her voice overly lively, just to see if he’d get that irritated look on his face again.
Who knew she was so mischievous? She certainly didn’t—it wasn’t as though there had been the opportunity, being married to George and all.
But she was learning all sorts of new things about herself since she’d arrived at the duke’s house, just a little over a week ago. She knew she enjoyed looking at him, definitely enjoyed teasing him, liked how he assumed she was intelligent and capable enough to handle what work he was throwing at her, and even liked how exhausted and spent she felt each night as she headed to bed—as though she had done something worthwhile that day, rather than just being an idle ornament or something. The way George had always made her feel.
“We’re reviewing the proposal from another railway company. The Victorian Rails, I believe. As though the name is going to give them any kind of advantage with the Queen,” he said in a derisive tone.
“How many railways are there?” Edwina asked as she stood to look for the documents.
“I have no idea. Far more than there should be, I know that much.” The duke just sat and watched as she shuffled through the mass of papers on his desk. She reminded herself he was her employer, he didn’t have to help, although it would have been the polite thing to do.
Oh right. He was definitely not polite.
She found them, then straightened the papers she’d disarranged and returned to her seat. “Do you want me to summarize?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. That was his normal listening posture, which Edwina didn’t mind; she was better able to look at him without his noticing.
“The Victorian Rails is the best and most economic way to travel our great country,” she began.
He gave an impatient wave, his eyes still closed. “Don’t read all the hyperbole, all of them basically say the same thing. ‘We will do the best with the smallest investment, and we have the best equipment and people.’ ” He opened his eyes, and she started guiltily. Had he caught her staring?
“They can’t all be the best, Cheltam.” He sounded angry, as though the inanity of the facile words irritated him. Again, of course they did. He seemed to find most of the world annoying, she was just grateful he hadn’t put her into the annoying side of his ledger by now.
Perhaps in a few months he would, if he tired of her poking at him like a grumpy bear.
“I don’t understand why they can’t just tell the truth,” he continued. “It’s so much easier than prevaricating just to make something look better than it actually is. Don’t people see through that kind of obfuscation?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think people even know what obfuscation is, to be honest.” She shook her head. “You don’t seem to recognize how different you are from most people.”
He uttered an exasperated sigh. “Of course I do, Cheltam, I’m a duke. One of the most privileged people in the country, if not the world.”
“I don’t mean that,” she replied. “You are very aware of who you are, and what your position is in this world.”
Now his expression looked genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean, then?”
“You are so intelligent.” He blinked. Had no one ever said that to him before? Maybe they never attempted it, he was too rude. In addition to being so intelligent. “And you have this—this analytical mind that is quite different from the way most people think.”
His expression remained puzzled. As though he’d heard her words, but didn’t understand them. “Most people don’t think the way I do?”
“You must know they don’t. That’s why you’re always so, so irked at people in general, isn’t it?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “I thought it was just because they were all irksome. People in general, that is.”
She uttered a snort. “Well, that is true as well. People are irksome. But not to the extent you likely think.”
He leaned forward, his green gaze locked on her face. She felt a shiver at that intense focus put on her. “You’re different though, Cheltam, aren’t you? You’re like me.” His tone was almost pleading, as though he were desperate for it to be so.
What made him feel so separate, so apart from people? Besides his natural intelligence. She had known a few intelligent people in the past, but none of them seemed to be as lonely as he did. Or, more precisely, as alone.
She opened her mouth to reply, then realized she didn’t know what to say—Yes, I am like you, only I’m not a duke, so I’m not nearly as arrogant? No, I’m not nearly as intelligent, although I can find my way through a sheet of financials? You and I are precisely the same, so now I have to go practice being humble?
Not that any of those were the right responses.
“I suppose I am, in some ways,” she said slowly. It hadn’t occurred to her that they were similar—she’d been so focused on the differences. That he was wealthy, and male, and confident, and abrupt. That she was poor, and female, and diffident, and had thought of herself as overly polite, at least until she came into contact with him.
He leaned back, sighing in what sounded like relief. That there was someone out there like him? That she’d finally agreed with him?
“That is what is different with you, Cheltam,” he said gruffly. “You don’t irk me.”
“High praise indeed,” she shot back, trying to ease her discomfort at this moment of connection with humor.
He shook his head, as though to clear it, and waved his hand at her in his usual commanding way. “Return to the work. We have wasted enough time. Skip the parts where they say they are the best without proving anything.”
Edwina chuckled as she looked down at the papers in her hand, wishing she had the strength to probe further into him, but unwilling to open up herself, which she knew he would demand, in all his logic. “That should take all of about five minutes, then.”
He resumed his listening position—eyes closed, hands folded—and the moment passed, but Edwina’s interest in him had only just begun.
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?
4. Because dukes get lonely, too.
Chapter 7
“Chester! Blast it, where is that damn dog?” Michael looked under his desk, although he knew perfectly well his rather large dog would be noticeable if he were under there.
He glared around his study, as though it was the furniture’s fault his dog had gone missing. M
rs. Cheltam wasn’t there, either, but that was his fault; he’d sent her to deal with someone he did not wish to deal with himself, one of the many benefits of having a secretary in the first place. But he had to admit he missed her presence. And he wanted his damn dog.
He knew where his dog probably was. The traitor.
“Miss Gertrude!” he called as he strode out of the study into the hallway. Several of his footmen jumped, but he didn’t waste time glaring at them, as he might have done under normal circumstances. He took the stairs two at a time, up two flights to where he’d instructed the schoolroom be set up.
“Miss Gertrude!” he called again as he nearly ran down the hallway. Not that it was imperative he find his dog; Chester was a slow, good-natured creature who wouldn’t venture too far from his food source. But he did have to admit to feeling . . . jealous, perhaps, that his dog had decided that spending all of his waking hours and many of his nonwaking hours with the youngest and newest inhabitant of the house was his preference.
“We are in here, Your Grace.” It was the governess speaking, her tone tremulous and nearly fearful. As it should be.
He walked into the room, his eyes narrowing as he saw Chester slumped on the floor right next to Gertrude’s chair. Gertrude herself looked up at him with a bright smile on her face. Which made him feel something unfamiliar. Some sort of guilt?
“I need to take Chester for a walk,” he said abruptly. As though Chester’s life was hanging in the balance unless he went outside to relieve himself in the next few minutes, when actually the dog in question was sleeping. Likely drooling as well.
Gertrude’s eyes—so like her mother’s—lit up, and she jumped out of her seat. “Can I walk with Chester and the duke?” She directed her question to the governess, Miss Something-or-Another, who just looked flustered, sending a look of apologetic misery toward Michael.
“That isn’t—that is, I don’t—” the governess began.
“Fine, walk with us. Get your things, and you can meet us downstairs in five minutes.” Michael leaned down to take hold of Chester’s collar. His dog made a whine of unhappiness, but stood up willingly enough, wagging his tail against Michael’s trousers.
That was one of the reasons he had a valet after all, wasn’t it? To remove yellow dog hair from his clothing?
Gertrude uttered a shriek of delight so loud it made Michael wince, then bounded out of the room, presumably to get her coat. Perhaps her mother’s permission as well, but Michael doubted his secretary, stalwart though she was, could withstand the pleadings of a six-year-old determined to take a dog out on a walk.
“Your Grace, I hope—that is, I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition.” The governess had gone scarlet, and was hesitating between each word. She was so awkward, in fact, that Michael almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
“It is not your fault, Miss—”
“Miss Clark,” she supplied. Cheltam must have told him her name, but of course he hadn’t retained it, since it hadn’t been important. Now that seemed as though it were as rude as Cheltam was always implying he was. Was it? He wished she was here so he could ask her.
“Miss Clark. Gertrude has made a friend of my dog, and it is only natural to expect she would prefer to go outside with the dog—and me, of course—than stay here and do whatever lesson you are doing.” He picked up one of the papers on Gertrude’s table. “You are learning the countries of the world?”
Miss Clark’s tone grew more assured. “Yes, Your Grace, I am teaching Miss Gertrude where all the countries of Europe are, and what languages they speak. In addition, we are learning a few phrases in each of those languages.” She finished with a smile that revealed how pleased she was to be instructing the girl thusly.
Normally Michael would have cut her off mid-sentence, but he somehow didn’t want to do something so—so abrupt, as Cheltam would say.
Was he going soft? He couldn’t think about that now. He had a dog, not to mention a young girl, to walk.
“That sounds excellent.” He must have sounded convincing, since she beamed in return, bobbing a small curtsey. He nodded in response, then tugged on Chester’s collar. “Come on, you troublemaker,” he said, walking out of the study. Feeling as though he’d somehow betrayed himself, his character, but not certain how. And not certain if he felt bad about that.
“My father never let us have a dog.” Somehow, Gertrude had managed to wrest control of Chester’s leash. Michael wasn’t sure how that had happened, just that he’d handed it to her when he had remembered to tip his hat to a lady he thought he knew. The lady herself had looked startled; not only, probably, because he was with a young girl who was not related to him, but also because he’d tipped his hat in the first place.
He should have just ignored her, as he usually did most people he saw when in public.
But Gertrude had mentioned her father, Mr. Cheltam. Apparently not very lamented by his widow. He wasn’t normally curious about people, especially dead people, but he had to admit—if only to himself—to being curious about this gentleman.
“What was your father like?” he asked.
She looked up at him as though he were an idiot. “He was old,” she said.
He waited. He was very good at staying silent so as to make other people talk.
And waited. Gertrude just walked alongside him, seeming to think the conversation was at an end. Michael wished he could just demand she answer all his questions, but that would be to admit he had questions in the first place, and in the second place, to expect to get any kind of reasonable answer from a six-year-old. Or any sort of child. As he’d told Cheltam, he had no experience with children. He had been a child himself when his brother was alive, but then he had died, and since then his parents had spoken to him as though he were an adult. He’d felt like an adult, hewn into adulthood at the age of four because of his brother’s death.
And now he felt like an adult who had no idea how to speak to a child.
“Why is Chester named Chester?” She looked up at him, screwing her face up in a faintly disapproving look. “Because he doesn’t look like a Chester.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to argue with her, to tell her that Chester absolutely looked like a Chester, but that felt ridiculous, even in his head. So he told her the truth.
“When I was little, I had a book I liked to read.” He felt . . . awkward. He hadn’t ever spoken of this to anybody. Not that they would have cared. “It had a family”—a family with a normal set of parents and three normal children, no dukes or any titles at all, actually. “They had a dog, and the dog’s name was Chester. So when I got Chester here, I named him after the dog.”
She kept looking at him, apparently processing the information, until her expression eased. “Do you still have the book?”
He shook his head, wondering why he felt so—so relieved that she seemed to accept his explanation about Chester’s name.
“That’s too bad. I like books.”
“I do as well,” he replied, to his own surprise. Not surprised that he liked books; he knew that, or he wouldn’t have said it. Just that he felt as though he wanted to share something with her, this small creature who was so different from him, and yet liked Chester and books, as he did, and apparently didn’t have patience for small talk, like him also.
It was disconcerting to think he had so much in common with a being who could be distracted by the promise of a sweet, but there it was.
That he could be distracted by the promise of another type of sweet was something he did not even wish to contemplate.
“My father wasn’t as tall as you are.” She spoke as though it was the natural next thing to say. He had to admire that aplomb. “And he didn’t like to read, like you do.” He felt a sense of pride, already, that he had more in common with her than her father did. A dead man. Honestly, he was ridiculous.
“What did he like to do?” he asked, wondering if she would report his interest in Mr. Cheltam to her mother. Wha
t would she think about that?
A shrug. “Mostly talk about boring things.” Michael resolved never to speak about anything she might find boring in her hearing.
Sadly, that meant he could likely never speak about anything, since the only things that interested him were new technologies, certain political issues, and—
And her. And he definitely couldn’t speak about that.
“The duke took Gertrude out?” That was unexpected. And somewhat worrisome. She knew he hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with a child, what if he decided to bring her to a pub and give her ale? Or if he forgot he was with her, and stopped to talk to someone he knew and she wandered off?
But that would assume he would deign to drink in a pub in the first place or actually want to speak to anyone he might encounter.
She felt a tinge of relief.
She had spent the morning in a meeting with someone who had heard of the duke’s business interests and wanted to persuade him to invest in their new venture, something involving playing cards, bird-watching, and vast amounts of the duke’s money.
The duke would have just denied the meeting entirely, but the person behind the company was related to one of the members of the House of Lords, one who could influence votes the duke wished to pass.
So she had to take the meeting. And then she had spent an hour trying to make sense of the presentation, so she hadn’t seen him all morning.
And now he wasn’t in his study, and it seemed he was out with Gertrude somewhere.
“And the dog,” Miss Clark added in a worried tone of voice.
Out with Gertrude and the dog, that is.
“Should I not have let them? I would have, only—only . . .” she said, her hands fluttering.
“I know,” Edwina replied. “The duke is not someone you would say no to. Not to dukes in general, and definitely not this duke.”
Miss Clark’s expression relaxed. “Yes, that is just what I thought. And Gertrude begged as well; she is so hard to resist.”
Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel Page 7
