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

by Megan Frampton

  A man walked up to them as Mr. Smith was discussing the quality of the materials used in the engine. Apparently they were excellent, because why else would he talk about them?

  “Ah, Powers, here you are,” Mr. Smith said. “Your Grace, allow me to present my partner, Mr. Powers. Mr. Powers is the man with the vision, I am merely the facilitator,” he said, chuckling as though it was absurd for him to be “merely” anything.

  Mr. Powers was tall and lean where Mr. Smith was medium height and running to fat. He glanced at the duke and Edwina, his expression neutral.

  “How do you do?” he said in what Edwina recognized as a Welsh accent. He nodded, but didn’t shake hands. “Smith has been telling you all about the engines, then?” he said, squinting toward his partner.

  “Yes, but now that you are here, you can give us all the details,” Mr. Smith said in an enthusiastic, albeit nervous, tone.

  “The duke isn’t interested in all the details.” Mr. Powers spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Which made the duke snap his head toward Mr. Powers.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  Mr. Powers shrugged as Mr. Smith opened and closed his mouth. “Why would you be? Either you want to invest your funds with us, and see what we can do, or you don’t. Us telling you all about our engines isn’t going to affect that.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Edwina couldn’t believe she was speaking, but here she was, interjecting herself into the conversation. Between all these men, two of whom likely thought she was just the duke’s amusement during the trip.

  The third—the duke—knowing exactly what she was to him, and that might include being an amusement.

  A lowering thought, but now she had started speaking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “The duke isn’t like most of the men you have likely met who are considering your company as a worthy investment. He wants to know the specifics of the process, of the intricacies of the engines, and how this engine compares against the competition. He is not here to hear how wonderful he is. Look at him,” she said, gesturing toward the man, who was now regarding her with a puzzled look. “Does he seem to be the type of man who needs someone to pay him false compliments?”

  “And you are?” Mr. Powers said, approaching her with his hand outstretched.

  She took it, speaking as she did so. “I am Mrs. Cheltam, the duke’s secretary. So you see I have very specific and detailed knowledge about what the duke wants to learn in the course of this tour. You do know,” she said, turning to address Mr. Smith, “that we are visiting other factories during this trip?”

  “Yes, I assume so, only I can assure you—

  “Assure us of nothing, just prove by facts that your company’s engines are the best,” Edwina said, cutting him off, amazed at her own audacity as she did so. But also keenly aware that Hadlow was looking at her with a mixture of awe and surprise. As though nobody had ever spoken up for him before, which they probably hadn’t. Why speak for someone whose voice was bound to be listened to, no matter what he said? It wasn’t as though dukes were generally in need of advocates, but this one was, especially when it seemed someone believed he was just another aristocratic dilettante.

  When Mr. Powers spoke again, it was with an engaged warmth that had been lacking in his initial conversation. “Then please step this way, Your Grace, and I will show you all you need to see.”

  The duke nodded to her. “Mrs. Cheltam, come along and take notes, since you are so vehement on my needing this particular information.” He spoke dryly, but with a slight teasing tone that made her insides melt.

  Although she should not be engaged in melting, not while she was working.

  She followed along, calculating how long it would be before they were alone, and she could caution him to be more discreet and also resume their activities from the night before.

  Hopefully in that order, although she wasn’t sure she could resist him once they were alone.

  Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?

  89. How dare you even ask?

  Chapter 18

  “A roast, some bread, whatever vegetables you have that aren’t cooked within an inch of their lives, and a bottle of your best wine.”

  “Excellent, Your Grace,” the nervous innkeeper said. They’d left the Powers and Smith factory an hour before, traveling to the inn that Cheltam had plotted they should stay at.

  The innkeeper nodded again, and then left, backing out of the private room Cheltam had booked.

  It had been a surprisingly good day, Michael thought. First there was how he’d spent the night before, which was definitely pleasurable. And then there was the factory tour, and how she’d defended him against an inaccurate presumption. That shouldn’t have touched him as it did—after all, she was his employee, and some measure of loyalty was expected in return for her salary—but he knew it was more than that. It was because she knew him, and understood him.

  She sat opposite, not looking at him, but instead concentrating on the ever-present papers that seemed to be as much in his presence as she was. She was, she’d told him five minutes earlier, making sure the notes she’d taken were legible, and reorganizing them into a clear document.

  He didn’t particularly care about the information she’d present, he’d already decided what he thought, but it couldn’t hurt to have more information to support his own reaction.

  And he had to admit it was refreshing, even if it piqued him, that he was in a room with someone and they were not focusing all their attention on him. Except for Chester, who didn’t seem to notice when he was in the room unless it was time to go for a walk, everyone was focused on him when they were in the same room together.

  He really needed to get more friends, people who would ignore him if they were together. Although he wasn’t quite sure that met the definition of “friends.”

  The innkeeper returned, holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. He set them down, darting nervous glances at Michael as he opened the wine and poured.

  “Your food will arrive soon, Your Grace,” the man said, bobbing his head as he spoke.

  “Thank you,” Cheltam said, after a moment of silence.

  “Right, thank you,” Michael echoed.

  The man bobbed again, and left.

  “Here’s where you’re going to tell me I should be polite,” he said.

  She tilted her head and regarded him. “No, you know you should be polite. You just choose not to. You don’t have to. In my position—whether it’s as your employee or a female—I have to be polite.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I wish it weren’t so.”

  “Would you be as rude as me if you could?” He planted his elbows on the table, which he absolutely knew he should not do, and leaned forward. Would he ever get tired of looking at her face?

  Well, sadly, he could answer that. Most likely. He always had before. But for now, it felt as though he could never get enough of looking at her.

  She seemed to consider it, glancing away from his gaze. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, because it just doesn’t feel considerate. I hope I am always considerate.”

  Thoughts of how she could be considerate to him shouldn’t set him ablaze with desire, and yet they did.

  “Where is that food anyway?” The sooner they ate, the sooner they would retire for the evening, and the sooner he could have her again.

  “Patience, Hadlow,” she said in an amused voice. “It’s only been five minutes.”

  “Don’t they know who I am?” he said in mock arrogance. “Food should cook faster when it’s for a duke.”

  She laughed, reaching forward to take his hand. “Some things are worth the wait,” she said, glancing at him from under her lashes.

  That look sent a shock of lust straight to his cock. If it weren’t for the fact that the innkeeper would likely return soon, he’d have had her on the table right now.

  “You know what you do to me.” He spoke in a low rumble. Her face got pink, and she lowered her gaze, biting her lip as she did so.
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br />   “As much as what you do to me, Michael,” she replied in a soft voice.

  The use of his given name—the first time she had called him anything but “Your Grace” or “Hadlow”—felt like they were inhabiting a secret place, one where it was only them.

  He cleared his throat, uncomfortable for a moment at all the feelings that were roiling inside him. Feelings he’d never had before, not even at the onset of a new affair. He should squash them, make sure they couldn’t interfere with his life, his work, his position.

  He leaned back in his seat, taking his hand away from hers. “I cannot wait to fuck you again, Edwina,” he said, deliberately crass in his language. She had to know, to understand just what they were doing, and what this was about. He couldn’t afford entanglements, not with her, someone he would tire of, eventually, someone who was not of his class, who was nothing more than his lovely, desirable, eminently fuckable employee.

  She swallowed, and looked away. “I do hope dinner comes soon,” she said in a voice that crackled with desire.

  He sighed, feeling a relief, but also a pang, that she was just as clear as he was on what they were doing. He was being entirely contrary in his emotions—given that he was having emotions in the first place, which was contrary to his nature—wanting her to become invested in him, but not wanting her to so there would be no hurt after.

  Goddamn it. This was getting to be far more complicated than he’d anticipated. Mostly because of him, and his pesky emotions.

  But one thing was true: he couldn’t wait to fuck her again.

  She knew what he was doing. He was reminding her that this was nothing more than what it was, for which she was grateful. Even if she was also resentful that she did seem to need the reminder, since she could so easily see herself falling in love with him.

  She probably was already in love with him, if she were honest with herself. But she wouldn’t be that honest with him—she knew admitting her feelings would cause him to push her away, to ensure that this ended even sooner than it should have. And it would end. He would need to marry someone, someone who had the right breeding, and was younger than she was, and who could be counted on to be the perfect duchess.

  Not that she had any illusions that he would find someone who would be perfect for him. But that was his problem, not hers. Unless he suddenly decided his secretary/lover should take on the responsibility of researching the likely candidates, just as she was doing with his potential investments.

  Oh God. Please don’t let him be that practical.

  “Here we are, Your Grace.” The innkeeper returned with another servant, the latter bearing a tray filled with their food. The innkeeper oversaw the placement of everything, then nodded approvingly. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Your Grace?”

  “Nothing more, thank you,” the duke said, shooting a knowing glance at Edwina, as though to say, See? I can be polite when I want to be.

  The door closed behind the man, and Edwina reached out to pick up a slice of meat on the tray.

  “Let me serve you.” He stood as he spoke, walking to where she sat, lowering his mouth to her shoulder and placing an openmouthed kiss on it.

  Her entire body reacted, her nipples tightening, her legs coming together to squeeze in that place that felt so good when he’d touched it. He chuckled, as though he knew what he was doing to her, and reached over her other shoulder to pick up a slice of the roast, placing it on her plate. And then his other hand went to the bowl of carrots, taking a spoonful of them and dropping them on her plate.

  He plucked the napkin from the table and unfolded it, placing it on her lap, touching her thighs as he arranged it. So close to where she tingled, where she wanted him, that she realized she’d made an involuntary noise. A moan, if she were to be honest.

  And then his fingers gripped her chin, and he twisted her head so their mouths could meet.

  Ah. This was the sustenance she wanted, not any of the food on the table. His mouth, tasting of wine and redolent with warmth, his tongue licking, tangling with hers. Her fingers went up to clutch his hair, pulling him closer, twisting more in her seat so she could have access to more of him, to their bodies touching.

  He clamped his hands on her shoulders and raised her to standing, still kissing her, now folding her against his body. His clearly excited body.

  She pushed against that part of him, loving how he responded with a low, throaty growl. Aware that she was doing this to him, making him lustful, and passionate, and almost—almost caring.

  It felt special, even though she knew it was something he’d done before. And would do again, with another woman at some point in the future. But right now he was hers, and this was theirs, and she was going to enjoy it as much as she could.

  His mouth ravaged hers for a few long minutes, then he broke the kiss, gasping, resting his head on her forehead. “We should eat something very quickly, and then we should go up to bed. My bed,” he added, as though he needed to make it absolutely clear where this was all going. As if she would be heading off to her own bed after that kiss.

  She nodded, and slid down his body, settling herself back in her chair, taking a sip of wine, and picking up her knife and fork. He returned to his side of the table, his eyes on her face, his gaze almost seeming as though it was going to devour her.

  He placed food on his own plate and ate efficiently, spearing his meat and eating in fast bursts. If she weren’t so intent on finishing the meal as quickly as possible she’d be concerned he would choke, but she was, and so she refrained from mentioning the possibility.

  Not to mention, he wasn’t a child, even though he acted with the headstrong impudence of one at times. But now she couldn’t fault that tendency in him; she wanted the same thing, so much so that they finished their meal within about ten minutes. She looked at him as he took his last bite, allowing a seductive smile to cross her lips. His gaze alit on her mouth, and her lips tingled, feeling as though he’d touched her there.

  “I am finished,” she said, getting up from her chair. She dropped the napkin on the table and walked to the door, opening it and waiting for him. He didn’t waste any time following her; he was too close, in fact, for mere employee and employer.

  She turned to speak to him over her shoulder. “I will go up now. Wait a few minutes, and go to your room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  He looked as though he were going to argue, then just pressed his lips together and nodded.

  She walked out, closing the door behind her, her whole body anticipating reuniting with his.

  Edwina poked her head out of her room and glanced both ways in the corridor. Nobody was there, thank goodness. She darted out into the hallway, still dressed, but carrying her dressing gown over her arm. He would just have to help her undress, which she didn’t think he would mind. She could explain away wandering the hallway in her gown, but not in her sleeping attire.

  Hopefully the inn would be quiet when it was time for her to return.

  It felt so scandalous, which of course it was, but also adventurous. And exciting. She’d never done anything like this before, had any kind of clandestine meeting. Even before she was married to Mr. Cheltam, she’d kept herself away from impudent suitors, knowing that her parents were depending on her to make a good marriage so she would be settled.

  She walked swiftly down the hall, keeping one hand on the wall to guide herself in the dark. His room was at the end of the corridor, so there was no chance she would knock on the wrong door.

  And also there was the fact that his door was slightly ajar, leaking a soft light that guided her. She pushed the door open and shut it behind her softly, her breath catching as she saw him.

  He lay on the bed nearly unclothed, his chest bare, wearing only his smallclothes. His penis jutted up from the fabric and his hand was on himself, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her enter.

  “You started without me,” she said in a low voice.

  “I did,” he said, slidi
ng his hand up and down himself through the fabric. “I can’t stop thinking about the noise you make when you climax. Or how your pussy spasmed in my mouth as I licked you.”

  “Oh,” she said, feelings of shock and titillation warring for dominance in her mind.

  The titillation won.

  “Come over here so I can undress you. Unless you’d care to undress for me?” he said, raising an eyebrow. Still, his hand moved slowly, rhythmically on himself, and she was transfixed at the sight. He was so strong, so powerful, and he was touching himself because of her. She had the power over him now.

  “I can do that,” she replied in a whisper, her hands going to the back of her gown. She’d long ago mastered undressing herself when her husband hadn’t been able to pay for a lady’s maid any longer. For the first time, she was thankful for her husband’s careless finances, since it meant she had acquired the skill that it seemed this man wanted her to demonstrate.

  She slid each button through the hole, wiggling as she did so. When she’d unbuttoned a few, she pushed her shoulders together and slid the fabric of her sleeves down her arms. His gaze was on her chest, his hand working his penis as he regarded her.

  She undid a few more buttons, then pushed it down her hips, stepping out of it, standing only in her shift.

  “I can see your nipples through the fabric.” His voice was strained, and she felt her throat get thick. “Hard and pink. I can’t wait to get my mouth on them,” he said. “Get that off and come over here,” he said in his most commanding voice.

  She had to admit she liked it when he told her what to do, when he said those shocking, dirty words to her. Something in her felt as though it had been kindled when he spoke. She felt the words bubbling inside her brain—she wanted to talk about how watching his hands on himself made her wet, how she couldn’t wait to have him inside her—but she wasn’t sure she could.