Never Kiss a Duke

by Megan Frampton

  That she hadn’t realized responding appropriately to a ridiculously handsome gentleman would be a general side effect of being in this business was her own fault.

  And then she chuckled to herself as she thought it out. She’d have to share that with Octavia—her sister did enjoy laughing at her. As she enjoyed laughing at herself.

  Sebastian sat next to Nash, resisting the urge to glance back at the gambling house’s proprietor. Miss Ivy. Looking at her, however, was certainly better than being reminded he was now Mr. de Silva.

  He hadn’t expected such a young woman to own a gambling house. Obviously, since he’d mistaken her for a maid. He winced as he recalled his assumption.

  Nor had he anticipated she’d be so attractive.

  He wondered where she came from, and why such a lovely young woman was the proprietor.

  Not that he’d ever pondered what the owner of a gambling house should look like. Except that they were usually male, often loud, and frequently obnoxious. She was none of those things. Which was why he’d been so dreadfully wrong.

  She was approachably beautiful: short, with wide brown eyes, dark brown hair, a wide mouth, and luscious curves. He wondered what she looked like when she smiled. When those large eyes were suffused with passion. How those curves would feel in his hands.

  “Seb?” Nash nudged his arm. “If you’re going to sit there and let your mind wander, we can just as well go get drinks and skip the gambling. I’d much prefer that,” he added in a grumpy tone.

  “No, it’s fine, I’m just—” he replied. Nash grunted in response.

  Sebastian shook his thoughts free of the exquisite proprietor, glancing instead around the room. Not nearly as compelling. But still interesting.

  The room was large, with tables set at specific intervals. The chairs were comfortably upholstered in a dark fabric, while the walls were hung in red, paintings of—was that a dog playing cards?—punctuating the intense color.

  Seb squinted at the other paintings. Some of them were what he might expect, but there was a smattering of ones just as whimsical as the one that had first caught his eye.

  Someone here had a distinct sense of humor.

  Was it her? he wondered.

  “What number do you suggest?” Nash asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  One dukedom, one illegal marriage, two spouses, two affected children, plus twenty-odd household staff . . . “Twenty-six,” he replied.

  Nash tossed his chip onto the number, glancing around the room. Likely searching for the server with their drinks.

  Sebastian watched as the roulette ball spun around the outside of the wheel.

  And leaned back as the ball landed on the red thirteen.

  Why hadn’t he told Nash to choose that number? Perhaps because it would have been too on the nose? Number thirteen, since all I’ve had today is bad luck.

  That thought was perilously close to moping. He would not mope. Nobody wanted a mopey duke, much less a mopey not-duke. Especially not him.

  Thankfully, there was plenty to distract him.

  He rose suddenly, turning to look at the other tables in the room. Roulette was entirely a game of chance, but there were other games that required more thinking on the part of the player. Not that Nash would care; as long as the drinks were flowing, his friend was happy. Or at least as happy as Nash ever got. Which was usually slightly to the right of mildly satisfied.

  Unless he was embroiled in a fight. Then he seemed intent, focused, and nearly happy.

  “Let’s try the baccarat table,” he said. Nash rose also, following Seb to the table he’d indicated. They had to push through other customers, nearly getting a drink or two spilled on them, while a few of the ladies looked up from their play to appraise them as possible playmates. But Seb kept his gaze firmly locked on the table—he wasn’t in the mood this evening, and Nash wasn’t one to voluntarily flirt.

  They reached the table and sat, Sebastian casting a quick eye at the other players. Nobody he recognized, thank goodness.

  Baccarat was nearly as dependent on luck as roulette, but at least there were cards involved. Not just a little ball spinning around a wheel.

  If he was going to lose Nash’s money—since he didn’t have any of his own—he’d rather it be because he’d played the wrong card than because a ball took the wrong bounce.

  Funny how gambling wasn’t nearly as enjoyable when you had literally nothing to lose.

  His life had changed irrevocably that afternoon in ways he couldn’t imagine. The thought of not being able to afford anything—he had never had that. He didn’t know what things cost, much less how much money one needed to afford them.

  A woman stood at the table, obviously the dealer. Yet another unusual aspect of this club—Sebastian didn’t think he’d ever seen a female dealer. She was an older woman with sharp features and black hair scraped back into a severe bun. She wore equally severe clothing and no gloves. She nodded at them, then resumed efficiently shuffling a deck of cards.

  Sebastian heard voices and turned around to see people coming steadily into the room. Some of the people he recognized, so he snapped back around. He didn’t want to have the “oh yes, I am an illegitimate nobody” conversation with anybody right now. Or, worse yet, have them be unaware of his changed status and treat him as an important personage, not some poor bastard who’d discovered his true heritage.

  He could still hear a few bits of conversation around him and picked up on some accents that did not belong to the cream of Society. It appeared Miss Ivy’s was egalitarian in its clientele in both gender and class. Bring your money, come in. It was an easy equation, almost impossibly simple to parse.

  He wondered how many members of the House of Lords sniffed at Miss Ivy’s, either because of the unsuitable clientele or because they lacked the cash necessary to play. No wonder Nash liked it; it was as devoid of false pretense as he was.

  “How long has Miss Ivy’s been open?” he asked the dealer. She shot him a look that indicated she did not want to waste time answering questions. He responded by giving her one of his easy smiles.

  It did not work. She only looked more forbidding.

  When he’d lost his title, had he lost his charm?

  “I’ll take over, Caroline.” Miss Ivy nodded at her employee, who almost seemed to soften, and then stepped away.

  “Not just the proprietor, but also a dealer?” Seb asked.

  She shrugged, a touch of pink on her cheeks. Why had she stepped in, anyway?

  He wouldn’t be Sebastian, now not the Duke of Hasford, if he didn’t believe it had something to do with him.

  She tapped the deck of cards on the surface of the table. “Place your bets.”

  Nash nodded at Seb, who shrugged and placed one of Nash’s chips on the player side.

  Miss Ivy shuffled the cards, then dealt two for the player, two for the dealer.

  Seb added the numbers up quickly in his head, but not as fast as Miss Ivy did. Impressive.

  “Player wins,” she said, sliding a chip to join the bet.

  “I can ask you, since your dealer wasn’t inclined to answer.” Seb tried his smile again, this time with much better results. He saw her eyes widen, and her throat move as she swallowed. If he were not a good card player, he would have grinned at her reaction. “How long have you been open?”

  She tilted her head as she calculated. “Approximately six months.”

  Ah. No wonder he hadn’t come here before. Six months ago was when his parents had died. And he hadn’t had time for pleasure in the time since. “And your clientele is . . . ?”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Why are you so interested, Mr. de Silva?” She frowned. “You’re not from Crockford’s, are you?”

  Sebastian held his hands up in surrender. “No, I promise. I’m just interested.” He put his hands back down on the table and leaned forward, his voice taking a conspiratorial tone. “Besides which, I’d be a horrible spy if I were just asking the ques
tions directly, wouldn’t I?” It felt so much more normal, and like himself, to be teasing a lady. And thank goodness he hadn’t lost his charm, after all.

  Her expression eased, and she nodded. “Excellent point. Although perhaps you are a horrible spy.”

  Seb chuckled. “What would a horrible spy be like, anyway?”

  She laughed, her entire face expressing delight. He had to concentrate on keeping his expression neutral; her smile was nearly blinding. It wasn’t the sensual smile that ladies intent on seduction wore. It was wide, and sincere, and made him want to live up to its promise. To conjure the joy of the smile, to be worthy of all that brilliance.

  And where did that idea come from?

  The loss of a dukedom must have done something to his brain.

  “Please share all your secrets so I might report them back to your rival,” she said, lowering her voice to sound more masculine.

  “Tell me who your most profligate customers are so I can lure them away to my establishment,” he rejoined.

  “And while you are at it, please indicate which of your employees are the best at their jobs. Purely for interest’s sake.”

  They shared a smile for a brief moment.

  “Well,” she said, smoothing her expression, though her eyes still danced in laughter, “since we have established you are not a spy, perhaps we should continue the play.”

  “Yes, I would prefer to lose money rather than listen to you flirt,” Nash said in a dry tone.

  She opened her mouth as though to respond, then snapped it shut again. Her cheeks got pink.

  “Stop complaining and place your chips on the dealer,” Seb said to Nash, who complied, giving Sebastian a knowing look.

  Fine, Seb wanted to say. I was flirting. Can you blame me? I am me, and she is lovely.

  “Dealer wins,” Miss Ivy said after a few minutes, jolting Seb from his thoughts. She nodded toward one of the workers, who stepped forward at her gesture.

  He looked smugly at Nash, who was already rolling his eyes. “My entire life might be in shambles, and tomorrow is in doubt, but at least I am still able to predict a turn of the card.” Poking Nash was nearly as much fun as teasing ladies.

  Nash drew his chips toward him, flipping one at Seb. “Here, let me be the first to stake your future.” The worker had stepped away, and he felt her focus back on the two of them.

  Sebastian caught the chip, placing it on the table, shifting it between player and dealer. At last he decided where to place it, then glanced up to meet her eyes. “I’m betting on the dealer,” he said, watching as her eyes widened and she took a few short breaths.

  Perhaps his luck hadn’t entirely changed.

  Chapter Three

  I’m betting on the dealer.

  Ivy didn’t think she’d ever been so flustered before. More accurately, she didn’t think she’d ever been flustered before. But he’d smiled, and she’d felt wobbly around the knees and somewhat light-headed, as well.

  Either she was reacting to him, or she was coming down with something.

  She did not think she was getting ill.

  Ivy had long wondered why other women got so silly around gentlemen. She was able to keep her composure, why couldn’t they? There was simply no reason, in her opinion, to see a handsome gentleman and suddenly start to blush and flutter one’s lashes and start speaking as though one were unsure of everything that came out of one’s mouth.

  Only here she was. Blushing and fluttering.

  Annoying herself.

  “You’re betting on the dealer,” she said, only her words had that lift up at the end that made them sound like a question. Damn it. “You’re betting on the dealer,” she repeated, as though it were a statement of fact. There. Much better.

  “I see no reason not to,” he replied in a low voice. A voice that made Ivy think of all sorts of things she had never thought about before.

  “I’m taking the player,” the duke added, sliding his chip onto that square. Ivy nearly jumped; she’d forgotten he was there at all.

  She was not thinking straight at the moment. She should be focused on her customers, all of them, not this particular one. He was a mark. They all were.

  It was just that this mark was so pleasant to look at. That was all.

  She took a deep breath and vowed not to look at him for at least a minute. She could go for a minute, couldn’t she? She was stalwart, resolute, unflappable Ivy. Ivy of the Worried Concerns. Ivy of the Steadfast Plan. Not Ivy of the Fluttering Lashes or Simpering Voice.

  Instead, she stared down at the cards, dealing them out and holding her breath as each card was revealed. “Dealer wins,” she said after a moment. After a minute of not looking at him.

  And then allowed herself another glance. His eyes gazed resolutely at her, his lips tugging upward in a half smile.

  “I knew it,” he said in a soft tone of voice.

  His eyes were the most unusual color she’d ever seen—almost amber, although she supposed others might say they were hazel. Of course he would even have beautiful eyes. Hers, she knew full well, were brown. Boring, ordinary, dull brown.

  She exhaled, her deplorably brown eyes darting around the room as she tried to calm herself. And then felt her chest tighten as she glanced over at the opposite table. A young, auburn-haired woman clad in a mask was acting as the dealer, her slim fingers deftly dealing the cards.

  Damn it.

  “If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” Ivy said, nodding toward Caroline, who was at another table. Caroline returned to the table where the duke and Mr. de Silva sat, and Ivy sped across the floor, anger warring with relief. Anger at Octavia for doing something Ivy had expressly forbidden, and relief that she was distracted for a few moments.

  She went behind the table and grabbed Octavia’s arm, whispering sharply into her ear. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Octavia’s eyes danced behind the mask. Perhaps today was the day that her sister would no longer obey Ivy’s commands. “I’m helping out, Miss Ivy,” she replied in a demure tone. “I understand that you are in need of some assistance.”

  “Miss Ivy, your new dealer is extraordinary.”

  Ivy turned to see who the speaker was. And nearly groaned aloud when she saw it was Lady Massingley, who would have been the person Ivy cited as her most profligate customer, if a poor-at-his-pursuit spy had asked.

  “Thank you,” Octavia replied, accompanying her words with a curtsy.

  Lady Massingley flicked a coin across the table, which Octavia snagged handily.

  “You are bringing me luck,” Lady Massingley said. “Double or nothing,” she said, sliding her whole stack of chips into the middle of the table.

  “You see?” Octavia said in a smug tone.

  “Fine,” Ivy said in a low voice. “Just for tonight. And do not, under any circumstances, remove that mask.”

  “Yes, Miss Ivy.” Octavia’s tone was cheeky, and Ivy had to remind herself not to drag Octavia away. First, because it wouldn’t be appropriate for the proprietor of Miss Ivy’s to be seen in a scuffle with one of her supposed employees. Second, and more practically, Octavia was taller than Ivy, and she didn’t think she would be able to do it anyway.

  “It’s a clever move, having your dealers behind masks.”

  Ivy jumped as she heard Mr. de Silva’s voice behind her. She spun around, nearly falling into him. She hadn’t realized quite how tall he was; of course she was rather short, but her head only came up to his chest. She kept her eyes on his waistcoat. It was gold, with an intricate pattern on the fabric. Gold buttons were an impudent addition that should have made the waistcoat look gaudy. But instead the overall effect was that of a confident man wearing clothing that would look good on only one person—and that person was him.

  He was lucky in his clothing choices, too, apparently.

  “We all want to pursue our pleasure anonymously,” he continued. Thankfully oblivious to her assessment of his raiment. “And what better way
to make everyone equal than to have them behind masks? You should supply them to the guests, as well.” His gaze took in the room, which by now was about three-quarters full. “You allow anyone entry, do you not? Provided they have money?”

  “I do,” Ivy replied, curious to hear his thoughts. So few people actually considered why she’d set the club up as she did.

  “That kind of—dare I say—revolutionary aesthetic lends itself well to anonymity. If everyone is masked, then we are all the same, are we not?” He chuckled. “I’ve never thought so much about equality before,” he said in a speculative tone.

  Ivy turned the idea over in her mind, suddenly intrigued. Perhaps Octavia’s attempt at disguise would turn out to be an asset for the club.

  “That is exactly what Ivy’s is to be,” she said in an enthusiastic tone. “A place where anyone is the same as anyone else. Its only requirement is the universal measure of egalitarianism—money.”

  “Although it is most likely that those with privilege are most likely to have it,” he remarked dryly.

  She thought of her father, a baron whose family went back to William the Conqueror. And yet who didn’t have enough money to fund his weakness. And of the other members of the aristocracy she’d heard of who were thousands of pounds in debt, and yet other members of the aristocracy continued to gamble with them because they had noble blood. “And most likely to moan about it when they lose it. When they lose their privilege.”

  “Mope,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Mope about it when they lose their privilege.” It sounded as though he was issuing a reminder.

  “Moan, mope, whatever,” she said, gesturing dismissively. “The point is, yes. Miss Ivy’s is for everyone.” Ivy gestured to one of the passing servers, snagging two glasses from the tray. “Here.”

  “Thank you.” He took a sip, then looked at her with a surprised expression. “It’s excellent.”