Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  But he could fill in the implications. If he carried through on his bluff, he would be ruining himself, Griff, and likely the future of all the industries and people who depended on the Duke of Gage’s ownings to survive. Queen Victoria would be angry with him, anyone he might meet would have heard about him and his jilting of the dukedom, and he would be sentencing himself to a life of scandal and a bad reputation, a life that could never be redeemed.

  And he could avoid all that if he just accepted a bride.

  There was no decision to be made. He had to do it, even though it made his throat close over in anger.

  “And your daughter?” Nicholas’s words were uttered in a short clip.

  “She will have no objection. She understands that an agreement is binding. And it is binding, Your Grace, we have no concerns about that.”

  That was the same conclusion Griff had reached after spending a few hours with the documents, only Griff hadn’t talked about a binding agreement, but instead had looked grim and patted Nicholas’s shoulder.

  That was when Nicholas knew for certain there was nothing to be done. But he had to at least try, to see if his future in-laws could at all be swayed by any kind of reason or bluff or anything else he could throw at them.

  It seemed he now knew the answer. And hoped his future wife did not take too much after her parents, particularly her mother.

  Nicholas swallowed and nodded his head, just once. “Then it appears we have a wedding to discuss, my lord, my lady.”

  He wished he could return to the day before, when the only decision he’d had to make in terms of a woman was which of the three he’d have first.

  Epigraph

  From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:

  She could not believe her ears. “I cannot believe my ears,” she said, getting to her feet.

  A nanny walking by gave her a strange look. Was she already tainted by the evil she felt rolling off him like a wave? Or maybe that was her imagination.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a heavy piece of parchment, dark ink—as dark as his hair, as his eyes—covering the creamy surface. “It is all here, pet. You are mine.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 4

  Nicholas relished the impact when his opponent’s fist caught him on the jaw. It hurt, hurt so goddamn much, and yet it felt satisfyingly real, and he knew he could, he would control the outcome.

  Unlike the rest of his life.

  He let the pain wash over him, then closed his eyes and breathed in, sharp, through his nose, feeling the curl of anger spread through him as swiftly and fiercely as the oxygen.

  “Enough?” Flynn said, dancing on his heels. He’d been dancing and taunting during the whole match, and Nicholas had let him—he knew that the end would come, inevitably, as it always did, but he wanted to spool the match out as long as he could, because when it was over, it would be done. Finished.

  Just like sex, he thought; the anticipation of it was so much better than seeing your opponent flat out on the floor (or the bed, depending on which activity it was). He lived for the skirmish, the flirtation, whether it was between two well-paired fighters or two (or more) well-paired lovers.

  “Never enough,” he replied, then drew his arm back, stiffening it as it uncoiled from his body. He aimed for Flynn’s stomach, right below where he held his hands to protect his heart.

  And wasn’t that another intriguing coincidence; Nicholas usually didn’t protect his heart when fighting. Nor did he during sex.

  Was that the problem?

  He was overthinking when he should be boxing, he thought just before another punch hit him, this time in the gut. He crumpled over, his head dipping close to the floor, then rose up again and met Flynn’s gaze.

  His opponent was another one of the regulars at the boxing salon; Nicholas had fought him, and won, before. Flynn was shorter than Nicholas and wiry, a good fighter if he didn’t get distracted by his own chatter.

  “That was a good one, if I do say so myself,” Flynn crowed.

  Nicholas delivered a fierce, quick blow to his chin, Flynn’s eyes widening as his head tipped back.

  Flynn was definitely the victim of his own chatter. Or Nicholas’s frustration about his own inability to control anything outside of the ring.

  Nicholas refrained from asking Flynn if that punch was good. It wouldn’t do to fall victim to the same weakness his opponent had.

  Instead, he concentrated on finishing the job, delivering blow after blow after blow to Flynn’s midsection, until the man held his gloved hands up in surrender.

  “Good match,” Nicholas said as Flynn shook his head, as though to clear it.

  “It was. Let’s try it again when you’re not so wound up about something,” Flynn replied. He rubbed his hand along his jaw. “What do you have in your gloves, bricks? Hell, Smithfield.”

  Nicholas grimaced. “Sorry if it was too much.”

  Flynn shrugged. “Not too much, just that normally I can land more than a few on you before you finish me.”

  “Nicholas!” Nicholas turned at the sound of Griff’s voice. His brother was fascinated by the ring, and the fighting, especially when Nicholas fought. Something about how humans took out their aggressions or some such nonsense.

  “Griff, you want to step in here next?” Nicholas held up his fists in a boxing stance. “I’d be happy to pummel the stuffing out of you.”

  Griff rolled his eyes as he swung into the ring. “I know you would, and that’s why I stay in the library, thanks very much. You all right?” he said, gesturing to Nicholas’s nose.

  Hm. He hadn’t noticed, but he had started bleeding at some point. He just hoped it wasn’t broken.

  “Fine. Here, can you wipe my hands,” he asked, holding his fists out. Griff drew a square of linen from his breast pocket and dabbed the blood away from Nicholas’s knuckles.

  “Did you go see them? The earl?” Griff added, as though Nicholas wouldn’t know who “them” referred to.

  “Yes.”

  Griff stopped what he was doing. “That bad?”

  “Yes.” Even though his intended was possibly the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. He hadn’t chosen her. She might not be the one. No, he knew—she wasn’t the one. How could she be, when he had tried so many?

  But now he had no choice.

  “How is the lady herself? Did you meet her?”

  Nicholas uttered a soft snort. “She is lovely. But I do not want to marry anyone, especially not now when this is all so sudden anyway.”

  Griff shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry. Could you just—just refuse to take the title? They wouldn’t want you for their daughter then, would they?” Griff wrapped the linen around Nicholas’s right hand.

  Nicholas shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” He expelled a breath as Griff reached up to touch his nose. Not broken, thankfully, but definitely sore.

  They’d had the same routine for over ten years now, since the first time Nicholas stepped into a ring, finding boxing the only way—well, one of the only two ways, and the other wasn’t practical to do all the time—to relieve the constant anxiety and pressure in his head. Griff had followed him, as he always did, and Nicholas found his ministrations comforting, in an odd way, after he’d spent all his energy and anger in the ring.

  Well. Perhaps not all his anger, he thought as he reviewed his meeting with Lady Isabella’s parents.

  “If I refuse the title—well, first I don’t know if anyone is allowed to refuse a title, but even if I could, who would be the duke then? You? But the previous duke would then be able to make a better case for his keeping the title, I’d think, and it would go to the House of Lords, all of whom would dither about it for years, most likely, and meanwhile, the people who are under the duke’s protection—the farmers, and workers, and towns—would suffer.” He exhaled. “Not to mention what the Queen would have to say about it all. I can’t even imagine.
And I can’t take the risk of doing that, just because I want to have my own say about my bride.”

  “Oh.” Griff leaned past Nicholas to grab his shirt, then held it out for Nicholas to put on. He folded his arms across his chest and waited until the shirt was over Nicholas’s head before he spoke. “Then I have to say,” he began, looking Nicholas in the eye with his steady, firm, ever so direct gaze, “that I admire you for what you’re doing.”

  Nicholas snorted. “Marrying a beautiful aristocrat?”

  Griff shook his head slowly. “No. Not that. It’s being able to foresee the likely outcomes of your actions, and taking the course that is the best for the most people, even if it’s not the best for you.”

  Nicholas felt a lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he said in a gruff voice. “Now let’s go see about that dukedom, shall we?”

  And a bride, he thought to himself.

  He and Griff were both quiet as Nicholas got himself rigged out again as a gentleman, not a brawler. What was there to say, anyway? They walked out of the club, Nicholas feeling the weight he’d escaped while in the ring with Flynn return with a vengeance. “Smithfield!” The voice was unfamiliar, but the tone was unfortunately not—dripping with scorn, like when someone made the mistake of thinking he was only a rake.

  He usually got to correct them by letting them know he was a rake and a boxer. They did not speak to him that way again.

  Nicholas paused on the sidewalk, Griff to his right. A gentleman strode up, right into Nicholas’s face, his face red, his expression fearsome.

  Lesser men would have stepped back. Perhaps wiser men would have as well.

  Nicholas was neither lesser nor wiser, it seemed.

  “You can’t have it. You can’t have her,” the man said, poking Nicholas in the chest.

  And, of course, Nicholas knew just who this was, and what “it” and “her” the man referred to.

  “The former Duke of Gage, I presume,” he said in his best rakish drawl. It was a tone designed to provoke, and apparently it worked quite well.

  “Not former, you bastard,” the man spat.

  At this Nicholas allowed himself a chuckle. “It seems that you are the bastard, or at least that’s what the documents say.”

  He didn’t need Griff’s inhalation to know a punch was forthcoming, and honestly, he’d had enough of those for the day. So he grabbed the man’s wrist as it swung up, then twisted his arm around his back and leaned in close. “Listen, you may dispute it all you want, but stop thinking about yourself for just one minute. What would it do to drag this out? We both know that it’s legal. Barristers have never been accused of being reckless, so the documents must be ironclad.” How he wished they weren’t, at least when it came to the papers this Duke of Gage had signed.

  “I’ll take this to the courts, you can be certain of that,” the man said, his face flushing even brighter, his arm still painfully wrapped behind his back.

  Nicholas leaned into his face and spoke in a whisper. “You do that. And I’ll be waiting.”

  And with that, Nicholas released the man’s arm so suddenly he staggered back, the malice on his face nearly tangible.

  Nicholas and Griff watched as the former duke walked away, casting looks behind him and muttering darkly.

  “He’s not going to let it go that easily,” Griff said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Or let her go. “Would you?” Nicholas replied, smoothing his jacket.

  Epigraph

  From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:

  “And your people are pleased that I am to be your princess?” Jane stood defiantly meekly proudly in her parents’ sitting room, the prince having just returned from planning the wedding.

  It was raining outside, a fierce, driving wind banging against the windows, the shaking trees making long shadows on the rug. It was raining in her heart, too.

  “They are indeed pleased,” he replied in that unctuous tone, making a chill creep up her spine. If only she could do something to get out of her situation—but she was a woman, and had no resources, and nothing to counter his relentless pursuit.

  If only there was someone out there who could help her.

  And just then, she heard a knock at the door.

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 5

  Isabella sat as she’d been instructed, not allowing her back to touch the chair, her hands placed just so in her lap, her feet together, her spine straight. Her only tiny act of rebellion was to gaze out the window, not at her mother, who was speaking. “You and the duke will be married in two weeks. The ceremony will be held at St. Paul’s, and your father and I will be hosting the breakfast after.” Isabella’s mother gave a sniff of disdain. “I presume you will wish your sister to stand up with you during the ceremony.” She continued without waiting for an answer, which was a good thing; ever since that day, the New Duke Day, Isabella had been unable to carry on normal conversation, except for late at night with Margaret.

  And even then it had taken most of Margaret’s jokes and imitations to get her to speak in full sentences. Most of which began with “What am I going to do?” which wasn’t precisely a sentence, and was usually accompanied with an enormous sob.

  Because while she had been resigned to marrying that duke, undeniably unpleasant though he was, having experienced a few hours of freedom before it was snatched away made it nearly impossible for her to become resigned to marrying this duke.

  Even though this duke was remarkably handsome. But that was the only thing she knew about him, and she knew well—her mother had been a beauty, in her day, and look how she had turned out—that external beauty was no predictor of what a person’s internal beauty was.

  “Are you listening, Isabella?” her mother’s tone was sharp. She should be looking at her mother, that rebuke said. Like a dutiful child, she turned her head to meet her mother’s eyes. They were in her mother’s sitting room, her mother writing things down and consulting various notes¸ Isabella trying not to shout, while Margaret sat next to her, occasionally patting her hand.

  Margaret’s back touched the chair.

  “Yes, Mother.” Isabella hated whom she’d become through her parents’ constant grooming. She was, she could say without false modesty, perfect. The perfect lady, perfectly able to do anything an aristocratic lady was supposed to be able to do—manage a household, do needlepoint, play the pianoforte, speak three languages, dress in the most impeccable gowns at all times—but inside, deep down where the true Isabella resided, it made her cringe every time she was called upon to perform.

  The only person who understood that was Margaret, but Margaret wasn’t able to do anything to help besides make the occasional sarcastic comment to divert their parents’—particularly her mother’s—attention for a few moments.

  “Will Isabella actually be dressed as a sacrificial lamb, or will that be implied with her wedding gown?”

  Like now, for example.

  “Margaret, don’t be foolish,” her mother replied, refusing to rise to the bait. She took one last look at the papers and made a face as though they, too, had disappointed her.

  At least her mother was consistent—Isabella didn’t think anything in the world would or could live up to her mother’s expectations, and that included inanimate objects made of trees.

  “But speaking of your wedding gown, I have to go out and consult with Madame LaFoy about it.” Isabella made to stand, but her mother held her hand out. “There is no need for you to come as well, you would only get in the way.”

  And wasn’t that the essence of how her mother thought about her? Someone who would get in the way if she actually expressed an opinion. Just once she’d like to tell her mother that no, she didn’t actually like to take her tea the way her mother made it, nor was she particularly fond of the color pink, and sometimes she would like to choose what she would embroider—she was getting damn tired of roses.

  And even saying “damn” i
n her head made her flinch. She wished she could not let it bother her, any of it, but she’d been trying to please her parents since she’d been born, it seemed, and she didn’t know any other way to be.

  Perhaps the question was not who would she be if she were not the Duchess of Gage, but who was she at all?

  “Isabella!” From the tone of her sister’s voice, it sounded as though Margaret had been calling her a few times.

  “What?” Isabella dropped her needlepoint in her lap and looked at her sister. “What is it?”

  “The countess will be gone for at least two hours—would you like to go for a walk in the park?”

  Isabella repressed the feeling of Oh, I shouldn’t, I haven’t checked with my parents. “That would be lovely.”

  “Good,” Margaret replied, jumping up immediately. “It’s warm enough, we don’t need shawls or anything, we can just go.”

  If only she could just go.

  Isabella rose more slowly, nervous about doing something that wasn’t precisely what she was supposed to do, but excited to do that type of thing as well.

  “I wonder if we will see your intended.” Margaret squinted at the watch pinned to the bodice of her gown. “It might be too early for him to be out yet.”