Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  And why shouldn’t they? He was handsome, seemed charming enough, and had a low, resonant voice that did interesting things to her insides when he spoke.

  And he smelled like a plum pudding.

  So yes, she was excited about going for a drive with him. She would need to discover what type of man she had married, beyond the rudiments of looks, voice, and ability to punch and get punched, apparently.

  That last item should not have also made her thrill in some sort of secret way, but it did. It absolutely did. What would it look like to see him in the midst of a boxing match? She knew enough to know that gentlemen—even dukes—did not wear their coats and waistcoats and cravats when they boxed. She didn’t know what they did wear, but she knew it was less than what he would normally wear.

  And again, for some reason, that intrigued her.

  While she wouldn’t say she herself was an animalistic beast, she did have to admit to wishing she could get a little . . . beastly with him.

  The lowering thought occurred that perhaps he did not feel the same. Might not ever feel the same.

  She wasn’t vain, but she knew she was not only pretty, but beautiful—her parents had been telling her for years that her beauty was the only thing she had worth cultivating. So what could possibly be the problem? Was he in love with one of his former paramours? What if the lady wasn’t a former paramour at all, but a current one?

  And just what would Isabella do about it?

  That was something she was going to have to think about.

  “Your Grace!” Her lady’s maid jumped up out of a chair as Isabella opened the door. “I thought you were downstairs.”

  Isabella smiled. “Well, Robinson, I was, only now I am here. And I need your help—the duke, that is, my husband”—and was that the first time she’d said those two words?—“is taking me for a drive, and I need to change into a proper outfit.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” Robinson replied. She marched over to the wardrobe and flung the doors wide, revealing most of the clothing Isabella’s mother had ordered as being appropriate for a duchess.

  There was a lot of pink in there, Isabella noted with a sigh.

  “Might I suggest this one?” Robinson said, withdrawing a garment that was, thankfully, not pink. It was a dark purple, and was tailored within an inch of its life, with clever darts ensuring that no one would mistake her for a man, but still, it was not pink.

  “Should you wish it in the future, Your Grace, we can inquire of the tailor if we could commission one in pink.” Robinson stepped back, holding the gown.

  “No, that will not be necessary,” Isabella said hastily. “The purple is fine.”

  It was only twenty minutes later that Isabella descended the staircase, holding the skirt of her gown up from the stairs, her hat placed just so on her hair.

  He was waiting downstairs, pacing back and forth across the parquet, and it appeared he’d been running his hands through his hair, judging by its dishevelment.

  And why was it that when a lady’s hair was messy she looked . . . messy, whereas when a gentleman’s hair was messy it merely made him look more attractive?

  Or was that just he?

  “I apologize that I kept you waiting, Nicholas,” Isabella said.

  He looked up at her as she descended the stairs, an odd, nearly predatory look on his face. It sent a shiver up her spine, and she automatically straightened in response. Her mother had told her often enough that showing a reaction was unseemly.

  “No, of course not. You look lovely,” he replied, taking her hand as she walked down the last few steps. He drew her fingers to his mouth, but kept his gaze on her. “Lovely,” he repeated, kissing her fingers lightly. She felt the impact through her gloves, all the way through to her feet, it felt like.

  “Thank you. Is the carriage ready?” she asked, hearing her voice a little shakier than it was before.

  “Yes, I have some unexpected meetings later on today—things to do with accounts and such—so we cannot stay out long, but I did wish to show off my bride.”

  “If you are too busy, we can go another day.” A lady must always give up her own pleasure in service of others.

  He frowned, as though confused. “I’ve just said I wanted to go, and now you are asking if I don’t want to? If you don’t wish to, just say so.”

  Just say so. If only it were that easy. She hadn’t been allowed to say anything of what she’d felt for nearly her whole life. The only person to whom she’d ever even admitted anything was her sister, and even then she felt constrained in her conversation.

  “Of course I wish to go driving with you, Nicholas,” she said in a bright tone. He gave her another quick, curious glance, then made a gesture for her to precede him to the door.

  The butler opened the door with a bow. “Have a pleasant outing, Your Grace, Your Grace,” he said in a very proper tone.

  “Thank you, we shall,” Nicholas said, putting his hand at Isabella’s waist to guide her down the stairs.

  No man had ever touched her like this, at least not when there was no music and dancing occurring. It felt so risqué, even though this was her husband, and had things gone as she’d been told they should have gone, he would have touched a lot more than her waist.

  “Oh,” Isabella exclaimed as she spotted the carriage. It wasn’t the usual type her parents drove in—sturdy, large, with a coachman, four wheels, and four horses. This carriage looked nearly birdlike, with two wheels and just one single horse.

  A groom waited for them, dressed in what Isabella realized was the duke’s livery. Thank goodness it wasn’t pink.

  “Thank you, um—” Nicholas began. “What is your name?”

  The groom looked startled, as Isabella would have been in his place—she didn’t know the names of half of the staff at her parents’ house, it wasn’t deemed necessary.

  “Michael, Your Grace,” the groom—barely a boy, as Isabella saw—replied with a visible swallow.

  “Michael, can you hand me the whip? I will assist Her Ladyship into the carriage.”

  “Certainly,” Michael said, walking to the back of the vehicle.

  “Isabella, if I might?” Nicholas said, taking her hand.

  “Of course.” She felt the warmth, the strength of him with just the clasp of his hand. He put his other hand back on her waist, and she stepped up into the carriage, her heart racing more than it should be.

  He sat beside her, and they were so close, they were nearly touching.

  She had driven with gentlemen before, but always in a carriage, and always with someone else there.

  Marriage was full of new experiences. Just not the ones she’d imagined before she was married.

  “Michael,” Nicholas called out, “is there anything I should know about this horse?”

  “No, Your Grace. She’s a right proper stepper, and her name’s Lady.”

  “Lady,” Nicholas repeated. “And so fitting she is going to be pulling a lady as well,” he said, nodding toward Isabella.

  Was he—flirting with her? Were husbands supposed to do that with their wives?

  And why did she have no idea how to reply?

  Nicholas felt like the stupidest kind of clod. Not that clods were, in general, noted for their intelligence, but he felt like the stupidest. He felt tongue-tied around this woman, this lady who was also his wife, and he seemed to be saying the things most likely to make her poker up and adopt that frigid mien that almost seemed ingrained in her.

  And what if it was? What if he had married the world’s iciest woman? To whom, he knew, he would be absolutely faithful, because he was not going to insult her. It was a potentially very depressing thought.

  But he thought he’d caught a glimpse of something in her eyes, in her expression, that indicated that she was not entirely cold. She’d responded well enough the night before, to playing cards and being told stories. She’d seemed excited to go for a drive, but then he’d had to ruin it by telling her he had anothe
r obligation.

  Was she so vain that she expected her husband to dance attendance on her at all times? Was that why she’d asked if he’d prefer not to go driving?

  He didn’t think he’d ever thought about a woman so much, at least not one with whom he was having sexual relations. Or thought so much about one woman in such a short time. Even if they were having relations.

  “Where would you like to go? Anywhere in particular?” he asked, as much to get his own mind off her—not to mention sex—as to inquire as to her preference.

  Which was, as it happened, no preference. “Wherever you would like,” she said in that low, distant tone that managed to be both sensual and off-putting at the same time.

  Just as she was.

  She was sitting next to him, but it felt as though she were somewhere far off in the distance, a quiet, gorgeous star floating off in the night sky.

  He decided to try again. Because if he didn’t figure out who she was, and what she liked, he would never have a fulfilling, satisfactory marriage. Not to mention a fulfilling and satisfactory sex life. “I actually want to know, Isabella,” he said firmly, “where you would like to go. I myself don’t have any thoughts on it, I usually just go for a ride in the park, but if there is somewhere else—”

  “The park is fine,” she blurted out, then folded her hands carefully on her lap. “The park is fine,” she repeated in a much calmer tone.

  “The park, then,” Nicholas said, turning the cabriolet in that direction. “But next time I ask you your opinion on something, I actually want your opinion, not what you think my opinion is, or that you don’t have an opinion. Everyone has an opinion on something, even if it’s disliking a particular food, or preferring one activity over another.” And then he winced, since he knew what activity he would prefer, and he was guessing that was the last thing on her mind.

  “Oh,” she said in a quiet voice, and then stopped speaking altogether.

  Well, that went well, he thought sourly as he drove them to the park. Now she was a silent lump, albeit a gorgeous, silent lump, sitting beside him on the seat.

  And them with eternity to spend together. Wonderful.

  But then—then she did speak. “The weather is nice today.”

  So it wasn’t much, in terms of conversation, but it was more than she’d said in the past fifteen minutes, so he seized it like a drowning man grabs a rope from the shore.

  “Yes, it is.”

  If a drowning man really didn’t wish to grab that much rope. Perhaps hanging himself was a preferable idea. In which case he would need more rope.

  “I was thinking—” he began, as she said, “Where did you—?”

  “You first,” he said, turning into the park.

  “I was going to ask where you learned your story from last night. It was . . .”

  Please don’t say idiotic, he thought as she paused.

  “. . . creative.”

  He laughed, as much in relief as in humor. “Yes, creative is one word for it. My brother, Griffith—you met him at the wedding—he is the much more studious one in the family. He used to read all of those stories and then we would act them out, and he’d invariably get frustrated with me because I couldn’t remember the details or names. Eventually, he just gave in and allowed me to tell them.”

  A greeting from nearby interrupted him just as he was about to ask her something about herself. “Your Grace!”

  Nicholas cursed inwardly as some titled gentlefolk or another greeted them. This was nearly the longest conversation they’d had to date.

  To be fair, he had brought her out in public in an open carriage, so it was highly unlikely they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  He slowed Lady to a stop and squinted to see who was speaking. “Oh, hello, my lord.” He had no idea who the well-dressed couple were, but they looked vaguely familiar.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Truscott, Lord Truscott.” It seemed his wife knew them, at least.

  The pair were older, with generous laugh lines in their faces, and both were smiling at his wife, as though delighted to see her.

  Well, he was delighted to see her as well, but he doubted it was for the same reason.

  “I would have thought you two would be off on a honeymoon!” Lord Truscott exclaimed. “If the lady were my wife, I would have made sure to be alone with her. You’ve broken a lot of hearts, Your Grace,” the man chided, wagging his finger at Isabella.

  The man didn’t mean it to be an accusation, but Nicholas still felt guilty, for not taking her away, for not knowing more about her past. What if she had left someone behind? Someone who wasn’t a duke, whom her father hadn’t bought for her?

  What if she was cold because she’d given all her warmth to someone else?

  He dared to glance over at her, as though it would be written on her face, but all he saw was her usual polite Society smile.

  “The duke is only newly succeeded to his title, as you know, so we thought it best to remain in town for the time being,” Isabella said.

  It sounded reasonable, and yet—they hadn’t discussed anything of the sort. At least not together. He and Griff had thought a honeymoon should wait, given that the dukedom and then the wedding had come so quickly, one after the other.

  She hadn’t even been given a chance to acquiesce to his decision. He’d just decided.

  “Your Grace,” another voice called, and both he and Isabella turned their heads.

  It was his wife’s father, riding up on a gorgeous horse that did not suit the earl’s disapproving expression.

  It was so early in the day, and yet he’d already managed to annoy his new father-in-law. He tried not to feel triumphant at that.

  But that was disrespectful to his wife, although, if he wasn’t mistaken, she’d stiffened up even more beside him, returning to the posture she’d had when they started driving.

  “Good morning, Isabella,” the earl said before turning his attention to Nicholas. “I stopped by your town house this morning, but you had already gone out.”

  Yes, I had to pummel somebody so I could relieve my frustration at not bedding my wife.

  “Yes” was all Nicholas allowed himself to say.

  “Well, and you were out, and—” The earl was clearly uncomfortable at not saying whatever he wished he could say, and neither Nicholas nor Isabella was helping him.

  But Lord Truscott did. “Spit it out, man! What do you need to talk about?”

  Nicholas bit back a laugh as he concentrated on smoothing his features.

  “I—well, there are things to discuss.” What those things could possibly be Nicholas couldn’t guess—he couldn’t very well marry another one of the earl’s daughters.

  Isabella took his fingers in hers. He felt them trembling.

  “Of course. You can make an appointment with my secretary”—even though he didn’t have one yet—“and I will be happy to see you then.”

  It was a dismissal, and as he spoke, he felt Isabella’s hand tighten on his.

  Interesting.

  “Your mother will be sending an invitation for you to dine with us soon,” the earl said to Isabella. “She was just saying she is looking forward to hearing what improvements you might be making to the duke’s town house.”

  “The duke and I have not yet discussed that. There has been no time, as of yet,” his wife replied in her iciest tone.

  Even more interesting.

  The earl’s expression tightened. As though he wished he could shout, but was preventing himself from doing so.

  And if he did dare, Nicholas thought it was likely bad form for him to punch his father-in-law in the jaw.

  Instead, he decided to punch him metaphorically. “The duchess and I will be pleased to invite you and the countess to our town house in one of the upcoming weeks. For now,” he said, lifting Isabella’s not quite as trembling hand to his lips, “we are currently too busy to commit to any engagements.” He folded her hand in his and tucked it into his side. “Do give
the countess our best wishes, would you?”

  Well, it wasn’t as though he could actually say, Get out of here now.

  The earl’s face flushed red, and his gaze darted between Nicholas and Isabella. “Fine, excuse me,” he said, turning his horse around abruptly, then galloping off.

  He felt her exhale.

  Lord Truscott was not so discreet, letting out a bark of laughter that he quickly smothered as his wife elbowed him.

  “If you will excuse us,” Nicholas said, nodding to the Truscotts, “I wish to show my wife the pond at the other end of the park.”

  Lord Truscott grinned. “Of course! With a lovely bride like that, I’m surprised you’re not home right now ‘showing her the pond.’ ” The last bit was offered with a wink, which Nicholas returned.

  Because there was no reason for anyone to suspect theirs was not a usual marriage, at least not usual yet—and now he knew he would have to patiently woo his wife to get her to trust him enough to make it a true, usual marriage.

  Or spend the rest of his life getting punches thrown at him.

  Epigraph

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

  “Why can’t I ask you any questions?” Jane wished she was less intrigued by her husband. He scared her, but he hadn’t hurt her—yet.

  She saw how his jaw tightened, and it felt as though something was squeezing the air out of her lungs.

  “You just did.” His tone was as harsh as it had been the first time they’d met—but now she wasn’t frightened. At least, not that much.

  “I mean a real question.”

  He turned his head and stared into her eyes, a piercing stare that made her swallow. “Go ahead, pet. Ask me anything. If you dare.”

  —THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL

  Chapter 10

  Nicholas urged the horse forward, and Isabella grasped the side of the carriage to keep her perfect balance on the seat. She didn’t think he would notice that her hands were not correctly placed in her lap. Now that she was no longer holding on to his hands for dear life, that is.

  But all that brought up a more difficult thought—what did he think of her? She hadn’t spoken except for a few words for the entire day. She felt as though she’d barely breathed.