One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  He heard the door open just as he was beginning to gather his resolve to return to the ballroom, to do his duty to the debutantes currently on display, to dance for the next few hours until he could return home and collapse into bed, only to get up and be the responsible duke all over again the next day.

  A woman stepped into the room, darting a glance behind her as she shut the door. It was she, of course. The sparkling woman from the card table. That was why she’d been looking at him. He felt the sour taste of it in his throat, the certain feeling that she’d marked him as someone she could manipulate.

  “You should go,” he found himself saying, even though it was entirely rude and entirely unlike him.

  She started, as though she hadn’t noticed him, and Lasham felt a twinge of uncertainty.

  “I should go?” Her voice held a note of amusement. “I’ve just arrived; it seems to me that you should be the one to go, since you’ve been in residence longer. Do allow someone else to have a turn, my lord.”

  My lord. So she didn’t know who he was. Did that please him or annoy him?

  “No,” he said, and the word, the word he wished he could say to all those people who wanted things from him, wanted him to appear at their events just because he was a duke, slid from his lips as easily as if he’d been saying it his entire life.

  “No?” She repeated him, imbuing the word with humor, again, as though that was what she always did. She walked farther into the room, her skirts rustling with a soft sh-sh-sh. “Then we are here together. Perhaps we should be introduced, although there is no one here to accommodate us.” She stepped closer, stopping to rest her hand on the back of one of the sofas. “I am Lady Margaret Sawford.” A pause. She tilted her head at him. “And this is where you should offer who you are.”

  “Oh, yes.” Had he ever encountered such an odd woman? But not odd in an unpleasant way. In fact, the way she was looking at him, so directly, so appraisingly, was entirely refreshing. Of course once she knew who he was, that would all change. Yes, Your Grace, I will leave immediately. Or, worse yet, maybe not—No, Your Grace, what will people say if they knew we were alone together? You have compromised me, and now you must do the right thing.

  “I am the Duke of Lasham. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Margaret.”

  She nodded her head, and he saw her smile. “Excellent, Your Grace. Now we are improperly introduced.” She gestured to the sofa. “Would you mind if I sat? I promise not to speak, I just want to sit in here a moment.”

  Lasham couldn’t speak himself, he was so taken aback. She—she wasn’t here to entrap him, or engage his interest, or anything beyond, apparently, wishing for a moment alone.

  He watched as she looked at him for a few more seconds, shrugged, then sat down and leaned her head back, closing her eyes.

  “You can sit as well, if you want.” She spoke with her eyes still closed. “If you’re not going to leave, which you said you weren’t.”

  “But—” And here Lasham finally found his words. “But if we are discovered, that will put you in a very awkward situation. That is, we being together, it isn’t—well, it isn’t proper,” and didn’t he sound like the most stuffy prig in the world, lecturing her on propriety when he’d himself told her no.

  She chuckled. “And then what? You will no doubt make all sorts of proper offers, and then I will very improperly say no, and my reputation will be blackened a bit more.” She opened her eyes and turned her head to regard him. “It is not the end of the world.”

  He gaped at her. Not the end of the world? Who was she? Where was the usual response of Oh, Your Grace, of course, yes, I will leave, or yes, I will marry you, or yes, it will be just as you wish.

  And this woman, this person who’d dared to stare so boldly at him, who’d refused his request, even knowing it came from a duke, had just informed him it would not be the end of the world if they were discovered. That she would not insist on marrying him, or otherwise forcing his hand in any way.

  And, contradictorily, that just made him want to know her more.

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “Hello?” Georgiana called as she made her way to the woods. The bucket swung against her legs, a few drops of water splashing her gown. She should just dump the water and carry the empty bucket, but what if something actually was on fire? Then she would feel foolish for having done so.

  Another roar sounded. Was it an animal? A wounded hunter? Whatever it was, it sounded as though it needed help.

  Georgiana quickened her pace and more water sloshed out, some of it spilling on her soft shoes, making her curse. Not too loudly, of course; her father and sister would both be horrified if it got about that the eldest Smith sister did anything so indelicate as curse.

  She ducked her head into the trees, the bare branches brushing her hair. It was a good thing she was as short as she was, even though she normally hated it. At least she wouldn’t get poked in the eye with a branch. The worst that would happen was that her hair would get more mussed, and it was already very mussed, thanks to the wind.

  “Hello?” she called again, only more softly. Now that she was in the woods chasing down a mysterious roar, her decision didn’t seem as intelligent. What could be in here? Who was in here? What was whatever or whoever it was doing in here?

  She didn’t think any of the answers would be good ones.

  Chapter 2

  Damn. He wasn’t nearly as dangerous as he appeared to be, Margaret thought. Instead, he was lecturing her on propriety, and standing over there by the window as though she might launch herself at him and he needed a quick escape. Not that she wouldn’t mind launching herself at him—closer scrutiny proved that he was, indeed, quite as remarkably good-looking as she’d first assessed, but he would have to keep his staid opinions to himself for him to be quite launch-worthy.

  “Why are you here, anyway?” Now he sounded piqued, as though he’d assumed she’d followed him here, of all things.

  “Escape, mostly,” Margaret replied quickly. She heard him move, and then he sat down next to her on the sofa. The sofa was quite large, so they were still a good distance away from each other—definitely too far for launching, for example—but that wouldn’t matter if anyone caught them. Now she almost wished for someone to catch them, just to see how pokered up he’d get.

  “Why did you feel a need for escape?” His voice was low, and had a richness to it that made her body prickle in reaction. Every part of him but the best part—his brain—seemed designed to entrance her. Pity about the brain, then. She opened her eyes again and glanced over at him. Yes. Still quite handsome. If only he wouldn’t speak.

  “People.” He made a gesture as though she should continue. So she did. “People who chatter about you, and ask questions, or don’t ask questions, or expect you to do something just because it’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  His voice rumbled with a low hint of humor. “I wouldn’t know anything about being talked about and people who expect you to do something just because you’re supposed to.”

  She couldn’t help herself, she started to laugh. Because of all the ludicrous things she’d ever said, or even thought, that one had to be the most ludicrous. Of course he knew just what she was talking about; he was a duke who looked like that and also had an eye patch. People must always be leaping out of his way like they were wee tugboats and he was a mighty yacht, and then they all likely gaped at him whenever he was in the room.

  She had just basically told a lion it was a hardship for her to have to walk to the buffet table when the lion had to chase down its prey and kill it.

  “I am glad I amuse you,” he said in a stiff voice. Oh goodness, he really was entirely proper. So disappointing.

  But she couldn’t say that to him, not without making it sound as though she wished him to be improper, with her, and she did not, despite his good looks and that raffish eye patch. “No, I apologize, it is just that I was thinking
about how I was complaining about people being around and commenting on everything I do, but to you, a duke with, no doubt, all sorts of people trying to get your attention or who stare at you, or talk about you when you’re not there, my complaints must seem frivolous.”

  He chuckled in reply. “Yes, I can see that. I shouldn’t have taken offense.”

  Margaret shook her head. “But if you did take offense, then you should have. That is, if that is how you feel, you should be free to express it. Just as if you really wish me to leave the room, you can tell me that, and I will hear you out and make my own decision. That is what humanity is all about, is it not? The ability to decide for oneself?”

  She felt him exhale beside her, a sound that seemed as though it came from his very soul. “You have obviously never been a duke, my lady,” he said at last, sounding weary.

  She couldn’t help but laugh in response. “No, that is fair to say. I have not.” Perhaps that was the trouble. Perhaps he’d never been able to get beyond his title, beyond who he was supposed to be. She’d seen her sister have the same problem—well, not the being-the-duke problem, although her sister was now a duchess—but the same problem of feeling as though she could only do what was expected of her. What would he do if he could do what was unexpected? And what was preventing her from asking?

  “What would you do first if you weren’t a duke?”

  A very long pause this time, accompanied by a few huffs, as though he were thinking and not being pleased by his thoughts.

  “I would—well, I have no idea, honestly.”

  “Perhaps you should discover it. And then do it.”

  He snorted. “That is easy to say, my lady, especially for someone who isn’t a duke. But being me is being so much more than me, if that makes sense. It is being someone who is in charge of hundreds of lives, and livelihoods, and future generations as well. I cannot just give it all up because I am tired of having people expect me to make their decisions for them.”

  “Why not make a few decisions for yourself?” Margaret said in what she thought was a reasonable tone.

  He snorted again, only this time more derisively. Apparently not such a reasonable tone after all. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “If you want to be stuck in your existence, always doing things that are expected of you, then go ahead, and do what you think you should be doing.” She turned and looked at him, a challenge in her stare. “Or if you want to do something that pleases you, just you, and you make that decision, on your own, you can see how it feels.” She shrugged. “If it doesn’t feel right, you can stop. But you should at least have tried.”

  He rose quickly, smoothing his already perfectly smooth jacket on his body. “Thank you, Lady Margaret. It has been a pleasure to meet you.” Even though it didn’t sound as though it were a pleasure, and the way he moved swiftly out of the room reinforced that intimation.

  Margaret shrugged again, relaxing against the sofa cushions. A few moments alone without a very proper duke would be quite welcome, she assured herself. Very welcome indeed.

  If it doesn’t feel right, you can stop. Long after Lasham had left the darkened room, long after he’d danced all the dances with the white-gowned debutantes, long after his carriage had trundled through the dark London streets to his town house in Mayfair, long after he’d gotten into his enormous bed, surrounded by pillows and draperies and all sorts of things deemed necessary for his sleeping dukeliness, long after he should have been asleep, her words haunted him. She haunted him.

  It wasn’t as easy as she’d said, was it? Was it? The possibility felt as though it were dancing in his head, just beyond reach, just beyond comprehension.

  What would he do if he could do anything he wished? He didn’t know the answer to that question, especially since it could not be answered with either a yes—the answer he heard and gave most often—or even a no, which he’d rarely ever said.

  It had been drummed into his head since the day he’d been born that he had to do what was right. Not what he wished to do. And he couldn’t even say what he would wish to do when she’d asked.

  He had told her no, though, hadn’t he? He’d told her he didn’t wish to leave the room when she’d asked. He’d shared a moment with her before he left the room, leaving his potential for recklessness there as well, returning to the world where he knew what was expected of him, and what he expected of himself.

  But for a moment, just for that moment of shared humor, of warmth, he’d felt what it could be like to do what he wanted to, even if he wasn’t certain at all what that was.

  “This one is lovely.” Margaret sighed aloud. She stood in front of the painting and just stared, feeling as though the colors in front of her had leaped off the canvas and were saturating her soul. She found herself in the National Gallery at least once a week, scandalously on her own since she didn’t see the point of forcing her maid to accompany her, the one who told her mistress tartly she’d seen all the art she wanted to see, thank you very much; she’d wait in the carriage.

  Margaret felt a small smile curl at her mouth as she recalled Annie’s words. When she’d left London after refusing the Collingwood—she wouldn’t call it jilting him, since she’d never said yes in the first place—Annie had insisted on accompanying her, even though she’d never left London before. But wherever Margaret went, so did Annie.

  Except for the National Gallery.

  She started as she heard someone clear his throat behind her. And turned to see him, the Pirate Duke who was not at all piratical, standing as though he were posing for his own statue—head high, shoulders pulled back, his hands clasped behind him. If only he were nude, the look would be perfect.

  “Pardon me, Lady Margaret.” He sounded entirely uncomfortable. Perhaps he was imagining himself nude as well? Margaret stifled a giggle and schooled her features into a look of calm repose.

  Or as calm as she could get, given that she was imagining him as a statue in the altogether.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” She dipped a curtsey and then turned her gaze to his face. Not speaking; he had addressed her, after all, he could have just left her alone as it seemed he’d wished to last night.

  But the silence just . . . lay there, and she nearly opened her mouth to say something, anything, just something, so he wouldn’t just be looking at her, or not, since his gaze kept shifting away from her face to other spots in the room, then returned back to her.

  Finally, after what felt like an hour, he opened his mouth.

  “Do you like paintings, my lady?”

  His voice sounded as though he hadn’t ever spoken before, each word shiny and new when it emerged from his lips.

  “I do, Your Grace.” She gestured to the painting behind her. “I love the colors in this one. And how, for once, the lady is the focal point of the picture.” She paused, then spoke again. “Even if the lady in question is running away.”

  “It would be foolish to stand your ground against a dragon, wouldn’t you say?” the duke replied, gesturing to the painting. “George there seems to have it well in hand.”

  Margaret chuckled, at least as much at how unexpected it was to hear him converse nearly normally as at what he’d actually said. Not that she knew how he conversed; perhaps he was normal, and not all standoffish with everyone else in his acquaintance, and she was just a special case.

  Although that would imply he knew anything about her, and from their conversation the previous evening, he did not. So he must be this rigid all the time.

  “What do you suppose happened after this?” She tapped her finger on her chin. “Maybe they went down to the pub and shared a pint of ale or something to celebrate the dragon slaying.” She turned back to look at him. “And who do you suppose had to clean it all up? The dead dragon and everything?” She made a hmphing sound. “I would imagine it was the lady, since she didn’t do anything but run away. Although she was probably terrified. That hardly seems fair.”

  The duke’s express
ion turned rueful. “People’s situations seldom are.”

  Now she was curious, again, about this man whom she’d written off as being the stodgiest duke in the world. Intriguing.

  “Not that I have anything to complain about myself,” he added, the low rumble of his voice doing something interesting to her insides. “I haven’t encountered any dragons, nor any ladies in need of rescuing, thank goodness, and I don’t know that I would wish to change my situation even if I could.”

  “Why not?”

  He frowned, as though perplexed by her question. “How could I know that the person who would inevitably replace me would be as conscientious as I? Would do the right thing, all the time?”

  Ah. So that was it. “You do the right thing all the time?” Margaret repeated, stressing the “all.”

  He was apparently so absolutely proper he didn’t even hesitate, or blush when he answered. “Yes. I do, my lady.”

  “Pity,” Margaret murmured, turning her gaze back to St. George and the very unlucky fire-breathing creature who’d happened to encounter him.

  She didn’t speak again, just stood there, unmoving, looking at the painting even as her mind raced with questions and possible conversation. Eventually, after a few moments, she heard him clear his throat again, saying, “Good afternoon, my lady,” and moving away before she could reply, much less turn around.

  What was he thinking, going up to speak to her like that? What must she think of him?

  It wasn’t as though there was anything to be gained from conversation. It was just that . . . that when he’d seen her, standing in front of the Tintoretto, it had seemed as though he’d conjured her out of his own imagination, and he hadn’t actually realized he had very much of an imagination. At least not as far as ladies in art galleries went.

  So that was surprising, and then that she was here where hardly anyone in their world visited, except to see and be seen, and she was definitely not doing either one of those things. Of course he wasn’t, either; he felt as though the gallery was a refuge. A place he could go where he didn’t have to feel as though he were as much on display as the paintings were.