One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  If it doesn’t feel right, you can stop.

  Jamie and Lady Margaret were very similar. Perhaps too similar—he didn’t think he’d be in too much of a hurry to introduce them to each other.

  And he didn’t want to think too much about why their meeting would irk him so much.

  “Thank you, I think,” Lasham replied, his tone dry as dust. Jamie enjoyed trying to rile Lasham up, even though he never succumbed to Jamie’s frequent prodding, whether it was about his appearance, his stodgy habits, or his discomfort with appearing in public.

  But Jamie was one of the few—perhaps the only person Lasham trusted absolutely. So he put up with his ridicule because he did wonder if he was, perhaps, a little dull. Even though Jamie seemed to find him amusing enough.

  “God, I’m thirsty.” Jamie grabbed hold of Lasham’s arm and tugged him across the street. “There’s a pub there, let’s just go down a pint.”

  “Wha—? I can’t go in there, I’m—” And then he stopped speaking, because what he had been about to say was likely the most pompous thing he’d uttered that day, and that included when he’d said, “I appreciate art.”

  “You’re a duke, I know,” Jamie replied, and Lasham didn’t have to see his friend’s face to know he’d rolled his eyes. “Can’t you forget that for just a few minutes? We all know how damn responsible you are, Lash, you don’t need to prove it to all of us all the time.”

  Lasham shook his head, wondering who the “all” were that Jamie was referring to, but also knowing that his friend was right. That she was right, also.

  He only did the right things. Until this very day, he hadn’t even considered doing anything but the right things. But what would happen if he did do some of the wrong things? Would the world end? Would his dukedom be taken away from him?

  “Fine, just a few minutes. And try not to pick a fight with anyone.” That was how he and Jamie had met; Jamie’s sharp tongue had made some of the older boys at school furious, and they’d tried to take it out of Jamie’s hide. Lasham, never one to abide injustice, saw the inequity of three boys beating on one, and had joined in on Jamie’s side.

  And since Lash had always been tall and broad, the two of them had beaten the three boys, and had forged a friendship that had lasted for nearly twenty years in the process.

  He felt a rueful smile curl his lips as he thought about that first time. If it weren’t for his sense of responsibility, the one Jamie was currently decrying, they wouldn’t be such good friends. Wouldn’t be friends at all.

  “Over here,” Jamie said, leading the way to a table set to the side of the bar. The barmaid’s face registered surprise—perhaps at the toffs who’d come into what otherwise seemed to be a rather dingy establishment—and she walked over to them quickly, giving Jamie more of a once-over than Lasham got.

  “Ale?” she asked, since apparently that was all that was on offer. Although judging by how Jamie was regarding her, and how she was looking at him, that might change.

  “Yes, thanks love,” Jamie said, giving her a wink before she walked away.

  “It’s good to see you,” Lasham said, aware of just how true that was.

  Lasham had never had the knack for making friends—or enemies, for that matter—and Jamie traveled frequently and Lasham’s duties kept him from socializing much, never mind that he usually loathed it.

  What would you do if you could do anything you wanted?

  Why did her words keep echoing in his brain? He shook his head at his own idiocy. Why wouldn’t they? When was the last time he’d done anything he truly wished to?

  And why had the thought just occurred to him?

  “Here, have a drink, for God’s sake, you look as though someone died,” Jamie said, pushing the pint of beer toward him. Lasham blinked, not having realized the barmaid had returned so quickly.

  He hoisted the pint and tilted it to Jamie. “Glad to see you, my friend. How long are you in town for?”

  Jamie took a long draught and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A few weeks. I was going to stay with my mother, but now that I’ve run into you . . .” His words trailed off and he gave Lasham a significant look.

  Lasham was shaking his head even before he realized it. “Absolutely not. The last time you stayed with me you damaged three chairs, made the cook and the downstairs maid come to blows, and I still haven’t figured out how you managed to completely disarrange my files in less than five minutes, but it took my secretary the better part of a week to return them to their rightful order.”

  Jamie shrugged, drank the rest of his glass in one long swallow, and gestured to the barmaid for another. “It was worth a try. One of these days, Lash, you’re going to find yourself doing something that won’t be what you’re supposed to do.”

  Apparently this was the day when anyone he spoke to—all two of them, at least, ignoring the Monthly Daubists—would comment on what a boring existence he led, and urge him to do something wild. He should remind Jamie that if it weren’t for Lash being responsible, being the kind of duke his title deserved, it would result in a bigger problem than just a few files being misfiled.

  But if he challenged Jamie, he knew his friend would actually see it as a challenge.

  “Someone might have said something similar to me earlier today.” Lasham drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. “The odd thing is it has never occurred to me to do something I shouldn’t be doing.”

  Jamie nodded in understanding. “Your father definitely wouldn’t have countenanced any kind of freethinking in his son, the duke’s heir, would he?”

  Lasham recalled his father, just how stern the man had always been, and how a young Lasham had wished his father had been able to play once in a while.

  Damn it, had he become his father?

  He took another sip of the ale and realized he could do something just a bit different. That he had engaged to do so, in fact, earlier that day.

  He would meet Lady Margaret at the gallery. He would attempt to respond to her flirting as though he had not just learned how to speak the English language, and he would perhaps even go so far as to engage her for a dance at the next social event they would both be attending.

  That those events counted as “different” in his world was a fairly strong indicator of just how boring he—or maybe just his life—was.

  “What do you know of the Duke of Lasham?” Margaret took a sip of tea as she regarded her sister, beautiful as always. As was her daughter, sleeping in a crib to the side of the sofa.

  Margaret used to envy her sister her marvelous beauty, until she realized that her parents viewed Isabella as a commodity because of it, and had bartered her to a duke, nearly sight unseen. Thankfully it had worked out; Isabella was as happy as Margaret had ever seen her, but it wouldn’t have mattered to their parents if it hadn’t. Just as it hadn’t mattered to them that Margaret had no desire to marry the Collingwood, which was why they no longer recognized her as their daughter.

  A fact that hurt, even though it was not as though she particularly loved her parents. But Isabella had stood up to them when they told her she likewise had to cut her sister out of her life, and for that, Margaret was grateful. She’d also made sure Margaret was able to live on her own, adding the force of her title whenever it was necessary. Margaret hated to rely on that, but she did acknowledge it came in handy when dealing with landlords and merchants and such.

  “The Duke of Lasham is the one with the—” and Isabella gestured up to her eye.

  “Yes, the duke with the eye patch. How did he lose his eye, anyway?” And why was she so curious about him? She wouldn’t answer that to herself right now, except to recall broad shoulders, dark hair, and a self-deprecating air that belied his appearance and title.

  Isabella shook her head. “Nobody knows. He won’t say, and of course no one is rude enough to ask.”

  Until I do, Margaret thought. Because she knew she couldn’t bear not knowing something; it was one of the most
delightful and most aggravating things about her, she well knew.

  “Did you meet him?” Isabella said, then rolled her eyes at herself. “Of course you did, otherwise you wouldn’t know about the eye patch. What did you think of him? We don’t know him very well; he doesn’t attend many Society functions.”

  “I found him”—handsome, disappointing, curious, intriguing, more handsome, and somewhat charming—“interesting. I met him last night, and then saw him at the National Gallery this morning. We’ve arranged to meet there again.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened. “Is he courting you?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No, of course not. I am so far below what he would require of a wife, and I would hate being on display as his duchess—no offense to you, Isabella, but if I had to do what you do, and if people were constantly assessing me, I think I would explode.”

  Isabella laughed. “No offense taken. It can be unpleasant at times, but the benefits outweigh the difficulty,” she said with a knowing smile and a quick glance at her baby that made Margaret’s heart ache.

  Would she ever find someone to love, and who loved her, as Nicholas did Isabella? Thus far, the only men who’d seemed remotely interested in her had assumed she was mistress, not wife, material, and the men in question hadn’t tempted her into either position.

  “And since you won’t ever tell me about the benefits,” Margaret said, stressing the last word, “I won’t even consider becoming a duchess.” She waved her hand in the air. “Because of course all the available dukes are pining to marry me.”

  “Just you wait,” Isabella said in a chiding tone. “You’ll be going along and boom, all of a sudden, you’ll fall in love.” She nodded. “And when you fall, Margaret, you are going to fall hard.”

  “Falling hard sounds as though I’ll end up hurt, or at least bruised.”

  Isabella smiled that knowing smile again. The one that made Margaret practically itch with curiosity. “It will be wonderful.”

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  Georgiana walked for at least fifteen minutes, calling out every few minutes to the thing, the entity, that was in pain, holding her breath until she heard the return call. At least it wasn’t dead yet.

  The call sounded closer and closer, and finally, as she pushed through a thick cluster of trees, she spotted something in the distance that wasn’t the same verdant green as her surroundings.

  It was orange and yellow and red, all varieties of each color swirling into one another like they were all in a mixing bowl and someone was stirring them vigorously.

  She swallowed as she approached it—it wasn’t like anything she had ever seen before, and yet it was noticeably breathing, and obviously it had cried out, and so it was alive.

  She slowed her steps as she walked up to stand not five feet from it, hearing how loud her breathing was in the quiet of the forest.

  “Hello?” she said in a low voice. “I came to help you.”

  The thing lifted its head and looked at her, giant eyes with bloodred pupils just staring. It opened its mouth and wisps of smoke emerged, along with another one of those plaintive cries.

  It was a dragon, Georgiana realized without nearly as much shock as she should have had. What’s more, it was an injured dragon. She could see one of its wings bent back at an odd angle.

  She stepped forward and placed her palm on its back. “It is all right. I am here to help.”

  Chapter 4

  Margaret strode up the stairs to the National Gallery at just past ten o’clock, hoping and also not hoping to find the duke there. It wasn’t as though there could be anything—not even friendship—between them. She was a notorious author of dramatic serials, who’d caused a scandal by refusing to marry someone and revealing herself as the notorious author in question at the same time. He—he was a duke. A proper duke, one who did what he was supposed to, and never did anything wrong.

  He was invited to things because of his title, not because there was even the slightest chance he would do something shocking.

  She wondered what it would take to tempt him into doing something wrong, and then cursed herself for even thinking of it. Because she’d found, to her own chagrin, that her thinking about something was mere steps away from actually doing it.

  It was unfortunate the same didn’t apply when it came to, for example, making her writing deadlines or being able to sleep.

  She walked briskly through the corridors to where she had first seen the duke the day before. She saw him before he could see her—she was approaching him on his eye patch side—and she slowed her steps¸ taking in his magnificence. He was so tall and broad and yet he wasn’t remotely fat; he looked as much like a Greek statue as he could, given that he wasn’t made of marble and naked.

  She really had to stop thinking about him naked.

  Because if she thought about it—well, that would be a bad thing for certain if she ended up doing something about it. Especially given how stuffy he seemed. He’d likely faint from the shock of it, and then she’d have to catch him before he fell, and how could she possibly keep that from happening, when he was so tall and broad and—drat. There she was doing it again.

  At this rate, perhaps she should just save time and ask him to undress right now.

  “Good morning, my lady.” He must have seen her ogling him. Or maybe felt it, she had no idea, having never ogled anyone as thoroughly as she just had him.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” She nodded to the painting. “You know, I was recalling my memory of the story of George and the dragon there.” She shook her head and walked to stand beside him. “I find it horrible that the lady was able to tame the dragon by tossing some item of her clothing around his neck”—Don’t think about that again, for goodness’ sake, Margaret!—“and then when he was all docile, George went and killed him. That seems rather unsporting, wouldn’t you say?”

  Her words must have caught him by surprise, since he seemed to stifle a snort. “To be fair, the dragon was, after all, a dragon. And perhaps the lady’s item of clothing had only a limited time during which it would be effective.”

  Margaret considered that. “Hm, well, it would have made for a better story if there was a certain time period for the effectiveness of the clothing. If I were to write it, I would definitely include that.”

  They both gazed at the painting again, Margaret irrationally pleased that he’d responded with an answer that showed he had actually thought about her point.

  “You’re an author yourself, aren’t you?” His voice sounded strangled again, as though he weren’t accustomed to making conversation.

  “Yes, I am A Lady of Mystery,” Margaret replied.

  “Not so mysterious if you are telling me,” he said in an almost teasing tone.

  His mood—and therefore his tone of voice—seemed to vary with his breaths, first proper and somber, then light and humorous. Quite unexpected, and not nearly as dull as she’d first thought. As he’d first presented himself.

  She nudged him with her shoulder, snickering as she did so. “And here you told me you did everything properly, Your Grace. But you have just made a sly joke, and I don’t think sly jokes are entirely proper.”

  He made a startled sound, probably because she’d made him move to the side, and then turned his head to regard her.

  His gaze was so intense she wanted to leap back, only of course she didn’t, because part of her wanted to leap forward and find out what he’d do if she kissed him, right here in the National Gallery.

  That is, she wanted to kiss him on the mouth in the National Gallery. Because “National Gallery” was not a common euphemism for anything, at least that she knew of. And if it was, then she was certainly in a lot more scandalous trouble than even she had been aware of.

  “You make me do and say things I would never dream of otherwise,” he said in a low voice that made her shiver. Did he know what he seemed to be saying?

  Did she?r />
  He blinked and shook his head as though to clear it. “A friend of mine just said I always do what is right, and proper, but if people don’t do what is right and proper, then the right and proper things don’t get done.” He sounded as though he were working it out for himself as well as presenting it to her. “And the opposite of right and proper is wrong and improper, and that won’t serve anybody.”

  She took a deep breath. “Not everything is black and white, Your Grace. There are shades of gray. There are ways to have fun without being improper.” Even though her thoughts were definitely improper at the moment, but they were only thoughts, not actions.

  She had to keep them that way.

  He kept his gaze locked on her, the depth in his look making it seem as though he could see to her very soul. She felt a shiver of something course through her, a rippling thrill that started in her chest and traveled—well, to places she didn’t think she should be contemplating out in public.

  He lifted his hand, as though he were going to touch her. She caught her breath.

  And then dropped his hand, quite firmly, his face setting into hard lines. “I cannot entertain the possibility of impropriety,” he said, his voice as cold, properly cold, as she’d yet heard it. He bowed, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room, the heels of his boots striking the floor the only sound in the room.

  It felt as though he’d slapped her.

  She stared after where he’d gone, her heart racing, feeling a variety of emotions course through her—embarrassment, shame, anger, pride, and of course that desire she’d felt for him still bubbling underneath it all. The desire that had caused all this in the first place.

  If she hadn’t found his looks so intriguing, she wouldn’t have wanted to know more about him. If his appearance matched his personality, she wouldn’t currently be standing on her own, mid-morning, looking at art she had seen just the day before.

  She wouldn’t still be wondering what else was there to discover inside the duke who’d just behaved so, yes, improperly toward her.