Now he was making his own head hurt. “Then I will see you at three o’clock, regardless of what else was in my schedule. I will have to be back home in time to dress for dinner.”
He really did sound like a dullard. Perhaps he should enlist her to write his words so he could appear to be less incredibly boring.
Though that wouldn’t alter who he was inside. He had the feeling that that, too, was going to change because of her.
And he didn’t know whether to be intrigued or terrified at the prospect.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
Georgiana dropped the bucket and sprinted back into the wood, her heart pounding furiously, her mind listing the possibilities of what had happened.
Had someone else come upon the dragon and hurt him? Did he regret what he’d said to her? Was the dragon afraid of the dark?
She didn’t know anything, of course, just that someone was in pain and needed her help. At least, she thought he might be able to use her help, even though he might not see it the same way.
She burst into the clearing where he was, startled to find another person—a young woman—standing at the dragon’s side, a bow in her hand and an arrow sticking out of the dragon’s hide. This was a new injury, much worse than a damaged wing, she had to imagine.
The dragon lifted his head and regarded her with those eerie eyes. “The princess came,” he said in the saddest tone she’d ever heard.
Chapter 8
“And His Grace, him that had told you he couldn’t be bothered with you, arrived to that house and made that drunkard stop beating on those ladies and then agreed to accompany you to more of those places?” Annie squinted at Margaret. “Tell me again how he doesn’t like you?”
And he kissed me. Not that she was going to tell Annie that—the woman was already jumping to conclusions, she wasn’t going to stoke the fire of her curiosity even more.
It was just after breakfast, and Margaret had yet to sit down at her desk to begin the day’s writing. She was apprehensive about her work, where normally she wasn’t—what if she accidentally wrote in an unexpected kiss or something?
“He is an honorable man who doesn’t wish to see me run into trouble. He would do this for anyone.”
Margaret picked up her teacup and took a sip—lukewarm, but that was her fault, since she’d spent most of breakfast gazing off into the distance when she should have been eating. And now she didn’t quite recall what she’d eaten and her tea was too cold.
“That’s why he’s been going with all those old dowagers when they visit the sick.” Annie put her finger up to her nose. “Oh, wait, he hasn’t been doing that. It’s just you he’s offered to do it for, so what do you think that means?”
You should have heard his voice when he was worried I might actually want to accept his proposal, Margaret thought.
“We are meeting at the Royal Academy later this afternoon.” Margaret stood up from the table, looking down at her plate. Apparently she’d had toast. “The elder Banner sister told me about some other women whose men were mistreating them in that same neighborhood, I want to see if I can find them and at least make sure they know they can come to me for help if needed.”
“And you don’t think that duke will scare the women half to death?”
Margaret blinked. “I hope not.” Do you know what it is like, Lady Margaret, to be gawked at and appraised every single moment you are within sight of anyone? “Although maybe, now you mention it, I will ask him to wait just outside while I am speaking with them.”
“That would make sense.” Of course it would to you, Margaret thought fondly, because you thought of it.
“And after that, I will be going to the Purseleys’ party. Lord Purseley believes himself a good cardplayer, and who am I to argue?”
“Just hope you can keep fleecing them lords or you won’t be able to afford me,” Annie said.
“I don’t fleece them, Annie,” Margaret said in a tone of mock outrage. “They do not play as skillfully as I; is it my fault that I am so very good?”
“Just be careful, is all,” Annie chided.
Of course she would be. She had to be. Winning at cards and writing a newspaper serial were all that stood between her and having to throw herself on her sister’s charity—never mind being able to spare funds to help women in less fortunate situations.
“Oh, my lady, thank you!” The elder of the Banner sisters greeted her at the parlor door. Margaret had found the lodgings for the impecunious women when she’d first gotten involved with sending potential employees to the Quality Employment Agency—the Agency could find positions for them, but not immediately, and there was an immediate need for housing, especially in cases like that of the Banner sisters.
The house was only a few doors down from the Agency, which made it convenient for everyone. That Lady Margaret was the ostensible renter for the house made it even more convenient; while her sister was a duchess, it was true that it was harder for Isabella to do things more average ladies could. If it got out that a duchess was renting a house that was not her husband’s—well, there would be talk. Isabella’s husband had offered to take care of it, but Margaret refused, as usual, to have a man do what she could do perfectly well.
Which did raise the question of why she wanted the duke’s help, but then again, she wasn’t over six feet tall with an eye patch. If he had been a woman and looked the same—well, he would have been hideous, but that wasn’t the point. It would have been the same result. Although she probably wouldn’t have been quite as intrigued to spend time with the intimidator.
Thus justified, at least to herself, she entered the parlor, where she saw both sisters with their lacework in their laps.
The need to make a living never stopped, did it? That was why Margaret helped—some of the first ladies she’d assisted had lost valuable hours of working time because of sick children, or violent husbands, or poor living conditions.
She’d sworn to help them whenever she could, because she was grateful her sister had done so much for her. Not all of these ladies—she could confidently say none of them, in fact—had a duchess for a sister.
That her parents had so quickly given her up made it even more real to Margaret—if she didn’t have Isabella, and something happened, she would be lost. And she didn’t want that either for herself or for anybody she could help.
That was why, when she’d heard about the Quality Employment Agency and how it helped women find work, she’d leaped into helping as best she could. At first it had just been sending old clothing and the occasional pound to assist, but it had grown to being more actively involved, even when she wasn’t living in London.
It made her feel as though she had a purpose, which she sorely needed, given that she doubted she would ever have a husband and children.
“You are all right? You slept well?” Margaret looked from one sister to the other, noting that while both were pale, neither of them had a large, drunken man assaulting her, so she knew they were at least better.
The younger sister, the one who was married to the drunkard, put her lacework aside and stepped forward, her large brown eyes filled with tears.
“We are, and we did, my lady.” She clasped both of Margaret’s hands in hers and raised them up to kiss them. “We cannot thank you enough for helping, you and the gentleman.”
She could admit now that the sisters’ rescue had been eased by the duke’s presence. Without him, even her stabbing the husband in the arm with her embroidery needle wouldn’t have helped.
“You are most welcome. Are you in need of anything?” Margaret said, loosening the grip the woman had on her hands and starting to reach for her pocketbook.
“No, we couldn’t,” the elder sister said, moving to stand beside her sister. “You have done enough, and the lady from the Agency, the one you told us to go to this morning, she said there was likely to be work for us in a few days.”
“Excellent,” Mar
garet said, relief evident in her tone. Carolyn, one of the Agency’s proprietors, was always completely and entirely honest in her dealings with prospective employees, so if she said there was work, then there must be work.
“Once we’re back on our feet, we’re going to work on a point lace piece for one of your fanciest dresses,” the older sister said. “It isn’t enough payment for helping us out—maybe saving our lives—but at least we can do something.”
Margaret smiled back at them, biting her lip as she tried not to cry. At least we can do something.
That was all she could do, too, wasn’t it? Do something. Do anything. Be someone who would help, not hinder. Be the person who would stand up for people who couldn’t do so for themselves.
That was what privilege was. Not to mention the benefit of not caring so much about your reputation, since it was already in tatters.
The sisters’ gratitude was still warming her a few hours later when she arrived at the Royal Academy. He wasn’t there yet, but she didn’t even bother to ponder if he wasn’t going to arrive at all—he’d said he would, so he would. She knew him hardly at all, but she knew that much about him.
Meanwhile, she’d spent at least fifteen minutes in this one room, shifting on her feet as she gazed at yet another landscape painting.
Would it be too much to ask for just one person off in the distance or something? There were only so many clouds a person could endure.
She’d gotten through the day’s writing, thankfully without writing anything about a one-eyed man who’d kissed his heroine. Mostly because she was writing about a dragon with both his eyes, and kissing didn’t usually enter into that type of story.
“Lady Margaret.” His low voice startled her so much she jumped, and she felt a wash of heat come over her face. She should not be so easily embarrassed, she seldom was, but her thoughts could not stop returning to the previous night when he’d been so—unexpected. Not to mention the way his mouth had felt on hers, how his grip on his arms had been thrillingly, entirely strong, as though she could lean into him and he would support her.
She didn’t need support, she’d proven that in the past few years, but there was something entirely seductive about being able to let go, to allow someone else to be the strong one.
And here she was not replying to him while he stood there, the expression on his handsome face flickering from concerned to puzzled.
She knew how he felt. Or didn’t feel, given how puzzled he looked.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said, dipping a brief curtsey. She tilted her head in the direction of the paintings. “I much prefer paintings with people in them, don’t you?”
He narrowed his gaze in thought. “I don’t know I agree, my lady.” He put his hands behind his back and moved forward, closer to the painting. “I think there is something very peaceful about a landscape. Imagine what it must be like to be the one person who can see all of that. To be alone with one’s thoughts among such beauty.”
“Hm,” Margaret replied, hoping she wouldn’t say anything to bring back that stiff-toned duke, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Of course, I am no stranger to being alone—until a few months ago, I was living in the country, quite isolated.”
“Why did you come back?” It wasn’t the question most people asked—usually they wondered why she’d gone away at all, and how she could have borne being away from London for so long.
But she was coming to realize that far from being a usual sort of person, he was quite unusual.
She moved to another painting, this one where it appeared to be raining. That would explain why there were no people in it—they were likely all indoors not getting wet. He stood next to her, his hands still clasped behind his back, his feet set wide apart as though he were on parade. On display.
Did he know he did that, or was it just unconscious? Had he been viewed so many times he just presented himself?
“I don’t know if you know why I left, but there was some scandal, and I thought it’d be best for me to leave London for a bit.”
He didn’t say anything. Just waited. Not as though he didn’t want to know more, however; he kept his gaze on her face, his expression showing his interest, but not as though he were impatient to hear her words.
“You see,” she said, “my parents and I had a disagreement about who I should be marrying.” She shrugged. “Annie and I lived in a small town by the sea. I was able to keep up my work, and it was more inexpensive to live there.”
He nodded.
“But I still haven’t answered, have I?” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I came back for a few reasons.” Not all of which she’d examined, not even to herself. “My sister is here, she is the Duchess of Gage.” Margaret felt that tight fierceness in her chest, the one that surfaced anytime she thought of Isabella. Even though Isabella didn’t need her protection anymore, she had a perfectly capable duke to take care of her. “And my publisher is here, and he said that with the serials gaining in popularity, perhaps it would behoove me to be in town regularly.” She took a deep breath. “And my parents are not here, so that worked out well.” But it wasn’t just about her, was it? “And then there is the work of helping people. Women, in particular.” She turned and looked at him. “And that is where you matter. I am so glad to have the help of someone so ferocious. Positively dragonlike.” She smiled as she spoke, letting him know she was teasing.
For a moment, it appeared that perhaps he did not know; his expression darkened, and she saw his jaw clench. Damn it, Margaret! Have you just brought about the return of the Proper Duke?
And then he closed his eye for longer than a blink, turning that intense gaze onto her. “I am delighted to be of assistance, Lady Margaret, even if it is just for my appearance.” He spoke in that wry tone again, only this time she could tell he wasn’t chiding her or anything.
She wasn’t sure how, precisely, she could tell—maybe it was because there was a slight hint that his lips might smile at some point? Or that he wasn’t seeming to pin her to the wall with his gaze?
“Yes, thank goodness you have that, because otherwise, what would you be?” She held her hand out and spread her fingers. “One, you would be a member of the aristocracy, the highest member, in fact. Two,” she said, moving on to the next finger, “you would have wealth, power, and position.” She frowned at the second finger. “Although that is inherent with being a duke, isn’t it?” She glanced up at him. “I’m being redundant, aren’t I?”
The duke’s lips curved into a—wait, was that a smile?—and he spoke. “Far be it from me to correct the writer here on her language, but yes, being a duke does imply wealth, power, and position.” His mouth twisted, and it was clear there was some past memory that disturbed him.
She hoped today was not the day she blurted out the question of what happened to his eye, although why else would he look so perturbed?
It couldn’t be the fact of who he was, could it? In which case people who were not dukes were likely miserable all the time, and she could safely say she was not miserable all the time. Only when Annie got to the last biscuit before she did, and if she had to dance with Lord Tremayne, who was pleasant enough but smelled like a large mound of earth.
Thankfully he spoke before she could say anything. About biscuits, earth, or the distress of being a duke.
“Being a duke does have its . . . benefits,” although it didn’t sound, the way he said the word, as though he believed them to have had a beneficial effect on his life. “But there is also much responsibility.” An exhale. “Something my father drilled into my head since I was small.” Ah, perhaps that was the memory. His tone got strong again. “It isn’t fair to people who aren’t dukes to be forced to do something detrimental simply because a duke is careless, or negligent—” He shot an amused look at Margaret. “And now who’s being redundant?—and I take my responsibilities seriously. I would never do anything to jeopardize my position, because that would jeopardize the posi
tion of all the people, not just of this generation, but of future generations.” He shook his head. “I could not live with myself.” He cleared his throat and reached into his pocket, drawing out a piece of paper. “Speaking of jeopardy, I have a few things I deem essential to discuss before we venture on this . . . pursuit,” he said, quirking his mouth. He unfolded the paper, the noise of it echoing in the empty gallery.
“I have drawn up some requirements to my participating.”
Margaret felt her eyes narrow. “You mean rules, don’t you?” And I have never been good at following the rules, have I?
He looked uncomfortable. “I suppose, if you wish to call them rules. I believe they are essential to our safety, both in maintaining our actual safety, in terms of visiting the places you wish to go, and our reputation’s safety, since we are both clear that we do not wish to be,” and here he closed his eye and took a deep breath, “encumbered with one another.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I refused you then, isn’t it?” Damn it. She couldn’t stop herself from saying it, could she? Hopefully one of his rules wouldn’t be that she would keep quiet at all times. Because she simply could not do that.
“Yes, well,” he said, shifting as though not sure what to say. And how would he? She doubted very much that he had ever had to be polite about the fact that someone didn’t want to marry him. Eye patch or not, he was a duke.
“Onto the requirements,” he continued. “One: You will not go to any unsavory place without my company.”
“I was doing just fine,” she muttered.
He met her gaze. “Yes, I could see that the other evening,” he replied in that cool tone.
She felt herself flinch. He was right, only she hated to admit it. Even to herself.
“Two: You will secure my participation at least a day prior.” He looked up at her again. “I do have appointments I cannot break, regardless of how appealing the prospect of spending time with you might be.”
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 8
