Was he joking with her? Or did he really find her appealing?
And why did she care, anyway? She didn’t. Not at all.
Only she did, she was very afraid she did.
“Three,” he began.
“How many rules are there?” she blurted out.
He glanced down at the paper. “Five. Is that a problem, Lady Margaret? And they are requirements, not rules.”
She snatched the paper from his hands and stuffed it into the pocket of her cloak, crumpling it up in her fist. “I will review your rules at a later time, Your Grace.”
“I can see that rules, as you call them, are even more essential than I’d imagined,” he said, smiling as though he found something amusing in what he’d said.
Goodness knows Margaret did not.
“Yes, well, fine,” she said grumpily, if not very coherently. And then felt rueful, since he was just trying to keep things under control, as it seemed he required. “I apologize for my attitude, I have not always been very good at following rules.” She laughed. “Not good at all, in fact.” Another reason to be grateful she wasn’t ever going to have to be a duchess.
“You did mention something along those lines,” he said in that desert-dry voice, but that now she understood held some humor within. Albeit buried very far below. “What happened? Is it part of why you are so . . . so . . .”
“Adamant about not marrying you? Yes.” She took a deep breath and stared firmly at the landscape. “I told you there is scandal to my name, and there is, and your duchess could never be seen to be scandalous. And then there’s the fact that being under constant scrutiny like that”—she shivered—“would make me want to go and do all the scandalous things, just to thumb my nose at everyone. That would definitely jeopardize your position.”
“All the more important to have rules, then.”
Aggravating—and correct—man. And here she was the one who was supposed to be the writer who could envision any type of scenario. She glanced around the room, noting that it appeared only aspiring artists (indicated by their mournful poses and general youth) were there, and breathed a sigh of relief.
But meanwhile, she wouldn’t feel right if she didn’t at least offer to release him. “I—I would not wish to do anything to damage your reputation,” and she couldn’t believe she was saying this to a man, a gentleman, who could likely destroy anybody with a long-enough session in the House of Lords, “so if you do not wish to accompany me—”
“Did I say that?” he cut in, in as sharp a tone as she’d ever heard him use. “I spoke of my responsibility to people, my people in this case who depend on me, but I feel responsible to more than just them. If you are doing something that can help people, and you might come to danger without me—and,” he said, holding his hand up to her, “you can say you will be fine, and I will disagree, then I have a responsibility to help there, as well.”
Well. There was that, then. “Um,” she said, wishing she had words adequate to say in response, “then thank you.” She felt in her pocket for the crumpled piece of paper. “And I will abide by your requirements, once I’ve had a chance to look them over.”
He nodded, as though that were the end of it. And, she supposed, it was. He was stiff, and proper, but he was both of those things with an honorable purpose. Somehow she couldn’t begrudge him being so correct, not when it meant he was not—incorrect, at least in terms of how he was living his life.
“Well,” she said, glancing around the room with a bright smile on her face, “I’ve had enough of seeing misty scenes with no people and lots and lots of boats and clouds. Let’s go dive into the seething populace and see who we can find today.”
He—he smirked, and Margaret wanted to laugh aloud at the sight of it, but just for the joy of seeing that on his face, not because he looked odd or anything.
Oh, it was a good thing he didn’t smile more often, or he would never find himself alone. She, for one, wanted to spend much more time with him, if only to see that look again. And again.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
Georgiana didn’t hesitate; she walked right up to the dragon and clamped her hand on the arrow that was sticking into his thick hide, her eyes already filling with tears.
“How could you do this to him?” she asked the woman—presumably the princess, who stood with her bow in her hand. The princess was remarkably pretty—beautiful, the dragon would no doubt say—with flaxen-white hair flowing down her back in tiny braids, her blue eyes wide-set in her face, so huge it looked as though she were constantly widening them.
“He needs to be rescued,” the princess replied in an oddly flat tone. “He is so hideous, and he could be so much more.”
“He is a dragon!” Georgiana exclaimed. “He is more already.”
The princess looked at Georgiana as though she were sorry for her.
“Don’t pull it out,” the dragon said as Georgiana frowned and began to wiggle the arrow. “It is in deep, it will only cause me to lose more blood.”
And indeed, as Georgiana looked, she saw there were rivulets of dark purplish blood oozing out of the wound, flowing onto the ground and dampening the leaves.
“What can I do?” Georgiana asked, kneeling down by the dragon’s head.
“Just leave me,” the dragon said, sounding so forlorn Georgiana felt the tears well up again.
“Never,” she replied, kissing the dragon on his cheek.
Chapter 9
“Just stand in back of me and don’t say anything,” Lady Margaret said as they exited the carriage. They’d taken hers, since his was far grander, emblazoned with his family crest and all. She’d given it a sour look, muttering something about being murdered for the upholstery, and then had beckoned him over to hers, which was plain black, with a skinny scarecrow of a coachman and, of course, that bossy lady’s maid.
“What if there is trouble?” he asked in a low murmur, glancing around at their surroundings.
As the worst parts of London went, it wasn’t the absolute worst. That would be East London, and he would have had to insist neither of them go there, no matter how much good she thought she could do.
They were in Southwark, which was admittedly bad, but it didn’t make him want to gag, nor did it make him doubt how a population could survive. There were children playing, and some ladies selling meat pies or something, and the general hubbub of commerce. But he wouldn’t have wanted her to come here by herself, that was for certain.
Not looking as lovely as she did, today wearing a maroon cloak with lighter ribbons on it, the gown underneath an even darker red color that seemed to make her brown hair appear reddish in the sun. He didn’t pay attention to clothing, in general, beyond ensuring everything was properly buttoned, but it was impossible not to notice her, just as if she’d stepped out of a painting and was waiting for him with a bright smile.
Which turned serious as she appraised him. “If there is trouble, just stand up straighter and try to look frightening.”
“That’s not much of a defense, my lady,” Lasham said, still in that low murmur. Perhaps he should have included more about what might occur here rather than focus on how to set about it.
But his mind had whirled because of what had happened the night before—not just the kiss, although that was paramount in his brain—but because she’d arrived at his house at a time no decent woman (and few indecent women) would have, she’d refused to back down from her questions, and yet she’d seemed to understand when he told her what he was feeling. How he felt, most of the time.
Although right now he had to admit he felt like going home and finally getting to have that drink.
Preferably also getting to have her accompany him.
And then they would sit on the sofa and . . . talk. Just talk, he commanded himself. Nothing else.
“Mrs. Beecham, how nice to see you again.” Lady Margaret was ahead of him by a few feet, and he realized he’d been imagining aga
in—of all things—instead of watching out for her.
A fine intimidator he was ending up being.
“My lady, thank you for the bread you brought last week.” Mrs. Beecham beckoned behind her to a few smaller Beechams. It was nearly impossible to tell their sex, they were clothed in an indiscriminate mass of fabric. “And my girls”—aha! Lasham thought—“they are able to work, and I was hoping you might have an idea for where they could go?” Mrs. Beecham’s expression darkened. “I don’t want them going over to the pub or them type of places, I know what happens to girls like that.”
Lady Margaret glanced back at Lasham, as if to say, See? and nodded at Mrs. Beecham. “I can ask some people I know whether there can be a place found for them. Do they have any skills?”
Lasham wondered that as well. What skills could they have gotten, out here in one of London’s poorer neighborhoods? And how had he missed all of this, given how he was one of the most responsible nobles in the House of Lords? What else was there to find?
And what could he do about it?
He hadn’t been posturing when he told Lady Margaret that he felt responsible, even though it might have sounded like that to her. He knew what it was like to have responsibility thrust upon him, thanks to his parents’ death, and he did not take it lightly. He took it the opposite, in fact—he took it heavily, carrying his burden even as he attended parties, or made idle chitchat, which of course he loathed, or spent time writing out speeches that most of his peers would sleep through.
So seeing this, seeing these people, just a fragment of their lives, set something burning inside him to do something.
He stepped forward, ignoring her look of admonition. “I can help your girls, Mrs. Beecham,” he said. He dug in his pocket and drew out a few coins, placing them in the woman’s palm. “Take this, and then have your girls go to Lasham House in Mayfair. They’re in need of kitchen maids,” or they would be once he returned home and explained the situation to his housekeeper, “but have them purchase new clothing first, since what they have on won’t be suitable, and they won’t get wages for the first month.”
He was responsible, but he wasn’t stupid or softhearted. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear that his household was staffed by improperly clothed girls from the streets; if people started to gossip—when they started to gossip—they would wonder just what else his household, and by extension he, had overlooked.
His responsibilities were piled one on top of the other like a gigantic house of cards that just one tiny flick of the finger could overset, leaving him and everyone who depended on him to flutter helplessly to the ground.
“Thank you, my lord,” Mrs. Beecham said, her eyes wide. “My girls will be there first thing in the morning, you can be sure of that.”
“Good,” Lasham said, daring to look at Lady Margaret.
Her mouth was set in a thin line, and her sparkle seemed more like banked coals right now, as though the blaze was merely waiting until something flammable came to set them afire again.
He was guessing the “something flammable” would be when they were safely in her carriage, away from everyone but the bossy lady’s maid.
“What were you thinking?” Margaret sat next to him, so she couldn’t just stare across the seat of the carriage at him. They’d finished with the Beechams, then she had gone to check on a few families she had met before, to ensure they were still doing all right. She hadn’t found the women the Banner sisters had mentioned, which had been distressing, but meanwhile, she had distributed some coins, encouraging words, and hope for the future.
That was a solid afternoon’s work, and had kept her mind off what he had done and, more importantly, said.
Annie, seated opposite, was keeping herself entirely out of the conversation—she’d closed her eyes immediately upon entering, although Margaret could have sworn she’d seen her eyes open quickly a few times.
Hmph.
“I was thinking,” the duke replied in that low, shiver-inducing voice of his, “that those girls might have a chance if they had work. Do you begrudge them that?”
Oh no, he was not trying to make her feel guilty about it—was he? Well, there was only one way to find out. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty for wishing you hadn’t said anything?” She let out an exasperated breath. “The thing is, I am very pleased you helped those girls out today. That is not the point.”
“What is the point, then?” He sounded surprised.
“The point is that if anyone sees that you are really a fine gentleman you will be of no use to me as protection there.”
She darted a glance at him—thankfully, she was sitting on his sighted side, so she didn’t have to guess what he might be thinking. His brows were drawn together in thought, and he looked as though he was really thinking about what she’d said.
That was yet another thing that made him unusual—that he listened to her. That he actually seemed to consider what she’d said.
Her father never had. He’d listened to her mother, yes, but he hadn’t ever listened to either of his daughters. Nor did any of the young men she met out in Society now; they thought she was an anomaly, a scandalous young lady who they hoped would act scandalously with them.
Not listening when she said no.
But he did. He would. He was now.
“I am of no use to you if I am a gentleman?”
Oh dear. He bit his words out, as though each syllable was accented with the rap of a drum. Tap, tap, tap.
“I didn’t mean that, precisely,” Margaret said. She could have sworn she heard a muffled laugh from Annie’s side of the coach. “What I meant was, I want those people to be afraid of you. And they won’t be because they will know you’re too honorable to actually hurt them.”
“You deem me too honorable?” Now his words were less accented and more . . . fierce. She really had awoken the dragon, hadn’t she?
“Well,” she said, drawing her words out slowly, “I do. That is why you do what you do, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you offered those girls the position in the first place? Because you’re so honorable?”
He exhaled, and Margaret felt his shoulder brush against her. Such a terribly handsome man shouldn’t also be so large—not that she had any reason for thinking that, but she did—but he was. It felt as though she were tucked into her side of the carriage seat, his whole presence commanding all the space in the carriage.
It was unnerving, and wonderful, and terrifying. All at the same time.
Rather like discovering a dragon in the forest, actually. She had to smother the beginnings of a snort, which she quickly changed into a cough.
Annie’s eyes flew open. “Are you getting sick? I told you to cover your mouth when we were out in those places.”
“I’m fine, Annie,” Margaret said in an exasperated tone. It was bad enough that she was now beginning to think of the Piratical Duke as her own Private Dragon, now her actual dragon of a maid was starting to fuss—well, she might just be tempted to tell everyone to leave her alone.
Only she did not want that. She wanted Annie, of course, who wouldn’t leave her even if she did command her to go, and she also found she rather liked having the duke around. She shouldn’t admit—likely not even to herself—how much she liked having him around, even though he’d been around for only a few days.
Oh no. What would happen in a few weeks? A few months? Would she accidentally fall in love with this man who absolutely could not marry her, and to whom she’d said she’d never wished to be married?
And was she suddenly writing one of her serials instead of living her own life?
She shook her head. She was not going to marry the dragon.
“Lady Margaret, I will promise to be less . . . gentlemanly in the future,” the duke said in a very low voice, so low she wasn’t sure even Annie could hear it.
The woman had gone and closed her eyes again anyway, no doubt thinking the danger of illness was past, and not wanting to interfere with whatev
er scenario she’d concocted in her head.
Less gentlemanly. Of course that conjured up the memory of the last time—last night—when he’d been less gentlemanly.
And look what had happened there. No wonder his words sent a shiver up her spine and down several other parts of her.
“In fact,” he said, still in that low, thrilling tone, “I was thinking that if you were amenable, we could enter into a reciprocal arrangement.”
A what? And why did that sound both scandalous and wonderful?
He couldn’t mean what Margaret immediately thought it meant.
“What kind of arrangement?” she asked, acutely aware of Annie snoozing in the corner. Just as she’d had the thought, however, Annie emitted a soft snore that was either an actual snore, or the kind of snore she might emit if she wanted her mistress to continue an inappropriate conversation.
He glanced over at her, a spark of—mischief?—in his eye. “I have come to realize that I am not perhaps the most adventurous of souls.” He turned away to gaze out of the window on the other side of the carriage. “In fact, some have accused me of being a stick-in-the-mud. If you would, I would like you to accompany me on some . . . adventures.”
Well, that didn’t sound at all like the Proper Duke. And damned if he wasn’t intriguing her more by the minute.
“What kinds of adventures were you interested in, Your Grace?” She leaned in closer to him, keeping her voice low in the perhaps vain hope that Annie wouldn’t overhear.
She felt his shoulders shrug. “The thing is, I am not even certain what kinds of adventures would be enjoyable. That is where I would like your assistance.”
She smiled to herself. “So perhaps one day we would go eat as many ices as we could, then another day perhaps we would see what type of wine we prefer best, or another day we could visit a bookstore and see if you enjoy poetry? I am certain you have never read poetry,” she added.
“No, I have not,” he admitted. “And yes, that sounds—enjoyable,” he said, as though he’d never uttered anything close to that sentence before.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 9
