“Then I accept. And I will have my own rules to guide us as we go along.”
That startled him, since he whipped his head around to look at her. She burst out laughing at his expression. “It is not as though I have the rules with me now. But I will have them, do not mistake me.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “I’ll make up the rules as we go along. But you’ll have to abide by them, once they’re set,” she said in a warning tone. It was already enjoyable to speak with him like this, to think about introducing him to things no Proper Duke would ever condescend to do.
And she shouldn’t think about it too much, or else she would realize just how much trouble she could possibly be getting into.
“I don’t see why you’re fussing. Stop fussing,” Margaret said, swatting Annie’s hand away from her hair.
Annie stepped back, her hands on her hips. “My lady, it is my duty to ensure you are dressed appropriately for every occasion. The Purseleys’ party is bound to be a grand event, and I don’t want anyone to say you are less than perfect.”
“They already say that, Annie,” Margaret said in a wry tone. “Haven’t you heard how I jilted Lord Collingwood and then brought scandal down on my family by being A Lady of Mystery? I think the damage is done.”
Annie didn’t even bother responding.
“That’s why I get these invitations in the first place, isn’t it? And it is not as though he will notice one way or the other how I am dressed,” Margaret said. It was silly to pretend she didn’t know why Annie was putting so much effort into her appearance tonight. Annie was usually most concerned with whether Margaret had a purse large enough to carry her winnings from the table, not whether she actually looked attractive. “Plus I plan on spending most of the time at the tables. I don’t attend these events for pleasure,” Margaret said in a dry voice.
“You can play cards and look beautiful at the same time,” Annie said, not pausing from her ministrations.
Margaret sighed. It wasn’t as though she would win this—well, it wasn’t an argument, more like a discussion—so she should just endure whatever Annie thought should be done to her to make her beautiful.
Isabella was beautiful. Margaret had never thought she herself was; her hair was too brown, as were her eyes, and she didn’t have her sister’s height and presence. But as she gazed at herself in the mirror, she could partially admit that she was not unattractive.
Annie had chosen the blue gown Isabella had bought for her before she’d left London, but had done something to it, added some lace or something, to make it look like an entirely new gown. The color made her eyes and hair look rich, not plain, and the cut clung to her upper body, enhancing her bustline and making her waist look tiny.
The gown flared out into the wide skirts that were fashionable now, and the sleeves were barely a suggestion, leaving most of her upper arm bare.
Meanwhile, Annie had pulled all of Margaret’s hair to the back in a low, heavy chignon, and was placing tiny diamond stars into her coiffure.
Finally, after darting in and out to smooth a piece of fabric here or adjust a star there, Annie stepped back and nodded. “You’ll do,” she said, satisfaction in her tone.
Margaret looked at herself for a moment. She would do. She was, if not beautiful, at least striking.
“Thank you, Annie,” she said, standing and pulling her maid in for a hug. Annie made a grumpy noise, but allowed the affection.
“I’ll be home late, I have to make enough tonight so the Agency can have food on hand for the women with children.”
Annie rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything. Margaret knew that Annie believed in what she was doing, but she also knew that her devoted servant thought she did too much sometimes, and worried about her.
“You be careful,” Annie said, giving Margaret’s shoulder one last pat.
“Your turn, my lady.”
Margaret smiled, thumbing through her cards. She wasn’t normally this preoccupied when playing, but she also wasn’t normally thinking about being kissed. And exceedingly large, often formidable gentlemen. Or one exceedingly large, formidable gentleman, to be precise. And his oddly sweet wish to be less gentlemanly.
He wasn’t here, and Margaret was annoyed at herself for continuing to scan the crowd—if he did arrive, he’d be announced, and she and the entire rest of the room would know he was here. So why did she keep looking around?
She shook her head and chose which card to discard, realizing too late that her discard meant that Lord Gantrey would be able to make his play.
“Aha, my lady! Your luck isn’t in attendance tonight?” She could excuse Lord Gantrey’s crowing; he had always been remarkably good-natured about the many times she had beaten him. She supposed he deserved some good luck.
Although his good luck seemed directly tied to her lack of attention to the game. She would have to rectify that, handsome man in an eye patch or not. The Agency could do only so much without additional funds. Not to mention she was dependent on her winnings to maintain her small household.
She narrowed her gaze at her cards, resolving to put the duke out of her mind.
“Lady Margaret?”
Drat. She’d forgotten about him, at least as much as she could, for at least twenty minutes, during which he must have arrived and been announced. She’d won back her original stake, plus a bit more, but not enough for the evening. There was never enough.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” She looked up at him and her breath caught. Goodness, he looked remarkable in evening wear. Everything he wore was severe—from the crisp black dress coat to the matching black trousers, the startling white shirt underneath the black waistcoat. And of course the black eye patch, tied with a black velvet ribbon.
He was glorious.
“Lady Margaret,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on her, “I am hoping you would do me the honor of a dance later. After you’ve finished your game.” He looked—nervous, as though she might actually decline.
She usually didn’t dance, except when her brother-in-law asked her. Too often the gentlemen who wanted to dance with her were no gentlemen, and besides, time spent dancing meant time away from the tables. But she couldn’t resist this, could she? The chance to be held in his arms, to clasp his broad shoulders, to embark on something adventure-worthy, after all.
“Yes, thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “I should be free in about ten minutes.”
He bowed, not saying another word, and headed to the corner of the room. Margaret only knew where he was because, damn her, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
He was joined by his friend from the other night, the one whose mouth was curved up into a rakish smile, whose appraising glance seemed to take in all that was female in the room. It was intriguing, she had to admit, that the Properly Piratical Duke had an acquaintance who appeared to be less than proper. Maybe there was hope for him after all.
“Good evening, Lash.” Jamie had a smirk in his voice, so Lasham knew his friend had seen whom he’d just been speaking to.
“I asked Lady Margaret for a dance.” Better to just tell Jamie what he wanted to know rather than wait for the man to badger him into it.
“And did she say yes?” Jamie replied.
Lasham gave his friend an annoyed look. “Of course she did, it seems that you don’t realize it, but I am a duke. For her to refuse to dance with me would be scandalous.” Not that that would stop her; she’d already told him about the scandal in her past, refusing to marry someone her parents had chosen for her. Would her contrariness go so far as to refuse to dance with someone as well?
Although he shouldn’t have to ask himself that, should he? He could tell, from the way her eyes lit up, that she was pleased to be asked. Plus he hadn’t had to mention it, but this was part of their pact of adventuring, wasn’t it?
At least he thought it was. He wasn’t sure if he should ask her—what if dancing wasn’t at all something enjoyable to her, and he was merely making her endure someth
ing unpleasant? Or if it was so much a part of her everyday life she didn’t perceive it as being anything out of the ordinary?
Perhaps he was overthinking it. No, he knew; he was overthinking it.
Thank goodness Jamie spoke when he did. If only to save him from thinking so much. “What did she want the other night?” Jamie lowered his voice, even though there wasn’t anyone within earshot.
“She wanted to ask me a question.” Lasham spoke in a stiff tone of voice, one that would dissuade most people from asking more.
Of course that didn’t stop Jamie. “What question? What could she possibly want at such a late hour?”
“I could ask the same of you. After all, I arrived home to find you in residence, drinking my liquor, and making yourself quite comfortable on my sofa.”
Jamie stuck his elbow into Lasham’s side. “You can’t think you’ll stop me from wanting to know just because you go on a counterattack, do you? And here I thought you knew me.”
Lasham heaved an exasperated sigh. He did know Jamie, he knew full well that if the man wanted to know something, to find something, he would.
What could he tell him that wouldn’t immediately make Jamie even more curious? Not She treated me like a man, not an oddity. Certainly not She demanded to know why I’d arrived where she was—that one would make Jamie ask even more questions. Nothing about embarking on mutual adventures, either.
And definitely not I couldn’t stop myself from kissing her.
“She—damn it, Jamie, you know there’s nothing I can tell you that won’t sound improper.”
Jamie clapped him on the back. “Precisely! She is just what you need, Lash. It is not as though I truly wished to know what she wanted—although if you want to tell me, I’ll listen—but I wanted to see what you would come up with. Excellent, your being improper and all.”
“I wasn’t—” Lasham began, only he couldn’t say that, could he? Especially with what they’d agreed to do? Not that ices and wine were improper, necessarily, but he hadn’t ever done anything she suggested before, and since he was always correct, that must mean— “Never mind. Tell me, how is your mother?”
“Ah, resorting to the strongest counterattack in your arsenal! She is fine, she is delighted I am home, but she is already asking when I plan to leave.” Jamie folded his arms across his chest. “Why is it that parents are always so inquisitive as to one’s arrivals and departures? The minute I walk in the door she’s asking me when I have to go, and then when I do go, she asks when I will be coming back. It is as though her questions are reversed or something.”
Lasham shrugged. “I have no idea, I haven’t had parents for a long time.”
Jamie winced. “Sorry, that was thoughtless of me.”
Lasham waved his hand. “It doesn’t signify, it was so long ago.” Although not so long ago it didn’t still hurt. His parents had died of cholera, both within a week of each other. He’d been away at school, and hadn’t been allowed to return home, not until the danger had passed.
Everyone had thought that people of his kind—the wealthy, titled ones—were immune to the types of diseases that devastated London’s poorer neighborhoods like the ones he and Margaret had been to recently. But disease didn’t care about wealth or titles. It just went where it wanted to.
Jamie had been there with him, helping him through it all. For that, if not for anything else, Lasham was entirely grateful.
Not so grateful he was sanguine about his friend being at his house at all hours drinking his brandy—there were limits—but enough that he would do whatever Jamie needed, ever, if called upon.
“It does matter.” Jamie’s voice was unusually solemn. “You don’t ever get over that kind of thing, not when it was so sudden as it was. I apologize for being so careless.”
Lasham turned to his friend, wishing he weren’t in public, that it wasn’t odd for him to be seen embracing his friend, that he could just put into words the things he felt once in a while. He couldn’t even put his emotions into action, and so he was left with his simmering feelings, all bubbling around until he exploded. Or hit something. Or kissed someone. But not Jamie.
“Thank you.”
Both men cleared their throats, suddenly nearly awkward, only not really. Lasham knew that Jamie knew what he was thinking, and he was grateful for it. If only he could know what he was thinking sometimes, that would make his life nearly perfect.
At least as perfect as it could be for a one-eyed duke with the inability to express his emotions and who wished, just once, he could be improper without consequences.
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Why would you stay?” The dragon didn’t sound anything but curious.
Georgiana’s fingers were starting to cramp from holding the arrow. He’d laid his head on the ground and had his eyes closed, clearly in pain. She shook her head, but realized he couldn’t see her.
“I can’t leave just because someone wants me to,” she said in a broken voice. “You need me. I am here. I won’t leave.”
The dragon gave the most mournful sigh she’d ever heard. “Thank you.”
“I’m not leaving, either,” the princess announced, her hand on her bow.
Chapter 10
“Thank you, all, for a lovely game. I must excuse myself for a while.” Because a duke has asked me to dance, as though you are all not keenly aware of that already. Margaret picked up her winnings and tucked them into her purse, relieved that her run of bad luck had ended. She had enough funds to pay her way for two weeks—not that that was all she had; she had money in the bank, but she felt she had to be vigilant about her balances.
Isabella would help her if she needed, of course, but the last thing Margaret wanted to do was ask for money from her sister.
No, actually, the last thing she wanted to do was marry someone she didn’t want to, which was why she was in this situation in the first place.
And she did like cards—she liked the risk of it, the feeling as though she were diving off a cliff into unknown waters every time she placed a large bet. She liked being better than other players, knowing who likely had what card and how they played.
She couldn’t ever stop being a writer—a person who observed people, and how they behaved, and what they were likely to do. At least she could make some money off her observational skills and ability to keep track of things.
“My lady, you have to give me a chance to win some of my money back!” Lord Gantrey said. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile. Lord Gantrey could not control his expression when he had a good hand, she’d discovered, so it was very easy to win against him. And he was so very good-natured about it, too.
“My lord, it is no longer your money,” Margaret said. She glanced to where the duke still stood, in the corner with his dashing friend. “But I promise to give you a chance at my money later on this evening.”
“I’ll hold you to it, young lady,” Lord Gantrey said. He, too, looked to where the duke was, and then a different kind of smile appeared on his face. “But meanwhile, I believe you have a prior engagement.”
Engage— Lord, no. Not that. Never that. “Yes, thank you, and excuse me,” Margaret said, nodding to all the players.
A young gentleman who’d just arrived in town—she wasn’t sure what his name was, just that he was very young—sat in her seat, glancing around eagerly at the table’s occupants.
Lord Gantrey would likely win some money from him, so she couldn’t feel bad about vacating her position at the table.
She walked determinedly toward where the duke stood. He hadn’t seen her, since he had his blind side to the room. She was able, then, to stare at him without embarrassment, once again appreciating his sheer masculine beauty.
She hadn’t realized before—not until she’d met him, in fact—that she appreciated a large gentleman much more than a smaller-sized one. There was just something so primally appealing about wide shoulders, great height, an
d a broad chest. Being enfolded in his arms must feel like—well, damn, she knew what it felt like, didn’t she? It hadn’t happened long enough for her to itemize just how it felt.
Which just made her want it to happen again. She’d say she was shocked at herself for such improper thoughts, but she wasn’t. She knew who she was, and what she wanted to do.
And what she wanted to do right now was feel what it was like to have those strong arms wrapped around her while that mouth was on hers.
But, since they were in public, and he was the most proper duke of her acquaintance (not hard, since her brother-in-law was the only other duke she knew, and he was not proper at all), there was no chance of that.
She would have to reconcile herself to just feeling what it was like to dance with him.
“Your Grace?”
He started at her voice, then turned to regard her. There was something different about him now; something warmer. As though he weren’t first thinking of what he should be doing. Perhaps thinking of something he’d like to be doing.
Was that why he had asked her to dance? Because she knew, even if he was not fully aware, that someone like him should not be dancing with someone like her.
She gave a mental shrug, then glanced at the duke’s friend. She hadn’t gotten to look at him too closely when she first saw him, at the duke’s house; he’d removed himself too quickly. And, she had to admit, she was so irate she hadn’t taken notice of her surroundings.
If the duke looked like an autocratic pirate, his friend looked as though he were the rakish ship’s mate, the one who delivered all the pirate captain’s orders, and then frolicked on shore with the ladies who couldn’t resist a dashing pirate.
“Lady Margaret, may I present Mr. James Archer. Mr. Archer, this is Lady Margaret Sawford.”
Warm fingers, warm even through his gloves, closed over hers, and a pair of mischievous blue eyes met hers. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Margaret.”
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 10
