One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild

by Megan Frampton

  Damn it, she could not allow herself to fall in love with him. She knew, as she’d told him, that whatever this was had a finite end date, a time when it wouldn’t be possible to continue, no matter what she felt about the matter.

  And yet—and yet she couldn’t resist him, not when his mouth twisted into that vulnerable curl, and his hands touched her in places that made her shiver, and how just being with him made her feel as though she were more alive than usual, as though his presence gave her an excess of oxygen. Or a loss, since she found she couldn’t quite breathe properly in his presence.

  “Should we go be happy some more?” Margaret said, rising up on her tiptoes to speak into his ear.

  He looked startled, then blinked and looked down at her, a slightly embarrassed expression on his face. “You mean resume dancing?”

  His voice was rough, and she felt a thrill move through her, knowing that she was the cause.

  “Mm-hm,” she replied, a sly grin on her face. “For now, that is.”

  She turned, taking his hand, and led him back onto the dance floor, feeling the strength of him at her back, nearly a palpable force that made her knees, once again, pleasurably weak.

  Not helpful for dancing, having weak knees, but she supposed she would figure that out once they started to move again.

  The music was playing already, slower than before, but not quite a waltz. But it seemed he thought it was a waltz, since he drew her into his arms and held her closer than he normally would have at a Society party.

  And they paused there, both gazing at the other, not moving, even as the other couples on the floor floated about beside them, some in the same sort of embrace they were, while others continued just to hold hands and dance together.

  “I will enjoy taking the lead, my lady,” Vortigern said with a sly curl on his lips. Margaret knew he wasn’t just talking about the dance, and she shivered in response, her nipples hardening under her gown. She moistened her lips and he inhaled, his hand tightening on the hand he held.

  “I look forward to that, Your Grace,” she said in a whisper, knowing she spoke the truth and could not wait to find out where he might lead her, beyond this dance, this dance hall, and his carriage.

  She couldn’t quite believe she was being this—this daring, even she, who had flouted the match made by her parents and didn’t give a tinker’s dam what people thought about her.

  She’d caused scandal, to be sure, but she had never courted it. Never longed for it, not the way she longed for him. But since they were both well aware of their actions, and what would occur—both in the short term and the longer, more heartbreaking term—she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t going to happen.

  And when it did, her knees and heart would be strong again, and she could move past whatever this was. But not until she explored every inch of what this was, and him, and found out as much as she could about him in the process.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want to dance.

  “Can we leave?” she said in a low voice, just as it seemed he was about to start guiding her around the floor.

  She saw him swallow. And felt her whole body react as profoundly as though he’d actually touched her somewhere improper, not just his hand on hers, his other hand at her waist.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice nearly a growl. “We should.”

  For once, Lasham wasn’t the observer. Or the observed. Instead, he was the participant, drawing Margaret through the crowd toward the exit, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in a way that he would never have done under normal circumstances.

  But these were not normal circumstances. They were here, together, alone, unchaperoned, unnoticed, and they—at least he hoped this to be the case—had just agreed to do more with each other. To spend time together, outside of what Society deemed was proper.

  He would have to find out for certain, despite his usual inability to speak properly, which was exacerbated by how little he wanted to talk and how much he wanted to just feel.

  They stepped out into the night air, and he felt her shiver. Whether it was from the cold or something else, he couldn’t say, but he took the occasion to draw her in closer to his body. He felt her all along his side, the skirts of her gown tangling with his legs.

  His coachman nodded at them, his expression bland.

  “We are going home,” Lasham said, and the coachman nodded, as though he routinely took ladies home to his house during evening hours. Or anytime, actually.

  Because he never had. He’d spent time with certain ladies, or women, but never in his home. Never where anyone could know.

  The coachman shut the door behind them, and he felt his chest tighten with the anxiety of it. What if he’d misunderstood? What if she were about to demand he propose, or slap his face, or tell everyone they knew how he’d made an improper advance?

  “Well?” she said, an amused tone in her voice. She reached over and took his hand.

  And something within him eased.

  “Well what?”

  Not that he was suddenly the most articulate man in the world, much less London; there was only so much intense attraction, the potential for happiness, and a shared sense of humor could do.

  “Well, we are going to your house.” She paused, and he heard her inhale. “And we will likely be alone, and so I want to remind you that you are under no obligation to me, no matter what happens.”

  No matter what happens. Which means that something would happen. Not that he didn’t know that already, she was the one who’d asked if they could leave, after all, but her saying it, confirming what he thought he knew, was a welcome reassurance.

  “Thank you,” he replied. Because how else would one reply to a lady who’d basically just told a gentleman that she was going to do things with him that would normally require a commitment of some sort? From both of them? And yet would expect nothing.

  This was adventuring of the sort he never would have imagined when he’d first asked her, and yet he knew this was precisely what had been missing in his life—passion, desire, touch, closeness, and a secret that felt as though it were even more precious because it was a secret.

  “Margaret,” he began, only to stop when he realized he’d called her by her name, and not her title. Although keeping to formalities felt foolish, given what was happening between them. So he would just continue. “Margaret, have you ever—”

  And she interrupted, yanking her hand away from his, leaving him bereft.

  “Have I ever done this before? No, I haven’t.” Her voice shook. “It is not as though I have embarked on . . . adventuring with gentlemen before, I just, with you, it just—” and she stopped, seemingly as at a loss for words as he normally was.

  “That wasn’t what I was going to ask,” he said, retrieving her hand from her lap. “I was going to ask if you had ever felt this sort of connection with anyone else before. I haven’t myself.” He heard how his voice practically vibrated with emotion. He’d never spoken this way before. Much less said anything like this before. “With my friend Jamie, yes, but not to the same extent. As though I could say something—or not say something—and have you understand what I mean.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, I see. I apologize, I assumed you—well, I assumed you thought I was as scandalous in my behavior as my reputation.” She laughed again, this time stronger. “But since I completely misunderstood it might mean your point does not entirely stand.”

  “It does.” He drew her hand to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on her wrist. That this strong, vibrant, passionate woman could be so quickly felled by gossip meant he would have to ensure their discretion. He would not have her further ruined by anything they would do together. He had to say it, even though he didn’t want to. “We don’t have to . . .” and he paused, because now he really was at a loss for words, since if he assumed something that she hadn’t meant, then he was bound to break this delicate moment, this feeling he had that he’d never felt before.

  “No, we don’t.”
She sounded fragile as well. “We should just do what feels right.”

  He laughed. “That is what you said to me the first time we met, isn’t it? If it doesn’t feel right, you can stop. But you should at least have tried.” He drew a deep breath. “We should at least try.”

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  “What lessons will you teach me?”

  The dragon raised his head as Georgiana was thinking. “Excuse me, but I am still in trouble. I need help.”

  Georgiana clapped her hand over her mouth and let out a yelp. “Of course! I am so sorry.” She took hold of the princess’s arm and brought them both down to sit on the ground. “The first lesson is compassion. Help him,” she commanded, bringing the princess’s hand to the dragon’s side.

  “Help him,” the princess repeated. “I can do that,” she said in a wondering voice. “I can help him.”

  Chapter 19

  We should at least try.

  Margaret felt her breath hitch as he spoke, the deep rumble of his voice resonating through her whole body.

  They should try. It sounded so innocuous, trying; as though it were just a matter of attempt, not of possible failure.

  But they had to try, didn’t they? If they didn’t, she knew she, at least, would regret it. She was guessing he would also. That he was daring to try something so beyond what she knew he was ever likely to do made her feel special. That he was willing to try for her sake.

  She clasped his hand more tightly and leaned against his shoulder. It felt so right, so comfortable to be there, alone with him in his carriage, that it felt as though they’d always been this way.

  And yet they had not. And could not always be this way.

  But she couldn’t think about that, couldn’t write the ending to her own story, not until she knew where the story might go. And since she wasn’t the only one writing it, she wouldn’t know until they tried.

  “Thank you.” He spoke softly, and she raised her head to regard him. It was hard to see his face in the dimness of the carriage, but she could make out the dark place where the patch was, and then catch the glint of his eye. He shook his head. “It seems I am always thanking you.”

  “What are you thanking me for now?” she asked. She placed her hand on his abdomen and fiddled with a button on his waistcoat.

  He covered her hand with his. “For trying with me, I suppose. For agreeing to this,” and then he paused, “whatever this is.”

  “Should I also be thanking you?” She drew back to look at him more clearly. “You showed me I was in need of adventure, too. And doing it together,” and her whole body reacted, knowing what “it” she was referring to, “makes it that much more worthwhile. Doesn’t it?”

  “Then we are both thankful,” he said. He reached his hand up to her chin, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her. A soft kiss, one that was no doubt meant to be gentle, but turned into something more within seconds.

  She clutched his arm, bringing his hand to her waist, turning into his body so she could feel it press against her. His mouth opened, and he licked her lips, making her let out a little moan, low and deep in her throat. She thrust her tongue inside his mouth, meeting his, and wriggled in her seat, longing for more closeness, but not sure quite what to do.

  It seemed, however, he did know what to do. He grabbed hold of her and raised her up off the seat and onto his lap, all without breaking the kiss.

  She would have complimented him on how smoothly he finessed the motion if she hadn’t currently been far too busy cataloging just how it felt to be this close to him, her bottom resting on his thighs, his erection—because that was what it was, she knew that, even though this was her first encounter with one—pressed against her hip, his hands anchoring her to him, as though she would wish to escape.

  She leaned into his chest, pressing her breasts against his strong, hard body. Well, that felt wonderful also. Who knew her body was capable of so many simultaneous sensations?

  He definitely was not awkward or at a loss when it came to this.

  His hand curled around her breast, holding the weight of it as his palm caressed her. He reached up and tugged at the neckline of her gown, making an impatient sound as he pulled it down. She thought she probably made an impatient sound as well, since she really wanted to feel his skin touching hers, with nothing between them.

  She hadn’t forgotten how it had felt to touch his bare chest. She wanted to touch more of him, and have him touch her in return.

  His fingers slid below the neckline and then his palm was cupping her breast, his thumb rubbing over the nipple, making her whole body tingle. She felt a warmth creep over her, spreading from her lower belly, and if she were being honest, lower than that, all throughout herself.

  And they were still both clothed, and still just kissing. She could not wait to discover what other feelings she might have when they did other things.

  The carriage rolled to a stop a few minutes after that, just as Margaret was busy calculating just what else they could do inside its confines. She slid off his lap and onto the seat, yanking her gown back up and making a halfhearted attempt at smoothing her hair.

  He was likewise smoothing and tugging and such, and she recalled she had his cravat in her pocket. But she didn’t want to return it; not just because she had an odd yearning for a memento, but also because he just looked so compellingly handsome and rather dangerous without it.

  But it was scandalous enough that he was bringing her home with him; for him to have a bare throat would be tantamount to admitting just what they’d been doing.

  Not enough, Margaret wanted to say. She wanted to do it all with him, explore every plane and length of his body, to find out what it meant to be with someone so intimately.

  She was honest enough with herself to admit it. She wanted him. She could not and would not marry him. But she still wanted him, and it seemed he wanted her.

  So she would continue on this path until she got what she wanted.

  The coachman flung the door open and Vortigern got out, holding his hand to her to help her descend. It was so late the streets were nearly quiet, although the duke’s butler was at the door, the soft candlelight streaming onto the steps from behind him.

  “Would you like to come in?” he asked. He didn’t sound hesitant, not now; perhaps his awkwardness just extended to his words, because his actions—especially when inside a carriage—were confident enough.

  She felt herself start to blush thinking about it.

  “Yes, thank you,” she murmured, taking his arm and walking up the steps. The butler looked momentarily surprised, but quickly schooled his features into a noncommittal expression.

  “Tea in the library, please,” Vortigern said as they walked inside. He waved the butler off and led her to the same room she’d burst into a few weeks ago. Demanding to know why he’d followed her. And that was the first time he’d kissed her.

  He shut the door behind them, then gestured toward the sofa she’d sat on before—where she’d seen his friend Jamie lounging.

  “Is this where you spend your time?” she asked, glancing around the room. A large desk was at one end of the room with bookshelves in back of it, filled to the ceiling with books of all colors and sizes. The ones within the easiest reach also looked as though they were the most read—the spines were worn, and some of the letters had rubbed away.

  She didn’t sit, but walked over to the bookshelf, running her finger on the leather of the book bindings. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have time to read, what with being so busy with your duties.” She glanced back at him, a smirk on her face. “Because I know you do not neglect your duties. You do everything that is proper, isn’t that what you said?”

  He smiled, a wolfish grin that made her shiver. “I said I always do what is right.” He strode toward her. “There is a world of difference between proper and right.”

  He stepped behind the desk with her, crowding her a
gainst the bookshelf with his body. His large, solid, entirely masculine body.

  She leaned back against the books, folding her hands in back of her and looking up at him. “I hadn’t realized you were such a stickler for meaning, Your Grace,” she said in a teasing tone.

  He put his arm up over her head, bracing himself against the bookshelf. She could feel the warmth and strength of him, of his body, just inches away from hers.

  “It is not something I had thought of, until recently,” he replied, his gaze on her mouth. She shifted and licked her lips, which were suddenly dry.

  “And has your recent interest in meaning revealed anything . . . interesting?” She shook her head at her own redundancy.

  “It has, indeed.” It seemed he didn’t notice her poor word choice.

  “Ah.” She reached up to touch his face, the rough stubble on his cheek, just below the eye patch. She wanted to ask how it happened, how he’d lost his eye, but she knew, somehow, that revealing that—since nobody seemed to know—would be an even more profound secret than his name, which anybody could look up.

  The door opened, and he quickly snatched a book from over her head, opening it and running one long finger down a page. “This is where you will find what you are looking for, my lady,” he said in a reasonable tone, as though locating information in his library was precisely why they were there.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied in a whisper. His cheeks reddened, and she wanted to laugh, but not in earshot of the butler, who was setting up tea things on a low table in front of the sofa.

  “Is there anything else, Your Grace?” The butler’s voice gave no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary going on. And perhaps there wasn’t; Margaret didn’t know for certain that the duke wasn’t in the habit of inviting young ladies over by themselves in the evening. And then serving them tea.