“Are you all right?” he asked in a tone of concern.
Yes, I was just imagining you displaying all of your magnificent masculinity to me. “I am fine, why do you ask?”
“You let out a noise. A groan or something.”
Margaret felt her cheeks heat. “It’s nothing.” She drew his arms around her so they were crossed over her chest. “Tell me about yourself. Why did your father choose Vortigern, anyway?”
Now it was his turn to groan. “He thought his son should have the name of a ruler. Why he didn’t just choose George or William or even Arthur is beyond me.”
“I like it. It’s different.”
“That it is. You can’t imagine what young boys can do to turn your name into an insult.”
Margaret laughed. “I can’t imagine. Tell me.”
His arms squeezed her, and she snuggled closer into his chest. It felt so right, so comfortable, it was hard to believe that if anyone saw them they would immediately say it was wrong. How could something that felt so right be wrong, just because they didn’t want this forever?
And she should not be thinking about any of that, not when this right thing had barely just begun. Thinking to the end was an unfortunate side effect of being a writer; she always had to forecast the final pages.
“Wartigern was one of the most popular ones. Fartigern was also a big favorite. Gern, a few times. Then Gernie, for some reason. That one didn’t make sense, but it got used, nonetheless.”
“Gern sounds as though it is a boulder or something—‘The trees are just a few paces past the gern.’ Like that.” She hoped he would laugh.
Thank goodness he did. “Or something that is unpleasant, like an illness—‘The gern was responsible for three farmers’ illnesses; hopefully it is cleared up now. That gern can be a nasty business.’ ”
She laughed, delighted he was comfortable enough with her to join in with the joke.
“You can’t gern here, you have to go over there if you want to,” she said, adopting a broad London accent.
“That almost sounds real. I wonder what ‘gern’ would be.” He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Probably nothing as fun as this.”
She felt her whole self shiver again. Thank goodness he was wealthy enough to have a roaring fire, or all this shivering would make her catch a chill. Maybe a gern, even.
She looked up at him, so close she could see the gold lights in his dark brown eye. The eye patch reminded her she hadn’t asked yet, but she caught herself before she did. What if he was only able to share one intimate thing a week with someone? She would have to bide her time. “My sister calls me Margie, but that’s all anyone has ever done with my name. Of course I didn’t go to school, so I didn’t meet many other young ladies.”
“Your sister is married to the Duke of Gage, isn’t she?”
How odd was it that they were having this quite normal conversation under such extraordinary circumstances? And yet it felt—right.
Margaret nodded. “Yes, and it’s turned out remarkably well. Nicholas hadn’t expected to inherit, but he did, and he loves Isabella.”
“I wonder what that would feel like.”
To love someone? she thought. But he couldn’t mean that. Of course she would have to ask.
“What what would feel like?”
He made some sort of hmphing noise. “To be raised without expectation. I am surprised I wasn’t born with a ducal coronet of strawberry leaves. I have never known what it is to not be a duke, or at least in preparation for being a duke.”
That explained a lot. “Your parents didn’t encourage you to have fun? Or just be a child?”
He shook his head. “No, that was for other children. For me, it was all about preparing for the awesome responsibilities I’d have. To be the Vortigern I was meant to be. And then I came into them at fifteen, and was completely unprepared.” He paused. “Not for the work of it, I knew that, but for losing my parents and then having to be so responsible.”
“That must have been very difficult.”
A shrug. “I didn’t—I don’t know any differently, so I suppose it might have been. I simply can’t know.”
Her heart clenched at that, hearing the plain fact of his reality stated so baldly. No wonder he wanted an adventure, and no wonder he had no clue how to have one. He simply didn’t know.
“What about you? Were you raised to be A Lady of Mystery?”
She snorted. “Hardly. My parents were so focused on Isabella they barely acknowledged my existence.” It hurt, it always had, but the pain had ebbed. “And then when they did acknowledge me, it was to try to force me to marry someone entirely unpleasant.”
“It was brave of you to decline.”
“It wasn’t. That is, thank you, but it was what should be normal for women, to be able to say no. It’s terrible that some women have no choice but to say yes. I was able to find another way, but other people aren’t so lucky.”
“And that’s why you’re back, because you said your parents are not here?”
“Yes, apparently they are traveling.” Unable to stay in London because their daughter the duchess was never more than icily polite when she saw them, and her husband was even more dismissive. “And I have a niece, I had to return to spend time with her. She’s the most adorable little thing ever. Her name is Victoria, so unless anyone wishes to insult the Queen, it’s unlikely she’ll have to suffer as you did.” She turned to look up at him. “Is school where you met your friend? The one I met?”
“Jamie.” He smiled. “He and I met at school, yes, and we’ve been able to stay friends, despite his frequent travels.”
“He seemed nice. Not quite as—as—”
“—stuffy as me?” Vortigern said.
She laughed and leaned up to kiss his jaw. “That is not what I was going to say. For someone who claims to know what we mean even before we speak, you are doing a terrible job.”
He chuckled ruefully. “You’re probably right. What were you going to say, then?”
“Not as serious. You seem to walk around with the weight of the world on your shoulders.” She paused. “Of course, your doing that meant that you came to my rescue, even though you had just met me, and—I thought—wanted to have nothing to do with me. And I am guessing that is not the first time you’ve done something similar.” An unpleasant emotion coursed through her. Jealousy, that’s what it was. “Are you in the habit of rescuing young ladies?” And who else had he rescued?
“No, I am not. You are the first.”
That eased her mind, although she was annoyed with herself for even having those feelings. He wasn’t hers, he never would be, and this was just—this. Whatever it was.
“So what else do you involve yourself with? Do you do anything besides all your duke work?”
He snorted. “My duke work, as you call it, keeps me busy most of the time. Which is why I require someone to take me adventuring.”
“What do you think you would like to do if you could do anything you wanted?” It was an echo of the question she’d asked him the first time they met—What would you do if you could do anything you wanted?—but he hadn’t answered yet. She would just keep asking until he knew. Then, she thought, he might be able to find, if not happiness, at least contentment.
“I wish I knew.” She could tell, from the honesty in his voice, that this was why he’d begun this whole thing in the first place. To know. To know what happiness was, to discover things by “adventuring,” to do things that would spark some delight in his soul, even as he continued to do what was proper most of the time.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat, the one caused by how lonely it must be to be him. “That is why we are together now, isn’t it?” she asked, patting his hand with hers. “To figure out what we want?” She turned in his arms and slid her fingers along his jaw. “Right now, at this very moment, what I want is you.”
The intensity of his gaze, the way he took a deep inhale, made her quiver. And then
he closed his eye and sighed, his lips pressed together.
“I want the same,” he replied in that low, resonant voice. “At least I know that much.”
Georgiana and the Dragon
By A Lady of Mystery
“Is that the dragon?” Georgiana asked, even though she knew perfectly well it was.
The princess’s eye roll indicated what she thought of Georgiana’s question.
“Yes, it is.” She leaned over the former dragon/current naked man as she wrapped her sleeve around the wound. “The question is, is he a prince?”
Georgiana frowned. “Did you know this might happen? Is this why you helped?”
The princess shrugged, then knelt down on the ground and leaned into the man’s face, so close she could have kissed him. Not that she did.
She sniffed, then drew away with a jerk. “Not a prince.” She stood and brushed her hands together. “Well, thank you for teaching me that lesson.”
“What lesson? I didn’t teach you anything.”
“Oh, you did. You taught me not to waste royal blood on random dragons in hopes of finding a prince. I don’t need one after all.”
And she walked determinedly out of the forest, leaving Georgiana alone with an unconscious naked man.
Chapter 22
“Well?”
Lasham looked up as Jamie walked in, of course not even bothering to knock. The same room where, not twelve hours before, he’d lain on the sofa with her in his arms. Talking, touching, being.
He didn’t think he’d ever felt as relaxed as he had been for those few hours. It was remarkable how—how calm he felt, how right it felt to be with her.
And something in his expression must have revealed his thoughts. “It went that well, hm?” Jamie said, a knowing grin on his face as he flopped down into the chair on the other side of Lasham’s desk.
“It—what?” Lasham was terrible at prevaricating. He’d never had to before, actually. Dukes seldom had to lie about anything, and Lash prided himself on being as truthful as possible.
Except now, when his closest friend was reading his activities just from his face.
Jamie flung his head back and laughed, clearly enjoying Lasham’s awkwardness. That makes one of us, Lasham thought sourly.
He and Margaret had made arrangements to meet the following day, since she required his presence to go back to Soho or some other London slum again. He had been relieved to hear she hadn’t gone there while they’d not seen each other, but now, as she said, “who knows what might have occurred, and who might need me?”
I need you, was what he wanted to say, only that felt too—too much, even given what they’d shared. And he couldn’t be that selfish, not when there were people who could benefit from her attention, and not just because they’d found it was the most spectacular thing in the world to kiss her.
But meanwhile, Jamie was here, and was asking questions and commenting on every facet of Lasham’s life, as he usually did.
“You and this, and her.” Jamie leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “You did see her, did you not? I thought I spotted you both last night, and then all of a sudden you were both gone.”
“Yes, well.” Lasham cleared his throat. “It is what it is.” Whatever that meant.
“Whatever that means,” Jamie said with a smirk. Apparently he and his closest friend did understand each other better than Lasham had assumed.
“Listen, Jamie.” Lasham glanced around, feeling even more awkward than usual. “I have some other things to ask of you.” A pause. “Things about ladies.”
Jamie raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Ah, so it is to be that, then?”
Thank goodness he and Jamie did speak a similar language, because if Lasham had to say it aloud, he would no doubt mangle it entirely. Hopefully he and Jamie were actually talking about the same thing, because now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what he would say.
Dear God, let them be talking about the same thing. “Yes, it is to be that.”
Jamie smiled and laid a hand on Lash’s shoulder. “Then we have plenty to discuss. I am definitely the expert in these matters.”
They were talking about the same thing. Thank God.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
Lasham turned at hearing her voice, acutely aware of the other members of their world who were nearby in the museum. None of them precisely paying attention to them, but on the other hand, who could fail to notice an eye-patched duke over six feet tall and the sparkling woman to whom he was speaking?
“Good afternoon, my lady.” He drank in the sight of her, even though he had seen her just the night before. She wore relatively nondescript clothing, compared to the yellow sunburst gown of the night before, but somehow the simple gown managed to inflame his desire.
But who was he fooling? He would want her no matter what she was wearing. He’d never paid much attention to ladies’ clothing before, but now he could state for an absolute fact that ladies wore far too much of it. At least, this lady did.
She dipped into a brief curtsey, as befit his rank, but the sly smile on her face as she rose befit who she was to him now. Who he was to her.
They had become more than duke and lady, even more than a do-gooder and her protection. They weren’t yet lovers, but that was only a technical matter. For all intents and purposes, in his and their Society’s eyes, they had behaved inappropriately.
And since Lasham had never done anything inappropriate in his life, he wanted to do all of it. With her. And soon.
But he couldn’t start thinking about that now, not when they had plans to go into one of the rougher areas of London. She’d told him she’d received several notes from various young women in that area that some outsiders had recently arrived and were fomenting political revolt—which didn’t bother Margaret, although it did bother Lasham—but were also taking advantage of some of the women, since they were traveling in an organized group, and there was nobody to stop them.
Lasham had asked his butler for his pistols, making that imperturbable gentleman almost perturbed. Not surprising, given that most people assumed he’d lost his eye in a duel. Probably the man was sitting back at the duke’s house wondering how to serve a master with no eyes.
“You’re thinking about where we’re going, aren’t you?” she said in a whisper. She nudged him in the side with her elbow. “It will be fine, don’t worry so. Let’s go view some art, since we’re here.” She took his arm and led him to stand in front of a painting that seemed to depict a moldy piece of cheese and a half-empty bottle of wine.
He ducked his head to speak as close to her ear as he dared. Hoping nobody else was in the mood to view a portrait of the most unpleasant meal ever. “Oh, since we are heading into a potentially dangerous situation, you armed with just me and your fractious maid.”
She laughed so loudly a few heads turned in their direction. And covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes were dancing.
He was glad one of them could find humor in the situation.
Wait— “Have I just told a humorous story?” he asked in a low voice.
She shook her head, her hand still over her mouth. So he hadn’t told a humorous story, but she was amused enough to still be laughing.
“Annie is not fractious, she is just—a bit high-handed.” She gestured to another painting. “Let’s look at that one.”
This painting was far more pleasant—it depicted a group of people out in the forest somewhere having a picnic. It seemed entirely improbable, to Lasham’s eye, that these people would actually be keeping company with one another, but at least the wine bottles were full. Maybe that accounted for their conviviality.
“Where is your maid, anyway?” Not that he wanted her there, but he knew enough to know that maids seldom left their unmarried ladies’ sides.
Margaret raised an eyebrow and rolled her eyes. A remarkable trick, actually. If he had had two eyes, he might have tried it; if he did it as he was now, he
would likely look even more frightening than he did already.
“She refuses to come look at art with me. She says life is too short to watch people not moving about. And,” she said, speaking in a lower tone of voice, “I didn’t think she was necessary today. After all,” she continued, shrugging her shoulders, “the scandalous thing that everyone thinks might happen if a lady and a gentleman are together has happened, so there’s not much she can do to staunch that particular flow.”
“We’re a flow?” he replied, bemused by her turn of phrase.
She grimaced. “Bad choice of words. I have no excuse except that I was up late.”
“Did you mean the damage has already been done?”
Now she was rolling her eyes at him. “We are damage? That’s even worse.”
She folded her arms, glaring at him for a few heart-stopping moments, then she snickered, her mouth in a wide smile. “You are far too serious, Vortigern,” she said in a whisper. “And we should be on our way, so we don’t have time to discuss what has already been done.”
“Fine.” He couldn’t pay attention to what he was viewing anyway, not with her here, and him thinking about the night before, and also thinking about the pistols in his carriage, and what they were about to venture into.
That he would be the only protection she had.
An awesome responsibility, far more serious than whether he had seen her unclothed.
He had not, he thought with some disappointment.
“And the men are gathering in The Mongoose’s Tail? Hideous name for a pub,” she said in an aside.
The woman to whom she was speaking nodded. “Yes, ma’am, they are there most afternoons into the evening. Planning their things and accosting some of us that live nearby.” The woman looked frightened, and Margaret’s heart hurt for her.
How lucky she was to have a maid, even if she could and would leave her at home? These women had no such support, nobody to help them if they were harassed. If the men were as many as the woman had said, likely nobody could stand up to them.
One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Page 19
