The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior

by Megan Frampton

  He’d done his proper best to ignore just how reactive he was to her. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be proper at all. Not as when it came to her, certainly.

  “I am out of practice conversing with a young lady,” not to mention other things, “and dancing and eating standing up at a party without spilling all over myself. You will help me.” He cleared his throat. “That is, you could help me. If you agree. Besides,” he said, uncrossing his arms and spreading them wide in front of him, “what else is there for us to do of an evening? You can’t report on Rose’s progress every night.”

  “Don’t you have responsibilities outside the home?”

  He lifted his eyebrow. “Haven’t you noticed I barely have any responsibilities within the home?”

  She made a hmph sound, but he saw her mouth curl up as though she wanted to smile as well. “Yes, actually. I have.”

  “And I am trying to change that.” As he spoke, he realized just how true it was. “I want to become the kind of father Rose deserves, but to do that I am going to need help. You are the only one I can ask, Miss Lily. You are here, you are free in the evenings, and you are a lady.”

  She opened her mouth as if to argue, then snapped it shut again. “If I must,” she said.

  He smiled as though he hadn’t noticed her reluctant tone. “Excellent. And since my friend Mr. Smithfield and his sisters and husbands are coming to dinner tomorrow, we should begin this evening. Now.”

  “Now?” she squeaked, finally standing up. She was close enough to touch, and he crossed his arms over his chest again so he wouldn’t give in to that impulse.

  “Yes, now.” As he spoke, he felt something course through him, almost like an electric current.

  Or a bolt of lustful interest.

  She mirrored his stance, crossing her arms over her chest. But that just brought her breasts into higher prominence, easier to see out of the corner of his eye so she wouldn’t know he was looking.

  He was very glad they had gone to the dressmaker’s. The gown she wore now was so much more flattering. It revealed her figure, which he’d suspected was lovely, much better than the dowdy sack she’d had on when she first arrived.

  And she had quite lovely breasts.

  “You said your friend is bringing his sisters and their husbands to dinner?”

  “Yes, and I wish you to dine with us as well. You will bring Rose down later on.”

  She didn’t even bother to argue—good, she was getting to know him—but continued, “But if the sisters already have husbands, you are not thinking of them as potential spouses—are you?”

  He touched her arm as if to reassure her, but really, he just wanted to touch her anywhere that wasn’t entirely improper. Well, he wanted to touch her improperly, as well, if he were being honest with himself. “I am not a sheikh looking to fill out my harem, if that is what you are asking.”

  She shook her head. “That doesn’t even make sense. It would only work if they were still unmarried and you wished to marry both of them.”

  He shrugged, trying not to grin at how she had shut him down so thoroughly. “No matter, I have no intentions whatsoever toward Mr. Smithfield’s sisters. But I do intend to make polite conversation.”

  “You are in need of assistance there,” she muttered.

  He grinned at her and she smiled back. That returned smile was far more gratifying than spoon-balancing, that was for certain. He wished he could just fling his head back and laugh, in the most unseemly way possible, perhaps even clasp her arm as they laughed together. Even in just a few short days she had intrigued him, engaged him, in a way he didn’t think he had ever felt before.

  That nobody had had this effect on him would be profoundly depressing if he weren’t experiencing it now. He just wanted to learn more about her, to find out what flowers she might like and what had brought her into governessing in the first place.

  “So,” he said, clasping her arm as he lowered her back into her chair, “what does constitute pleasant conversation?” He returned to his own seat and placed his hands on his knees.

  Nothing we’ve spoken about tonight, Lily thought, in answer to the duke’s question. He regarded her intently, and she envied whichever woman would be the object of his scrutiny as a potential wife. Not to mention envying the woman who would be able to see more of the chest that was just barely showing above his shirt collar.

  The woman he’d court—but never love—through polite conversation. She could do this. “You are not to mention how much or how little a lady has had to eat or drink, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat. “Nor are you to discuss anything that could possibly be misconstrued,” such as saying he wished to do something he could only do with a lady, “nor controversial, nor argumentative.”

  “What can I talk about, then?” He sounded amused.

  She smiled in return. “Not much, honestly. The weather. The day’s activities, as long as you haven’t been doing anything too shocking. The pleasantness of the company, the food, and the dancing. If there is dancing, of course.”

  “And how will a lady know when I am particularly interested in her?”

  Ah. That. “Well,” Lily said, feeling her traitorous skin start to heat, “that is all a matter of nuance.”

  “Nuance?” Oh, dear Lord. His voice. He had lowered it to a deep timbre, even deeper than usual, and she felt as though she could actually feel it vibrating through her body, causing her to shudder in response.

  She drew a deep breath. “Ladies are generally more attuned to nuance than gentlemen. For example, a man might wish to announce he has a particular fondness for a certain woman, but of course that is not polite conversation. But he can indicate, through his actions, how he feels, and that is entirely polite.”

  He twisted his mouth in contemplation. “So if I were to indicate my interest in a woman, I might—” He leapt up and held his hand out to her. “This requires practice.”

  Her mouth went dry as she placed her fingers in his, allowing him to draw her to her feet.

  They were face-to-face, as close to each other as they would be if they were dancing. A polite distance, and yet . . . and yet . . . She felt anything but polite or circumspect or any of those things a proper governess should.

  She had the urge to run her fingers through his thick dark hair, to scrape her palm against his cheek, feel the rough stubble against her skin. She wanted to lean against him, to give in to an emotion other than responsibility and love.

  Desire. That’s what it was. She desired him, and she wanted, quite desperately, to know what it would feel like, all the impolite conversation and cavorting and everything she suspected lurked behind those dark, expressive eyes.

  “Miss Lily?” His voice interrupted her musings, thank goodness. What would he say if he knew what she was thinking, the governess whom he’d asked to instruct him on polite discourse?

  She felt her breathing quicken as she thought about what he might say. Or, more to the point, might do.

  For that matter, what she might say. Or do.

  There seemed potential for a lot of things. Not all of them making for a precise, prim, or methodical governess.

  Merely an improper one.

  Any gentleman, whether a duke or a well-educated commoner, should keep in mind that ladies are not the same as men. First of all, they do not have the same desires and wants a man does. Nor do they have the ability to defend themselves against any unwanted passions. They are the weaker sex, and it is therefore imperative that a gentleman maintain oversight over any lady’s behavior to ensure it is correct.

  Unless the lady herself makes a request, at which point the gentleman has no choice but to accede to her wishes.

  —THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR

  Chapter 11

  “Of course, Your Grace. I was”—thinking about all the improper things I wished we could do together—“woolgathering. Most young ladies will not allow their thoughts to wander so, not when in your presence.”
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  His smile, the one that made it appear they were sharing a delicious secret, deepened. “You find my presence so notable, then?” As though he weren’t already the recipient of praise, he had to go ask for it? Hmph.

  “You are a duke,” she said in a dismissive tone, “so it wouldn’t matter if you had warts and were bald. Any young lady would be cowed in your presence.”

  “But you are not.” He still held her hand. She should take it away, smooth her palms on her gown, but she left it there. Soaking in the warmth of him, the feel of his bare skin—of course he wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was she—able to see every sharp, delineated plane of his face, that commanding nose, those expressive eyebrows.

  Hearing his deep voice rumble through her.

  “I suppose I should be cowed, Your Grace, if I really thought about it. After all,” she continued, finally finding the strength to take her hand away, “you have the ability to let me go if I prove unsatisfactory.” Or knew I was thinking entirely improper thoughts. “You have so much power over those who are deemed lesser than you, and with the exception of the Queen and her family, everyone is lesser.”

  He scowled then. “I would never abuse my position like that. You have my word.”

  She felt herself soften. “I know,” she said in a quiet tone. And she did.

  A silence as they stood there, still together, not touching.

  “I believe you were to demonstrate how I could tell if a lady was actually interested in me? Beyond the happy accident of my title?” His voice was light, as though he had felt whatever it was, too, and wished to distance himself from it.

  It was good that one of them, at least, was sensible. Although she never would have thought it would be him, the Dangerous Duke behaving more like the Demure Duke.

  That would make her the Improper Governess, and she could not behave that way, not if she wanted to avoid scandal.

  “Let us pretend we are conversing, Your Grace,” she began.

  “There is no need to pretend. We are conversing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we are, but let us pretend we are at a function in the evening, and we are possibly intrigued by one another.”

  She couldn’t help but notice his eyebrow had risen, as though he were about to confirm that they were intrigued by one another. She hurried to finish before he could possibly say anything that would make her blush again. “And I am a young, suitable lady,” that he could not argue with, she most definitely was not suitable, “and you and I have found some mutual interests. What do you like, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “I have not thought much about it, honestly. I suppose I would say I like brandy, and cards, and,” a pause as he thought, “well, let us leave it at brandy and cards.”

  “A young lady is not likely to have much opinion about brandy and cards.”

  “Which is why I have never considered marriage before,” he replied, walking to one of the carts in the room. “Or really worry about making polite conversation with a young lady. Until now . . .” He paused, and glanced back at her with a sly smile on his face. “. . . it hasn’t seemed worth the trouble.” He drew the stopper out of a bottle and poured a generous amount into a glass. Then smiled that secret smile again and poured a less generous amount into a second glass. He picked both up and handed the less full glass to her.

  “This is not proper in the least, Your Grace,” Lily said, the fumes of the brandy tickling her nose.

  He chuckled, and she could have sworn he winked at her. “Upon reflection, I believe my best course of action is to take care of all the improprieties while practicing with you so there is nothing left but proper behavior when I meet a woman I might possibly consider marrying.”

  He held his glass up to hers. “May we never be out of spirits,” he said, drinking after he spoke.

  She took a sip, coughing as the fiery liquid burned down her throat. Trying not to think about what he’d just said. As the brandy warmed her body, she nodded. “That is quite good, once you get past the initial impact.”

  “So true about many things,” he said in a soft murmur, one that did nothing to cool her heated skin.

  She felt her cheeks begin to color, and set her glass down, bobbing a quick curtsey. “I should go check on Rose, Your Grace,” she said, not daring to look at him again. Not daring to see what look might be in his eyes, the temptation of that bared throat, his tousled hair, his stubbled cheeks.

  She fled from the room, fully aware of him watching her retreating figure. Knowing that no matter who he was—Dangerous or Demure—he was definitely a peril to her peace of mind.

  “Pie for breakfast,” Rose said, actually lifting her nose in disdain as Lily placed a piece of toast on her plate.

  “No, Miss Rose, you cannot have pie for breakfast.” At least she was standing firm in this matter; ducal improprieties had nothing on the very possibility of a sweet in the morning.

  “Then nothing,” Rose said, crossing her arms on her chest.

  Lily heard the footman—the one standing to the side of the room—stifle a laugh. He was not nearly as haughty as the other one, thank goodness. She shrugged in response, having learned at least one thing since entering the duke’s household. “Pie is not what young ladies eat for breakfast. Isn’t that right, John?” she said, turning to him.

  The footman looked surprised to be addressed. Probably the duke behaved as though he were the only person in the room. “Not generally, miss,” he said. “And young ladies need energy for—for whatever it is they do,” he continued, clearly not up on what young ladies’ days consisted of.

  “Precisely,” Lily said. “Do you want butter or jam?”

  Rose still looked sulky as she answered. “Both.”

  That, she could accommodate.

  She and Rose were finishing their breakfast when the duke entered the room, holding a letter. Lily’s attention was immediately focused on him, that prickling awareness curling up her spine and low into her belly. He was very properly dressed today, and she had a moment of sadness that she couldn’t see his throat and the beginning of his chest.

  He walked over to Rose and kissed her on the cheek before sitting at the table. John filled his cup with coffee, and he took a deep drink before speaking. “I’ve had a letter from my friend Smithfield. He and his sisters are joining us for dinner tonight. Miss Lily will bring you down, too, afterward,” he said, addressing Rose.

  She beamed, and took the final bite of toast.

  “One of the sisters’ husbands is otherwise engaged, however, so if we don’t mind, Smithfield is bringing a young lady who has been staying with his sister as well. We don’t mind, do we?”

  Rose shook her head as Lily felt that prickling awareness change into a feeling of dread. A young lady coincidentally available to dine with a duke. How fortuitous. That meant she definitely had to curb whatever . . . feelings he’d stirred up in her. He needed a suitable young woman to wed, and that woman was most definitely not her.

  “Miss Lily?” the duke prompted.

  “It is not our place to mind, Your Grace,” Lily said in a demure—ha!—tone.

  He frowned and shot her a glance, but didn’t comment on her subservient reply. “I will write to Smithfield, then.”

  Lily didn’t reply, didn’t look at him again, but she felt his gaze on her, those dark eyes assessing what she might be thinking or feeling. Had he spent a sleepless night as well, pondering what kind of young lady he would court? Reviewing what qualities he required in a woman he’d ask to share his name, his privilege, his child—but not his heart?

  Or had he thought about how close they’d been, what her hand had felt like in his, how they’d spoken—conversed—both properly and improperly. Was he looking forward to more practice, with her, or was he so jaded he didn’t think about it at all?

  And how did people manage to get anything done at all, with all this thinking and pondering and such?

  When a duke—a proper duke, that is—entertains, he must
ensure that all of his staff are on their most correct behavior. There is no fun to be had whatsoever, neither upstairs in the dining room nor downstairs amongst the servants, since fun could be viewed as improper. The food will be the ultimate in fashionable cuisine, which means that it will be laden with intricate sauces and difficult to eat without having it spill onto your clothing. Further, the conversation will be limited to the weather, the parties to be attended, and the duke’s own consequence.

  —THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR

  Chapter 12

  “Thank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”

  Smithfield strode ahead of Thompson, who was holding the door to the drawing room for him and the rest of the party. Marcus didn’t think he’d ever seen his butler come this close to an approving expression. Thompson nearly smiled when he told him that respectable people were to dine and directed him to make the preparations for guests.

  His butler had directed what was to be served at dinner, as well, since Marcus hadn’t bothered to hire a new housekeeper since the last one had decamped to a place, she said, “Where she’d be more appreciated.”

  Marcus didn’t think it would be possible to appreciate her more—specifically, how unpleasant she had been—but he didn’t point that out to her, just gave the woman her wages and sent her on her way.

  Marcus nodded at Smithfield, then turned his attention to the other guests. The two sisters resembled Smithfield in height and coloring, and the last young lady—the one substituting for the husband—was, he noticed, blond and petite, with a curvy figure and a charming dimple that she seemed fond of exposing.

  “Your Grace, may I introduce my sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Porter, my sister Mrs. Haughton, and our friend, Miss Lavinia Blake?”

  Lots of names, lot of exclamations about what a lovely house he had, including the foyer, which he’d never much noticed.