Hiring a housekeeper who was not the most unpleasant woman ever.
Redecorating.
Making this ducal mansion a home. For him. And Rose. And her?
When did he become a man who preferred being home to carousing? Cavorting, she called it?
He smiled at the memory.
He could pinpoint the moment precisely—when he looked into that little girl’s eyes and saw emotions he recognized, and knew he was able to do something about it. About all of it. And would, if he could just prove to the world—not to mention himself—that he was the best and most proper person this tiny, precious creature had to take care of her.
And that did not mean taking advantage of her caretaker.
He tried to forget how Lily felt in his arms, against his mouth, and concentrated instead on the books he had gotten out from his library to take to bed.
And they would be the only things he would take to his bed.
That vow didn’t feel quite as honorable a few hours later when he’d finished leafing through Charles Lyell’s Principles of Geology—while no doubt a fascinating subject, it could not hold a candle to the “Principles of Lilyology.”
Which he would love to explore in more depth. Perhaps even write Volume 2 of the series.
She was just down the hall. Just there. He could get up, tap on her door, and—no. No, he couldn’t.
But what would happen if he did?
Marcus lay back on his bed, his hand sliding down to grasp himself. He’d managed to stop thinking about the After Kiss for a few hours, but now he was damned if he could think of anything else.
She’d be wearing a thin chemise—no, wait, she’d be wearing his nightshirt, her essence all over it. Because it would be too big for her, it’d be slipping off her shoulders, revealing her neck, her collarbones, the top of her neck.
He’d stand there at the door waiting for her to invite him in. He’d said he wouldn’t presume, so anything that happened now had to be on her impetus.
“Come in,” she’d say with a smile, turning to walk away from him, the shirt thin enough for him to see her back and the curve of her buttocks.
That the nightshirt was made of thick cotton in reality did not intrude on his fantasy, because this was his fantasy, damn it.
Anyway. He’d step inside, closing the door behind him. She’d walk to the bed and sit down, beckoning him closer. Of course he’d go, he wasn’t an idiot.
He stroked his cock, feeling it get harder with each of her imagined movements. That he hadn’t even gotten to see her underneath his own nightshirt was a testament to how poor he was at this kind of thing. But at least it had already gone on for five minutes, and he hadn’t finished yet.
He’d sit beside her on the bed, he thought, and she’d slowly undo the tie of his dressing gown—damn, he’d forgotten he was wearing a dressing gown, and that was crucial in his scenario. He didn’t want to be fussing with buttons and cravats and hose and trousers, he just wanted to get naked with her as she, too, got naked.
Dressing gown. Right.
She’d slide the dressing gown off his shoulders, putting her hands on his neck and pulling his mouth to hers.
And then they’d kiss, and he could slide his hands on her legs, up her thighs, pushing the nightshirt up so he could feel her skin against his palm. She’d groan, low and deep in her throat, for him, just for him, and touch his chest and his back and then reach for his cock, emitting a small sound of surprise at his size.
Because this was, after all, his fantasy. He didn’t make a habit of comparing the size of his penis against other men, but he thought he likely was larger than most men, mostly because he was larger than most men in general. It stood to reason, if not scientific method.
Because a scientific method of gauging penis size would just be odd.
His hand moved faster and faster, gripped his length harder, and all he could think about was her, and the softness of her skin, and how her eyes would be blazing gold, and how her breasts would feel under his hands . . . his mouth.
How she’d taste . . . everywhere.
It was that image that brought him to a shuddering, satisfying climax, leaving him panting and sweaty and shaking in his bed, the momentary completion leaving him, contrarily, wanting more.
More that he couldn’t take unless she wanted it, and more that if he took he would most definitely not be living up to the new standards he’d set for himself. Even by the old standards, that behavior wouldn’t be acceptable.
It was going to be even harder—so to speak—to maintain a properly ducal decorum. Especially now that he knew he would have to do it for longer than two minutes.
A duke must have three things:
1 A dukedom (of course)
2 The arrogance appropriate to his position
3 A larger than average . . . standing amongst his peers
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 19
“How do you take your tea, my lady?” Lily’s entire body reacted when she heard his voice, even before she registered what he was saying.
Who was he talking to, anyway? She walked more quickly down the hall toward the schoolroom.
“Sugar. Lots of sugar.” Her steps slowed as she heard Rose’s voice. They were taking tea together?
She made her way to the door and peered inside. Rose and the duke were seated at the small table, the one where they’d done their drawings together, the duke’s large frame bent over nearly double at the small table.
Rose was wearing a—was that, a cravat?—on her head, tied into a bow, and she appeared to have been slathering jam in copious amounts on her face.
The duke, not unsurprisingly, was not wearing a cravat.
She hadn’t seen him since the night before, not since they kissed, not since she touched his back, felt the solid wall of muscle pressed against her chest, and had to remind herself that it couldn’t happen again, not if she wanted to preserve the distance—tiny though it was—between them as employer and employee, not anything more.
It wasn’t proper. It was delicious, enticing, intoxicating, and felt like wonderful madness, but it was not proper.
Perhaps she should embroider that on her handkerchief so she could refer to it when tempted.
Although if she did, she’d likely be looking at it every few minutes or so.
Enough, Lil, she reminded herself. She could not change the past, but she could guide her future.
She walked into the room, putting a politely distant smile on her face.
The duke caught her eye, a warm smile starting to curl his mouth up, but he froze, mid-smile, and Lily felt the catch of that in her heart.
“Are you having tea?” she asked, which was a stupid question, since that was clearly what they were doing.
Rose wrinkled up her face, showing just what she thought of her question.
Lily couldn’t blame her.
“I told Miss Rose that we were both in need of manners,” Marcus said. “Learning to do what was proper, and that you had been helping me in the evenings just as you teach Rose during the day.” His tone was as proper and distant and respectful as it should be.
Why did that bother her?
“And so we decided to have tea together, to practice.”
“Like you do,” Rose added, of course not aware that Lily and the duke practiced things that would not come up in the course of polite conversation.
More like impolite actions. The exact opposite of polite conversation.
“May I join you?”
A silence as the duke looked at Rose. “This is your tea party, Miss Rose. Should we allow your governess to join us?”
Your governess. Reminding her again, even though he didn’t mean it, of her position.
“Uh-huh,” Rose said, reaching for the pot of jam.
The duke stood and held one of the small chairs out for her. “Please be seated, Miss Lily.”
She sat, and she could have sworn he slid
his fingers over the bare skin of her neck for just a moment, but he was back in his own chair before she could register whether it was what she had indeed felt. Not proper, she wanted to remind him.
“You take your tea with milk,” Rose asserted.
“Let me pour the tea for you, my lady, the pot is still too heavy.” The duke poured the cup, and then Rose put in so much milk the liquid nearly hit the top of the rim, making it nearly impossible for her to raise it without spilling.
Lily regarded the cup for a moment, then leaned forward and slurped enough out to make it safe to pick up.
“That action is not what polite young ladies usually do,” the duke said, his tone laced with humor. Lily felt herself flush, reminded that slurping tea was the least shocking thing she had done that polite young ladies did not. “Although it is hard to imagine what a polite young lady would do when faced with that situation,” he continued. “What would you do, Rose, if your cup was too full?”
Rose picked up her own cup which was blessedly only half full. “I don’t know,” she said with a shrug as she took a sip. “Spill it out?” She lowered the cup and reached for the sugar bowl.
The duke put his hand on her wrist. “I think you have enough sugar in that tea, don’t you?”
Rose glowered but pulled her hand back. The duke patted her hand and leaned back in his chair. “What should we talk about at tea?” He shot a quick, amused glance at Lily. “The weather? The Queen? The elegance of this room?”
Rose shrugged again. The duke heaved an overdone sigh, humor lighting up his dark eyes. “Perhaps Miss Lily and I might converse so you can see just what proper young ladies and gentlemen talk about.”
Only I am not proper, Lily thought. Not anymore, not since my father lost everything and I had to earn my living however I could. But for the moment she would play the part.
If only she were proper enough to even dream—but no, that was a very dangerous thought. He was her employer. That she had discovered she liked kissing her employer was improper, certainly, but there was no long-term harm in it . . . was there?
Except to her heart, and her reputation, and the very real possibility that he would be marrying some lady—a lady who was not her—and that she would have to see him with another woman, a woman who would take precedence in his and Rose’s lives.
Wonderful. Now she was thoroughly depressed.
“Miss Lily?”
“Oh, of course. I am sorry.” She sat up straighter in her chair and looked at him. “Had you asked me something? I was . . . I was thinking about something.” About how this was the most untenable of situations, and yet it felt so comfortable, so right, being here. With him and Rose. About how his hands had felt on her skin and how she wanted to feel that alive, that wanted, again.
About how she had the chance to make her dreams come true, not the dreams where she and the duke were . . . doing things, but how she could elevate the agency’s reputation so no woman would ever have to be forced into an unfortunate position again.
“I was wondering if you thought the weather will be fine enough for a walk tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “All three of us. I cannot today, I have to pay a call on my host from last night.”
“I cannot predict the weather, Your Grace.”
He rolled his eyes, no doubt at her prim tone. “We are conversing, Miss Lily, not trying to predict anything.”
That was the thing, wasn’t it? She couldn’t predict what would happen next, how she’d feel, what she’d do.
She felt as though she were standing on a precipice, and she could jump down or fly off. The results would be the same, but the journeys—oh, the journeys would be entirely different.
“In that case, Your Grace, I would say I hope it will be fine enough weather for a walk tomorrow. Miss Rose and I have been making a study of trees and flowers, and perhaps she can identify some for us.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Rose. “Does that suit you, Miss Rose? To take a walk in the park tomorrow?” He shot a glance at Lily. “I love to walk, just walk, don’t you?”
Rose nodded, absorbed in the biscuit she seemed to have filched while the duke was not looking.
“Excellent,” he said again. “It will be a pleasure to walk with two such lovely ladies.”
His compliment, guarded as it was, still managed to warm her, making her aware that he was aware of her. That perhaps, if it were even possible, he had been thinking as much about her as she had about him.
In which case no wonder he didn’t have a cravat on. He might well have lost his concentration, as she had, after last night. She was surprised she hadn’t somehow managed to put her gown on backward, or forgotten how to speak.
He made her speechless and confused and wanting.
The exact opposite of precise, prim, and methodical.
And she wasn’t sure she didn’t like it much better.
A duke need never explain his reasons for not wishing to do something, but he should be prepared, if he is asked. And when he is asked, a duke can choose either to explain himself or to raise an eyebrow and stare at the questioner for his rudeness.
It is recommended to do the first, but much more common to employ the second.
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 20
“I just don’t know, Caroline.” Lily sat in the Unfortunate Woman chair feeling as though she had earned the right to sit there. Unfortunately. Caroline sat in the chair opposite her in the office, an expression of concern on her striking features.
“But you haven’t done anything worth doing, not really.” Caroline drew back and blew a strand of hair off her face. “A kiss or two between two interested adults—that is not going to lead inexorably on a path of ruin, not if you don’t want it to.”
Oh, but she did want it to. She’d had more thoughts than she could fathom of going into his study and stripping him naked, unwrapping his cravat (even though it was likely already off), unbuttoning his shirt, undoing the placket of his trousers. She was a little fuzzy on what else he might wear. She hoped there wasn’t much more, she didn’t want to take too much time with it.
Sliding everything off so she could see the man underneath it all. She knew he would be gloriously, arrogantly naked, proud of who he was and what he looked like, as proud as he was when clothed.
Just—more unclothed.
“You don’t want it, do you, Lily?” Caroline must have noticed her hesitation.
“No, no, it’s just—well, I had no idea that kissing was so pleasurable.”
Her friend laughed, and more hair flew around her head. Perhaps, Lily thought, she would purchase her a packet of hairpins for her next birthday.
“It is that. How do you think so many of us get into so much trouble?” Caroline’s dark blue eyes danced as she spoke, but Lily knew her friend had been through more than she should have because of . . . trouble. It was what had been the basis for their partnership, their friendship, the bond of having to escape something that they were never truly part of.
In her own case, she’d had no choice; the only place that would take a female with no references but experience dealing with money was the brothel. She’d never thought her father’s fecklessness would provide useful job skills, but she’d had to manage their money, as much as she could, from a young age. But even she couldn’t withstand her father’s determination to beggar himself and his family.
In Caroline’s case, her downfall had been who she’d worked for—an artist who needed an assistant, someone who understood art and paint and the importance of quiet. An artist whose wife had seen a friendship and assumed the worst. Had blackened her name so thoroughly that Caroline couldn’t find employment anywhere, unless she was willing to work in a brothel in the usual way.
But Caroline’s experiences hadn’t blighted her spirit, just dampened it. And now with the agency doing as well as it was, thanks to the duke hiring her, Caroline was as joyful as Lily had ever seen her. Caroline was not one for
joy, usually. She was the mainstay of the agency, the one who bolstered everyone when they struggled, and who had the vision in the first place.
“What do you want to do?” Caroline asked in a soft, understanding voice.
Lily felt a wry smile curl her lips up, and she met her friend’s gaze.
Caroline just laughed and shook her head. “You know you can’t, not in reality. You can certainly think about it as much as you want. But to truly act upon it, you would have to be mad.”
“Or an idiot.”
“Or about to leave the country for parts unknown,” Caroline rejoined.
“Or on the verge of inheriting so much money it wouldn’t matter if I danced with my skirts held up to my knees in Trafalgar Square.”
Caroline held her hand up to her mouth and guffawed, Lily joining her in laughing.
Both of the ladies quieted as they heard the bell at the door jingle, but resumed giggling as they heard Annabelle’s voice. “Are you having fun without me? No fair,” she said in an outraged tone.
She stepped into the office, garbed in the bright colors she favored. Today she was wearing a purple overcoat on top of a bright green gown. It was . . . well, it was eye-catching, that was for sure. Whether the individuals would wish their eyes to be returned after seeing Annabelle was a puzzle.
“Lily, how wonderful to see you!” Annabelle swooped down and kissed her on the cheek. “And Caroline is laughing! What have you done to her, Lily?”
She stood between them, her hands on her hips, her gaze darting between them in that bird-flittering way she had.
Lily reached her hand out and tugged on Annabelle’s arm. “We were talking about my romantic life.”
Annabelle’s mouth pursed into an O and she perched on the arm of Lily’s chair. “Does that mean you—and the duke?” She sounded absolutely delighted.
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior Page 15
