Lady Be Reckless

by Megan Frampton

  The footman nodded, pointing to the room she’d been in with Ida and Pearl yesterday. Apparently everyone congregated there.

  “Thank you,” she replied, moving to the door and knocking on it, waiting for his call to come in.

  “Lady Olivia!” He looked wary, as though she were going to propose again. The poor man.

  “Hello, Lord Carson. I was hoping we could speak.”

  He exhaled sharply, gesturing for her to sit on the sofa in front of the fire.

  “What is it?”

  He stood to the side of her, his arms folded over his chest. Naturally suspicious she might fling herself at him again.

  She looked up at his face and smiled. And waited as his expression eased until he was smiling back at her.

  He really was a nice person; he just wasn’t the man for her.

  “The last time we spoke in private, I said some things that I should not have. I apologize for my assumptions.”

  The thought hit her that she had assumed just as many things about him as she had about those villagers—that he needed her help, that he wanted her, that he loved her.

  There was a moment of silence, and then he spoke. “Well, thank you, Olivia. I am glad I’ve gotten to know a woman such as yourself, and I admire your persistence.”

  The last was said with a faint tinge of humor.

  “My persistence in asking someone to marry me who most definitely did not wish to marry me?” she asked.

  He laughed, and she joined him. It felt good to tell someone she was sorry, to truly admit her headstrong foolhardiness.

  “What do you feel about Edward?” he asked.

  “I love him,” she answered simply. “And he loves me.”

  “That is just what I’d hoped would happen,” he replied in a smug tone. “That is why I asked you to help him find a bride. I knew the two of you would be a perfect match, and I knew that neither one of you would realize it unless you were forced to.”

  Olivia’s mouth opened wide and she stared at him. “You planned all that?”

  He grinned, and then he was kneeling on the rug in front of her, taking her hand in his. “I did. Edward has been my friend forever, and he is so prickly and defensive about what he is. I knew that it would take a strong woman to push through his reserves, and you are the strongest woman I know.” He squeezed her hand, and she felt the tears come again.

  She was not a person who cried, and yet here she was, crying again. But this time with happiness.

  “Thank you,” she said, only to freeze when the other door was flung open wide, revealing her mother, her father, her sisters, and Mr. Beechcroft.

  “Oh wonderful!” the duchess exclaimed as they all poured into the room.

  Oh God, Olivia thought, realizing what they all must think right now. Bennett kneeling in front of her, holding her hand, while she cried—it couldn’t have looked more like a proposal than if Bennett had been holding a placard with “Will You Marry Me, Olivia?” written on it.

  Her father immediately went to Bennett, shaking his hand vigorously, a rare smile on his face.

  “I knew that if we just got the two of you together that everything would work out perfectly.” The duchess paused, and Olivia opened her mouth to tell the truth of the situation, but then her mother started speaking again. “You’ll get married, and we won’t have to worry about finding a bride for Lord Carson, and the rest of the girls will find equally good matches. See, Duke?” she said, whirling to regard her husband. “I told you that we would get one of the girls married to a future viscount.”

  “But,” Olivia began, her eyes darting between her mother and Bennett. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

  Well, perhaps because Mr. Beechcroft had swept him up into a great bear hug, clapping him on the back and saying, “My boy!” several times.

  It was up to her. It was always up to her.

  “Mother.”

  She spoke loudly, but not loudly enough to drown out her mother, who was currently wondering if St. Paul’s could build a wing for the additional guests.

  “Mother!” she said again, this time going up to place her hand on her mother’s arm.

  “What is it, dear?” the duchess said.

  Olivia glanced around the room, too small for all of its inhabitants. “Can we go somewhere where we can sit down?”

  “Everyone is in the sitting room,” the butler told Edward as he returned to the house.

  He burned with the urge to go find her, carry her off on his shoulders as he’d threatened, but since they were all there he probably couldn’t.

  Not that he wasn’t tempted.

  He strode into the room, his gaze finding her. She sat at the center of the group, her eyes meeting his and smiling.

  His goddess. His warrior. His love.

  “I wanted us all to be here before things got carried away,” she began. “I want to clear up the confusion that might have resulted from before. I am not betrothed to Lord Carson,” she said, and Edward looked at Bennett, who grinned back.

  What had happened while he was away?

  “Instead,” she continued, holding her hand out to silence the duchess, “it appears that I have fallen in love with Mr. Wolcott, and I have asked him to marry me.”

  “You have—?” the duchess sputtered.

  “I have.”

  Edward advanced toward her as he drew the ring out from his pocket. Her eyes widened as she saw the box in his hand, and then her face lit up.

  “It is true that Lady Olivia has done me the great honor of proposing,” he said. “And I have accepted. I would also, in the spirit of true equality, want to propose to her as well.” He lowered one knee onto the carpet in front of her, holding the box in his hand. “Lady Olivia—Olivia, my love—will you marry me?”

  He flipped the box open and showed her the ring, watching as her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed.

  Not quite as welcome a sight as seeing her in his bed, but this was far more respectable.

  “Yes,” she replied, her eyes getting bright. “I will marry you.”

  He stood and took the ring out, placing it on her left hand before looking over at his father, who was beaming. “I found a proper Society lady to marry me, Father,” he said.

  “But Lord Carson is to marry my daughter!” the duke said. Edward turned to look, seeing the duke’s face had gotten flushed, his mouth set into an unhappy line. “I will not have her marry a—” And then he stopped. Edward watched as the duke resolved to say it.

  “A bastard!”

  Olivia pushed past Edward to stand in front of her parents, and he could see the self-righteous anger in the set of her shoulders.

  He loved how she was finally going to be able to stand up for herself as she’d stood up for so many others in need.

  “It doesn’t matter if Mr. Wolcott was not fortunate enough to be born with the benefits of our Society,” she began. “What does matter is that I am in love with him. He is in love with me. He understands who I am, and what I want to do, more than anybody. He supports me, he fights with me, and he respects me.”

  She turned to look at him, and he was reminded of that first time they’d met at the ball. She’d practically reverberated with emotion, but it was nothing compared to what she looked like now. Or at least how he saw her now. She sparkled, she blazed, she glittered with all of who she was and who they were together.

  “But you will not go against my wishes!” the duke said.

  Olivia straightened even further. “I will. I am not yours to be married off to someone who doesn’t love me. Who I don’t love. Apologies, Lord Carson.”

  “No apology necessary,” Bennett replied in an amused voice.

  “I am not Della, running away from an impossible situation. I hope one day we can get her back,” she said, her tone somber. “I am running toward something instead. Toward someone. Mr. Wolcott, who is the best man I have ever known and who says he wants me as well.”

  The duke looked at Olivia f
or a long moment, and Edward’s chest tightened. He knew Olivia wouldn’t change her mind, but he also didn’t want her to lose contact with her sisters, if the duke stood firm.

  “Fine,” the duke said in a snarl. “If this is what you want.”

  “It is,” she said, raising her chin.

  “You were tremendous.”

  It was later that evening, and Olivia had once again snuck over to his bedroom. This time he’d been waiting for her, and he’d folded her in his arms and made short work of her clothing before losing himself in her softness, her skin, her cries of joy.

  Now they lay in his bed, Scamp settled at the bottom, Olivia’s head on his chest, her fingers in his hair.

  “I was,” she said in a smug tone. “I have a lot of practice speaking out for what is right.” She propped herself up on her elbow and smiled down at him. “I know how to speak up, but I didn’t know how important it was to listen and ask questions until I met you.”

  “And what questions do you want to ask?” he asked, sliding his hand on her naked back down to her arse.

  She tugged on his hair, lowering her face in preparation to kiss him. “Will you kiss me for the rest of our lives?” And then she did kiss him, and it felt right. Perfect.

  He deepened the kiss, and he felt her smile against his mouth, her body shifting so she was lying on top of him.

  “I’ll answer that if you answer this. When can we get married?” he asked as his hands caressed her skin, feeling the heat of her.

  “As soon as you let me out of your bed,” she replied, sliding her hand from his hair down his body to find his erect cock.

  He closed his eyes as she slid her hands up and down the shaft, raking her nails lightly on him.

  “We’re going to have to wait a bit longer then,” he said, grasping her thighs and positioning her so she was able to slide onto him.

  “Oh,” she said in a delighted voice. “I had no idea this was possible.”

  “Everything is possible, my love. Now that we’ve found one another.”

  “I love you,” she said as she placed her palms flat on his chest and began to move.

  “I love you too.”

  Epilogue

  “How are you feeling, wife?”

  Edward bent down to kiss the back of her neck, and she shivered.

  They had returned to the London town house after getting married in the village—the same village where Olivia had felt so humbled—and Mr. Beechcroft had joined them, although he was always alert to making excuses so he could leave them alone.

  “I am fine, husband.” Olivia patted her stomach, which was just beginning to get round. The child would be born in another six months or so, and Edward was already fussing over her all the time, even though she told him she felt fine, if prone to taking more naps.

  Her sister Eleanor had had a child a few months ago, and Olivia was looking forward to their children growing up with one another.

  Everything was settled, and wonderful, and she was finding she got remarkable results when she asked people what they wanted, not just telling them what they should want.

  In the evenings she and Edward spent as much time as possible in bed—much to Scamp’s delight—while arguing about names for the child.

  “I love you,” she said suddenly. She never got tired of telling him, and she never got tired of hearing it back from him.

  “I love you too,” he said, drawing her up into his arms and kissing her until her knees wobbled and she forgot about everything but him.

  An Excerpt from Lady Be Bad

  Keep reading for the first chapter of

  LADY BE BAD,

  the first in Megan Frampton’s dazzling The Duke’s Daughters series.

  And don’t miss the next book,

  THE DUKE’S DAUGHTERS: THE LADY IS DARING

  Coming October 2018

  Chapter 1

  “Not there, my lady,” the bookseller said, unhelpfully. Because obviously what Eleanor was looking for wasn’t there since she didn’t have it in her immaculately gloved hand.

  She turned to regard him, raising her nose and her eyebrow simultaneously. It was a talent she’d learned from her father, the Duke of Marymount, who had taught her little else. Not that she needed to know much from a gentleman such as her father. All that was required of the duke’s eldest daughter was to behave properly, marry well, and then give birth to more little children whose only talents might also be in the raising of facial attributes. They take after their mother, her husband might say, fondly.

  At the moment, her imagined husband looked like Lord Carson, eldest son and heir to the Marquis of Wheatley. At least according to her parents.

  It wasn’t a future Lady Eleanor Howlett was necessarily looking forward to, but then again, it was what was expected of her. What was, since the unfortunate elopement of her younger sister Della (with the dancing instructor hired to teach the Howlett girls), required of her so her remaining three sisters could escape the scandalous stigma Della had brought on the family.

  She just wished she had more time before having to go ahead with repairing the family’s reputation on the basis of two words—I will—spoken to a gentleman she hadn’t chosen for herself. Just time to do some things that were not entirely expected. She’d even begun making a list—though the things she wished to do were hardly shocking, it was unlikely she would be able to do any of them. A sad statement on her life, if she were being honest with herself.

  But none of these thoughts had anything to do with the book she did want. As opposed to the husband she did not.

  “Where is it, then?” she asked. Her maid, Cotswold, glanced in her direction, clearly keen to raise a ruckus should the bookseller not oblige her mistress. Cotswold didn’t share her interest in ancient mythology, but Cotswold was always determined that her lady get whatever it was she wanted.

  Unfortunately her maid did not have a say in what husband she got. Or the things she would never get to do.

  The man pointed past her shoulder. “Over in that second room. It’s where I keep the rarer books, you see.”

  “No, I do not see,” Eleanor murmured, making her way through the narrow aisles toward where the man had pointed. She did not see because her mother would not allow her to wear her spectacles in public, and this bookshop—even though it was not a place anyone of her acquaintance would patronize—was a public place.

  “My lady?” Cotswold said in a clearly questioning tone.

  “Just stay there. I will be out in a moment,” Eleanor replied in a terse tone. A young lady was never allowed to be alone except when sleeping, and Eleanor seldom got to truly relish those times. Being asleep and all. It was on her list, in fact.

  But now, for just a few moments, she was alone. Granted, she was in a dusty bookshop heading toward what was likely an even-dustier room, but she was almost technically alone.

  Until she wasn’t.

  The room she was heading for was even darker than the rest of the shop, and her gaze was transfixed by the shelves crammed with books, the titles just blurry enough for her not to be able to make out.

  She reached into her reticule and withdrew her spectacles when she felt something smash into her side, making her fall against one of the bookshelves, which began to teeter alarmingly.

  She yelped and thrust her hand out, the one holding the spectacles, and then began to fall, feeling as though her movements were arrested in time, each moment—I can’t right myself, I’m halfway down, I hope the floor isn’t too hard, I hope my spectacles don’t crack—seeming as though it lasted an eternity until she came to rest. Not on a hard floor as she’d anticipated, but on a human body, one with an arm that had reached around her waist to do . . . something. Steady her fall? Make her crash harder? She had no idea.

  “What—what?” she sputtered, trying to wriggle off the person, torn between wanting to yell for making her fall or be grateful for making sure she hadn’t fallen on the hard ground. Though the body she was on w
as certainly firm enough.

  “Get off me, woman,” a voice growled. A man’s voice. Definitely a man. A rude man, for that matter. No “Are you all right? Here, let me help you rise.” Just a curt command spoken in a low male voice.

  Why did it have to be a man? Eleanor thought to herself.

  She did manage to get onto her hands and knees, her face low to the ground, low enough that, even without her spectacles, which she was still clutching in her hand, she could see the picture engraved on the book that the man had presumably dropped when he’d also felled her.

  And then she forgot about everything, about falling, about the man, about the book she had come in the room for in the first place—everything but the picture she was close enough to see, practically brushing her nose against the paper. It was of a man and a woman doing something that Eleanor knew about only vaguely, but was now emblazoned forever in her memory.

  “See something of interest?” the man said, his tone much less abrupt than before. Eleanor was vaguely aware of him moving beside her, a long, elegant finger pointing to one of the places where the man and the woman were joined. “I have to admire the man’s strength, to hold his lady up like that,” he continued, his finger sliding down the page in excruciating slowness.

  Eleanor swallowed. She didn’t dare look over at him, for fear he would see everything she was feeling reflected on her face. She wasn’t certain she could identify everything she was feeling herself, but she knew that young, unmarried ladies did not usually feel this way. Especially not the eldest daughter of the Duke of Marymount, who was only supposed to be making a respectable, non-eyebrow-raising match. She couldn’t imagine an eyebrow would remain static if anyone were to see her. Him. Them.

  “It’s Hercules,” she said, pointing underneath the picture to where the words were written. There were other words too, in Italian, but she couldn’t concentrate enough to read them. “Hercules and Dejanire. He’s Hercules—of course he can hold her up.” Hold her up while also connecting with her in a very carnal way, Eleanor couldn’t help but notice. And wonder what those other words might possibly say, given what was happening above.