Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (15 page)

“Thank you,” he replied, placing his hand on top of hers. “Thank you.” This was by far the most . . . intense dalliance he’d
ever had with a woman.

Even though he knew it was everything more than a dalliance. Even though it never could be.

She’d never thought that showing emotions was a particularly attractive quality—her late husband had shown plenty of emotion,
namely jealousy, and pride, and misplaced arrogance. But with him, with Hadlow—Michael, she supposed she might call him now,
though that felt odd even inside the confines of her own head—his emotions were appealing. Even the ones that were less attractive.

That was, of course, because he was he. On anybody else those emotions would be annoying. Needy. But he wore them like an
unfamiliar set of clothes, strangely awkward and ungainly in a way that she didn’t think he had ever felt before.

It shouldn’t make him more attractive. But it absolutely did. And when he had opened up enough to speak to her about his brother—she
just wanted to cry and wrap her arms around him and protect him, of all the ludicrous ideas. A duke, especially his type of
duke, wouldn’t need any protecting. But that reality didn’t diminish her feelings.

“Do you think,” he began, sounding almost nervous, “do you think Gertrude would want something from this trip? I wonder if
any of the factories produce models of their engines or something like that. Only if you think she would like them,” he added
hurriedly.

Dear Lord. Had she thought him appealing when he was vulnerably emotional? That was nothing compared to when he was thinking
of something thoughtful he could do for her child, a being who had no hold on him, to whom he owed no obligation.

“She would love it,” Edwina replied. She clasped the hand he’d placed on hers and squeezed it. Here, alone in the carriage,
they could acknowledge what they’d done. Who they were to each other, couldn’t they?

She hoped so.

He looked down at their hands, his thumb moving in small circles on the back of her hand. Sending prickles up her spine, and
a warmth flowing through other parts of her body.

“This is,” he said, speaking in a low tone of voice, “this is special to me, you know.”

She hadn’t known. Not exactly. She’d suspected, but she hadn’t known.

“Yes, to me as well.” She blinked away the onset of tears. Why was she even tempted to cry? “It is not as though I do this
kind of thing every day.”

“Of course you don’t. I am honored you have chosen to do so with me.”

He kept rubbing the back of her hand, and she felt as though that was the only thing she could feel or know about, his thumb
on her skin, the way the carriage jostled their shoulders together, the constant thrum of the wheels and the distant jangling
of the horses’ harnesses.

They stayed silent for the remainder of the trip, Edwina as comfortable as she could possibly be alone in a carriage with
her employer, her lover, and—and her friend.

“We’re slowing,” he said after about an hour of travel. Edwina jerked upright, not having realized she’d been dozing, and
looked out the window of the carriage. The factory was to the right of them, a large, square building with a few stray plumes
of black smoke emerging from the top. The carriage drew to a stop directly in front of the black wrought-iron gates, the script
in the gates proclaiming they had, indeed, reached Powers and Smith.

“Let’s hope this is a useful visit,” he muttered in his usual aggravated tone. She suppressed a smirk—of course he was already
aggravated, since he was likely anticipating the potential stupidity of whomever he might meet inside—and picked up her papers,
straightening them and patting her hair, just to ensure she was looking tidy.

Smaxton opened the carriage door, holding his hand out to help her down the steps. She thought she heard him growl behind
her, and bit her lip. Perhaps now that he was allowing himself to show his emotions he should take care to hide them a bit
more. If anyone knew—her whole body suddenly felt as though it were freezing, and she swallowed hard against the rising anxiety.
If anyone knew what they were doing, it wouldn’t reflect poorly on him—what with being a duke, and male, and basically above
any kind of judgment—but it would on her.

And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself. So she just had to be very, very careful. As did he.

Which was why, when he held his arm out to her, she shook her head no. He narrowed his eyes at her, and then nodded in return,
seeming to process what she was thinking.

“Come along, Cheltam,” he said, starting to walk toward the gate in a brisk stride.

She hurried behind him, darting a few surreptitious glances at his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the back of his head.

She had to be discreet, not entirely oblivious, after all.

There was a flurry of movement as they approached the gates, and then a man stepped through the running mass of bodies toward
them, a smile suitable for greeting a duke—not too friendly, just hovering on the right side of obsequiousness—on his face.
This was obviously either Powers or Smith, his clothing completely clean and more expensive than even a site manager could
afford.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the man said in a cultured accent. He glanced at Edwina, frowning for a moment, then returned
to looking at the duke.

“Good morning. You are?” the duke said in his usual brusque tone.

The man didn’t seem to take it as amiss as Edwina would have if he had addressed her that way.

“Mr. Smith,” he replied. “Mr. Powers is tending to some emergency in the production room”—and then his expression froze—“not
that it is a true emergency, not that anything is wrong, just that—”

“Fine,” the duke interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Lead on, Mr. Smith,” and at that he shot Edwina a look as though to
say,
See? We got the businessman; we won’t get anything useful out of this
, and she wanted to laugh at his grumpiness.

“Er, would you wish your—your companion to wait for you while we conduct our business?”

Edwina stiffened as she realized what the man thought—that she was the duke’s paramour brought along as entertainment, presumably,
on the trip. Of course he’d know the duke wasn’t married, nor was her clothing as fine as would belong on a duchess. So the
only alternative would be that she was his mistress.

Which she was, she supposed, only she didn’t belong to him. She was not a property to be disposed of in an office while he
went around looking at admittedly boring things.

“You are mistaken,” Hadlow replied, his tone sharp, “this is my secretary, Mrs. Cheltam. She will be accompanying us on the
tour.”

Mr. Smith immediately looked chagrined, and Edwina almost felt sorry for him. “Ah, yes, of course. Your secretary,” and the
way he said the last two words, as though they should be accompanied by a wink, took whatever sympathy she had for the man
and shredded it. It made her angry and sad, also—because it just meant that no matter what, this was just temporary. Anger
because there was no logical way they could be together forever, and sad for the very same reason.

If he hadn’t been a duke. If she had been closer to his class. But this, this was just a fraction of what it would be like
if people knew about them.

But she couldn’t daydream away on “ifs”; she had work to do.

“This way, please,” Mr. Smith said, holding his arm out toward the large building in front of them. The duke paused to let
her go first, and she stopped short when she realized that was likely the first time he’d acknowledged her being a female
while working as his secretary.

Obviously he acknowledged her as female when he was acting as her lover, but those two situations were entirely different.

She followed Mr. Smith as he opened the door to the building, the noises of production and men talking getting louder. She
stepped over the threshold, and was immediately inside what was clearly the main production room. It was an enormous space,
with ominous-looking contraptions hanging from the ceiling, and rectangular worktables placed in a pattern in the room, at
least two men working at each one.

“If you will step into my office, I can go over what we will see,” Mr. Smith said, having to raise his voice over the din.
He gestured to the left corner of the room, where Edwina saw a discreet door with the word “OFFICE” painted on it.

The duke placed his hand at Edwina’s back and guided her to the office. It wasn’t untoward that her employer would do such
a thing and touch her to ensure her safety, but she was fairly certain that it was untoward when his fingers slid onto her
waist and squeezed. She would have to have a talk with him about discretion, and its importance, if they were to continue
this—this careful dance of employer and employee, of man and woman, of bed partners. Lovers.

And she would also have to have a discussion with her body, because her body was all too delighted that he was touching her
inappropriately. Her nipples had tightened, and she was keenly aware of him at her back, the solid, strong warmth of him an
almost tangible touch, just like his fingers.

His clever, clever fingers.

“If you’ll just step this way, Mrs. Cheltam,” Mr. Smith said, interrupting her salacious musings. The duke dropped his hand
from her body as she walked into the office, noting its general neatness, impressed despite her not feeling too kindly toward
its proprietor. There were bookshelves all along one wall, and on another, a small window looked out on to the factory space.
A large desk, its surface bare except for a few papers and a pen, was at the left, with two chairs placed opposite.

“If you’d care to have a seat?” Mr. Smith continued, gesturing to the chairs. She glanced at the duke, who nodded, and followed
to sit in the other chair after she’d settled herself.

Mr. Smith closed the door and took the chair behind the desk. He beamed at both of them, settling his hands on the desk. “We
very much appreciate your taking the time to visit our humble premises, Your Grace.”

Edwina didn’t even have to look at him to know his gaze had narrowed and his jaw had set at the man’s falsely modest words.
She felt a pang of sympathy for him—he encountered this kind of sycophancy all the time, due to his position. And of course
he had less patience for it than a man of average intelligence did.

No wonder he seemed so relieved to be able to share his thoughts with her.

“I do not invest funds in something if I cannot be persuaded as to its eventual results. Whether the results are financial,
or beneficial to progress, or some other tangible measure of success.” The duke leaned back in his chair, the very epitome
of aristocratic indulgence. “So tell me why I should invest in Powers and Smith.”

The next half hour was spent with Mr. Smith going over, with great alacrity, the forward progress of the company, the dedication
of its workers—above all, Mr. Smith—and how all the other engine manufacturers had less commitment, more mistakes, and faultier
engines.

Edwina took a few notes, but now that she was aware of what the duke wanted—facts, not hyperbole—there wasn’t very much to
write down for later discussion.

The duke broke in on Mr. Smith’s monologue as he was describing the specific quality controls for the engines—mostly Mr. Smith
going around and checking himself. “Right, well, I want to see the premises,” he declared, getting up and holding his hand
out to Edwina for her to rise as well.

She placed her fingers in his and stood, dropping them as soon as she was upright. He frowned and clasped his hands at his
back, rocking on his heels.

Mr. Smith’s mouth had dropped open, but he recovered relatively quickly, standing up and nodding in agreement. “Of course,
of course, just this way,” he said, beckoning to the door from which they’d entered.

At least now they were moving, Edwina thought, even if what Mr. Smith was saying about the machines was similar to what he’d
said in his office—he spoke in generalities about quality, and persistence, and innovation, without offering many specifics.

It was interesting, Edwina had to admit, to watch how the engines were made. Each part in its precise place, the motion of
the workers themselves almost mechanistic. She could understand a bit more why the process fascinated him; there was only
the quality of the work and the resulting product to assess, with no sprinkling of beauty, or fatuous words, or anything but
the thing itself.

That could be applied to him, as well—even if he weren’t a duke, he would be impressive. Fiercely intelligent, creative, handsome,
strong, and honest. It was remarkable, truly, that those qualities had survived his title. She didn’t think many men would
have all that power and still be committed to doing something more with it. Most would be content to settle, to do what they
had to, or what they thought they had to, but nothing more.

But not him. It was as though there was a force inside him, propelling him forward, into action beyond what most men would
do. That force—she had to wonder—did that apply to his romantic life also? Was she just the most current one in his forward
trajectory? Although even if she weren’t, it didn’t matter. They’d agreed to what this was, and it was not permanent.

A man walked up to them as Mr. Smith was discussing the quality of the materials used in the engine. Apparently they were
excellent, because why else would he talk about them?

“Ah, Powers, here you are,” Mr. Smith said. “Your Grace, allow me to present my partner, Mr. Powers. Mr. Powers is the man
with the vision, I am merely the facilitator,” he said, chuckling as though it was absurd for him to be “merely” anything.

Mr. Powers was tall and lean where Mr. Smith was medium height and running to fat. He glanced at the duke and Edwina, his
expression neutral.

“How do you do?” he said in what Edwina recognized as a Welsh accent. He nodded, but didn’t shake hands. “Smith has been telling
you all about the engines, then?” he said, squinting toward his partner.

“Yes, but now that you are here, you can give us all the details,” Mr. Smith said in an enthusiastic, albeit nervous, tone.

“The duke isn’t interested in all the details.” Mr. Powers spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Which made the duke snap his head
toward Mr. Powers.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

Mr. Powers shrugged as Mr. Smith opened and closed his mouth. “Why would you be? Either you want to invest your funds with
us, and see what we can do, or you don’t. Us telling you all about our engines isn’t going to affect that.”

“Oh, but it is.” Edwina couldn’t believe she was speaking, but here she was, interjecting herself into the conversation. Between
all these men, two of whom likely thought she was just the duke’s amusement during the trip.

The third—the duke—knowing exactly what she was to him, and that might include being an amusement.

A lowering thought, but now she had started speaking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “The duke isn’t like most of the men you
have likely met who are considering your company as a worthy investment. He wants to know the specifics of the process, of
the intricacies of the engines, and how this engine compares against the competition. He is not here to hear how wonderful
he is. Look at him,” she said, gesturing toward the man, who was now regarding her with a puzzled look. “Does he seem to be
the type of man who needs someone to pay him false compliments?”

“And you are?” Mr. Powers said, approaching her with his hand outstretched.

She took it, speaking as she did so. “I am Mrs. Cheltam, the duke’s secretary. So you see I have very specific and detailed
knowledge about what the duke wants to learn in the course of this tour. You do know,” she said, turning to address Mr. Smith,
“that we are visiting other factories during this trip?”

“Yes, I assume so, only I can assure you—

“Assure us of nothing, just prove by facts that your company’s engines are the best,” Edwina said, cutting him off, amazed
at her own audacity as she did so. But also keenly aware that Hadlow was looking at her with a mixture of awe and surprise.
As though nobody had ever spoken up for him before, which they probably hadn’t. Why speak for someone whose voice was bound
to be listened to, no matter what he said? It wasn’t as though dukes were generally in need of advocates, but this one was,
especially when it seemed someone believed he was just another aristocratic dilettante.

When Mr. Powers spoke again, it was with an engaged warmth that had been lacking in his initial conversation. “Then please
step this way, Your Grace, and I will show you all you need to see.”

The duke nodded to her. “Mrs. Cheltam, come along and take notes, since you are so vehement on my needing this particular
information.” He spoke dryly, but with a slight teasing tone that made her insides melt.

Although she should not be engaged in melting, not while she was working.

She followed along, calculating how long it would be before they were alone, and she could caution him to be more discreet
and also resume their activities from the night before.

Hopefully in that order, although she wasn’t sure she could resist him once they were alone.