Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (21 page)

“Do you have a preference for the type of event you attend?” Her voice sounded strained. Well, of course it would be; she
was basically sending him off to another woman. To be chosen, by another woman.

“No. Just pick. No more than two a week, and only the ones where—” And then he stopped, and Edwina supplied the rest of the
words for him.

“Where you will have the most chance of meeting eligible young ladies.”

The silence hung between them. She bit her lip, turning her head to look in the corner of the room so that if she started
to cry—damn it, when she started to cry—he wouldn’t see it.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Of course.”

Michael refrained from rolling his eyes as the butler stepped forward. “His Grace, the Duke of Hadlow,” the man announced
in a suitably respectful tone.

Michael walked past him, descending the stairs as he heard the murmur of more than a hundred of his reputed peers and their
ladies begin. He shouldn’t be annoyed; it wasn’t as though he made a habit of attending such functions. It was natural that
his arrival would cause nearly as much interest as if the Queen were to attend something.

He shouldn’t be annoyed, but he was.

“Your Grace.” His host, he presumed, stepped forward from the buzzing crowd and held his hand out. “I am so delighted you
chose to attend our little party.” Yes, his host. The Earl of Nibley, whom Michael had spoken with perhaps a year or so ago
about implementing some law or another. The earl had wilted under the force of Michael’s logic, which had made things easier,
but had left Michael with not a very good opinion of the man’s strength of mind.

But what else was new?

Michael took the earl’s hand, squeezing it perhaps a little too hard, judging by the man’s wince. Was it his fault the earl’s
handshake was as weak as his opinions?

“May I introduce my wife, the countess?” The earl beckoned a woman forward, a woman whose sycophantic expression made Michael’s
skin crawl.

He really was not in a good frame of mind to be doing this, but he wasn’t sure he ever would be. And now that he’d decided
to take a wife, he had to just get on with it.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” The countess’s expression was even more beatific after she’d spoken. “Allow me to present my daughters.”
She made a quick gesture, and two women—girls, really—stepped forward, both of them clothed in startlingly white gowns, the
only distinction between the two being that one looked terrified, while the other looked vaguely amused.

“Lady Elizabeth Nibley and Lady Lucinda Nibley.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Michael said, taking each of their hands in turn. The terrified one turned an unattractive
shade of red, and if he had been anyone other than himself, he would have felt sympathy toward her, given how obviously awkward
she was at the introduction.

“My oldest”—and the countess gestured to the red daughter—“is betrothed to the Viscount Langley’s son.”

Ah. So she was off the table, marriage-wise. Not a problem, since he did not want to be married to someone who was in danger
of bursting into flames if he looked at her. Much less touched her.

Not that he wanted to do that, either.

“Could I persuade Lady Lucinda to grant me the honor of a dance?” He might as well begin this whole unpleasant process, and
at least this girl didn’t seem to need a glass of water just because he’d looked at her.

“Certainly, Your Grace.” The girl’s voice was low, and he found himself nearly bending over to hear her. Not good, either.
He would develop a crick in his neck if he married her.

And why was he so quick to decide?

Oh, because he always made the right decision, and never had cause to doubt himself. Like when he had decided to focus on
growing his family’s wealth rather than just letting it be, or when he had helped to change the work laws for poor families
in various factories.

Or when he had hired Cheltam as his secretary.

Before he could continue to pursue that line of thinking—thank God—Lady Lucinda’s hand was in his, and he was guiding her
onto the floor. It felt as though everyone was watching them, holding their respective aristocratic breath as the music started.

They danced in silence, Michael counting off the steps as he usually did. The music was tolerable, but he’d never felt as
though he were immersed in it, so when he danced, he spent far more time ensuring he performed the steps adequately rather
than just enjoying himself.

Although immersing oneself in music didn’t seem as though it were something he would ever be prone to. The only time he’d
felt immersed, the only time he’d ever felt as though he were more than the sum of his brain was—

He couldn’t think about that. He would not. He shut the door firmly on that part of his mind, instead returning his focus
to Lady Lucinda.

“The party is well attended.” He glanced over the woman’s head at the other guests. They all looked generally the same—well-to-do
people dressed in their best finery chattering and drinking and ensuring they were posing in the most attractive positions
they could muster.

Boring.

“Yes, it is.” She bit her lip, like she—

Not thinking about her or any of that now.

“Do you like parties, Your Grace?”

That was an asinine question. Because he never attended parties, in general, so one would presume he didn’t like them. But
he could not answer honestly, despite his first impulse to do so, because this party was being hosted by her father, and he
did not want her reporting back to her parents that the Duke of Hadlow did not like the entertainment and then the word would
spread and there would be talk.

He hated having the weight of the world’s approbation on his shoulders.

Why couldn’t they want his opinion on something that actually mattered to him? Like innovations in industry, or the best way
to ensure that everyone who resided in England was properly fed and taken care of?

It wasn’t logical.

But meanwhile, he hadn’t answered the question. “Certainly I do, when I am in a humor for it.”

That was relatively close to the truth. He had never yet been in the humor for a party, so it wasn’t precisely a lie.

“The music is pleasant, is it not?”

How could he answer that? If he lied, and said it was pleasant, he would be lying. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he wasn’t enjoying
it. If he told the truth, they were returning to that problem where he was inadvertently insulting her family because of his
opinion.

He expelled a breath, wishing it were as easy as breathing to be himself.

“It is.” And now he was lying, and he hated lying.

“Have you been enjoying the temperate weather, Your Grace?”

Was she going to ask him questions for the entire duration of the dance? It wasn’t difficult for him to maintain one part
of his brain with counting the steps of the dance and the other one for inane questions, but he would prefer not to.

“It has been temperate,” he replied. He had no idea if it had been or not, he seldom paid attention to the weather, but at
least he wasn’t strictly lying.

If he were to marry—an idea that was rapidly losing favor in the court of his mind—would this be his everyday interaction
with his wife?

Did you enjoy the lovemaking, Your Grace?

Again, not something he would likely be able to answer honestly.

The music sounded as though it were winding to a close, and he felt an emotion he wasn’t sure he could name—not surprising,
given how few emotions he usually had—sweep over him. Relief that the dance was ending?

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lady Lucinda curtseyed, her expression seeming to mirror his feeling—relief at being finished with
dancing with him?

And then he was piqued, but he could not allow his irkedness to color his actions.

“It was my pleasure.” And then he shut his eyes, knowing that if he were to do this, he was going to be setting on a course
of lying for the rest of his life.

“Cheltam!”

Edwina jumped in her chair, startled. She had put Gertrude to bed a few hours earlier, and should be asleep herself, but wasn’t
able to. So she had found the most boring book in the duke’s library—something about proper tilling practices—and was attempting
to read it, hoping it would make her sleepy.

Thus far, all it had done was to make her fascinated by how many different theories on tilling seemed to exist. She’d never
thought about the topic at all, which now seemed like a failure on her part.

She placed the book down on the table and stood, wishing the duke’s library held something more pertinent to her interests.
How to Stop Inappropriately Lusting After Your Employer
, perhaps, or
Living Within Your Means When Your Means Add Up to Ten Pounds for the Rest of Your Life
.

“There you are,” the duke said, striding into the library still garbed in his evening wear.

It simply was not fair that he managed to look so handsome all the time. Tonight he was breathtaking—dressed in severe black,
with his white shirt the only relief from the all-imposing blackness. His cravat was tied simply around his neck, since he
didn’t need the fussiness that most men seemed to require to make them look intriguing.

He was just intrinsically intriguing, damn it.

“Yes, here I am,” Edwina said, then resisted the urge to wince at how stupid the sentence was. “I hope you had a pleasant
evening?” she continued, lacing her hands in front of her. Resisting the urge to walk forward and touch him, to slide her
fingers down the lapel of his coat, to place her hands on his chest and lean up for a kiss.

He did not reply; instead, his lips turned down as though he were contemplating something he did not care for.

She wished she were high-minded enough not to feel happy about that, but unfortunately she was not. She was definitely low-minded,
especially when it came to him.

The highest aristocrat in England. The irony was not lost on her.

“Dance with me.” His words came out in a short, demanding burst.

“Pardon?”

His jaw clenched. “Dance with me,” he said again, through gritted teeth.

She glanced around the library, as though musicians were going to suddenly appear.

He didn’t wait for her—or for the imaginary musicians, for that matter—and stepped forward, placing his hand at her waist,
gathering her into his arms, holding her other hand in his.

“You are aware there is no music.”

He gazed down at her, his green eyes showing a spark of humor. “I am, Cheltam.” He raised an eyebrow. “Were you not aware
it is within a secretary’s duties to hum a tune when her employer demands it?” He sounded so arrogant, so completely sure
of himself she nearly apologized for not knowing that secretaries were, indeed, required to hum.

And then felt a bubble of laughter in her chest. This was the man she had come to know. The man only she knew. The man she
had to give up. But she could dance with him, couldn’t she?

She placed her hand on his shoulder and nodded. “I will rectify my shortcoming, Your Grace.” At which he frowned, of course,
since she had just addressed him by his honorific.

She began to hum a tune she’d heard when she’d first arrived in London from her parents’ house, one of the first pieces of
music she’d danced to. It felt so long ago, before marrying George, before Gertrude, and definitely before him. His mouth
relaxed, and he nearly smiled, although “smile” would be too generous a word for what his lips were doing.

Oh, his mouth. She had to stop looking at it, instead closing her eyes to concentrate on her humming.

Although that was nearly worse. With her eyes closed, she could feel that they were just alone together without any kind of
obligation, as though they were merely man and woman dancing together. No impediment to their touching, nothing to keep them
apart.

She allowed herself to get lost in the moment for a few minutes, his long legs so close to hers, his body exuding a palpable
heat that warmed her far more than it should.

“This is . . . pleasant,” he said at last, in such a wondering tone that she nearly laughed. He sounded so discomfited by
the fact, which then repudiated his words, although she would have to agree that it was pleasant.

She opened her eyes, and her breath caught all over again at how his mere appearance affected her.

There was no possible way she could stay in his employ, whether or not he found a woman to become the Duchess of Hadlow. She
bit her lip and swallowed, anticipating the visit to Carolyn. That she would tell her friend all about it she knew; whether
she could do it without bursting into tears wasn’t as clear to her.

Meanwhile, she could just enjoy this dance. This moment, held in his arms one last time.

Tomorrow she would set about changing her life. And not for the better, but it would definitely be less painful.

She kept humming long after the song would normally be finished. Unwilling to let this go. Knowing she had to.

“Good morning,” Edwina called as she stepped into the agency. The duke had gone out for a ride and allowed her to make a visit
while he was otherwise occupied. Gertrude was grouchy about lessons with Miss Clark, but brightened when the duke told her
she could help him walk Chester after her lessons. Everyone thus taken care of, Edwina had gone off to see Carolyn, to see
if she could implement the changes she needed to make to her life.

She heard the sound of steps, then Carolyn walked into the room, a wide smile on her face.

“It’s my favorite duke’s secretary,” she exclaimed, taking both of Edwina’s hands in hers.

Edwina felt her expression tighten, and Carolyn gazed at her, a puzzled look on her face. “What is wrong? You’re not my favorite
secretary?”

Edwina expelled a breath. “It is complicated, my friend.”

Carolyn frowned. “Do sit down and tell me all about it.”

Edwina allowed Carolyn to sit her down on the small sofa at one end of the room and then her friend plopped down beside her.
“So?”

Edwina felt the tears welling up in her eyes. So much for keeping herself from crying. She hadn’t even said anything yet.

“Oh no, dear, it can’t be that bad,” Carolyn said, leaning over to envelop Edwina in a hug. And then Carolyn drew back, staring
intently in her face. “Can it?”

Edwina shook her head. “No, it’s not that, thank goodness, but I have to find another position. I can’t stay there any longer
than I have to.”

She told Carolyn everything—well, nearly everything—as they sat together on the sofa, alternating her words with tears. Carolyn,
true to how wonderful she was, just patted her arm and listened.

Until Edwina came to the end of the sadly abrupt story and stopped talking.

“I wish your case were unique,” Carolyn said at last. She shook her head. “But it’s not, unsuitable men engage in inappropriate
activities with wonderful ladies all the time.”

Edwina blinked a few times as she digested what her friend had said. And then she laughed. Bless Carolyn for remaining staunchly
in her corner. “You forget he is the most suitable man, it is me who is inappropriate.”

Carolyn held her hand up. “I know you are only trying to protect the reputation of your employer, Edwina, but the duke is
quite unsuitable. It sounds as though he is far too arrogant to be a suitable mate, not to mention he is scrupulously honest.
From what I know of marriage, there needs to be a certain amount of prevarication.” She sniffed. “Besides which, you need
someone who will know what an honor it is to be married to you. Not just one who proposes to save some trouble.”

Edwina knew her friend was just trying to make her feel better by making light of the whole thing, but she felt her heart
sinking. If she did marry him—not that she was going to, especially since he’d been so cavalier about her refusal—they would
both always be conscious he had married beneath him. Why couldn’t she have fallen in love with someone closer to her station?
Hawkins, perhaps?

And then she did have to laugh again at the thought of falling in love with the duke’s absolutely correct and somewhat stiff
butler.

“You know I’m right,” Carolyn said in a smug tone.

Edwina nodded. “Absolutely. It is unfortunate you are not in the husband-providing business; it would be so much easier if
I could just give you a list of the attributes I require and have you find a much more appropriate man.”
Must be intelligent, tall, handsome, confident, incisive, and brutally honest.

And then she wanted to cry since that exactly described the duke.

“I will find you something else,” Carolyn said. “It will be difficult, because there is Gertrude to consider as well, but
I will find something for you,” her friend promised. But instead of feeling relief at having her friend so assured about her
abilities, Edwina merely wanted to cry. Again.

“Where tonight, Cheltam?” Michael leaned back in his chair and watched her under hooded eyes. She’d been unusually subdued
today, and he wondered where she had gone when she’d left that morning. Did she have someone else she was seeing?

His chest tightened with an inexplicable emotion. Jealousy. Claiming. She was his, damn it, even if she didn’t know that herself.

Even if he didn’t know how he could keep her.

“The Queen is attending some function at Court.”

“I don’t want to go there,” he said, cutting her off.

She grimaced, then continued speaking. “As I was saying. The Queen is attending a Court function, and the Viscount of Marlsby
is hosting an event after for the appropriate people.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you, of course, are appropriate.”

He nodded, even though he wanted to argue with her—he was only appropriate because he was the duke, not because of who he
was. Of who he had shaped himself to be—someone who was confident, aggressive, always looking for something new.

Never settling.

But he’d have to settle sometime, wouldn’t he? It was only logical to take a wife, someone who would be his hostess as he
continued to press for innovation in the House of Lords, someone who would provide ease of access for sexual relations, someone
who could run his household.

And, as she’d pointed out so bluntly—something he had to admire, even though he rebelled against it—he needed someone who
was appropriate for a duke. Any duke, but in this case he was the duke.

It all felt rather . . . cold. Which was what he wanted, he assured himself.

“So it is the Viscount of Marlsby’s tonight, then.” He tried not to think about how much more he wished he could stay home
and perhaps invite her and Gertrude to dine with him. As he had before—before everything had happened.

He knew she’d decline, though. She’d made it clear there was to be nothing that wasn’t entirely appropriate—he was beginning
to hate that word—between them. Except for that one evening when he’d burst into the library and danced while she hummed a
never-ending tune. It felt as though his fingers could still feel her, his body acutely aware of hers just a waltz’s distance
away.

And then she had stopped humming, and there had been an awkward moment when he tried to find the words to coerce her into
his bed, only he couldn’t do that to her. Or to himself—he wouldn’t ever beg for anything like that. He never had before.
He never would.

The Viscount of Marlsby’s. Hopefully there would be a female there who was both appropriate and relatively interesting.

Five hours later, and Michael thought he could safely say there was no female who was both appropriate and relatively interesting.
There weren’t even any inappropriate ladies to liven things up.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lower gaze to floor. Look up from under lashes. Offer a slight smile. “Of course, Your Grace.” Pretend
to be fascinated by everything he said.

He had danced with no fewer than half a dozen young ladies, all of whom did precisely the same thing in nearly the same order.
Did they get taught that by their governesses? If not, the lack of imagination was remarkable.

“Your Grace.” His host, who’d told Michael to call him Marl, touched him on the shoulder, rousing him from his very appropriate,
and boring, thoughts.

“Yes?” Michael couldn’t help the supercilious tone. He was proud of himself for recognizing it was supercilious. Before, he
would have just thought it was his normal tone of voice. Which, for him, was always supercilious.

Cheltam had pointed out so many of his faults, it was rather astonishing she’d been as inappropriate with him as she had.
Did she even like him?

That was not something about which he should be thinking at this moment.

“Your Grace, may I present Miss Emily Dougherty? Of the Sussex Doughertys, of course.”

“Of course,” Michael echoed as he took the lady’s hand. This one didn’t do the under-lash gazing at him, at least. She looked
him direct in the face, even raising her chin at him as though in challenge.

He felt a stirring of interest.

“Miss Emily is here with her older sister, who is betrothed to my own son. Isn’t that correct, my dear?”

He could have sworn she rolled her eyes. Did appropriate young ladies even roll their eyes? “That is correct, my lord. Your
son asked the most important of questions and Amanda replied in the affirmative.” Her tone was not supercilious, not at all,
but there was something mocking about it he couldn’t help but be intrigued by.

“Miss Emily, might I ask if you have a partner for this dance?” He might as well discover if she had more conversation than
temperate weather and the good fortune of her sister to be marrying Marl’s offspring.

Although if said offspring was as dim-witted as Marl seemed to be, perhaps it wasn’t good fortune at all.

Now you’re just being cruel
, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Edwina’s said in his head.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.” Miss Emily curtseyed and waited as he placed his hand appropriately at her waist and
gathered her other hand in his.

The music began, and Michael recognized it immediately as the tune Edwina had hummed that other night. Curse it to hell. Was
he always going to be wandering around being reminded of the damn woman?

“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” Miss Emily asked. She didn’t sound worried that something was wrong, merely curious. More
intriguing than any of her fellow young ladies, that was for certain.

“Nothing,” he said in a curt tone. And then felt—did he feel
apologetic
?—so he hastened to add, “I am merely distracted.”

“Yes, it is . . . distracting to be dancing with a stranger, isn’t it?” Her tone was dry, nearly acerbic, and he took a better
look at her. She was pleasant-looking enough, not ravishing, but not an eyesore, either. She was of moderate height, could
apparently dance well enough not to step on his toes, and did not seem to have gotten the same lessons about conversation
every other female in the room had.

His mouth twisted as he considered just how low his standards were. Not that he was about to propose marriage to this Miss Emily
or anything, but that she was the best of the group based on three minutes’ worth of conversation was ridiculous. If he applied
the same measurement tactics to his business investments, he would have given money to Cheltam’s brother-in-law and his Tea-rific
enterprise without being coerced into it.

“Why do I get the feeling, Your Grace, that you would rather be anywhere else but here?” She didn’t sound offended, although
the words implied she should be.

“No, of course I would like to be here. That is,” Michael continued, wanting to keep himself as honest as he could without
being offensive—a skill he had not yet mastered—“I suppose there are places that would be worse to be. A muddy ditch, for
example, or freezing at the North Pole.”

“So what you’re saying is that being here is preferable to being doused in dirt or close to frozen? That is hardly a ringing
endorsement.” It sounded as though she wanted to laugh, and he nearly did as well. Perhaps—

“And so why are you here?” She raised one finger off his shoulder to gesture at the room. “Surely it is not because the company
is so enthralling.” And then she definitely rolled her eyes, blowing out a breath that revealed her aggravation. “Not that
I am fishing for you to say I am so enthralling. I am perfectly aware I am not.”

“Actually, Miss Emily, you are more enthralling than anyone else I have met here.” Michael felt his lips curl into what might
have been a smile. He was enjoying himself, as much as he was able to, given where he was and what he was doing. Only—only
this Miss Emily, while intriguing, was not nearly as intriguing as Cheltam. Not because she wasn’t intriguing, she was, but
because she wasn’t Cheltam.

Damn it. Was now, after he’d messed it all up, when he was to realize that only Cheltam would do as a wife for him?

“Now you look as though you did something horrible. I assure you, you have not stepped on my toe, or said anything untoward.”

“No, only—only if you will excuse me,” and Michael made a quick bow, then made his way to the door, for once not sure even
he could solve this problem.