Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (23 page)

“I will miss you, too.” Edwina stepped back, keeping her hands on the other woman’s shoulders. “You will promise to write
and let me know how you are? I will do the same.”

“Yes, it will be a pleasure. I never thought I would find a friend in my first position, and yet here I have.” Miss Clark
spoke wonderingly, and Edwina’s heart hurt all over again at how open and honest she was. She’d been like that, too, but so
long ago she could barely remember. Now she felt as though she were battle-scarred, the nicks and hurts from her marriage
written on her skin, the anguish and loss of Michael taking residence in her heart.

But she had to put all that aside, at least for a short time. It wouldn’t do to spend her last evening as Michael’s lover
sobbing all over his chest, much as she might feel the urge to. She wanted something she could look back on, not something
she would regret.

So she would lose herself in the moment, in his arms, savoring every touch so she would have nothing to regret. Besides the
whole falling-in-love-with-an-unattainable-man thing.

“Mama says we’re to live in the country.” Gertrude’s expression showed what she thought of that. “But she said there would
probably be a dog there, so it won’t be all bad.” She did not sound convinced.

Michael speared another piece of meat onto his fork, wishing he could stab Edwina’s plans as easily. They hadn’t dined together
since before, before the time she’d come to his bed. He hadn’t asked her to since then, either, since he knew she would just
decline.

But she couldn’t refuse tonight, not when it meant her daughter could spend a few more hours in his company, or more accurately,
in his dog’s company. Chester was not normally allowed into the dining room, of course, but Michael had made an exception
for tonight, much to Hawkins’s dismay.

Chester sat to the right of Gertrude, rousing every time she “accidentally” let a piece of food drop. He roused quite frequently.

“It will be different, certainly,” Michael began, “but you will find friends”—
unlike me
—“and soon you’ll wonder how you ever lived anywhere else.” He didn’t have much—that is to say any—experience with trying
to make someone feel better, but judging by Edwina’s approving look, he’d done all right for his first time.

“And there will be lots more room to run around, and it won’t be as smoky and loud.”

“I like smoke and loud,” Gertrude said grumpily, if not grammatically.

Michael stifled a snort.

“And you will be taking lessons with the dowager countess’s granddaughter; you can show her everything you learned with Miss Clark.”

“That might be all right,” Gertrude conceded.

“And you will write me letters all about it, won’t you?” Michael surprised himself with his request, not to mention his desire
to have Gertrude write him letters in the first place. When had he ever thought corresponding with a child would be something
he would want? The answer was never. And yet he found he did want it, wanted to keep that connection even though they were
far away. Where he would likely never see them.

“I will, as long as you write back. Since Chester can’t,” Gertrude added, lest Michael think she actually wanted to correspond
with him.

“I will,” he promised, taking a not too large sip of wine and meeting Edwina’s gaze. She smiled at him, and he felt the shock
of her smile through his whole body. It wasn’t a smile that said.
We’ll be naked together later on
, although he would have been fine with that smile as well; it was a smile that said,
Thank you for being so kind to my daughter, you’re not nearly as uncaring as you think you are
.

Edwina broke the gaze and looked at her daughter, her eyes narrowing. “Gertrude, concentrate on your dinner, now.” Gertrude’s
hand halted in its journey down to Chester, some sort of food in her hand. While Chester was not the most intelligent of dogs,
he was smart enough to know when he should pay attention, so he stood up and snagged the morsel from Gertrude’s hand.

She drew it back into her lap and picked up her fork, staring assiduously at her plate.

Michael tried not to laugh. It wouldn’t do to undermine Edwina’s authority, especially since they were to be on their own
again. Tomorrow.

Suddenly, he didn’t have the stomach for any more dinner. He picked up his wineglass instead and took a swallow, conscious
of not wishing to have anything tamper with his memories of the night to come. Memories that would have to last him, since
he would never see Edwina again.

What was this odd feeling he had? He’d never experienced its like before. Something as though there was a band across his
chest tightening by the minute.

“Are you all right?” Gertrude was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“Fine.” He heard how curt he sounded, and knew that wasn’t fair. “Thank you for asking. I am fine, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

He definitely could not answer that, not even if it wasn’t a young girl asking. He didn’t know what he was thinking—just that
it was bothering him, and he didn’t like to be bothered. Hadn’t he structured his whole life so that would never happen? And
yet here he was, at his own dinner table, filled with bother.

“Nothing in particular.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, drawing a look of ire from Edwina and a delighted
look from Gertrude. “What are you thinking about?”

Gertrude glanced down at where Chester lay. “About leaving. I’m going to miss Chester.” She glanced up. “And you, too.”

“I am going to miss you as well,” Michael replied, his throat closing up as he spoke.

“We should get you into bed,” Edwina said. Unfortunately not speaking to him. “We have a long journey tomorrow. I don’t want
you to be too tired.”

“Can Chester come, too?”

Michael smiled at her. “As if I could keep him away. Of course he can.” It would be the last time for all of them. He wouldn’t
deny her the treat, nor did he think Chester would allow it anyway.

Edwina rose, gesturing to Gertrude to do the same. He felt a moment of panic—did she remember that they were to be together?—and
then she looked his way and nodded, mouthing,
Later
as she placed a hand on her daughter’s back to guide her out of the room. Michael stood and bowed to both of them as they
left, his fingers reaching out toward Edwina’s sleeve, but not touching her. Just hanging suspended there for a moment, as
lost and adrift as he felt inside.

He was at the door as soon as he heard the soft knock, flinging it open so fast her hand was still raised.

“You came.” Until he saw her, he hadn’t been certain she would come after all. What if Gertrude had a nightmare? Or she had
a change of heart?

But she was here.

“Come,” he said, taking her arm and drawing her inside. He shut the door firmly, then took her in his arms, lowering his mouth
to hers as he pushed her against the door.

It had been so long. Too long.

Her mouth opened for him, and her arms wrapped around his body, pulling him in close. She was warm, and soft, and he wanted
to bury himself inside her—not just his cock, though he wanted that, but his whole self. He wanted to burrow under her skin,
find and claim the solace he knew only when he was with her.

She wore only her night rail and dressing gown, and he could feel her hardening nipples against his chest. One hand went to
wrap itself in her hair, while the other grasped her lovely, heavy breast. So warm and full in his hand.

He was erect against her, and he thrust forward gently, letting her know just what he was feeling. She moaned into his mouth,
and he twisted them so she was walking backward, toward the bed. As she walked, he pushed her wrapper off her shoulders, then
drew the night rail up and pulled it over her head so she was completely naked.

He withdrew his mouth from hers just long enough to coax her onto the bed, then shed his clothing as quickly as he could and
got onto the bed as well, caging her with his body, returning his mouth to kiss her with a passion, with a need he didn’t
think he’d ever felt before. No, that he knew he’d never felt before.

Her hands gripped the back of his head, her fingers caressing his skull, holding him to her. Her body arched up between them
and he felt her mons against his cock, rubbing and pressing.

He withdrew his mouth and stared down at her, noting her heavy eyes and her moist, red lips. “What do you want?” he asked
softly, his hand sliding down her body to wander between her legs. And placed his hand on her, cupping her there.

“What do you think I want?” Her voice was husky with desire.

He grinned, then lowered his mouth to her ear. “I think you want me to put my hard cock inside you and make you scream.” He
slid his fingers inside her wetness. “I can feel how much you want me.” He nipped the lobe of her ear, causing her to jump.
“Just tell me, Edwina.”

She moaned as his fingers worked inside her, her body writhing on his bed. “I want you to—I want you to fuck me, Michael.”

His eyes slid closed as she spoke, his whole body reacting to her words. He withdrew his fingers and reached for the condom
he’d optimistically placed near his bed, sliding it onto his throbbing shaft. He rose up on his knees and gazed down at her,
at her pale body lying against his sheets, at her dark hair spread out on his pillow. Looking as lovely and delicious as he’d
ever seen.

He took himself in hand and pushed at her entrance, her legs falling to the side as she let him in.

“God, you’re so tight,” he said as he eased himself in. She bit her lip, her eyes on where they were joined, her hands holding
his arms, then reaching to his back to pull him closer to her.

And then he was all the way inside, his balls snug against her skin, his cock pulsing inside her.

“Oh yes,” she murmured, and began to wriggle against him, her hands clamped on his arse.

“Tell me what feels good,” he said, licking her neck. She flung her head back, her eyes closed, and her breasts pushed into
his chest, her whole body warm and soft and just what he wanted.

“Just like that,” she replied, biting her lip as he began to move in and out. He watched her face, gauging her reaction, and
he sped up just slightly as her eyes fluttered open. “Yes, God, Michael, yes,” she moaned, and her fingers dug into his buttocks
so sharply he imagined he would have bruises the next day. He’d welcome them—a tangible reminder that this had happened.

She began to moan, her head turning on his pillow, her eyes shut again, and he felt her pussy spasm as she came.

He didn’t last more than a minute after her, his climax hitting hard, feeling as though his entire body was absorbed in this
moment.

He collapsed on top of her, knowing she could handle his weight. Knowing, actually, that she could take whatever he could
give her, no matter what it was.

His short temper, his bitter acerbity, his wit, his humor, his—no, not that. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

And wanted to groan, in pain this time, as he realized he did, and he could, and it was too late.

“Mrs. Cheltam! Over here, please, I need your fingers.”

Edwina smiled as she heard the dowager countess from the other room. “Excuse me, ladies,” she said to Gertrude and Molly—Molly
was the dowager countess’s granddaughter, younger than Gertrude, who treated Gertrude as though she were a goddess sent to
walk among the humans. A position Gertrude had no problem accepting.

Molly’s mother—the dowager countess’s wayward daughter—had taken herself off only a few days after Edwina and Gertrude had
arrived, liberating herself from her duties as mother and daughter with an alacrity that was nearly palpable.

“Yes, my lady?” Edwina walked into the dowager countess’s sitting room, really a converted library that was now festooned
with all the projects the dowager countess found herself engaged in—and, Edwina soon found, just as immediately disinterested
in.

Currently, Edwina’s employer was busily knitting scarves for the poor, big, lumpy snarls of yarn that would probably keep
someone’s neck warm, even if they weren’t precisely attractive.

An older woman with kind eyes and an even kinder smile, the dowager countess was an easy person to work for. Certainly nothing
like her last employer, Edwina thought.

She and Gertrude had been here for nearly a month already, and Gertrude, at least, had settled in well—she went roaming around
the nearby acreage with Molly and various dogs that hung around the kitchens.

Edwina wished she could say she had settled in well, but she felt as though she’d left a part of her, a heart-shaped part
of her, back in London. Where he was, no doubt cursing her name as he searched for a new secretary.

Or maybe he’d found one, and maybe it was another woman, and he was even now wooing her with his brusque humor and dry wit.

She should not be thinking about that. If he were wooing anyone at all it would be a woman of his own class, one whom he could
marry and have children with, and—

“Are you all right, dear?” the dowager countess asked in a worried voice.

Edwina started, realizing she hadn’t moved past the entrance of the room and was just staring at the tangle of yarn in her
employer’s hand. “Yes, I am sorry, my lady, I was woolgathering,” and then both of them laughed as they realized what she
had said.

“I need your help untangling this, dear,” the dowager countess said, holding her hands, now covered in yarn, out to Edwina.

Edwina took a seat near her and began to work through the threads, her head bent over the work. She made an effort to lose
herself in small tasks like this one, since it took her mind off him and how her whole self hurt when she thought about him.

Gertrude had sent him a letter when they first arrived, mostly extolling the virtues of the resident dogs, but he hadn’t replied
yet. Edwina tried not to envy her daughter’s ability to correspond so casually with him; if she herself sent him a letter,
it would be entirely shocking, and all the servants in her new position would comment, with word leading inevitably to the
dowager countess. And Edwina would have nothing to say in her defense, so she just hoped he would reply to her daughter so
she could get a glimpse of his life.

Though if he wrote to say he was betrothed, she might just take herself off to one of the distant hills and howl for a few
hours.

“Next month I thought we would go visit my friend Lady Patten,” the dowager countess said. “Now that you’re here, and it makes
it so much easier to travel. Martha”—the dowager countess’s maid, a nervous woman who jumped when anyone spoke her name—“has
been wishing to visit her sister, and it seems like it would be the perfect time.”

“Of course, my lady,” Edwina murmured. More things to distract her from the heartache she knew would ebb at some point. Perhaps
by the time Gertrude’s own children were grown up. If she were being optimistic, as well as melodramatic.

“Does Lady Patten live far from here?”

The dowager countess screwed up her face in concentration. “Perhaps just an hour’s drive? I’m not certain. I usually fall
asleep on the journey, you know,” she confided, as though it were a secret that she fell asleep many times during the day.

Edwina smiled in reply. “It sounds lovely.”

“We can leave the girls here under Diana’s care.” Diana was Molly’s nurse, Molly not yet having a governess, which delighted
Gertrude, who was not much for lessons. The dowager countess promised that she would find a governess as soon as Molly turned
five, so Gertrude only had a few more months of freedom. “And then you and I and Lady Patten can go shopping—she lives near
a nice little village, they often have fairs and the like, we should see if we can find some ribbons for your hat.” The dowager
countess looked at Edwina with a mischievous look. “I don’t wish to say goodbye to you so soon, but I do think you should
find yourself another husband.”

It was something she’d been saying since the second day Edwina had arrived, so by now, Edwina knew just to smile and nod,
as though it were something she agreed with.

The thought of being with a man other than Michael was an unpleasant one, an idea that felt like a burr under her skin. She
knew that it was likely that, if she stayed here, the dowager countess would wear her down and she would find herself married
again, likely to a nice-enough person, someone who could be a father to Gertrude.

But every fiber in her being rebelled against the image so soon after being with him. Having him touch her skin, come inside
her body, talk to her in such shocking language.

Maybe someday. When she had deadened enough inside to forget him, when she just longed for comfort, or a kiss now and then,
not longing for his touch, the fiery passion only he had inspired in her.

“We should go visit your friend soon,” Edwina said, surprising even herself with how urgent she sounded. If she could just
distract herself enough from her thoughts, maybe one day it wouldn’t be so agonizingly painful. She didn’t think visiting
an equally elderly lady with the prospect of purchasing new ribbons for her hat would eradicate him from her thoughts entirely—far
from it—but it would take her mind off him, off the ache his absence left, for a few moments, perhaps.

“It’s not getting better,” Michael informed a disinterested Chester. He picked up his glass of wine and drained it, then frowned
at the empty glass. He strode to the bellpull and yanked it, hearing the immediate cadence of footsteps.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Hawkins stepped inside, his expression retaining its normal placidity. It was only when he thought Michael
wasn’t watching that his expression drooped, as though he, too, were missing the Cheltam ladies.

“More wine.” Michael picked up the empty wine bottle and waved it in the air. “Better yet, bring two.”

Hawkins cleared his throat.

“Now,” Michael added. His butler swallowed, then bowed and stepped out of the room, leaving Michael holding the empty bottle
and his constant companion of loneliness.

He hadn’t expected to miss them quite so much. Naturally he missed the physical elements of being with her, any man would,
but contrarily, he didn’t feel the urge to go find another woman. Even for just that. It seemed, in his ridiculous brain,
that only she would do, and to do that with another would be to betray her.

“Your wine, Your Grace.” Hawkins had returned sooner than Michael expected; perhaps he’d learned from the past few nights
and laid in some bottles close by? Hawkins brought the bottles to the small table in the corner and bowed as he took the empty
wine bottle from Michael’s hand.

“If that will be all, Your Grace?” Thank goodness Hawkins didn’t sniff, even though his glance did dart to where the wine
bottles rested. As though gauging just how much liquid was inside, and how much would soon be inside Michael.

He probably shouldn’t be drinking this much wine, but he hadn’t found anything else that even came close to making him lose
the ache in his chest. And even when he was drinking wine, the ache remained, just a bit less.

One and a half bottles later, he’d figured it out. He’d applied his brain to it, and reviewed all the evidence at his command,
and he knew. He absolutely knew for certain.

Not that he hadn’t known before. But he’d been lying to himself—him, lying!—and it took all this anguish for him to figure
it out.

“I think—no, I know I am in love with her,” he told a bored Chester. “Damn it, how did I manage to fall in love? Of all the
illogical things to do, I had to do the most illogical one.” He drained his glass and contemplated the rest of the bottle.

He probably shouldn’t; he didn’t want to have a bursting head tomorrow.

But that was logical. He was tired of logic. Logic said he shouldn’t fall in love with her, logic said he shouldn’t have even
proposed the first time, logic said he should just find another woman who would suit just as well, and be far more suitable.

He was damn tired of logic.

He poured the remainder of the bottle into his glass, then pointed an accusatory finger at his dog. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

Chester raised his head to look at him, but saw there was no food, so put it down on the carpet.

“How could I have been such an idiot?”

No answer.

“I love her.” It felt true, and honest, even though he’d never thought he would ever say those words in his entire life. But
he couldn’t lie to himself, not anymore. He’d been trying to figure out just what was wrong in his life, in his brain, how
it felt as though there was an Edwina-shaped space in his life, and if he could just fill it with work, or wine, or—or something,
he would be fine.

He was not fine.

“And I’ve totally and entirely messed it up.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I offered her marriage, but she
didn’t—doesn’t—want that. I let her go without fighting for her because I was too much of an arrogant, logical idiot to figure
out I was hopelessly and madly in love with her.”

Chester offered no suggestions.

Michael drank the rest of the wine, knowing he would have the devil of a headache tomorrow, but not caring. Even though it
was illogical not to care.

He was done with logic. If this was where logic got him—alone, drinking wine while he talked to his only friend, who couldn’t
reply because he didn’t speak—then he was going to go ahead and do illogical things now.

Starting tomorrow. And, hopefully, for the rest of his life.

“My lady?” Edwina tapped her employer on the arm. They’d been traveling for an hour, and she could see they were about to
enter a village, the one where the dowager countess’s friend lived.

“Wh-what?” The dowager countess awoke with a start. “Are we there?”

“Nearly so, I believe.” Edwina gestured out the window. “That is our destination?”

The dowager countess leaned forward and looked out the window, glancing back at Edwina with a delighted smile. Edwina couldn’t
help but return the smile; at least her employer seemed happy, and settled, despite having had—from what Edwina could gather—a
not altogether happy marriage, along with a troubled daughter. There was hope for her, then. If she could just last another
couple of decades being miserable, maybe she would eventually achieve the kind of peace the dowager countess had.

“Lady Patten’s house is just beyond the dressmaker’s shop.” The dowager countess wagged a reproving finger at Edwina. “And
don’t think I’ve forgotten about those ribbons, that will be the first place we go after we have some tea. I am famished,”
she said, even though she had eaten most of the muffins her cook had packed for her.

The coach slowed, and Edwina saw a woman somewhere in age between her and the dowager countess standing outside a tidy-looking
house.

“That is Lady Patten?” Edwina asked.

“Yes, and doesn’t she look wonderful.” Honestly, if Edwina could just borrow some of her employer’s joy in simple things she
would be so much happier. As it was, she could feel that someday, perhaps earlier than a few decades from now, her heart would
heal. She thanked Carolyn for the thousandth time that she had found Edwina such a suitable position, far away from the source
of her unsuitable feelings.

“Mrs. Cheltam is . . . not here?” Michael gaped at the woman, apparently a housekeeper, who had just told him that Mrs. Cheltam
was not at home. Was not expected back for hours, even.

“No, Your Grace.” The woman looked terrified, and Michael couldn’t blame her; he hadn’t wanted to bother with waiting for
his coach and all his usual accompaniments to travel to impede his speed, so he’d ridden here over the course of a few days,
changing horses as he went, spending the minimum amount of time sleeping, and definitely no time shaving or worrying overly
much about his clothing.

He knew he looked even more intimidating than usual, and then he’d informed the woman of his name, and he had worried for
a moment that she would faint dead away at having a disheveled duke at the door.

And now Cheltam wasn’t here anyway, which rendered his speed in traveling a debatable point.

“Would you—would you like to come in?” At least the housekeeper had recovered enough to offer a measure of politeness.

“No.” He, however, had no such compunction about politeness. Should he just leave? It was a fool’s errand anyway—she wasn’t
going to say yes, she’d already made her choices, and they hadn’t included him.

If it were the old he, the old logical he, he would have left immediately without even bothering to leave a note.

“Where did she go?” he asked instead.

The housekeeper paused, as though wondering if she should share the information. She shrugged. “She and the mistress went
to the next town over.”

“Which way over?” he asked, trying to subdue his natural impatience.

She raised her arm and pointed. “That way. You can’t miss it, it’s the only town on that road.”

Michael glanced in the direction she’d pointed and sighed. Being illogical meant going to so much more trouble than just doing
what made sense. But doing what made sense wouldn’t make him happy.