Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (3 page)

And if he would come to regret his hasty decision as he’d regretted every hasty decision he’d ever made before.

“The duke is waiting for you.” The butler came as close to sneering as he could without overstepping the limits of politeness.
Edwina had to admire his dexterity at it, even if it smarted.

She glanced down at her gown and sighed, allowing a rueful smile to cross her lips. “I suppose he cannot wait until I am more
presentable,” she muttered, hoping the butler would sympathize and she could win him over sooner rather than later.

His gaze traveled over her gown as well and he met her eyes, a slightly warmer expression on his face. “The duke is a gentleman
who values promptness and efficiency over everything,” he said in a low tone, ensuring none of the footmen currently on duty
in the hallway could overhear.

She smiled at him, thankful he’d already unbent a bit. If only she could so easily conquer the thousand or so other people
who likely resided in this mammoth household, her life would be much easier. “That is good to know, I appreciate the information.”
She paused, but decided to ask anyway. Because if she didn’t begin as she meant to go on it would be a very difficult situation.
“Mr.—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Hawkins, my lady.”

She smiled. “It is Mrs. Cheltam, and it is very nice to meet you. I was hoping if it would not be too much of an imposition,
perhaps you could ask one of the footmen to take my daughter to the kitchen to wait for me?”

His gaze darted to where Gertrude stood, currently haranguing Honeychop about the terribly long walk her mother had made her
go on, as though Honeychop weren’t there every step of the way. And she saw how his eyes crinkled up at the corners, just
slightly, as though he were trying not to smile. “I will take her there myself, Mrs. Cheltam.”

“That is terribly kind of you, Mr. Hawkins.” She raised her voice to interrupt Gertrude. “Sweetheart, can you accompany Mr. Hawkins
to the kitchens?”

Gertrude looked from her mother to Mr. Hawkins, clearly skeptical about the whole thing. Edwina couldn’t blame her; she was
as well. But it was either this or separation or starvation, and on the whole, she much preferred living in a duke’s enormous
town house to either of the other two options, and hopefully Gertrude would come to that conclusion as well.

“Will there be cakes?”

Mr. Hawkins bowed. “The best cakes, my lady, I know for a fact that Cook has just brought a tray out from the oven.” He lowered
his tone. “The duke doesn’t care for cakes, or food in general, so it will be a treat for Cook to have someone who appreciates
her work.”

How could the duke not care about food? Edwina wondered. But he did care about promptness, and she had already spent a few
precious minutes getting her daughter settled. “Where will I find the duke?”

Mr. Hawkins paused in his escorting Gertrude to the kitchen. “The duke’s study, Mrs. Cheltam, just through there.”

Edwina felt her insides tighten. This was it. This was the start of the next, hopefully much better, phase of her life. One
where she and her daughter were fed, housed, and she wouldn’t have to endure a foolish man twenty-four hours a day.

Hopefully not at all, in fact—the duke didn’t strike her as foolish. Arrogant, impatient, and totally commanding, but not
foolish.

That had to count for something, didn’t it?

With that cheery thought, she walked to the door of the study, taking a deep breath as she knocked on the door.

Well, he could tell that his new secretary hadn’t dawdled in presenting herself. She wore an old, worn gown whose color could
best be described as drab, and her hair had come unpinned, with a few pieces swirling about her face.

Unfortunately, it just had the effect of making her look far more approachable, and he did not want to be thinking about approaching
his new secretary on any terms. It wasn’t sensible.

“Mrs. Cheltam, please come here.” The railroad man had straightened instinctively, but Michael remained seated. He gestured
to a chair opposite his desk, the one she’d sat in just two hours and twenty-four minutes prior. She nodded and took her seat,
folding her hands in her lap.

“Mr. . . .” and then he paused because he couldn’t remember the man’s name, just that he was far too vague on specifics for
his liking, and he couldn’t very well address him as Mr. Vague. “This gentleman was just reporting on the benefits of investing
in the Right Way Railway Company. Terrible name,” he added, shaking his head. “Mrs. Cheltam, you will take notes.” He flicked
his fingers toward the man. “Proceed. This time, please give us precise details on the venture and the various timelines for
resolution.”

The man’s gaze shifted quickly between the two of them, the Adam’s apple in his throat working visibly. He did not speak.
Michael suppressed a sigh. “Unless you would care to just leave your documents here for our perusal? I can reply to your employees
within thirty-six hours, if that is suitable.”

Michael would have laughed at the man’s relieved look, if Michael laughed at such things. Or at all. “That would be perfect,
thank you, Your Grace.”

He bowed in their general direction and sped out of the room, barely waiting for the door to open before bursting out of it.

Silence. Michael turned to see his new secretary regarding him. He raised an eyebrow, which seemed to make her stiffen.

He would have to do it frequently, then.

“Are you always so abrupt?” Her question, which some would have considered rude, was said in such a pleasant tone he couldn’t
take offense.

Besides, the answer was yes.

“Yes, I am.” He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t see the point of prevaricating when there is something to be said.” He
raised his eyebrow again. This time, it seemed she was prepared, since she didn’t react. Pity. “I appreciate the same of my
employees, no matter what they might say.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands on his desk. “If we are to work well together,
Mrs. Cheltam, I would ask you to keep that in mind. No matter what you might think the effect of what you’ll say is. I assure
you, I far prefer honesty to flattery, and I do not like to waste time.”

She blinked, and shook her head. He resisted the temptation to lean forward even more and sweep some of the errant strands
of hair behind her ears. Odd, he’d never had that thought before, and he had seen plenty of disheveled women.

“That will be acceptable,” she replied in a soft, but even, tone.

He felt something ease within him. As though he’d actually been concerned about what she would say.

“I will expect you to reciprocate,” she said, lifting her chin. “If you have cause for either complaints or compliments, I
do hope you will offer them instead of keeping them to yourself. I will not know how to improve, or what I am doing well,
if you do not tell me.”

He’d never had anyone respond to his request for honesty with an equal request for honesty. Something sparked in his belly,
a frisson of . . . of excitement? Of being challenged?

And here he thought he’d had all the experiences he’d ever have in his thirty-four years. His new secretary was not only new
to his employ, she was providing new experiences just by being here.

Interesting.

“Of course, Mrs. Cheltam,” he replied, giving her his full scrutiny and appreciating that she did not flinch from the appraisal.

Very interesting indeed.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Edwina resisted the urge to curtsey. After all, he didn’t rise when she entered the room; she
didn’t see the point of adhering to traditional manners when he didn’t. Besides which, he’d probably chastise her for wasting
time.

It was the third day of her employ, and she didn’t think she’d ever worked so hard in her entire life. And that included the
times she’d had to pretend her husband wasn’t a complete idiot.

Gertrude had made friends with Mr. Hawkins as well as Cook, a variety of footmen, and a few of the maids. She had spent the
past three days exploring the duke’s mansion, with several more wings to go.

Of course, Edwina would eventually have to figure out what to do with her in the long term, but for now, at least, her daughter
was well taken care of, fed, and kept in clean clothing.

While her mother—well, Edwina was working the hardest she’d ever worked before, true, but she was also totally engaged, was
using her brain as she’d rarely done before, and felt useful and valued. Not because of what she looked like, but because
of how she thought.

She didn’t think the duke even noticed what she looked like, which was a relief—she’d spent too much of her life avoiding
awkward situations with gentlemen who thought that because she had a certain appearance, she was amenable to a certain type
of behavior. But the duke, true to his practicality, treated her as merely his secretary, even though there was nothing
mere
about it. He was similar to George in that he valued her for one thing, and one thing only, it seemed—but the thing he valued
was something Edwina had worked on, not something she had been born with.

“Good morning, Cheltam,” the duke replied. He didn’t look up from his desk, and Edwina settled herself in her usual spot,
drawing her notepad to her. He’d dropped the “Mrs.” from her name the first day of her employ. She supposed if it had bothered
her she could have told him, but it was refreshing to be treated as a worker, not a woman.

“The first thing we will be doing today is review the offerings from the other railways.” He picked up the teacup settled
at the edge of his desk and took a sip, his movements precise and nearly elegant. As they always were.

“How many are there, Your Grace?”

He did look up at her then, frowning. “You’d best call me Michael.”

“I couldn’t, Your Grace.” She was willing to bend propriety because he was, and it was more efficient, but saying “Michael”—two
syllables—was just as time-consuming as saying “Your Grace,” and far more improper.

He narrowed his eyes as though he were going to argue with her. And then didn’t. “Fine. Then Hadlow will do.”

Hadlow. His title, still two syllables, but not his given name or his honorific, which seemed to annoy him somehow. Perhaps
because he was constantly reminded of his title by everyone who came into his presence?

Although she’d have to say that people would notice him even if he weren’t a duke. He was just so—just
so
, his features so strong and sharp, his movements so precise and contained, his body hinting at power and strength and force.

When she was with him—which was most of the past few days; he never seemed to slow down—she was constantly aware of just where
he was in the room, even if he was out of her sight. He seemed to exude a nearly palpable energy, and she found, to her chagrin,
that she was drawn to that energy in a way that was not appropriate to an employer and his secretary.

“Do you have the notes from yesterday?”

She’d also found that his mind skipped from point to point to point in an almost dizzying way, and she had to concentrate
to keep up. Even so, she could tell she was thinking too slowly for him when he grumbled or muttered or frowned when she had
to ask him a question to clarify something.

Although it wasn’t her fault the man couldn’t seem to keep his attention on one point at a time, was it?

“I do.” She rose and went to the small bookshelf he’d designated as hers. “I did not have time to rewrite the notes, so you
might find them hard to read.” The night before she’d had to remind him that it was six o’clock after they’d been working
all day. She was grateful he appeared to have a social engagement in the evening, or they might have been at it all evening.
Although Gertrude would have come to find her eventually. And Edwina did not want him to be reminded just how much he had
had to accommodate his new secretary.

“Just hand them to me, I don’t care what they look like.” He held his hand palm up, his focus returned to the papers on his
desk. She placed them in his hand with a bit more force than was absolutely essential, and had to repress a smirk at his start
of surprise at the impact.

He shook his head as though to clear it and set the papers down, his long, elegant fingers shuffling them as he glanced them
over. “What does this say?” His index finger pointed to something on the page, and Edwina squinted, but couldn’t make it out
from where she was. She took a deep breath and walked over to his side of the desk, leaning over slightly to read her writing.

“It says there will be one thousand miles of track laid the first year, with expected additions of twenty percent more each
year thereafter.”

“Ah.”

She went to return to her side of the desk, but he grasped her wrist as she was starting to move. “No, wait. And this?” He
tapped the paper with his finger and looked up at her.

And then she felt as though she were unable to breathe. The impact of him, this close, was enough to make her gasp. His intense
burning green eyes, green like the darkest forest, the sharp aquiline length of his nose, the full, nearly sensual mouth just
below. She had been trying not to admit just how attractive her new employer was, but this close, it was impossible to deny.
And he had required her honesty, which required her being honest to herself, as well.

“Uh, that is,” she said, swallowing, feeling her pulse pounding, “that says that the railway will hire approximately five
hundred workers, bringing stability to all the towns along the projected lines.”

He still held her wrist. She tried not to notice just how strong and warm his fingers felt.

He kept his eyes locked on hers for a few long seconds—one, two, three—then released her wrist. She felt unsteady on her feet,
but just nodded and returned to her seat, picking up her pen and papers with a shaky hand. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

Of course he would notice. He was remarkably observant, she’d already seen that. But he likely wouldn’t care, even though
he did notice. That gave her some measure of reassurance.

He was trying very hard not to notice just how attractive his new secretary was. He didn’t have that problem with Mr. Crear,
his last, unlamented secretary, nor any of the previous ones, none of whom had been nearly as efficient, intelligent, and
organized as Mrs. Cheltam was.

Nor as lovely.

His fingers still tingled from where he’d held her. He hadn’t meant to touch her, it just seemed to happen. And once it had,
he didn’t want to stop. It had taken a concerted effort to let her go, not to just allow his fingers to rub at the soft skin
of her wrist or hold her hand, of all ridiculous things.

Or other, just as ridiculous, but far less appropriate things.

He couldn’t think about any of that. He didn’t want a lover; those were far easier to come by than good secretaries. He should
know, he’d had dozens of lovers in his years, and he hadn’t valued any of them as much as he did Mrs. Cheltam in her few short
days here.

It was a bonus to her working for him, wasn’t it? That he could regard her beauty as they untangled his business dealings,
looked into new investments, gathered information about his various holdings. He could not do anything to jeopardize his finally
having someone who seemed competent. Intelligent, even.

But he wouldn’t be noticing her beauty, not in a longing way, if he hadn’t first recognized her intelligence. He had seen
plenty of lovely women before, but none of them intrigued him as she did—the rare, likely unique, combination of appearance
and intelligence was one that hit him in a way he’d never experienced before.

And she was so very efficient.

“Your—Hadlow, do you want me to finish the correspondence to your estate manager? Mr. Sheldon, I believe?”

Michael took a deep breath, clearing his mind—as well as other parts of him—so he could concentrate. “Yes, good. I’ll review
the notes from yesterday, and then after that if you can retrieve the documents from the other petitioners, I’ll review those.”
It was an exciting time to be a duke. Not that it wasn’t always good to be a duke, but it had its boring moments. Strawberry
leaves, people being obsequious, too many sweet cakes being thrust at one as though one was a child.

But now, when Michael felt as though the world was on the cusp of discovery, as though new and exciting things were just about
to happen, and he could have a part in it—well, it was an exciting time. That he had the funds and means to participate didn’t
mean he would neglect his due diligence. If anything, he had to be more alert. The fate of future dukes of Hadlow depended
on his managing his vast holdings properly.

His father had been much the same, although Michael had to admit his father had far less of an imagination, content to keep
things as they were, never wanting to speculate on something that might not be a certain bet.

To Michael, that felt as though everything was doomed to mediocrity, and if there was one thing he did not wish to be, it
was mediocre.

He wanted to leave a lasting impression on the world, to strive to make it a different, better place. It was what he had promised
to himself after his elder brother, the original heir, had died. He wouldn’t be content to be second-best in anything, even
if he was the second son. That was why, instead of lolling about on his ducal sofa, he was engaged in progress and investigation
and possible adventure.

That was why he was encumbered with the most beautiful, and beautifully efficient, secretary he could imagine.