Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (5 page)

The duke shook his head. “Don’t ask me, it is up to the lady’s mother.”

“Please, Mother?” Gertrude looked at Edwina pleadingly.

She hesitated. If she said no, she’d be the mean mother. If she said yes, she’d be exposing her daughter to wine at a very
early age. Then again, it was unlikely that Gertrude would actually like the taste, so perhaps it would be a good risk to
allow her to sample some.

She did very much appreciate that the duke hadn’t just answered for her. Another way he showed that he didn’t seem to notice
whether or not she was female. A fact she was supremely relieved about. “Just a small pour, please, William,” she replied.

Gertrude beamed, watching as William poured a small amount into her glass. The duke picked his glass up, as did Edwina, and
then Gertrude followed their lead, holding it in the air. “A toast to fine company,” he said, touching his glass to Gertrude’s,
then to Edwina’s.

“And food,” Gertrude added.

“And food,” the duke echoed with a grin on his face.

Edwina felt her heart swell as she watched them. It seemed as though things would be all right, that Gertrude had charmed
the duke as she did most other people. They weren’t in danger of starvation, they were housed well, and once she had her wages
she would be able to afford to buy Gertrude some new clothing—her gowns still fit, but from the way she was eating, it was
clear she was growing fast.

The door opened, and Hawkins entered, leading a line of footmen bearing serving platters. He indicated where they should be
placed and watched as they were all put on the table. When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he stepped forward
and began to remove each lid from its platter, removing it with a flourish and handing each lid to a waiting footman.

It was very impressive. Another reminder, as though Edwina needed one, that she and Gertrude were living in a duke’s household.
That she was here only because he employed her. If he wanted her to leave, it would be as simple as terminating her employment.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”

The duke shook his head in a decisive movement. Something habitual to him, Edwina had observed over the past few days. “Nothing
else, Hawkins, thank you.” He smiled at Gertrude as he spoke. “See? I can be polite when I wish to be.”

Hawkins’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he didn’t say anything, just bowed and left the room, taking the majority
of the footman phalanx with him.

“Mrs. Cheltam, would you mind serving?”

“Certainly. Would you like some ham, Your Grace?”

He shook his head, glancing at Gertrude. “Go ahead and serve your daughter first. She has been waiting very patiently.”

“I have!” Gertrude exclaimed.

Edwina couldn’t help but smile at her daughter’s enthusiastic support of herself. “You have, sweetheart.” She rose to take
Gertrude’s plate and placed an assortment of the food on it—ham, stewed tomatoes, a bit of chicken pie, and potatoes. She
placed it in front of Gertrude, then held her hand out for the duke’s plate. “Your Grace?”

He handed it to her, his eyes glinting with amusement. She hadn’t realized he possessed a sense of humor, much less one relating
to food and six-year-olds and dinner.

“You can skip the tomatoes, Cheltam, I don’t care for them,” he said as she began to serve.

“Does that mean I don’t have to eat them, either?”

Edwina shot a quick glance at the duke—
do you see what you’ve done
?
—then looked at her daughter. “The duke does not have anyone he has to listen to.”

“Thank God,” he said in a low murmur. She wanted to giggle at how relieved he sounded, but knew that would only make Gertrude
more recalcitrant.

“But you do, at least for a few more years yet. And I want you to eat your tomatoes.”

She felt both pairs of eyes looking at her, and she resisted the urge to tell both of them to stop being so fussy, but then
she would be the ill-mannered person at dinner this evening, not her daughter, as she’d feared.

So instead she went about making his plate—skipping the tomatoes—and handed it to him, not meeting his gaze, then set about
making her own. Making sure to put plenty of tomatoes on her own plate.

“I am so full,” Mrs. Cheltam’s daughter said, rubbing her stomach. Michael felt his mouth curl up at the corners, something
he wasn’t accustomed to. Nor was he accustomed to spending any time at all with children of any age. He didn’t know if Mrs. Cheltam’s
daughter was indicative of the whole species, but he was surprised to find he actually liked her. She was guileless, clearly
intelligent, and enthusiastic.

It was clear she had inherited her mother’s looks and would be a beauty someday. She had dark eyes, like her mother, and hair
just a few shades lighter. She did not have the beauty mark her mother did, but otherwise, she looked like a young version
of Mrs. Cheltam.

Mrs. Cheltam, he’d noticed, hadn’t tried to curb her daughter’s enthusiasm for dinner, or conversation, or dessert, although
she had kept her from having three desserts and had reminded her to say please and thank you a few times.

“Shall we go to the drawing room for tea?”

“I don’t like tea,” Gertrude said in a sulky voice.

He didn’t mind that she had spoken rudely, if that was how she felt. He’d meant what he’d told her mother, that he preferred
honesty to nicety. But it seemed her mother was not so sanguine; a blush was creeping up her cheekbones, and she had pursed
her lips. “That is not polite. Please apologize to us.”

Gertrude pouted as she spoke. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t like tea, either,” Michael said, earning a quickly suppressed glare from Mrs. Cheltam.

“It is your bedtime. Excuse us, Your Grace.”

Michael looked at one of the standing footmen. “You there. William, is it? Please find one of the maids to take Miss Gertrude
up to bed. Her mother and I will take tea in the drawing room.”

He could tell she didn’t like it by the way her mouth opened, but she did not say anything, just met his gaze and tilted her
head in a short nod.

Her daughter, on the other hand, apparently thought it was to be a great treat to have one of the maids put her to bed rather
than her mother, judging by her smile. The novelty of it must have appealed to her.

He would far prefer to have Mrs. Cheltam put him to bed, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter, did he?

He did not. He could not. Especially now that he’d met her daughter, and understood better why the woman was so fiercely determined
to take employment, and to be a more than satisfactory employee.

What must it be like to be the only thing keeping a child away from utter poverty? Because that was what she had implied when
he’d first met her, and besides, no lady would choose to work if she didn’t have to. There would be too many disreputable
men willing to take advantage of a lady in a precarious position, even if the lady in question had an honest desire to take
and keep a position.

Thank goodness she hadn’t ended up with one of those disreputable men. Even though he was noticing his own disreputability
in his thoughts regarding her, he wouldn’t act on any of his desires. She was too good a secretary and too worthy a woman
to treat her so shabbily.

Even though he wished to. Not treat her shabbily, not that—but to see if her mouth tasted as good as it looked. To lick that
beauty mark, to plunge his hands into her thick hair so he could hold her to him, to kiss the curve of her neck and the fullness
of her breasts, which were more enticingly revealed in the gown she wore than he had seen thus far.

More than that, to be able to talk to her as an equal, a woman who could be his partner in conversation as well as in bed.
Someone he could ask questions of without knowing he’d be totally bored by the answer. Someone who would ask questions of
him that would make him think in a way he’d never had to before. Someone to challenge him.

The door opened, letting one of the maids in, making him snap back to attention.
Dear God, Michael
, he thought,
what are you doing?
He’d never wanted something he couldn’t have before, and he wasn’t quite certain how to handle that disappointment.

“Good night, Your Grace,” Gertrude said with a curtsey.

“Good night, Miss Gertrude,” he replied in a solemn voice.

“I will be up later, sweetheart,” Mrs. Cheltam said, holding her arm out. “Give your mother a hug, all right?”

Gertrude flung herself into her mother’s arms as Michael watched, feeling something in the area of his heart tighten. He couldn’t
be feeling a pang of jealousy, could he? That he had never gotten such a vigorous heartfelt hug from his parents? Or was it
that he wished Mrs. Cheltam would open her arms to him in a similar manner?

“Off you go,” Mrs. Cheltam said, finally releasing her daughter. “Thank you.” She addressed the maid. “Only two nighttime
stories, please. Even though she’ll tell you I always read her seven.”

Gertrude’s face fell comically. “Mother,” she said in a long, plaintive voice.

“Go on,” Michael urged.

Gertrude rolled her eyes, but left the room, the maid following behind.

And then they were alone.

“Did you wish for tea, Your Grace?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Some brandy, perhaps.” He stood, waiting as she rose also. “In the drawing room.” He didn’t wait
for her reply—he never waited for anybody, did he, he was coming to realize—just strode to the door so quickly the footman
couldn’t open it for him. He held it for her as she followed, the skirts of her gown brushing his legs.

“Ask Hawkins to bring glasses to us.”

He led the way to the drawing room, conscious of her following him. Of her scent, of how he seemed to always know where she
was in the room.

He flung the door open and walked in, gesturing to the smallest of the three sofas in the room. “Sit there.”

He thought he might have heard her muttering about orders and demanding dukes, but chose to ignore her. She was correct, after
all. He was peremptory, given to issuing commands he expected to be followed.

She sat, rod-straight, her body not making contact with the back of the sofa.

“Is that comfortable?” he asked, nodding his head to where she sat.

“Is what comfortable?”

“Sitting like that. All straight up and down, not allowing your back to touch the sofa. All ladies do it, I’ve observed, but
I’ve never really thought about it. It can’t be comfortable, though.”

She raised a dark eyebrow at him. And then lifted her chin. His chest tightened in delightful anticipation of what she’d say.
He had to admit, he liked it when she was feisty, even though he deplored it in most other people. In all other people, in
fact.

“It is not proper to comment on how a lady is seated, Your Grace.”

He wanted to growl and laugh, simultaneously. Something about her made him want to needle her, to see just how improper he
could get her to behave. That is, to speak. He didn’t want her to do anything improper. Even though he absolutely did.

He should definitely change the conversation before he did or said something that would reveal just how intrigued he was by
his new secretary.

He
should
change the conversation—but he didn’t. “You do know I am not proper, at least not in the way you mean it.”

She regarded him with her cool gaze. “And how do you think I mean it?” she asked in a deceptively soft tone of voice.

Something relaxed inside him. Something he didn’t feel unless he was alone with Chester. Which wasn’t alone, entirely, since
he found he spoke to his dog a lot more than he did to most humans.

“Stuffy. Correct just because that is what one is supposed to do.”

She arched an eyebrow. “But if we do what we are not supposed to do, then we have anarchy. Dukes do not do well in anarchy,
or have you forgotten the French Revolution?”

He waved a hand in dismissal, knowing it would irk her. Delighted to see the spark of it kindle in her eyes. “Those aristocrats
were fools, not able to see how things were changing. Change needs to happen in order for there to be progress.”

Another brow arched, so both were raised up on her face, making her look entirely skeptical. And utterly fascinating.

“So you’re saying that we should all unstuffy ourselves for there to be progress?” She shook her head in mock disapproval.
“Your Grace, then we would have no need of people like you.”

People like you
. The words rang in his head, causing a buzzing in his head. “And people like me are . . . ?” he said, stretching the sentence
out.

She frowned, as though annoyed. At herself? At him? “Not like you precisely, since you are you, but people in your position.”

“You’re saying I am different from my position? And yet I would imagine few people can distinguish the person from the position.”

“I can,” she announced, making that feeling in his chest blossom so it felt as though he’d taken an almost too full breath.

Now he definitely needed to change the course of the conversation. Before he said or more accurately did something he should
not. It wouldn’t be fair, to either of them. There was no possibility of anything more between them; she was his employee,
not even remotely of his class. Even though he felt they were alike in the important ways.

He shoved those thoughts away entirely. Something he was very good at doing.

“Your daughter, should she have a governess?”

He was genuinely interested, he was surprised to find. Not that he would have asked if he weren’t interested—he didn’t waste
time on questions when he didn’t care to hear the answer. It resulted in a lot of silence between him and the people he encountered
on a daily basis. Except for her.

“She should,” Mrs. Cheltam replied, her expression slightly rueful. “We were about to hire one before my husband passed away.”

Silence, again, as Michael didn’t bother offering condolences. He had to admit that on the whole he was glad the man had died;
without that, she wouldn’t be here.

“You’ll hire one for her. I’ll pay the salary, of course.” Michael was as startled as she seemed to be as the words left his
mouth. What had he told himself about impetuous decisions? That they never worked out? And yet here he was deciding to bring
yet another stranger into his household.

“That wouldn’t be appropriate, Your Grace,” she said, her mouth pressed into a prim line.

“Hadlow,” he corrected. Which she knew damn well. “And I don’t care if it’s not appropriate. Have I given you the impression
I care about any of that at all?”

He found he’d walked toward her in a nearly predatory way, as though he were going to pounce. The thought was immensely appealing.

Thankfully, the door opened to admit Hawkins before he could decide one way or the other. At which point he knew he couldn’t
do it, no matter how tempting it was to get her to unbend, to lean against the sofa back as he kissed her.

“I’ll take those,” Michael said instead, walking to Hawkins, who was bearing two brandy glasses on a tray. He picked them
up, then nodded to his butler. “You can leave us.”

Hawkins bowed and left the room.

Michael walked to the small round table where the brandy was kept, placing the glasses down and lifting up one of the heavy
decanters. He unstoppered it, poured a healthy amount in both glasses, and picked them up, the sharp smoky aroma of the brandy
tickling his nostrils.

He returned to where she sat and handed her the glass. She looked skeptical, but took it from him. Their fingers touched,
and he felt a pleasurable spark of something sizzle from the contact.

“To Gertrude’s governess,” he said, raising his glass. He waited until she brought the glass to her mouth to take a sip, then
he drank.

The brandy burned going down, a painful pleasure that warmed him from the inside. He sat down on the sofa as well, making
certain to keep to the farther side so she wouldn’t get skittish about his intentions.

Not that he had intentions toward her—he certainly had desire, but no intention of acting on them. But she needed to know
she was safe with him, even though they were alone in the evening drinking brandy.

“Will you need assistance hiring someone?” he asked, taking another sip. He was more prepared for the burn of the brandy on
the second taste, and he rolled the fiery liquid on his tongue. He didn’t care much about food, to his cook’s chagrin, but
he did enjoy excellent brandy.

“If you approve, I can find someone through the Quality Employment Agency. The ones who submitted me for your position.”

Your position.
He would have to start thinking about other things because he was finding he could discern the innuendo in nearly anything
she said. Damn distracting.

“That will be fine. The governess will reside here as well.”

“Thank you.” She spoke in a low, honest tone, and he felt his chest swell at the sincerity of her words. No wonder people
did nice things for other people, if this was how it felt when they got thanked. He’d never done anything out of the goodness
of his heart, but perhaps he should think about it. Or maybe it was only her thanks that warmed him as thoroughly as the brandy
did. He’d have to test it out, perhaps do something nice for someone who wasn’t she.

Although he wouldn’t want to be so hasty, would he?

“Can you answer a question for me?”

Michael shrugged. “If I want to, of course.”

Did she roll her eyes at him? He thought so. He liked it.

“Why are you working so hard?” she gestured to the room. “You already have all this, you have more than sufficient funds,
and you could just do the minimum of management to keep it all going. Why do you push yourself?”

He inhaled sharply, wondering why it felt as though she had gotten to the heart of him, somehow. Again. And with just a simple
question. He took another sip of brandy, considering whether or not to answer, or to just shut her down with one of his usual
rude comments.

And surprised himself when he did answer. Even more surprising was how it felt to have her ask one of those insightful questions
he’d thought about. Like sharing something of himself, and he wanted to do more of it. But only with her, and because it was
she. “I suppose it is because I wish to strive to be the best I can be, whether it is the best duke, or the best manager of
my holdings, or the best representative in the House of Lords. Anybody can do what is necessary, and even perhaps do a little
more, to congratulate themselves on making a bit more effort.” His lip curled. “Those people don’t know what it is to try,
to run the risk of failure.” He shrugged, meeting her gaze. “I do.”