Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (20 page)

He was definitely different now. He was very afraid he might like it.

“Sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the sofa in his study. The one where they’d kissed, it seemed so long ago, but it couldn’t
be that long.

She looked as though she wanted to rebuke him for his tone, but settled on a sly smirk instead.

He poured two healthy servings of brandy and walked to her, giving her the glass, holding his up to his nose to savor the
aroma.

It didn’t smell as good as she did when they were entangled together in bed.

He wished they were in bed right now.

“Your brother-in-law is not going to stop, you know.” He sat down on the sofa next to her, the weight of his body on the seat
making her shift toward him.

Yes. Come closer.

She looked down, at her glass, as though it was the most important thing in the room.
I am
, he wanted to shout, but then again, she knew that already. Was acutely aware of it, likely, which was why she wasn’t meeting
his gaze.

“I know that,” she replied in a low voice. “I will pay you back, somehow, I just don’t—”

“Marry me.”

“Pardon?” He couldn’t have said, “Marry me.” Maybe he said, “Carry me”? Although why would he need carrying? And how would
he possibly think she could carry him anyway?

Maybe it was “very wee,” only there wasn’t anything all that small, and what was he doing talking about the size of anything
anyway?

“Marry me.”

Oh. He had said that. She took too large a sip from her glass, the brandy burning down her throat the way his words—

“Did you just say that?” she asked, when she was done sputtering.

He looked amused, damn him. As though marriage proposals and possible choking on strong beverages were something to chuckle
about.
Oh, ha, ha, I’ve just asked the most unsuitable woman in the world to marry me, and then she expired because she was so startled
she inhaled far too many spirits.

“I did.” He stretched one arm out across the sofa, his fingers coming to rest on her shoulder. “Surely you cannot have failed
to notice our mutual attraction.”

He said the words as though that was all that was needed for a successful marriage. Not that she knew, she didn’t even have
the bare minimum of attraction in her one, and thus far only, marriage.

“There is a world of difference between—between what we were doing”—
and what we won’t be doing any longer—
“and marriage. That is a permanent commitment,” she said, her voice rising in outrage.

“I know what it is. I have successfully avoided it for thirty-four years.” He spoke in a bored drawl, one that set her teeth
on edge and made her want to fling something at his head. Not the brandy, she needed that.

She took another sip. This time, it didn’t burn as much going down, instead settling a warmth into her stomach. “And why am
I the one you should now marry?”

He looked at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised. She felt herself blushing.

“Not just because of that,” she muttered.

“And why not?” He stroked her neck with his fingers, and she trembled. “We get along very well in bed, we get along tolerably
well outside of it, and I imagine we will continue to do both things until we die.”

Even George, when he’d proposed, had spoken of love.

Although George had lied. At least Michael—and she had to think of him as Michael now, now that they had done those things
and now he was saying this thing—would never lie to her. Which was why he wasn’t speaking of love, not at all, but of sexual
congress and tolerable consanguinity. Maybe if she was lucky he would tell her that his house was very large so they needn’t
see each other
every
day.

“You cannot marry me.”

This time, his raised eyebrow looked less amused. “And why not? I am the Duke of Hadlow, after all.”

As though that would squelch the gossip, the chatter, the bloodlines, the family heritage, knowing how to be a duchess, how
other children would treat Gertrude, and how she would always feel—always know—he had married beneath him. And he would know
it, too.

“I am your secretary, Your Grace,” and at that he frowned, his eyes narrowing. He looked fierce and mean, but she knew she
had nothing to fear from him. Except for his anger, which would pass when he realized she was right.

If
he realized she was right. The number of times he had been wrong about something was—well, she didn’t know, but she suspected
the number hovered around zero. There was always a first time, she thought, knowing she was on the verge of hysteria. Because
she did love him, damn it, but he didn’t love her, and she was not going to succumb to his offer, and suffer all the consequences,
if it wasn’t worth it. If his love wasn’t the thing keeping her going when people were whispering about her and them, and
making her feel uncomfortable.

“And as your secretary,” she continued, willing her voice to stay steady, “it is my responsibility to advise you as to when
you might be taking a misstep. Attending the wrong party, or investing in the wrong company, or—or marrying the wrong woman.”

He withdrew his hand from the sofa and placed it on his knee. He downed his drink in one swallow, not choking at all, she
noticed with envy. “Please do explain how you are the wrong woman.”

Now he sounded offended. As though she had accused him of being wrong. Which she had done—he was likely more offended by that
than by her not immediately saying yes to his inane proposal. Another reason she absolutely could not do this thing, even
though she wished she could. She really did.

“I am the wrong woman, Your Grace,” and this time she said it just so he would remember just who he was, and what responsibilities
he had, “because I am not of your class. I don’t know the first thing about moving in your world, being a duchess, nor do
I care to. You know nothing of my family, and it is my belief that attraction and tolerating one another is not a good enough
reason for people to marry.” She paused. “Unless they are of the same class, and they both understand what they are getting
into.”

“So you’re saying no?” She wanted to laugh at how astonished he sounded.

“I am. As your secretary,” she said, wishing her damn heart wasn’t almost audibly breaking, “I am saying that if you find
yourself wishing for a wife, you should go find one among your own type of people. Someone that nobody would think twice about
you marrying. Someone who knows all about how to run a vast household, who will be the appropriate mother for your children”—and
then she nearly broke in front of him, thinking about what it would be like to bear his children, smart little things that
would always get their way, and always be right—“whom you will also be able to tolerate. It shouldn’t be that difficult, it
is just that you likely haven’t applied yourself.”

His lips clamped together into a tight line, and she felt as though she were hanging on a wire suspended between them—if he
said just one word about love, just one, she would submit and they could be together the rest of their lives. And her heart
wouldn’t break, and Gertrude would be secure, and she could explore his body and mind forever.

“Fine,” he said at last. No talk of love. Nothing but acceptance. Did that mean he thought she was right? There was always
a first time, after all.

“Fine,” she repeated, placing her now empty—when did that happen?—glass onto the table beside her and standing on shaky legs.

She walked out without another word, unable to speak because she was concentrating so much on not falling to the floor in
frustration. In heartbreak. In devastation at what could never be, and yet what could have been if she had just been willing
to tolerate another unsatisfying marriage.

She’d said no. She’d said no. Michael paced in his room, his bedcovers turned invitingly down, him being appropriately garbed
in his nightclothes, and yet he had no desire to sleep.

Because she’d said no.

When he’d thought of it, it had seemed like the perfect solution—he liked being with her, he definitely liked being in bed
with her, and it would ensure her loathsome toad brother-in-law wouldn’t ever be able to bother her again.

Perfect.

Except she’d said no.

Fine.

Now that he’d thought about marriage, it seemed . . . appealing. The idea of someone being his partner, of being the one to
maneuver her way through the social niceties he didn’t want to bother with, was something he had to consider.

So if it wasn’t to be she, he would have to find someone else. Someone of his own class, as she’d suggested—she was an excellent
secretary, after all—who was comfortable in his world, who was reasonably attractive, who didn’t make him want to scream with
her stupidity. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?

Settled on that course, Michael climbed into bed, wishing he didn’t feel so lonely—now that he knew what he’d been feeling
all this time—wishing she hadn’t thrown his own logic back in his face.

Fine. He’d go out, and he’d find himself a wife, someone who wouldn’t say no.

Someone who wouldn’t be her.

“Good morning, Gertrude.” Edwina sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed, unable to keep herself from touching her, the shape
of her leg under the covers, a flung-out arm over her head. Anything to reassure her that her daughter was here, and was safe.

For now.

Gertrude opened her eyes, blinking dazedly. “Morning,” she mumbled. Her daughter took a long time to wake up, just like her
mother. Unlike her mother, however, she didn’t have to be alert for anything her employer might throw at her.

Such as a marriage proposal.

She couldn’t think about that, not now. Not when she’d spent most of the night thinking about just that thing, about how he’d
looked, and what he’d said. And not said. Nothing about love, or caring, or being a family.

“What do you want to wear today? I’ll help you dress.” The weeks they’d been here, Edwina had let one of the maids come in
to help Gertrude, since she was usually already working with the duke, and Gertrude was thrilled to have new people to talk
to, but today she wanted to be the one to assist her daughter.

It might be just them soon enough anyway.

Because if he did find a wife, she would have to leave. She couldn’t bear to stay here, not with him spending his nights with
another woman, not with her knowing what he looked like naked. What he looked like when he—well, then.

“I want the white one.” Gertrude shifted to her side and pointed at the wardrobe where her gowns were kept. “Do I have to
have lessons with Miss Clark today?” she said, her words already sulky.

Edwina smoothed her daughter’s hair. “Yes, you haven’t had lessons in a few days, you don’t want to fall behind.”

“Fine,” Gertrude replied, and Edwina’s heart hurt.
Fine
. Just what he’d said last night. Fine. Even though things were anything but, but at least she and Gertrude were together,
and she would stay and work for him, saving her salary until she had to leave.

When he brought home someone else. Someone appropriate, and of good family, and most importantly, not her.

She blinked away the sudden tears, not wanting her daughter to notice and ask questions, questions she wouldn’t be able to
answer.

Why are you crying, Mama?

Because I acted improperly with my employer, and now I am suffering the consequences, and my heart is broken.

“Hop on out of bed, and let’s get you dressed.” Edwina swiped her fingers under her eyes to make sure there was no moisture
there. This was going to be far more difficult than she’d imagined. She’d have to go see Carolyn at the agency soon—she owed
her a visit anyway, and she’d have to ask Carolyn to help find her another position.

Because things most definitely were not fine.

“Good morning, Cheltam.” He sounded as he did every morning.

“Good morning, Hadlow.” She stepped into the office, taking a deep breath as she walked toward him.

He was standing in front of his desk, his hands folded behind his back, his expression neutral. As though he hadn’t proposed
the night before.

As though it all hadn’t mattered to him.

She lifted her chin as she sat. Well, if it didn’t matter to him, she couldn’t allow herself to show that it mattered to her.
Even though of course it did. “What are we working on today?”

He frowned, then his features settled back into his usual expression. “The railway investments.”

“Even though we haven’t seen all the factories?”
Because we had to race home because I put my daughter in jeopardy by falling in love with you?

He shrugged. “The factory tours aren’t necessary to the decision.” He looked at her, his gaze sharpening. “There were other
factors in us going to visit them.”

Oh. He’d wanted to get her alone—or relatively alone—and that was the best way to go about it. But now that it was all over,
they could proceed as they would have normally, if she were a regular secretary and he were just her employer.

“Excellent.” She reached forward to retrieve the stack of ever-present papers on the edge of his desk.
Her
edge. “So have you made your decision?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand draw up into a fist, then unclench slowly. “I think perhaps I have. The Powers
and Smith Corporation, with smaller investments in the Better Engines Company and the Right Way Railway. Terrible name,” he
muttered, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“Excellent.”

His hand—now back into a fist—slammed onto the desk, making her jump. “Stop saying, ‘Excellent.’ ”

“Of course.” She kept her tone demure, her eyes lowered at the papers in her lap. No need to antagonize him, even though the
earlier Edwina—the one prior to having her heart broken—wanted to smirk and say,
Excellent
.

“And review the invitations that arrived while we were away,” he said, his tone stiff. “I wish to attend some events, but
I don’t want to be bothered with deciding which are best.”

“Of course,” she said again, and again, she saw his hand clench. She felt a fierce pride that she had been able to affect
him at least a little bit. Was he now going to tell her not to say, “Of course”? What words would he leave her with, then?

Not yes. She’d already refused to say yes the night before.

And then what he’d said hit her like a punch to the heart. As though someone had hit her, just there. He wanted to attend
some events. Events where he would meet eligible ladies, women who weren’t widows with canine-crazy children, who knew what
to do when meeting the Queen, who had the right bloodlines and would likely accede to all of his requests.

Who would bore him utterly.

She rose and walked to the other side of his desk, the one where Hawkins had placed the various invitations that she and the
duke both usually ignored. Because he was too busy, and what was more, he did not want to spend any time being with people
who were only interested in parties, and gossip, and wanted nothing to do with eccentric cranks, either railroad or ducal.