The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (14 page)

A duke must never forget just who he is. He cannot be seen enjoying himself excessively, expressing his opinion, or wearing clothing that is not faultlessly perfect for the occasion
.

A duke may do whatever he wants
.

—T
HE
D
UKE
'
S
G
UIDE
TO
C
ORRECT
B
EHAVIOR

“W
hat is your favorite color?” Marcus asked. He didn't think he'd ever enjoyed walking so much in his life. It was just the two of them, Rose having announced she wished to walk with the duke herself.

Not that she didn't like her governess, she had continued, but she wanted him all to herself.

Had he ever been wanted just for himself? It was a remarkable feeling. He held Rose's hand as they made their way through the park, the early spring chill just shivery enough to make them keep their coats buttoned. He spotted a few signs of potential spring; not enough to believe it was absolutely on its way, but enough so that there was hope.

Hope. He hadn't had that in a long time, had he?

“Red,” Rose said, after a long pause. Long enough for him to nearly believe in hope again. “What's yours?”

Marcus thought of eyes that changed color, that flickered from dark emerald to warm hazel. “Green,” he replied, giving Rose's hand a squeeze.

He'd initially forgotten that he had promised
he would take Rose out for a walk in the afternoon, and then was disappointed that his newest employee would not be accompanying him—but as they walked, silent for the most part, just being together on this not quite spring day, he didn't wish it any other way.

Rose was a quiet child, but definitely opinionated. She'd told him why she preferred cats over dogs (apparently it had something to do with the softness of their fur, but he wasn't clear on that point), why the letter R was the best letter in the alphabet (obviously!), and that she thought it was stupid for children to have to go to bed earlier than adults (that one he disagreed with).

She could give Miss Blake some lessons in decision-making, that was for certain.

And listening to her, and just
being
with her, made him feel that there was hope. Spring would come, and he would take care of Rose as best he could, and he would do whatever he needed to ensure her happiness and well-being. And if that meant spending time with her sometimes prickly, entirely enticing governess?

That was just an unexpected benefit.

He was looking forward to hearing her report this evening. He was looking forward even more to just seeing her. He knew he shouldn't want to kiss her, but he did nonetheless.

“And the only time was when I was little,” Rose said, apparently completing a thought he had lost track of.

“What was the only time?” Marcus said in a soft voice.

“The only time I had an ice. Have you ever had an ice?”

Children really were resilient. Rose had lost her mother only a week or so ago, and here she was, chattering about ices and colors and animals. He wasn't so naive to believe she wouldn't have difficulty later on, but it seemed she had adjusted well thus far.

And for that he had his governess to thank. She'd proven beyond capable, and he congratulated himself on hiring her, even though—he had to admit—the only thing he had done was said yes when she presented herself.

He wished she would reciprocate in other yes-saying areas, but hadn't he just scolded himself for those kinds of inappropriate thoughts?

It seemed he was in need of guidance on such things. It was good, then, that he had an able assistant. Who was beautiful, even if she wished to hide it, intelligent, and witty. Who intrigued him more with each passing moment he spent in her company.

“T
here you are.” He didn't mean to sound irritable, it just happened. And he'd been sitting in this room for nearly two hours, wrestling with ledgers, and tiny print, and orders for things he didn't even know he needed.

No wonder he'd always ignored all of this before. It was damned unpleasant, and if there was one thing in his life he was good at, it was avoiding unpleasantness.

But he'd been thinking about being useful since she mentioned it. He might as well, he couldn't continue just avoiding things. Look how well that had turned out. Or not.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair she'd sat in the night before. The night he'd kissed her.

Of course that thought made him wonder what else he could do with her here. Things that would definitely take longer than two minutes, or two hours, even—watching her come undone, that thick, dark hair flowing down her naked back. His fingers stroking her skin, making her tremble underneath his touch.

Much more pleasant than accounting, that was for certain.

But she looked even less . . . pleasant than she had when he first met her, and she'd been all spiky then, like an unruly hedgehog. Now she looked as though she were wearing clothing that was too tight—although he could see for himself that was not the case, more's the pity—or had eaten something that disagreed with her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, trying to soften his tone. He was almost proud of himself for noticing something was off—he didn't generally care about others' well-being, except now it seemed he did.

Which was only one of many changes wrought when Rose came to stay with him. Had Lily secretly hated his kisses? Was she worried he would abuse his position as her employer? He didn't know, precisely, how to address that topic, since to mention it would be improper, and yet to sit
here together with all of it surrounding them was also improper.

If only he had someone who could advise him on proper behavior. The irony of it made him nearly smile, only he didn't want her to know he was thinking about that, even though he absolutely was.

“I am fine, Your Grace,” she replied stiffly. “What did you require?” Back to the stiff-voiced governess he'd met only a week ago, which seemed forever. It was definitely better to return to a working relationship with her rather than muse about the softness of her lips, or the warmth of her body, or—damn.

He gestured to the papers spread out on the desk. “I've taken your advice, you see,” he said, resisting the urge to ask about anything related to kisses, and the quality thereof, “and I am going through the past year's accounts.” He felt the evening's frustration rise up into his throat. “And I can't seem to make sense of any of it. Not one bit.” He looked up at her, directly into her eyes. She still looked hedgehoggish. “Will you help me?”

W
ell. She couldn't resist that, could she?

She got up from the comfortable chair, sincerely wishing he was a duke with a wart on his nose, not a handsome nose on his handsome face. It would make her life much easier. But he didn't. Or wasn't. Or whatever.

He had a half smile on his face, and she wished she could ask him what he was—or wasn't—smiling about.

But she couldn't ask him anything, because
asking him questions might make him ask her questions, like he had the previous evening.

Did you like it?

The words had whispered through her head ever since he'd said them. He hadn't sounded commanding, not then; instead, he'd sounded hesitant. Concerned. Worried about how she'd enjoyed her first kiss? But he hadn't known it was her first, had he? He might think she went around kissing all her employers, although that would have given him pause if he had considered the mythical vicar.

What did he think of her? She wished she could ask him, just as she wished she could ask why he couldn't seem to get a close enough shave on his cheeks, even in the morning, and if cravats felt so uncomfortable that he hated wearing them—he wasn't wearing one again tonight, showing that delicious expanse of skin.

But she couldn't say any of those things. She knew that, and yet the questions danced in her mind.

“What are you having trouble with in particular?” she asked instead, placing her hand on the top of the desk and leaning forward. His head was just near her arm, and she wondered what he would do if she stroked his hair.

Probably pull her onto his lap and kiss her senseless. So she probably shouldn't do that.

Even though she really, really wanted to.

“These numbers won't add up. I've tried them many different ways, and I get a different answer every time.” His expression was aggrieved, as
though the numbers were being difficult on purpose, and she tried not to laugh.

“I don't believe it is the numbers at fault, Your Grace,” she said, drawing one of the pages near her. “If you don't mind?” she continued, gesturing that he should let her sit. He rose, but stood directly beside her chair, so she was acutely aware of him, his scent, the warmth of his body, everything there right beside her.

It was definitely distracting.

She shook it off, though, and looked at the long tiny columns. “Do you have a pencil?”

“That would help, wouldn't it?” he said in a dry tone. He handed her the pencil and her fingers touched his—what did the man have against wearing gloves, anyway? That was yet another question she'd like to ask—and the contact sent sparks through her, made her tingle in places he very definitely had not touched.

She swallowed. “Let's see, then.” She bent over the paper, wishing she could better control her breathing, her heart rate—well, everything.

“I see. You forgot to include the second column here, in your calculations.” She blinked as she kept looking at the numbers. “And for goodness' sake, do you have pixies working for you? Because this might be the smallest handwriting I've ever seen. No wonder you're having a difficult time.”

“Good,” he said, a strong thread of humor in his voice, “I was thinking it was because I was stupid.”

She lifted her head to look him in the face,
allowing herself to smile. “There's that, too, but the small handwriting doesn't help matters.”

“So where did I go wrong, then?” At that, he leaned completely over her, and for a moment she was entirely and completely breathless. She was about to go terribly wrong—in such a right way—if she didn't remember who she was, what she was doing here, and what she should most definitely not be doing here.

She pointed a shaky finger at the second column. “Here. See how you should have added the hundred you got from these numbers to that one?”

He leaned farther in, and so help her, she just wished she could raise her face to his. To explore the stubble on his cheeks with her tongue, even though she'd never had such a perverse thought in her life before.

And was it so perverse, anyway? She simply didn't know.

One would think, she thought ruefully, that having worked in a brothel would mean that one did know such things.

All she knew was how to settle accounts.

With that lowering thought in mind, she did what she knew.

L
ily rubbed her eyes and stretched. They'd been working on the accounts for about an hour—he'd drawn up a chair so he wasn't disconcertingly close to her. Perhaps only concertingly close, if such a thing existed.

He wasn't stupid, as he claimed, but he was far
too impatient for things just to be done, rather than working it through in order to get them done. She kept explaining it to him until at last they were both satisfied that he at least understood the rudimentary elements.

“I've had enough of this,” he said then, stretching. She tried not to notice the strength and breadth of his chest as he held his arms over his head. Nor did she notice his bare throat, the tendons of his neck, how the dark stubble covered his cheeks, and how his mouth—that mouth that had been on hers the night before—had a slight curl to it, as though he were secretly pleased about something.

None of that. Instead, she reminded herself that she was just an employee, one who had plans of her own that did not involve him. The opposite, in fact.

“Then I might be excused?” she asked, beginning to rise from her chair.

His hand shot out and clamped her wrist, holding her still. That lip curled into an actual smile, not just a secretly pleased one. “After all that, we deserve more than tea, don't you think, Miss Lily?”

He didn't wait for her reply, just let go of her and stood in one smooth motion before stalking to the cart where the brandy bottle was. He poured as he spoke. “I would ask you to give the daily report on Rose, only I spent the afternoon with her.” He picked up their glasses and put both of them on the desk, returning to his seat. “Should I report to you, then?”

He didn't wait for a response. “Miss Rose liked the walk, although she wished people took their cats out of doors as well as their dogs. She much prefers cats, you see,” he added in an aside. “We didn't talk a lot—Miss Rose seems to like silence as well as conversation—but we had a wonderful time.” He took a sip of his brandy. “I would like to take her out again next Tuesday, on your afternoon off. I think we will both enjoy that.”

Lily took her own sip, this time anticipating the sharp burn of the drink. She did like it. “Of course, Your Grace. That is entirely your prerogative.”

He frowned and set his glass on the table. “Look, could you dispense with the ‘Your Grace' thing entirely when we are alone together, just us? I am reminded enough of my position, my difference from the rest of the world, I would like to be with one person who doesn't have to mention it every sentence.”

“Yes, Your— Yes.”

“Good. If you need to call me, you can always say ‘Hey, you,' or ‘You there,' or something similar. If only the two of us are in the room, I can likely figure out who you're talking to.”

“To whom you're talking,” Lily replied automatically, as though it were Rose speaking.

He laughed. “Of course. That. Thank you,” he said, lifting his glass to her in a salute. He took a deeper drink then, and Lily watched the muscles of his throat as he drank.

“Rose and I are visiting the Porters tomorrow,” she reminded him. “You did not wish to join us,
did you? Miss Blake will be there,” she added in a teasing tone of voice.

“I cannot decide what would be prefera—” he began in a clear imitation of the lady in question, then continued in his regular voice, “no, of course I won't be coming. Please do give my regards to the family. I hope Rose enjoys meeting other young children.”