The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (18 page)

It was going to be even harder—so to speak—to maintain a properly ducal decorum. Especially now that he knew he would have to do it for longer than two minutes.

A duke must have three things
:

       
1 A dukedom (of course)

       
2 The arrogance appropriate to his position

       
3 A larger than average . . . standing amongst his peers

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

“H
ow do you take your tea, my lady?” Lily's entire body reacted when she heard his voice, even before she registered what he was saying.

Who was he talking to, anyway? She walked more quickly down the hall toward the schoolroom.

“Sugar. Lots of sugar.” Her steps slowed as she heard Rose's voice. They were taking tea together?

She made her way to the door and peered inside. Rose and the duke were seated at the small table, the one where they'd done their drawings together, the duke's large frame bent over nearly double at the small table.

Rose was wearing a—was that, a cravat?—on her head, tied into a bow, and she appeared to have been slathering jam in copious amounts on her face.

The duke, not unsurprisingly, was not wearing a cravat.

She hadn't seen him since the night before, not since they kissed, not since she touched his back, felt the solid wall of muscle pressed against her
chest, and had to remind herself that it couldn't happen again, not if she wanted to preserve the distance—tiny though it was—between them as employer and employee, not anything more.

It wasn't proper. It was delicious, enticing, intoxicating, and felt like wonderful madness, but it was not proper.

Perhaps she should embroider that on her handkerchief so she could refer to it when tempted.

Although if she did, she'd likely be looking at it every few minutes or so.

Enough, Lil,
she reminded herself. She could not change the past, but she could guide her future.

She walked into the room, putting a politely distant smile on her face.

The duke caught her eye, a warm smile starting to curl his mouth up, but he froze, mid-smile, and Lily felt the catch of that in her heart.

“Are you having tea?” she asked, which was a stupid question, since that was clearly what they were doing.

Rose wrinkled up her face, showing just what she thought of her question.

Lily couldn't blame her.

“I told Miss Rose that we were both in need of manners,” Marcus said. “Learning to do what was proper, and that you had been helping me in the evenings just as you teach Rose during the day.” His tone was as proper and distant and respectful as it should be.

Why did that bother her?

“And so we decided to have tea together, to practice.”

“Like you do,” Rose added, of course not aware that Lily and the duke practiced things that would not come up in the course of polite conversation.

More like impolite actions. The exact opposite of polite conversation.

“May I join you?”

A silence as the duke looked at Rose. “This is your tea party, Miss Rose. Should we allow your governess to join us?”

Your governess. Reminding her again, even though he didn't mean it, of her position.

“Uh-huh,” Rose said, reaching for the pot of jam.

The duke stood and held one of the small chairs out for her. “Please be seated, Miss Lily.”

She sat, and she could have sworn he slid his fingers over the bare skin of her neck for just a moment, but he was back in his own chair before she could register whether it was what she had indeed felt. Not proper, she wanted to remind him.

“You take your tea with milk,” Rose asserted.

“Let me pour the tea for you, my lady, the pot is still too heavy.” The duke poured the cup, and then Rose put in so much milk the liquid nearly hit the top of the rim, making it nearly impossible for her to raise it without spilling.

Lily regarded the cup for a moment, then leaned forward and slurped enough out to make it safe to pick up.

“That action is not what polite young ladies usually do,” the duke said, his tone laced with humor. Lily felt herself flush, reminded that slurping tea was the least shocking thing she had done that
polite young ladies did not. “Although it is hard to imagine what a polite young lady would do when faced with that situation,” he continued. “What would you do, Rose, if your cup was too full?”

Rose picked up her own cup which was blessedly only half full. “I don't know,” she said with a shrug as she took a sip. “Spill it out?” She lowered the cup and reached for the sugar bowl.

The duke put his hand on her wrist. “I think you have enough sugar in that tea, don't you?”

Rose glowered but pulled her hand back. The duke patted her hand and leaned back in his chair. “What should we talk about at tea?” He shot a quick, amused glance at Lily. “The weather? The Queen? The elegance of this room?”

Rose shrugged again. The duke heaved an overdone sigh, humor lighting up his dark eyes. “Perhaps Miss Lily and I might converse so you can see just what proper young ladies and gentlemen talk about.”

Only I am not proper, Lily thought. Not anymore, not since my father lost everything and I had to earn my living however I could. But for the moment she would play the part.

If only she were proper enough to even dream—but no, that was a very dangerous thought. He was her employer. That she had discovered she liked kissing her employer was improper, certainly, but there was no long-term harm in it . . . was there?

Except to her heart, and her reputation, and the very real possibility that he would be marrying some lady—a lady who was not her—and that she would have to see him with another woman,
a woman who would take precedence in his and Rose's lives.

Wonderful. Now she was thoroughly depressed.

“Miss Lily?”

“Oh, of course. I am sorry.” She sat up straighter in her chair and looked at him. “Had you asked me something? I was . . . I was thinking about something.” About how this was the most untenable of situations, and yet it felt so comfortable, so right, being here. With him and Rose. About how his hands had felt on her skin and how she wanted to feel that alive, that wanted, again.

About how she had the chance to make her dreams come true, not the dreams where she and the duke were . . . doing things, but how she could elevate the agency's reputation so no woman would ever have to be forced into an unfortunate position again.

“I was wondering if you thought the weather will be fine enough for a walk tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “All three of us. I cannot today, I have to pay a call on my host from last night.”

“I cannot predict the weather, Your Grace.”

He rolled his eyes, no doubt at her prim tone. “We are conversing, Miss Lily, not trying to predict anything.”

That was the thing, wasn't it? She couldn't predict what would happen next, how she'd feel, what she'd do.

She felt as though she were standing on a precipice, and she could jump down or fly off. The results would be the same, but the journeys—oh, the journeys would be entirely different.

“In that case, Your Grace, I would say I hope it will be fine enough weather for a walk tomorrow. Miss Rose and I have been making a study of trees and flowers, and perhaps she can identify some for us.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Rose. “Does that suit you, Miss Rose? To take a walk in the park tomorrow?” He shot a glance at Lily. “I love to walk, just walk, don't you?”

Rose nodded, absorbed in the biscuit she seemed to have filched while the duke was not looking.

“Excellent,” he said again. “It will be a pleasure to walk with two such lovely ladies.”

His compliment, guarded as it was, still managed to warm her, making her aware that he was aware of her. That perhaps, if it were even possible, he had been thinking as much about her as she had about him.

In which case no wonder he didn't have a cravat on. He might well have lost his concentration, as she had, after last night. She was surprised she hadn't somehow managed to put her gown on backward, or forgotten how to speak.

He made her speechless and confused and wanting.

The exact opposite of precise, prim, and methodical.

And she wasn't sure she didn't like it much better.

A duke need never explain his reasons for not wishing to do something, but he should be prepared, if he is asked. And when he is asked, a duke can choose either to explain himself or to raise an eyebrow and stare at the questioner for his rudeness
.

It is recommended to do the first, but much more common to employ the second
.

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

“I
just don't know, Caroline.” Lily sat in the Unfortunate Woman chair feeling as though she had earned the right to sit there. Unfortunately. Caroline sat in the chair opposite her in the office, an expression of concern on her striking features.

“But you haven't done anything worth doing, not really.” Caroline drew back and blew a strand of hair off her face. “A kiss or two between two interested adults—that is not going to lead inexorably on a path of ruin, not if you don't want it to.”

Oh, but she did want it to. She'd had more thoughts than she could fathom of going into his study and stripping him naked, unwrapping his cravat (even though it was likely already off), unbuttoning his shirt, undoing the placket of his trousers. She was a little fuzzy on what else he might wear. She hoped there wasn't much more, she didn't want to take too much time with it.

Sliding everything off so she could see the man underneath it all. She knew he would be gloriously, arrogantly naked, proud of who he was and what he looked like, as proud as he was when clothed.

Just—more unclothed.

“You don't want it, do you, Lily?” Caroline must have noticed her hesitation.

“No, no, it's just—well, I had no idea that kissing was so pleasurable.”

Her friend laughed, and more hair flew around her head. Perhaps, Lily thought, she would purchase her a packet of hairpins for her next birthday.

“It is that. How do you think so many of us get into so much trouble?” Caroline's dark blue eyes danced as she spoke, but Lily knew her friend had been through more than she should have because of . . . trouble. It was what had been the basis for their partnership, their friendship, the bond of having to escape something that they were never truly part of.

In her own case, she'd had no choice; the only place that would take a female with no references but experience dealing with money was the brothel. She'd never thought her father's fecklessness would provide useful job skills, but she'd had to manage their money, as much as she could, from a young age. But even she couldn't withstand her father's determination to beggar himself and his family.

In Caroline's case, her downfall had been who she'd worked for—an artist who needed an assistant, someone who understood art and paint and the importance of quiet. An artist whose wife had seen a friendship and assumed the worst. Had blackened her name so thoroughly that Caroline couldn't find employment anywhere, unless she was willing to work in a brothel in the usual way.

But Caroline's experiences hadn't blighted her spirit, just dampened it. And now with the agency doing as well as it was, thanks to the duke hiring her, Caroline was as joyful as Lily had ever seen her. Caroline was not one for joy, usually. She was the mainstay of the agency, the one who bolstered everyone when they struggled, and who had the vision in the first place.

“What do you want to do?” Caroline asked in a soft, understanding voice.

Lily felt a wry smile curl her lips up, and she met her friend's gaze.

Caroline just laughed and shook her head. “You know you can't, not in reality. You can certainly think about it as much as you want. But to truly act upon it, you would have to be mad.”

“Or an idiot.”

“Or about to leave the country for parts unknown,” Caroline rejoined.

“Or on the verge of inheriting so much money it wouldn't matter if I danced with my skirts held up to my knees in Trafalgar Square.”

Caroline held her hand up to her mouth and guffawed, Lily joining her in laughing.

Both of the ladies quieted as they heard the bell at the door jingle, but resumed giggling as they heard Annabelle's voice. “Are you having fun without me? No fair,” she said in an outraged tone.

She stepped into the office, garbed in the bright colors she favored. Today she was wearing a purple overcoat on top of a bright green gown. It was . . . well, it was eye-catching, that was for
sure. Whether the individuals would wish their eyes to be returned after seeing Annabelle was a puzzle.

“Lily, how wonderful to see you!” Annabelle swooped down and kissed her on the cheek. “And Caroline is laughing! What have you done to her, Lily?”

She stood between them, her hands on her hips, her gaze darting between them in that bird-flittering way she had.

Lily reached her hand out and tugged on Annabelle's arm. “We were talking about my romantic life.”

Annabelle's mouth pursed into an O and she perched on the arm of Lily's chair. “Does that mean you—and the duke?” She sounded absolutely delighted.

Of course. Because Annabelle never thought about the consequences of her own actions, nor anyone else's, for that matter, which is how she came to be unfortunate herself.

Caroline huffed. “She has to
remember her place
,” she said, emphasizing the last three words. “Because he won't.” Then turning to Lily, she added, “And then where will you be?”

In his bed?

She didn't think that was what Caroline meant.

Luckily, the question seemed rhetorical, since Caroline continued talking. “You'll be on your own with a ruined reputation, and maybe worse. Not to mention the agency will suffer. As well as having your own heart broken,” she added, as if in afterthought.

Well. That was all very bad, wasn't it? She'd been hoping that someone, somewhere, would say she could explore and have fun without risking everything and everyone she cared about, but that kind of ending was only in fairy tales, and she did not have a fairy godmother to care for her.

All she had were two strong young women who had fought the hardship sent their way and emerged better on the other side.

All in all, she preferred what she had. And that meant she could never have what she didn't have currently. Ever.

“Y
our Grace.” The butler held his hand out as Marcus shook himself out of his coat and removed his hat. “The countess is in the drawing room, if you will just come this way?”

Marcus took a deep breath and followed the stern butler—not as stern as Thompson, but definitely stern—down the hall, a feeling of trepidation in his throat. Not that he should feel that way, he'd certainly paid calls before, except he hadn't done much socializing since assuming the title. He hadn't wanted to, nor had he needed to. Until now.

So while the prospect of spending the evening with men such as Smithfield, Collins, and the other men he'd spoken and drank with brought him pleasure, the prospect of sitting as he was inspected—and perhaps found wanting—by a group of proper ladies was enough to make him actually nervous.

No wonder he had eschewed it before. He hadn't realized just how ill-prepared he was to be a proper duke. To be a proper aristocrat, even. He'd had a succession of tutors, was given a few careless instructions as to how he should behave, but nothing more substantive. By the time he might reasonably have taken his place in correct society, his parents were dead, his brother didn't care, and he didn't want to bother with it. So he hadn't.

Which made this walk down the hallway feel as though he were on his way to his death.

Not that he was being dramatic or anything, he thought ruefully. This was hardly death, this was just—tea, and biscuits, and polite conversation. So death of a slower sort. Death by tea and talking. Death by boredom.

Thankfully, the butler stopped in front of a door before he could run away. The man flung the door open and held it wide as Marcus stepped through. “His Grace, the Duke of Rutherford,” the butler announced.

The Countess of Daymond, the very thin woman he'd met the previous evening, rose and approached him, a very polite smile on her face. “Your Grace, what a pleasure. Thank you for the visit. Can I get you some tea?”

Tea. He really couldn't face any more tea. But it was the polite thing to do, so, “Thank you, tea would be fine.”

“Or coffee?” she added. “I understand some gentlemen prefer coffee, although I cannot stand the appeal. So dark, and strong, and intense.”

That was precisely why he did like it, but he wouldn't argue the point with her. “Coffee would be perfect, thank you.”

The question of which beverage he would be drinking settled, the countess began to make the introductions. There were at least half a dozen ladies sitting in the room, all with teacups either in their hands or beside them on small tables, and he'd be damned—most certainly—if he could tell any of them apart. Except for Lady Lucinda, who was regarding him with that cool, slightly amused expression she'd worn the night before.

“You met my daughter, Lady Lucinda,” the countess was saying, “and this is Lady Hall, of the Yorkshire Halls,” as though that meant anything to him, “and Miss Charles and Miss Alice Charles—they are Lucinda's most devoted friends—and Lady Townsend, she is Lucinda's godmother. And that is everyone.” She gestured to an empty chair. “Please do sit down.”

Marcus sat, as instructed, feeling the weight of six pairs of eyes, twelve eyes in all, on him, wishing there was at least another male in the room so he didn't feel quite so on display. Especially since he knew just from the introductions that at least three of the women were unmarried, and therefore might be interested in snagging a duke. Would be interested in snagging a duke, since he could say without any modesty that he was one of the more attractive possible husbands a young lady could have. Or at least one of the most arrogant.

He wished Lily were here so she could take
him down a peg. He liked it when she got that wry, disapproving look on her face after he'd said something particularly peremptory or commanding. Or both.

But thinking about her was not going to get him successfully embraced by society, nor was it going to find him a wife, a well-bred woman who could ensure that Rose was able to navigate Society on her own, despite the stigma of her birth.

“Thank you for the invitation to the party,” Marcus said, accepting the coffee the stern butler handed him. “Your house is lovely, and the weather remained tolerable.” And with that sentence, he realized, he'd just used up all of his polite conversation. Uh-oh.

“You have just arrived in town, Your Grace?” the countess asked.

Actually, he'd been here for a few months, hadn't he? But if he said that, they would all wonder what he'd been doing, and that was not fit for polite conversation. “It seems so, doesn't it?” There. An answer Miss Blake would be proud of. Or not, if she couldn't decide whether or not to be proud of it.

“And what other parties do you plan on attending?” That was the other older woman, Lady Townsend, who shot a quick, knowing glance at her goddaughter, Lady Lucinda, as she asked the question.

“I am not certain,” he replied. It was not to his benefit that he was mirroring Miss Blake's type of conversation.

“Do not pester the duke,” Lady Lucinda said in
an amused voice. “He will be where he wishes to be when he wishes to be. Won't you?” she asked, regarding him with her wry smile.

He had to admit she was a surprise. A definitely pleasant surprise. She was witty, pretty, and eligible. Why did that thought not please him?

The conversation turned to the party the night before, including the quality of the musicians, an unnamed young man drinking a bit too much punch, and how the refreshments were so delicious each lady present declared that she'd had at least one more than she should have.

“Your Grace?” Lady Lucinda had somehow displaced one of the ladies who had been sitting next to him. He nodded, as though she might possibly be in doubt of his identity. Thankfully she didn't make note of that.

“I apologize for all the questions, it's just that there aren't very many dukes who normally grace our drawing room, and so of course we are all ridiculously curious about you. Especially,” she added with a roll of her eyes, “my mother.”

“Should we obtain a piece of paper and a pen so we might write down our conversation?” he asked, in a low tone matching hers, glancing over at Lady Lucinda's mother. Who was, indeed, keeping an eye—a gleeful eye, to be more specific—on the two of them as they talked.

Now he knew how the animals in a zoo felt. Maybe he should just put himself in a cage and allow Society to stop by to view him, perhaps poke a stick through the bars at him.

Although that wasn't fair. He was a rarity, he
knew that, which was why he'd kept himself away from this for so long. He hadn't wanted this inspection, not when he'd managed just fine not being inspected for most of his life.

Why couldn't his brother have just stayed on that horse? Then he'd have to be the one dealing with all of this. And would probably like it a lot more than he did, given how he and his brother were such opposites.

Lady Lucinda's voice interrupted his musings, thank goodness. “Biscuit?” She held a plate out to him, a gentle smile on her face.

She was rather attractive, he had to admit that. “Thank you,” he said, helping himself to a particularly delicious looking treat. He popped it in his mouth, glad he could have some biscuits today, since Rose had done away with all the ones they'd had at tea.

Rose
. Just thinking about her made him smile. He'd always liked walking on his own, but with her beside him, holding his hand, it elevated the solitary activity nearly into a joyful pursuit. Just as he'd been hoping for.

“I hear you have another inhabitant in your house, Your Grace?” It was Lady Lucinda's godmother who spoke, her voice cutting through all the other chatter in the room. “A young girl?”

There were several other inhabitants in his house, but one didn't count the servants, did one? “Yes. Miss Rose, my . . . ward. My cousin's daughter.” The lie was getting easier to say.

“She has just arrived? And you have already hired her a governess?” The lady's voice was not
approving. Not entirely disapproving, either, but Marcus felt himself grow defensive.