The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (27 page)

A duke never boasts about his accomplishments
.

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

T
here was nothing so satisfying as bringing a woman to orgasm, Marcus reflected. He hadn't had much experience with it before, and he vowed to rectify that mistake as much as he possibly could in the future.

She gripped his cock, and he pushed into her hand. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Stroke it up and down,” he replied, then groaned as she did as instructed. It felt incredible to have her fingers sliding along his shaft, even with the condom sheathing him.

And, as it turned out, it was a damned good thing he already had the condom on. He couldn't wait. He needed to be inside her.

“Lily, you're killing me,” he muttered, then moved so he was on top of her again, his cock at her entrance. He raised himself up on his arms and thrust, pushing inside her, past the barrier of her virginity, feeling her body tighten around him, hearing her gasp as he buried himself in her.

When he had gone as far as he possibly could, he lowered himself down onto her, panting,
wanting to move but wanting, more importantly, to make sure she was all right.

“You have done this before, haven't you?” she asked in a humorous tone. “Aren't you supposed to move or something?”

Yes, she was all right.

He raised himself back up on his arms and began to thrust, in and out of her, the motion making her breasts jiggle in a delightful way. She had her hands at his waist and was watching what was happening down there, her lip caught between her teeth, her expression one of sensual engagement.

And then he moved faster, sliding in and out, building to his eventual climax, savoring each movement, each moment when their skin touched, when she moaned, the tightening grip on his waist, his hips.

One final thrust, then he spent and collapsed on top of her, his heart racing, his whole body feeling the impact of pleasure. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as his body shook with the tremors of his climax.

“Well, that was more than two minutes,” he murmured into her neck.

“Pardon?” she asked.

He shook his head, as much as he was able to, given that his face was right against her skin. Her delicious, smooth, lovely skin.

And as soon as they were married they could do this anytime they wished. He smiled at the thought.

“Marcus?”

He raised up, the tone in her voice making him
think he was crushing her. “Was that all right? I mean, this and everything?” he said, gesturing to the fact that they were both naked in his bed.

Oh, how he liked the sound of that.

She swatted his arm. “Of course it was, I wanted it. I told you so. There need not be any worry on that score.”

“What did you want to ask?” He continued without waiting for a response, “We'll have to tell Rose first, of course, and then we can put an announcement in the papers. But I want a quiet ceremony, no more than a few friends. I barely have any family, at least none that I care about, so—”

“What?” It sounded now as though not only had he crushed her, but that he had perhaps squashed two or three of her closest friends. Which he knew full well he hadn't. “We can't—I didn't know, you didn't say—we can't get married!”

His whole body stiffened. Well, except for that part. That part was still recovering.

“What do you mean, we can't get married? What was this all about, anyway?”

Too late, he realized he hadn't actually said anything. He'd just assumed, from her actions, that she wanted to be with him. Forever.

That she did not wish to be with him forever was therefore somewhat of a blow.

He rolled off her onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. Feeling ridiculous—he was entirely naked, spent and happy, but now the woman he wished to do this to every night had told him no. When he hadn't even gotten the chance to ask her.

“I—haven't told you everything.” She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. She looked as though she were about to break, and Marcus felt a pang of emotion with which he wasn't familiar. He thought it might be empathy.

He reached up and stroked her back, his fingers trailing down her spine, then up again. It was a comforting gesture, one he didn't think he'd ever made before. Nobody had ever wanted comfort from him.

Money, whiskey, cat food, his bachelorhood, yes—but not comfort.

Her body began to shake under his hand, and he knew that whatever it was, whatever it was she hadn't told him, was more than she could bear on her own.

“What is it?” he asked, resting his palm on her back.

She moved off the bed, plucked her dressing gown from the floor and put it on, wrapping the sash tight around her. Then she wrapped her arms around her waist and returned to sit on the bed.

Not looking at him.

Her face pale.

His heart already sore.

“I know this was wrong,” she began, her hand gesturing to indicate what had just occurred between them, “but I couldn't leave without it. It was selfish, I know.”

Leave? First she had said no to a marriage proposal he hadn't tendered yet, and now she was leaving?

What could he have possibly done? He reviewed
his activities; no, there was nothing to which she could object, unless it was the less than professional way he treated his employee. But since that employee was her, he didn't think that was it.

“I was not honest about my past.” She looked down at her hands, which were knotted together in her lap. “I never worked at a vicar's. I—I—” and at this she looked up, her eyes meeting his, so dark he would have thought he had imagined the gold glints he knew lurked inside.

“I worked at a brothel.”

His stomach fell and he felt his mouth open in shock.

“That is, I did not
work
work in a brothel. You should have been able to tell that,” she said with a return of her usual wry manner, “but I worked on the accounts. I was there for over a year.”

“And?” He knew she was a virgin—had been a virgin—and he wanted to marry her, so how did it matter where she worked? Hadn't they established by now that a duke could do what he wanted?

“And you're an idiot!” she said, slamming her palm down on the bed for emphasis. But since it was a bed with a coverlet, it didn't do more than make a soft thudding noise.

“How am I an idiot? I am not the one who has just had relations with a gentleman who wishes to marry her and she tells him no, she cannot marry him, even though he hasn't even asked yet!”

Now she looked as though she wanted to slam her palm down on him. Which was better than looking as though her world had ended. Not
much, but he much preferred Angry Lily to Disconsolately Despairing Lily.

“Have you ever, in your entire life, thought about the consequences of your actions?” she asked, her tone revealing her frustration. “It is not about us, Marcus. There is Rose to consider. How will people treat her if they knew that her governess had a disreputable past?”

He had no reply to that, did he? Because he did know how they would treat her. He'd already seen it in a few glances, one of Smithfield's sisters' uncaring words, Smithfield himself warning him that people were talking.

“People have already made reference to who she is to you,” Lily continued. “The only way you can salvage her future is by marrying a proper lady.” She uttered a snort. “I am neither proper nor a lady.” Her tone softened. “The irony is, this situation, us, would never have happened if you had not been trying to do the right thing in regard to Rose. But you have to keep doing the right thing. You can't do something that would jeopardize someone else's happiness. A little girl's happiness,” she added, her voice breaking.

“So that's it? You have to leave?”

“Somebody recognized me, Marcus. If I go now, I'll be gone before the talk can start.” A pause. “I have to. For Rose. For you.” Her tone was implacable.

He got up from the bed and retrieved his own dressing gown. If his entire romantic future was going to be ruined, he wanted it to occur when he wasn't bare-arsed naked.

“When will you leave?”

“In the morning. I'll bid a proper goodbye to Rose. And I will take the wages I am owed.” She didn't ask, just knew he would not deny her that. She trusted him to do the right thing. She knew that about him.

And he? Marcus thought he'd known her.

Apparently he didn't.

“Of course.” He sat rigidly on the bed, his whole body tense with emotion, with wanting to shout and order people to do things, as one was supposed to be able to do when one was a duke.

She nodded, not meeting his gaze, then stood, her hair falling forward to partially cover her face. Not that he wanted to see her expression; either she didn't care for him, so her expression was not as upset as he was, or she was as upset and there was nothing he could do to change her mind.

Either way, he could feel his loneliness return—the loneliness that had receded since she and Rose arrived—like a cold wave of anguish bursting into his soul.

He really was a bad poet.

“Goodbye.” She nearly whispered, her voice was so quiet, and his throat tightened at the emotion he felt choking him. That he could do nothing about this, that she was right about what had to be done, didn't mean he didn't feel the pain of it.

And that he wouldn't feel the pain for a very long time. Perhaps forever.

She turned and walked out of his bedroom, soon to walk out of his life.

And Marcus leaned back against the pillow, still warm and fragrant from her, from them, and shuddered as agony and frustration washed over him.

No matter what might happen during the course of events, a duke must always remember that he is infallible
.

Unless he is fallible, in which case he will behave as though he is not, and then his behavior will become the truth
.

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

H
e had spent half the night thinking about how to solve the problem, then a quarter of the night making plans, and then another quarter sleeping.

He would say he'd also spent a quarter of the night reliving what had happened between them, but that was too many quarters.

Which was why he was currently on his third cup of coffee as she stepped into the room, escorting Rose.

He knew Lily hadn't left yet—he hadn't paid her, for one thing—but he wasn't entirely prepared for the sight of her. Judging by her face, she had slept as little as he. Her eyes had dark circles under them, her face was pale, and even her gown looked woebegone.

Perhaps he was mistaken on that last point, but she looked as horrible as he felt. And still he felt his heart leap when he saw her, his chest constrict, and he wished he could just fold her in his arms and tell her he would make it all right.

But she wouldn't believe him.

“Good morning, Duke,” Rose said, tilting her cheek up so he could kiss it.

“Good morning, Rose, Miss Lily.”

Lily nodded, then went to the breakfast sideboard and got herself a cup of tea. That was it, nothing to eat. He stifled the words that wanted to pour out of him:
You have to eat something, you're about to leave this place, and I don't know where you'll go, or who you'll meet, or what you'll do
.

“Duke,” Rose said as she sat down. “Miss Lily says she needs to leave. Can't you make her stay?”

He met Lily's gaze. I wish I could. “No, Miss Lily said she has to leave, and we have to respect that.”

Rose stuck her lips out in a pout. “But who will teach me?”

Marcus swallowed. Not her, not anymore. “We will find someone, sweet.” No one like her. No one can replace her. “Do you want to take a walk with me this afternoon?” Because if he didn't change the topic soon, he was going to shout his frustration, and that would only scare Rose.

“Mm-hm.” Rose picked up a piece of toast and devoured it. She seemed all right—perhaps she didn't yet realize that this departure was permanent. Plus she'd already dealt with people leaving in her young life, maybe she had come to expect it.

He would never leave her. She was his to care for, his to protect. His to ensure she had as bright a future as she possibly could.

Which meant Lily had to go. At least according to her.

T
he final leave-taking was blessedly short; he handed Lily her pay, she curtsied, turned and left.

What took longer was what he did afterward. First he had to send a note to Smithfield to ask him to come right away; then he had to liquidate some funds so he would be ready for what he was preparing to do.

Then, once Smithfield had given him all the information, he had to write the correspondence in such a way to convey what he wished to do without offending anyone with his arrogant assumptions.

Not an easy task. He wished she were still there to advise him on how to be humble. But she wasn't, which was why he was doing all this.

The irony was not lost on him.

Finally, when everything was as prepared as it was going to be, he went for a long walk with his daughter.

Because Rose was the impetus for everything that was happening now. She wasn't the key to his happiness, she was his happiness.

And he knew their happiness would be increased if Lily returned to their lives.

“L
ily?” She heard Caroline's voice in her ear. “Lily!” Caroline, presumably, shaking her.

“What is it?” She turned her head to look at her friend, not even trying to disguise her expression.

Which judging by Caroline's mingled look of sympathy and annoyance was the same desolate expression she'd had for the past week.
Caroline's look, however, was beginning to edge more toward annoyance.

Was there a time limit on heartbreak? Lily certainly hoped so, since feeling this way was not conducive to living a productive life. Living any kind of life, actually, but she wasn't so foolish as to think she would just stop living because her heart was broken.

“Are the flyers ready for tomorrow? Annabelle has asked a few of our ladies to hand them out, as the members of the House of Commons are dispersing for the day.” Caroline's mouth was a grim line, reminding Lily that the agency could not advertise that they had provided the governess for a duke's household since the governess in question was her, and she had left the duke's employ so abruptly.

Caroline and Annabelle knew most of what had happened—with the exception of the nightshirt's return—and while neither of them blamed her, the agency was definitely not going to be moving up in the ranks of the aristocracy as quickly as they had all hoped.

In other words, there was no yelping at the agency's office lately.

“I thought the flyers were going to be distributed on Saturday?” She had been moving in a fog since her return and knew it had taken her longer to do things. Just as it seemed now to take longer for her to breathe, or smile, or do anything that people did when their hearts had not been ripped out of their chests.

Of course, she was being melodramatic. Her
heart, she presumed, was still in her chest. It just felt as though it had been ripped out.

Caroline glanced up at the ceiling as though she were completely exasperated. “We talked about this.” No, she actually was completely exasperated. “We agreed that after tomorrow's vote would be the best opportunity. The members should be in a good frame of mind, and will also be reminded that they might have to spend more time in the city, and will need help. We talked about this,” she repeated, only this time more—exasperatedly.

Lily looked at the stack of papers on the desk. An ever-growing stack, papers for which she was solely responsible.

Wonderful. Not only was she completely wretched, she was also letting her partners down.

Perhaps later she could go take a dog's bone away, just to spread her misery.

And then the dog would bite her. That would take her mind off her heartache, at least.

“I'll stay late to finish them.” It was not as though she had anything to do later on anyway, except for not eating the dinner she made and then not sleeping in the bed that wasn't his.

“Are you certain? Annabelle and I can stay.” Lily heard Annabelle's howl of protest in the other room and nearly smiled.

“No, you two are working hard enough.” And they were; it seemed Mr. Smithfield and his brother-in-law were not especially close, since Mr. Smithfield had stopped by the agency a few times and had even brought in some friends who needed staff.

The agency was surviving, and if things went as they were going now, in perhaps a year or two they could expand. Especially if, Annabelle put coyly, Lily's admirer, Mr. Smithfield, was able to persuade more friends they needed the agency's services.

Lily just rolled her eyes at Annabelle. She assumed that Marcus had said something about her departure, and Mr. Smithfield was just being nice. Besides, she thought she'd seen something in his expression as he spoke with Caroline.

“Be sure to leave by eight o'clock, then,” Caroline admonished as she took her cloak from the hook on the wall. “Any later will be dangerous. I'd rather have you safe than all the flyers in the world.”

Lily nodded. “I will,” she assured her friend. She may have been wretched and slacking at her work and threatening to steal dog bones, but she wasn't foolish enough to walk home long after dark.

There were limits to her foolishness, after all.

The doorbell sounded long after Caroline and Annabelle had finished fussing over her and left, and Lily had shot the bolt to the door.

She glanced at the clock, relieved it wasn't yet eight o'clock, so she hadn't broken her promise to Caroline.

But who was coming to the agency at this hour? She didn't think it would be anybody she actually wanted to see.

Not that there was anyone she wanted to see. So never mind that caveat.

She rose, feeling her back ache the way it did when she had spent too much time hunched over her desk. The flyers were nearly all done, and she thought that she might only need twenty more minutes to finish them all.

Except there was someone at the door.

The bell jangled again.

And again.

Someone who was not going to leave until she responded.

“Who is it?” she called, already grumpy at having to deal with someone who was so persistent.

“Marcus.”

She froze. The bell jangled.

His voice came clearly through the door. “Lily, I know it's you in there, and I also know you're alone.”

A return to her old self might have had her asking him what she was wearing, since he knew so much. Too bad her new self was too occupied with what he was doing here, and how could she bear to see him, and all those things that her broken heart brought to mind.

And from the way it was constricting in her chest, she could safely say her heart was not, indeed, broken after all. Just in need of some mending.

“Are you going to let me in? It's starting to rain.” He sounded as arrogant and autocratic as always, which is to say he sounded like the man she loved.

No, she meant, the man she used to love.

No, she loved him. Now. Still. Always.

But he didn't have to know that, did he? Neither one of them had told each other anything in the throes of passion except
mmm
and “Oh, yes.”

“Fine,” she said in a voice as far from passionate murmurings as possible.

She pushed the bolt to the left, then drew the door open slowly, holding her breath.

She'd nearly forgotten how tall he was, but the top of his hat went over the doorframe, and he'd have to duck to enter the room.

Which he did as she was gawking at him. He frowned, then took his hat off and shook his coat, spraying rain all over the wooden floor of the office. She stared down at the specks of moisture on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to remember what it felt like not to be in love with him so she could try to regain that composure.

At last, when she looked up, it was to find his eyes locked on her face, the intensity of his expression making her lose her breath all over again.

Perhaps she wouldn't have to speak to him, she would just asphyxiate in his presence.

“It is good to see you, Miss Lily.”
Miss Lily
. They'd returned to that formality, despite how he was looking at her. It shouldn't hurt, but of course it did.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

She waited, the pause lengthening, then arched an eyebrow in imitation of his most intimidating look.

In response, his lips twisted into a wry smirk. Not intimidated, then.

“I suppose you are wondering why I am here,” he said.

It was not really a question. And given that she was wondering why he was there, it didn't require an answer.

“I have a favor to ask you.”

Her spine went numb. Would he ask her to instruct him how to behave with his new bride? Was he going to ask her to recommend schools to which Rose could be sent? Did he need her help with his infernal accounting?

Because the last item she'd had enough of, thank you very much. The agency's books were already in chaos, thanks to her . . . distraction. Caused by him.

“Well?” he said, again in that impatient tone that both irked and thrilled her. “Aren't you going to ask me what it is?”

“Aren't you going to tell me?” she snapped back, watching as his eyes widened at her reply. Of course. People did not speak to dukes that way, except governesses usually did not have relations with dukes as she'd had with him, which she would remind him of if he had the temerity to get all duke-haughty with her.

Yet, she had to admit, she did like it when he got duke-haughty. Or had liked it; that part of her life was done with, she reminded herself.

If she could just learn to breathe regularly, that is.

He clasped his hands loosely, as though he were a guard standing at attention. She saw the motion of his throat as he swallowed, then by habit noticed the dark stubble on his cheeks.

Stubble against which she'd rubbed her hand, her cheek.

Enough of that, Lily,
she chided herself.

He lifted his chin and seemed to set himself in place. “There's something I want you to take Rose to.”

And stopped. As though he didn't need to explain when, where, and most importantly, why she should do such a thing.

So she asked: “Why?”

He grimaced, and his jaw set. “Of course you wouldn't just do it,” he muttered. He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out to her, his gaze never leaving her face.

She took it from him, careful not to touch his skin, careful not to do anything that might let him know just how miserable she'd been the past week.

How miserable she was expecting to be the rest of her life.

The folded paper had a few raindrops on it, but it was still legible.
The Horticultural Society of London wishes to announce the opening of the Rutherford Gardens
—then lots of words that didn't matter, his name, and then:
An invitation-only ceremony to honor the donors will be held on March 21, 1840
.

She glanced back up at him, feeling herself start to shake. “This is tomorrow,” she said. “And you will be there.”

He nodded, then held his hand out. She folded it back up and returned it to him.

“Thank you. But I cannot go.” Silence as he regarded her. A hot rush of emotions, tangled up
anger, wistfulness, longing, love, and frustration tainted her words, spun them so she nearly spat out: “You know I cannot go, I had to leave your employ because I was recognized. If someone else recognizes me, if they say something to anyone, it will be the most delicious morsel of gossip your world can imagine—a dangerous duke's governess used to work in a brothel. Be realistic, Marcus.” His name slipped from her tongue before she realized she'd said it.