The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (10 page)

Rose's eyes widened, and she regarded the meager flower as though it were a bouquet of a thousand flowers. “It's so pretty.” She reached her hand out and touched one of the blooms. “Soft,” she added, her expression as open and happy as Lily had yet seen it.

Lily nearly jumped when the duke spoke in her ear. He must have learned stealthy walking from the cats. “The conservatory may be a disaster, but Rose doesn't seem to mind.”

“No.”

They watched the girl slide her finger down the stem, then yelp when a thorn pricked her. She turned even huger eyes to them. “Ouch,” she said in a tone of righteous indignation.

“It is good to learn early on that very pretty things are not harmless,” the duke said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. What did that mean? she wondered. He took Rose's hand gently in his and pressed the white linen against where the thorn must have pricked her. “Is that better?” he asked in a low voice.

“Mm-hm,” Rose replied, nodding. Then her face brightened and she pointed to a far corner of the room. “Oh, over there, can I go see?”

Lily looked at where she was pointing and saw a hoop leaning against the wall. “Of course.” Rose darted over and began trying to roll the hoop in the aisles between the tables, without much success.

Meanwhile, Lily walked up and down the
aisles herself, noting the few plants and flowers that were still alive. It was obvious someone had enthusiastically gardened here, just as it was obvious that no one had for a long while.

“We found a rose for Rose, are there any lilies for you, Miss Lily?” The duke stood on the other side of the table from her, hands on his hips as he surveyed his domain. Rather like a lion looking for something he could devour, she thought, if the lion were dressed in a suit and the prey was vegetative in nature.

“I loathe lilies,” Lily admitted. Her sister had loved them, though, which meant there had been lilies at the funeral. “Their scent, their look, everything about them. Mostly their scent, though.” She shivered at the memory. “Too sweet and too overpowering. And of course when people give me gifts, they think it makes perfect sense to give me a lily.” She finished her sentence in a tone of mock outrage. Because if she didn't make a joke of it, she just might break down and cry.

The duke looked at her with an amused gleam in his eye. “How very unfortunate. Do you think you dislike the poor flower because of your name, or was that just happenstance? What if you had been named Scone, or Lemon Custard? That would have been truly awful.”

Lily burst out laughing, then quickly covered her mouth with her hand, but still giggling into her palm. His eyes crinkled up in the corners, sharing the joke, and she felt the warmth between them—the dangerous warmth—unfurl inside her.

“Or Pudding?” she said when she could finally
speak, then cursed herself as she had another fit of giggling.

The duke flung his head back in laughter, reminding Lily she was doing a terrible job of keeping that cloak wrapped around her emotions.

A duke must always remember that everyone, save for the Royal Family, is lesser than he, and likely to be inhibited in his presence. It is up to the duke to ensure anyone in his company is at least comfortable, if not relaxed
.

It is not advised to take inappropriate actions toward this goal, however
.

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

“Y
ou asked for me, Your Grace?” Lily paused at the threshold of the door, her heart beating faster than it ought to be. Given that she was just responding to her employer's request that she see him after Rose had been put to bed. That's all it was. Not that she wanted to actually see him.

“If I asked for you, do you think I want you hovering at the doorway? Come in.” He didn't even raise his head to look at her, just uttered his command in that deep voice.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He did lift his head at that, both eyebrows raised.

Uh-oh. She had incurred the wrath of both eyebrows.

She entered the room, closing the door softly behind her. He didn't say anything, just watched as she came in.

It was unnerving, being the object of his scrutiny.

Well, unnerving and rather flattering, if she were being honest.

“Sit down.”

Was this the Peremptory Command Room? Oh, wait, that was all of them. At least if he were in them.

She had been at his house for only three days, but it seemed more like three weeks. And of course every time she was in his presence she was acutely aware of him. The connection only went one way, thank goodness, because it seemed he didn't spare her a thought after ensuring that she was properly garbed for her position.

The rest of her gowns had arrived the day after they'd been to the shop, and she was wearing the nicest one she'd gotten—it was blue silk, and made a satisfactory rustling sound as she walked.

Cotton did not rustle nearly as nicely. Did not rustle at all, actually.

But she didn't have time for vanity. Not now, when it was time to do her duty and report to him, as they'd arranged. She glanced around the room, noting just how starkly different it was from the Pink Room. For one thing, it did not have a speck of pink in it.

It was an intensely masculine room, to match its current occupant, with large leather chairs and carts holding glasses and intriguing looking bottles of liquid.

But she couldn't pay much attention to her surroundings when he was there. He sat in the largest of the chairs, of course, his long legs sprawled in front of him, the habitual stubble on his cheeks even darker than usual. He'd removed his cravat, and Lily felt herself start to flush at the sight of his
strong throat and the intimation of the beginning of his chest.

Oh, goodness.

She sat down quickly in the chair nearest to her, sinking down into where someone—someone much larger than she—had worn a groove into the seat.

“What can I help you with, Your Grace? Oh,” she said, straightening in her chair even more, “I have my references upstairs, if you would like to see them.”

Annabelle had done an excellent job.

“Never mind that now. We agreed you would report on how Rose is doing.” He extended a hand in a summoning gesture. “So report.”

She drew a deep breath. “Rose is a lovely child, she already knows most of her letters and she can count to ten correctly nearly all of the time.”

Silence.

“That is it? I knew that already, from what Rose herself said. Nothing else to report?”

Lily felt herself getting flustered. “What else is there to say?” Was there something he knew about that governesses normally said about their charges? No, he couldn't, he was as new to this as she was.

He shrugged. “What did you normally say to the vicar?”

“The vicar?” Oh, of course, the family she'd supposedly been with before. The one who'd given her the solid reference written in Annabelle's hand. “The vicar! Of course. Well, I would report to the vicar's wife, and we would discuss
how the children's studies were going, and what the plans were for the week ahead. The girls were older than Rose so there were more activities they were engaged in.”

“Wives do all that, hm.” He spoke in a musing voice. So she was not prepared for his next question. “Do you think
I
need a wife?”

“Pardon?”

“A wife,” he repeated in an impatient tone. “Would it be to Rose's benefit if I were to find a mother for her?”

“That would be the only reason you would want to wed?” She paused. “And why are you asking my opinion anyway? I am your employee, not your marriage advisor.”

He grinned, even as she was appalled at herself for her outspokenness. “But I have the feeling you have an opinion, Miss Lily.” He rose and began to pace, his long-legged stride making short work of the walk from one side of the room to the other.

“You see, I have never felt an urge to wed. I don't know about your romantic entanglements”—at that he caught her eye and smirked, as though he knew she had no romantic entanglements—“but to me, marrying for love is so shortsighted. Because people tire of one another, and they change, and it's so messy. If I were to marry a woman who was well-aware of my feelings, or lack of them, before we spoke the vows, that would be far more realistic than if I were to profess an emotion I didn't have, wouldn't it?”

At that, he paused and stood just in front of where she sat, and she had to look away, anywhere
but at him, with his virility, and his good looks, and his very practical reasons for wanting a wife.

“Well? What do you think?” He had that commanding tone again, so now she had no choice but to look at him. All handsomely tall, vulnerable, witty duke of him. All of that, wasted, because he had as much as said all he wanted was a woman to mother his child. Not someone to share his jokes, or caress his cheek, or find out more about this prickly, arrogant, intriguing gentleman.

She already felt sorry for the as yet unknown woman.

“I think, Your Grace, that you have already made up your mind.”

“Perhaps I have,” he replied. “Only—” He tapped a finger on his arm as he thought. “—that I might need some assistance in this process.” And then that dark gaze was entirely focused on her, so she felt there was nothing but him and her in the world.

“A
nd,” he continued, repressing the urge to smile, “you will be just the person to aid me.”

His governess's hazel eyes darkened, in dismay or anger, he couldn't tell. He tried to tell himself he didn't care which emotion it was, but he was lying.

“I am hired, Your Grace,” she said, emphasizing his title, “to be a governess to your charge. Not to help you find a wife.”

Anger, then. “I would hope I can select my own wife,” he said with a snort. Something he wasn't
planning on right away anyway, but she didn't need to know that. “No, I need help with something else, something I can only practice with a lady.” He knew she couldn't disregard orders from her employer. Plus he did need help, he wasn't so arrogant to assume he didn't. At least, not entirely arrogant.

“Practice what?” She was leaning forward now, her shoulders rigid, her mouth pursed, every aspect of her demonstrating her ire.

Was it wrong that it caused a very different type of reaction in him? That he was hoping for her to snap out one of those prickly retorts, one that revealed her wit, her intelligence, and her refusal to indulge his autocratic behavior? She was a challenge, for sure.

He'd done his proper best to ignore just how reactive he was to her. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be proper at all. Not as when it came to her, certainly.

“I am out of practice conversing with a young lady,” not to mention other things, “and dancing and eating standing up at a party without spilling all over myself. You will help me.” He cleared his throat. “That is, you could help me. If you agree. Besides,” he said, uncrossing his arms and spreading them wide in front of him, “what else is there for us to do of an evening? You can't report on Rose's progress every night.”

“Don't you have responsibilities outside the home?”

He lifted his eyebrow. “Haven't you noticed I barely have any responsibilities
within
the home?”

She made a
hmph
sound, but he saw her mouth curl up as though she wanted to smile as well. “Yes, actually. I have.”

“And I am trying to change that.” As he spoke, he realized just how true it was. “I want to become the kind of father Rose deserves, but to do that I am going to need help. You are the only one I can ask, Miss Lily. You are here, you are free in the evenings, and you are a lady.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, then snapped it shut again. “If I must,” she said.

He smiled as though he hadn't noticed her reluctant tone. “Excellent. And since my friend Mr. Smithfield and his sisters and husbands are coming to dinner tomorrow, we should begin this evening. Now.”

“Now?” she squeaked, finally standing up. She was close enough to touch, and he crossed his arms over his chest again so he wouldn't give in to that impulse.

“Yes, now.” As he spoke, he felt something course through him, almost like an electric current.

Or a bolt of lustful interest.

She mirrored his stance, crossing her arms over her chest. But that just brought her breasts into higher prominence, easier to see out of the corner of his eye so she wouldn't know he was looking.

He was very glad they had gone to the dressmaker's. The gown she wore now was so much more flattering. It revealed her figure, which he'd suspected was lovely, much better than the dowdy sack she'd had on when she first arrived.

And she had quite lovely breasts.

“You said your friend is bringing his sisters and their husbands to dinner?”

“Yes, and I wish you to dine with us as well. You will bring Rose down later on.”

She didn't even bother to argue—good, she was getting to know him—but continued, “But if the sisters already have husbands, you are not thinking of them as potential spouses—are you?”

He touched her arm as if to reassure her, but really, he just wanted to touch her anywhere that wasn't entirely improper. Well, he wanted to touch her improperly, as well, if he were being honest with himself. “I am not a sheikh looking to fill out my harem, if that is what you are asking.”

She shook her head. “That doesn't even make sense. It would only work if they were still unmarried and you wished to marry both of them.”

He shrugged, trying not to grin at how she had shut him down so thoroughly. “No matter, I have no intentions whatsoever toward Mr. Smithfield's sisters. But I do intend to make polite conversation.”

“You are in need of assistance there,” she muttered.

He grinned at her and she smiled back. That returned smile was far more gratifying than spoon-balancing, that was for certain. He wished he could just fling his head back and laugh, in the most unseemly way possible, perhaps even clasp her arm as they laughed together. Even in just a few short days she had intrigued him, engaged him, in a way he didn't think he had ever felt before.

That nobody had had this effect on him would be profoundly depressing if he weren't experiencing it now. He just wanted to learn more about her, to find out what flowers she might like and what had brought her into governessing in the first place.

“So,” he said, clasping her arm as he lowered her back into her chair, “what does constitute pleasant conversation?” He returned to his own seat and placed his hands on his knees.

N
othing we've spoken about tonight, Lily thought, in answer to the duke's question. He regarded her intently, and she envied whichever woman would be the object of his scrutiny as a potential wife. Not to mention envying the woman who would be able to see more of the chest that was just barely showing above his shirt collar.

The woman he'd court—but never love—through polite conversation. She could do this. “You are not to mention how much or how little a lady has had to eat or drink, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat. “Nor are you to discuss anything that could possibly be misconstrued,” such as saying he wished to do something he could only do with a lady, “nor controversial, nor argumentative.”

“What can I talk about, then?” He sounded amused.

She smiled in return. “Not much, honestly. The weather. The day's activities, as long as you haven't been doing anything too shocking. The
pleasantness of the company, the food, and the dancing. If there is dancing, of course.”

“And how will a lady know when I am particularly interested in her?”

Ah. That
. “Well,” Lily said, feeling her traitorous skin start to heat, “that is all a matter of nuance.”

“Nuance?” Oh, dear Lord. His voice. He had lowered it to a deep timbre, even deeper than usual, and she felt as though she could actually feel it vibrating through her body, causing her to shudder in response.

She drew a deep breath. “Ladies are generally more attuned to nuance than gentlemen. For example, a man might wish to announce he has a particular fondness for a certain woman, but of course that is not polite conversation. But he can indicate, through his actions, how he feels, and that is entirely polite.”

He twisted his mouth in contemplation. “So if I were to indicate my interest in a woman, I might—” He leapt up and held his hand out to her. “This requires practice.”

Her mouth went dry as she placed her fingers in his, allowing him to draw her to her feet.

They were face-to-face, as close to each other as they would be if they were dancing. A polite distance, and yet . . . and yet . . . She felt anything but polite or circumspect or any of those things a proper governess should.

She had the urge to run her fingers through his thick dark hair, to scrape her palm against his cheek, feel the rough stubble against her skin. She
wanted to lean against him, to give in to an emotion other than responsibility and love.

Desire. That's what it was. She desired him, and she wanted, quite desperately, to know what it would feel like, all the impolite conversation and cavorting and everything she suspected lurked behind those dark, expressive eyes.