The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (11 page)

“Miss Lily?” His voice interrupted her musings, thank goodness. What would he say if he knew what she was thinking, the governess whom he'd asked to instruct him on polite discourse?

She felt her breathing quicken as she thought about what he might say. Or, more to the point, might do.

For that matter, what she might say. Or do.

There seemed potential for a lot of things. Not all of them making for a precise, prim, or methodical governess.

Merely an improper one.

Any gentleman, whether a duke or a well-educated commoner, should keep in mind that ladies are not the same as men. First of all, they do not have the same desires and wants a man does. Nor do they have the ability to defend themselves against any unwanted passions. They are the weaker sex, and it is therefore imperative that a gentleman maintain oversight over any lady's behavior to ensure it is correct
.

Unless the lady herself makes a request, at which point the gentleman has no choice but to accede to her wishes
.

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

“O
f course, Your Grace. I was”—thinking about all the improper things I wished we could do together—“woolgathering. Most young ladies will not allow their thoughts to wander so, not when in your presence.”

His smile, the one that made it appear they were sharing a delicious secret, deepened. “You find my presence so notable, then?” As though he weren't already the recipient of praise, he had to go ask for it? Hmph.

“You are a duke,” she said in a dismissive tone, “so it wouldn't matter if you had warts and were bald. Any young lady would be cowed in your presence.”

“But you are not.” He still held her hand. She should take it away, smooth her palms on her gown, but she left it there. Soaking in the warmth of him, the feel of his bare skin—of course he wasn't wearing gloves, and neither was she—able to see every sharp, delineated plane of his face, that commanding nose, those expressive eyebrows.

Hearing his deep voice rumble through her.

“I suppose I should be cowed, Your Grace, if I really thought about it. After all,” she continued, finally finding the strength to take her hand away, “you have the ability to let me go if I prove unsatisfactory.”
Or knew I was thinking entirely improper thoughts
. “You have so much power over those who are deemed lesser than you, and with the exception of the Queen and her family, everyone is lesser.”

He scowled then. “I would never abuse my position like that. You have my word.”

She felt herself soften. “I know,” she said in a quiet tone. And she did.

A silence as they stood there, still together, not touching.

“I believe you were to demonstrate how I could tell if a lady was actually interested in me? Beyond the happy accident of my title?” His voice was light, as though he had felt whatever it was, too, and wished to distance himself from it.

It was good that one of them, at least, was sensible. Although she never would have thought it would be him, the Dangerous Duke behaving more like the Demure Duke.

That would make her the Improper Governess, and she could not behave that way, not if she wanted to avoid scandal.

“Let us pretend we are conversing, Your Grace,” she began.

“There is no need to pretend. We are conversing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, we are, but let us pretend we are at a function in the evening, and we are possibly intrigued by one another.”

She couldn't help but notice his eyebrow had risen, as though he were about to confirm that they were intrigued by one another. She hurried to finish before he could possibly say anything that would make her blush again. “And I am a young, suitable lady,” that he could not argue with, she most definitely was not suitable, “and you and I have found some mutual interests. What do you like, anyway?”

He shrugged. “I have not thought much about it, honestly. I suppose I would say I like brandy, and cards, and,” a pause as he thought, “well, let us leave it at brandy and cards.”

“A young lady is not likely to have much opinion about brandy and cards.”

“Which is why I have never considered marriage before,” he replied, walking to one of the carts in the room. “Or really worry about making polite conversation with a young lady. Until now . . .” He paused, and glanced back at her with a sly smile on his face. “. . . it hasn't seemed worth the trouble.” He drew the stopper out of a bottle and poured a generous amount into a glass. Then smiled that secret smile again and poured a less generous amount into a second glass. He picked both up and handed the less full glass to her.

“This is not proper in the least, Your Grace,” Lily said, the fumes of the brandy tickling her nose.

He chuckled, and she could have sworn he winked at her. “Upon reflection, I believe my best course of action is to take care of all the improprieties while practicing with you so there is nothing left but proper behavior when I meet a woman I might possibly consider marrying.”

He held his glass up to hers. “May we never be out of spirits,” he said, drinking after he spoke.

She took a sip, coughing as the fiery liquid burned down her throat. Trying not to think about what he'd just said. As the brandy warmed her body, she nodded. “That is quite good, once you get past the initial impact.”

“So true about many things,” he said in a soft murmur, one that did nothing to cool her heated skin.

She felt her cheeks begin to color, and set her glass down, bobbing a quick curtsey. “I should go check on Rose, Your Grace,” she said, not daring to look at him again. Not daring to see what look might be in his eyes, the temptation of that bared throat, his tousled hair, his stubbled cheeks.

She fled from the room, fully aware of him watching her retreating figure. Knowing that no matter who he was—Dangerous or Demure—he was definitely a peril to her peace of mind.

“P
ie for breakfast,” Rose said, actually lifting her nose in disdain as Lily placed a piece of toast on her plate.

“No, Miss Rose, you cannot have pie for breakfast.” At least she was standing firm in this matter;
ducal improprieties had nothing on the very possibility of a sweet in the morning.

“Then nothing,” Rose said, crossing her arms on her chest.

Lily heard the footman—the one standing to the side of the room—stifle a laugh. He was not nearly as haughty as the other one, thank goodness. She shrugged in response, having learned at least one thing since entering the duke's household. “Pie is not what young ladies eat for breakfast. Isn't that right, John?” she said, turning to him.

The footman looked surprised to be addressed. Probably the duke behaved as though he were the only person in the room. “Not generally, miss,” he said. “And young ladies need energy for—for whatever it is they do,” he continued, clearly not up on what young ladies' days consisted of.

“Precisely,” Lily said. “Do you want butter or jam?”

Rose still looked sulky as she answered. “Both.”

That, she could accommodate.

She and Rose were finishing their breakfast when the duke entered the room, holding a letter. Lily's attention was immediately focused on him, that prickling awareness curling up her spine and low into her belly. He was very properly dressed today, and she had a moment of sadness that she couldn't see his throat and the beginning of his chest.

He walked over to Rose and kissed her on the cheek before sitting at the table. John filled his cup with coffee, and he took a deep drink before speaking. “I've had a letter from my friend
Smithfield. He and his sisters are joining us for dinner tonight. Miss Lily will bring you down, too, afterward,” he said, addressing Rose.

She beamed, and took the final bite of toast.

“One of the sisters' husbands is otherwise engaged, however, so if we don't mind, Smithfield is bringing a young lady who has been staying with his sister as well. We don't mind, do we?”

Rose shook her head as Lily felt that prickling awareness change into a feeling of dread. A young lady coincidentally available to dine with a duke. How fortuitous. That meant she definitely had to curb whatever . . . feelings he'd stirred up in her. He needed a suitable young woman to wed, and that woman was most definitely not her.

“Miss Lily?” the duke prompted.

“It is not our place to mind, Your Grace,” Lily said in a demure—ha!—tone.

He frowned and shot her a glance, but didn't comment on her subservient reply. “I will write to Smithfield, then.”

Lily didn't reply, didn't look at him again, but she felt his gaze on her, those dark eyes assessing what she might be thinking or feeling. Had he spent a sleepless night as well, pondering what kind of young lady he would court? Reviewing what qualities he required in a woman he'd ask to share his name, his privilege, his child—but not his heart?

Or had he thought about how close they'd been, what her hand had felt like in his, how they'd spoken—conversed—both properly and improperly. Was he looking forward to more practice,
with her, or was he so jaded he didn't think about it at all?

And how did people manage to get anything done at all, with all this thinking and pondering and such?

When a duke—a proper duke, that is—entertains, he must ensure that all of his staff are on their most correct behavior. There is no fun to be had whatsoever, neither upstairs in the dining room nor downstairs amongst the servants, since fun could be viewed as improper. The food will be the ultimate in fashionable cuisine, which means that it will be laden with intricate sauces and difficult to eat without having it spill onto your clothing. Further, the conversation will be limited to the weather, the parties to be attended, and the duke's own consequence
.

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

“T
hank you for the invitation, Your Grace.”

Smithfield strode ahead of Thompson, who was holding the door to the drawing room for him and the rest of the party. Marcus didn't think he'd ever seen his butler come this close to an approving expression. Thompson nearly smiled when he told him that respectable people were to dine and directed him to make the preparations for guests.

His butler had directed what was to be served at dinner, as well, since Marcus hadn't bothered to hire a new housekeeper since the last one had decamped to a place, she said, “Where she'd be more appreciated.”

Marcus didn't think it would be possible to appreciate her more—specifically, how unpleasant she had been—but he didn't point that out to her, just gave the woman her wages and sent her on her way.

Marcus nodded at Smithfield, then turned his attention to the other guests. The two sisters resembled Smithfield in height and coloring, and the last young lady—the one substituting for the
husband—was, he noticed, blond and petite, with a curvy figure and a charming dimple that she seemed fond of exposing.

“Your Grace, may I introduce my sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Porter, my sister Mrs. Haughton, and our friend, Miss Lavinia Blake?”

Lots of names, lot of exclamations about what a lovely house he had, including the foyer, which he'd never much noticed.

Miss Lily certainly was a good instructor on polite conversation. The party shared a drink before going in to dinner and spoke about the weather, the Queen's latest appearance, and other things he didn't care about in the least.

Eventually, he led them all into the dining room, where inevitably there were at least ten minutes spent on the beauty of the room.

If he were to be proper, would he have to start having opinions about interior design? If it weren't for Rose, he'd ponder doing something entirely shocking, just to liven up the party.

O
ne thing Thompson had not decided—could not decide, actually—was where everyone would be seated around the table. Marcus was amused at the intricate machinations taken to place Miss Blake to his left, while Mrs. Haughton sat to his right, with Smithfield to her right, followed by Lily. It wasn't entirely proper, he knew, to have his governess dine with them, but he just wanted her there, he couldn't say precisely why. Mr. and Mrs. Porter sat on the other side, to the left of Miss Blake.

It felt very comfortable, even though everyone but Smithfield and Lily were strangers to him. He'd never actually had any of these kinds of intimate dinners; his parents had always taken Joseph, since he was the oldest and, his father would remind him, Marcus was “far too devilish” to be safe in company, so he had usually eaten alone, or with a tutor, until he was sent off to school.

He hadn't thought of those times in so long—deliberately, he knew—but now he let himself touch those memories, hoping he could find a family for Rose so she wouldn't have to endure those moments of loneliness. He'd need to; he didn't want any child to go through what he had.

And when had he become so maudlin, anyway?

He shook his head, and took a deep swallow of his wine.

He was aware that part of his mind was preoccupied with Miss Lily; where she was, who she spoke to, what type of expression she had. If it were up to him—which it was, honestly, but he wasn't
that
rude, despite what she might think—he would have canceled the dinner party and spent the evening as they had the night before, alone with her. Seeing if he could bring that pink sparkle to her cheeks, and reveling in her spiky retorts.

But that would not put him on his way to convincing proper society that he was sincere in his wish to be like them.

Not that he was. But for Rose, and the chance for him to explore his own happiness, he would try. No, damn it, he would succeed.

Which meant the only time he could say “damn it” was in his own thoughts.

“What is your opinion, Your Grace?” Miss Blake was addressing him, her voice a light, tinkling sound that made him think of chimes, or what fluffy clouds would sound like if they could talk.

He was not fond of either chimes or clouds.

“About what?”

He felt, rather than saw, Miss Lily frown at his tone. And felt guilty for knowing she was right. “About what, Miss Blake?” he repeated, this time trying not to speak abruptly.

“If the weather has been finer since the Queen's wedding, or if it is only my imagination.”

Well, if that wasn't the most asinine question—not to mention proper, he hadn't forgotten Miss Lily's recitation of polite conversation—he had ever heard.

“That is difficult to answer, Miss Blake.”

She smiled at him as though he had actually answered her rather than entirely prevaricated. Was this actually how young ladies conversed? He far preferred Miss Lily's direct way of speaking. Would this be what marriage to a proper young lady would be?

Perhaps he should just forego propriety after all. But there was Rose to care for now, and he did owe his title something.

He would need a woman, a
wife
, to teach his daughter about the weather, and conversation, and all those things that had not been part of his education. Eventually, even if he didn't need it right now.

With that in mind, he launched his next conversational assault. “Tell me, Miss Blake, what events have you attended since you've been in town?” Talking about Society events was safe, according to Miss Lily.

Stultifyingly boring, according to him.

Miss Blake simpered. “I have been to so many parties, each one has been wonderful. I do love to dance, although I like talking as well. I cannot decide which is preferable.”

Marcus nodded in agreement, as though she had said something that was an actual opinion. He saw Smithfield bend his head to Lily's to say something to her, and when she bestowed a smile in return, he felt his fists clench.

But he had to force himself not to clench them because he was holding a soup spoon in one hand and gripping his wineglass with the other, and because it would be impolite to challenge his new best friend to a fistfight over a lady's smile.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Porter said, thankfully distracting him from both soup and smiles, “might I ask your opinion on the Chimney Sweepers Act?”

Marcus was opening his mouth to reply when he saw Lily shaking her head imperceptibly. Right. He should not be speaking about politics in polite company, except— “I think it's an abominable practice to force children to work in such conditions. In any conditions at all, actually.”

He saw Lily's shoulders slump. But if he could not speak his mind about such issues, then he did not wish to be polite. And, as she seemed to delight in reminding him, he was a duke, chafe at
it though he might, and a duke was given more leeway to speak as he wished because of how very proper he was assumed to be.

An oxymoron that he wished he could point out to her so she could share the joke.

Besides which, it
was
an abominable practice, and at least he could look forward to arguing about that with his fellow peers at the House of Lords rather than taking a nap during the proceedings, as he had the other few times he'd attended.

But he couldn't discuss either oxymorons or abominable practices with her because Smithfield was engaging her in conversation again, and Mr. Porter was answering, so he had to pay attention to that, not how Lily's hazel eyes were sparkling gold, or how the gown he'd bought for her accentuated her curves and was cut low enough so he could see the swell of her breasts, which meant that Smithfield could see them, too, only more because he was closer.

Damn. His fists were clenching again. And he was silently swearing, too.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Haughton interrupted, before he could punch anyone, “I understand your charge is newly arrived to your household?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, her mother—my cousin—has passed, and left her care to me.”

He saw Lily nod in satisfaction out of the corner of his eye.

“And you have already gotten her a governess. How splendid.”

Yes, she is, isn't she?
“Yes.” What was the proper
response to that? He would have to ask Lily when they were alone.

“I presume you will be sending her to school when she is old enough?”

Was that what people did? “Perhaps.” An equivocal answer worthy of Miss Blake, even.

“And of course she will be useful when you have your own children.”

Useful? What did that mean? “Perhaps,” he said again, taking a bite of onion custard. It really was not to his taste. As this conversation wasn't.

But it would be a conversation that he'd likely have to endure if—no, when—he did return to polite society. Especially if he did decide to secure a wife who would tolerate her husband's natural child.

Tolerate
. That was far too mild for what he hoped a young lady would feel toward Rose—he knew what it was like to be raised by parents who treated you indifferently, and he didn't want that for her. It was bad enough he hadn't been part of her life until now.

“I have to commend you on taking such a bold action, Your Grace,” Mrs. Haughton continued, as she finished her portion of the onion custard. “Most men would not be so gracious about the responsibility of a young child.”

“Rose,” Marcus said through gritted teeth, “her name is Rose.”

He saw Lily's mouth start to curl up into a grin, which she hid by taking a sip of wine.

“Rose, of course, what a delightful name,” Mrs. Haughton said. The footmen then approached to
remove the onion custard, leaving Marcus with a bad taste in his mouth. From the conversation and the food.

A few hours later, or so it seemed, he was filled with food he hadn't tasted and wine he had drunk too much of, and all he wanted was to see these people gone so he could be alone. Or not; he wished Lily to be there as well, although he wouldn't acknowledge that to himself, at least not more than once a minute.

She had spent the entire dinner talking to Smithfield, only speaking to the table in general when she was addressed, which was seldom—it was not customary for the governess to attend dinner at all, and if she did, she was supposed to remain silent.

Perhaps next time he invited people for dinner he'd provide gags for everyone so nobody could speak. At least that way he wouldn't have to endure the most banal of banalities he'd ever heard.

It would be very proper.

How different would it have been if it were just Rose and Lily? Much more pleasant, he knew that; for one thing, he wouldn't have had to eat things like potted lampreys and pigeon compote.

“Miss Lily, would you bring Miss Rose down to meet the company?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lily stood and walked quickly from the room, returning only a few minutes later with Rose, whose cheeks were flushed red, as though very excited for the opportunity to meet new people.

“This is your Miss Rose,” Mrs. Haughton said,
holding her hands out. Rose glanced uncertainly at Lily, then walked forward and took the outstretched hands. “You are so pretty. I can see the family resemblance,” she said, casting an arch, knowing look at Marcus.

Marcus offered a tight smile in return.

“Miss Rose, I am Miss Blake.”

“Blake starts with a B!” Rose exclaimed. Marcus's smile widened.

“It does! It might be my favorite letter, although I am not precisely certain,” Miss Blake said, offering a warm, generous smile. At least she wasn't indecisive about being friendly.

“Miss Rose, I am Mr. Smithfield. Your governess has been telling me how smart you are.” Smithfield looked at Lily as he spoke, and Marcus considered adding blindfolds to the list of things he would provide at the next dinner party he gave.

“Thank you, Mr. Smithfield,” Lily replied.

There was a pause as conversation flagged, and Marcus realized he was the one who had to move the evening along. He had never been a proper host, although—as Smithfield knew—he had plenty of experience being an improper one.

“Ladies, if you will excuse us?” He rang the bell for Thompson, who bustled in as though he'd been listening at the door. “Thompson, please escort the ladies to the drawing room.”

The ladies rose in a rustle of silk and exclamations, following Thompson out of the room.

At last, he'd only have to share a port with Smithfield and Mr. Porter and then they would all be on their way, and he could be done with this.

Only, a voice said in his head,
to do it all over again in the future as he continued his search for a wife
.

At least Smithfield was here, and not monopolizing Lily in conversation.

“That was very pleasant,” Smithfield said, taking a drink from his glass. “I know this kind of thing is not your way, and I have to say I admire you for it.” He paused, then checked that Mr. Porter was out of earshot. “There's been some talk, however, about who your charge is.” He cleared his throat and took another swallow. “I thought you should know.”

“Yes, I gathered as much from how your sister spoke to Rose.” Yet another reason to find himself a respectable wife—if he were married to a proper young lady, the gossips would have nothing about which to speculate.

And he would have nothing improper to look forward to.

“And since you're a bachelor, and a duke, with gobs of money . . .” Smithfield trailed off as he gave Marcus a knowing look.

“Thank you for mentioning it,” Marcus said, then finished his port, feeling guilty—twice in the same night, where he couldn't recall the last time he'd felt anything of the sort—for wishing Smithfield to the devil, just because he happened to be seated in a particular spot.

“Are you attending the Earl of Daymond's ball on Friday? The earl is that very distant relative I spoke of, we've all received an invitation.” A pause. “Including Miss Blake.” Who would
probably just reply yes, Marcus thought, if he asked if she'd prefer sherry or lemonade.