The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior (7 page)

If it is in a duke's power to
buy his governess clothing
improve his surroundings, and can afford to do so, he should, despite what
his governess's
others' opinions might be on the subject
.

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

P
rovoking his newest employee was already more fun than gambling. He always won at the tables, presenting no sort of challenge whatsoever. But she—she was a challenge, that was for certain. She'd picked up on his jokes, when so many people just stared blankly at him, as though a duke couldn't have a sense of humor. She had dared to impugn, or at least come close to implying, he couldn't find his nose when he so clearly could. She had gotten Rose to talk within minutes of meeting her, where he had only gotten nods and shakes of the head.

And now he wanted to laugh all over again at the thought of what she'd asked, and how he'd answered. Very provoking of him, he knew that.

She so clearly wanted to rail (not night rail!) against him for his commands, and yet she did not. She just stood in front of him, her spine totally straight, those full lips clamped together in a tight line.

He hadn't had a challenge in his life since—well,
since one of his school friends had demanded he balance a spoon on his nose for two minutes.

Over the years, he'd wished that his father or his brother would care enough to challenge him to do anything. Balancing a spoon, riding a horse, playing a game—anything. The only thing they had done was insist he stop wandering around on his own for hours, since it wasn't suitable for a gentleman.

Apparently it was suitable for him to be ignored, and belittled when he wasn't being ignored. So when the spoon challenge had been issued, he'd done it for three minutes, not just two.

If only he could do other things for that long. But he shouldn't be thinking about that—he probably could get into trouble for it. Except that seemed it was all he could think about.

She was more than a spoon on one's nose.

“Come, then.” He strode to the door and flung it open, holding it for her to exit through. Her skirts brushed his legs, and he caught the scent of her—a warm, delicate scent, something that reminded him of the best summer day in London—no, not that, London smelled horrible in the summer, perhaps the country, then. But he shook that off, studiously practicing not noticing as she ascended the stairs.

She paused at the landing and lifted her face to his, that lemon-sucking expression at its most lemoniest. “Where are we going, Your Grace?”

“To my bedroom, of course,” Marcus replied, a wicked thrill going through him at the words.
To his bedroom
.

Her lemony face changed into one of shock, but not, he was relieved, of horror.

“I cannot go with you into your bedroom, you know that.”

“Clearly, since I've just said that's where we're going, I do not know that. This way,” he said, not waiting for her to argue with him any longer. She could sleep naked, if she wanted—and oh, goodness, but wasn't that an image that would haunt him this evening—but she would go with him.

He set off down the hall, not waiting to see if she would follow. His room was at the very end of the corridor, past all the disapproving portraits of past Dukes of Rutherford who likely could not believe the current duke was such a rascal.

He hadn't asked to be duke, he wanted to shout at them. But now that he was, shouldn't he at least enjoy all the privileges of the position?

Marcus stepped into his bedroom, feeling her close behind him. He put his arm behind her to shut the door, then spun back around to face his wardrobe. “Now where are my nightshirts?” he said, tapping his finger against his mouth. He knew their approximate location, but his valet usually got them out. It was too early for Miller to be at his post, which was what he was counting on anyway—not just because it meant they would be alone, but also so none of the servants would have a chance to spread any shocking news about the duke and his new employee.

“Do not concern yourself if you can't locate one quickly,” she said in a terse tone.

He turned and raised an eyebrow at her. “Are
you assuming I do not even know where my own things are, Miss Lily?” He yanked the drawer open and rifled through it, not caring—much—that Miller would have to carefully fold everything again. He pulled a nightshirt out and held it over his shoulder, not turning to face her.

There was a pause, then he felt her take hold of the other end of it and pull, at which point he did turn around, separating them by his nightshirt.

If only that were so in a different type of scenario.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I will return it tomorrow.” She tugged again, but he only let it slide more through his hands, not let go of it entirely.

“No need, I have many more. It wouldn't be right, would it, for me to wear it after you've had it next to your skin?”

Did he imagine it, or did she shiver at his words?

He did let go of it then, and she snatched it, tucking it up against her chest in a tight little ball. “Thank you. And if you'll excuse me, I wish to check on Rose.”

With that she fled, leaving him on his own to think about the two females he'd just allowed into his life. He had the suspicion—no, he
knew
his life was never going to be the same.

L
ily scurried down the hall, resisting—just barely—the temptation to bury her nose in the linen she held pressed against her. Her bedroom was just beyond Rose's, and after she went in, she
put the nightshirt on the bed before returning to Rose's room.

Rose lay splayed out on the bed, the covers halfway down her body, the new doll—Maggie—clutched tightly in her arms, while Mr. Snuffles lay at the foot of the bed assiduously licking himself.

“She fell asleep after about fifteen minutes, poor little mite,” Etta said. “She's a sweet thing.”

“Thank you for staying with her,” Lily replied. Etta nodded and slid out of the room, every inch a respectable, innocuous maid.

Lily perched on the side of the bed, marveling at its size and comfort. It was easily twice the size of the bed in her own home, and this bed was only half the size of the duke's. That she'd seen. When she was in his bedroom.

The impropriety of it made her stomach roil. Or perhaps that was Partridge's scone.

Rose lifted her head, her eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Did you have a nice nap, Miss Rose?” Lily replied.

Rose nodded. “Etta told me a story, and Mr. Snuffles purred me to sleep, and Maggie says she likes it here.”

“That's nice. Do you wish to tidy up for dinner? I am not certain when it is, but you must be hungry.”

Rose twisted her mouth up in thought. “Not very, I had tea when I first got here. With the duke. There were scones.”

Of course. Tea with the Dangerous Duke.

“Tomorrow we're to go shopping for new clothing.”

Rose made a face. “Don't like shopping. Can't I just stay here with Mr. Snuffles?”

And leave me to shop alone with him?

“Perhaps, Miss Rose,” Lily said, flicking her nose. “We will see how you feel tomorrow. It's been—” How to say it without mentioning what must have happened to land Rose here, yet to make sure she knew it was all right to talk about it? “—a day,” she finished lamely.

“Yes, it has,” Rose said, sounding as though she thought it was an obvious point. Which it was.

“Yes. Well.” And in other conversational gambits, perhaps she could teach Rose all about tautology, pointing out not only that the day was a day, but that the cat was a cat, and the doll was even, oh my goodness, a doll.

She allowed herself to smile at thinking the duke would likely enjoy the joke.

“T
ea, Thompson.”

“Tea, Your Grace?” Thompson sounded as surprised as his properly stodgy self could, which is to say as though the bakery had delivered twelve rolls instead of a baker's dozen. A horror, likely, to Thompson's way of seeing things.

Marcus glanced up from his paper. “Tea.” If he was going to be a respectable father, which he damned well was, he would drink tea, not brandy.

Which was why he was sitting in the library, not in any of the more convivial rooms, reading a newspaper and awaiting tea. As opposed to,
say, drinking bottles of brandy with his new boon companions.

Or cavorting with the governess, a voice whispered in his head.

Hadn't he just twelve hours ago been dissatisfied with the course of his life? Been wanting some sort of occupation that someone with his title and responsibilities could engage in without getting engaged?

It felt as though he hadn't really done anything with his life. No, he
knew
he hadn't really done anything with his life. And now he had the chance to do something good, for another person. Perhaps then he would be able to allow himself to do something he wanted, even if it wasn't necessarily right.

Could he look at himself in the glass if he hadn't, at least, tried to do the right thing for his daughter?

The door opened before he could answer that, thank goodness. Thompson himself bore the tray in, setting it down on the desk just adjacent to where Marcus was sitting.

“Shall I pour, Your Grace?”

“No, thank you. I can take care of it.” Because while he was intent on behaving more like a proper duke, he had no wish to be fussed over, no matter if every other duke received that behavior.

“Very well.” Thompson made as though to go, but Marcus held his hand out.

“Wait. The thing is, if anyone inquires, Miss Rose is my cousin's daughter. The cousin has just
recently died. If anyone inquires,” he repeated. Which they will.

Thompson nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. If you need anything further, just ring.”

“Mmph,” Marcus grunted. Thompson left, shutting the door softly behind him, leaving him alone with the tea, the paper, and likely a cat or two hiding somewhere.

Mr. Snuffles, she'd named the all-black one. With white spots. He hadn't missed Miss Lily's answering smirk when he pointed out that an all-black cat would not be all-black if it had white spots, and he wondered when he'd last shared a simple joke with someone.

Oh, yes. The night before, with Smithfield. His new best friend. Who was—goodness, what had he been thinking?—coming to dinner next week, his best friend's sisters and husbands in tow as well. He'd have to make sure he sent out proper, written invitations—something he'd never had to deal with before.

If that didn't make him want to run away— Oh, wait, it did. But he would endure it, for his newfound propriety's sake.

S
he couldn't put it off any longer. She'd washed her face, brushed her hair, and tidied the already tidy room.

It was already eleven o'clock. Her duties would begin as soon as Rose awoke, and she had to be prepared.

She had to get undressed and put the nightshirt on.

She'd laid it right in the middle of the predictably enormous bed, where it remained, not doing anything.

Except to her peace of mind.

Her previous experience with men was limited to dealing with the tradesmen who'd supplied the brothel, most of whom had been married; she'd always worked in one of the back rooms, far away from the clientele, so she'd never run into any of
them
, thank goodness.

“It's only a piece of clothing,” she said to herself. “It is not as though putting it on will mean anything, and it would be even more improper to sleep with nothing on all together.” Put that way, it—well, it was still altogether too shocking.

She reached behind herself to undo the buttons of her gown. Undoing buttons at the back was normally an awkward task, but being so aware of the impropriety of what she was about to do added another element of difficulty, and she was perspiring by the time she got the sleeves off and was stepping out of the wide skirts of her dress.

She spared another glance at the nightshirt—it hadn't moved—and began to undo her corset, then removed her shift, biting her lip as all the thoughts of the day rushed in.

Meeting Rose, the duke, the agency's potential for success, the
foyer
, for goodness' sake, the doors, the pink room, and now this nightshirt?

It was enough to overwhelm anyone, much less
a precise, prim, methodical person such as herself. Or as she tried to be.

She picked up the nightshirt and put it on. There. She'd done it. As easy as donning the persona of a governess.

Or a fortunate woman.

While it might seem unreasonable for a gentleman to be expected to be dressed suitably at all times, it is nonetheless incumbent upon a gentleman who is also a duke to be dressed impeccably. If he is somehow caught being less than impeccably dressed, he should behave as though it is
comme il faut
(even though he should not be speaking in a foreign language, especially French)
.

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