Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (10 page)

At least he had enough awareness to recognize he, too, could be called an eccentric crank.

The thought just made her giggle some more, and then he did look at her, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Can we go look over there?” Gertrude said, taking his hand as though it were entirely natural for her to do so. He nodded,
but not before narrowing his eyes at Edwina, as though promising she’d hear about his ire later.

She hoped so. She definitely hoped so.

Michael had never had anyone laugh at him. As far as he knew, at least. It felt—odd. Not entirely unpleasant. Rather as though
she was sharing a joke with him, one he was the butt of, but still sharing something.

He walked with Gertrude, her hand in his, toward another one of the exhibits. This was a first as well—sharing something he
loved so much with someone who seemed as interested in it as he was.

“Gertrude?” A man’s voice called her name, and the girl turned her head to look in the voice’s direction.

Michael did as well, unconsciously tightening his hold on her hand.

“It is you,” the man said, a wide smile splitting his face. He was of average height, and larger than average width, and dressed
in the clothing of a merchant or a banker or someone. He wore a large black hat on his head, which he removed as he approached
them, revealing thinning black hair and rather large ears.

Michael did not like him instinctively, but since Michael tended not to like most people instinctively, that didn’t seem worth
mentioning.

“Uncle Robert,” Gertrude replied, but not letting go of Michael’s hand, he noticed.

“And your mother is—oh, there she is,” the man said, his eyes going past Gertrude to alight on Cheltam, Michael presumed.

“Good day, Robert.” She spoke in a more subdued tone than Michael was used to. Of course he’d figured out this was the younger
brother who had mismanaged her late husband’s affairs—he could see where she wouldn’t want to greet him heartily.

The man looked at Michael pointedly.

“Yes, of course,” she murmured. “Your Grace, this is my brother-in-law, Robert Cheltam. Robert, this is the Duke of Hadlow.”

Michael was strangely reluctant to let go of Gertrude’s hand, but had to, since the man was holding his out for a handshake.

“A duke, Edwina,” the man said in a knowing tone of voice, a tone that made Michael bristle. Thankfully he didn’t say whatever
he was going to continue with saying, hopefully because of the glare Michael knew he had on his face.

“I work for the duke, Robert.” She spoke forcefully, if quietly.

“Of course you do,” the man replied, still speaking in that same smug tone. Michael resisted the urge to punch him in the
face.

Really, everyone should be grateful that Michael was learning not to do things he wanted to—things like tell people they were
idiots, or tell people they were being even bigger idiots, or kiss his beautiful secreta—

Right. Never mind. Maybe he would punch the man after all.

She must have sensed what he was thinking, since she put a hand on his arm. “It was nice to see you, Robert. Tell Ellen that
Gertrude and I send our greetings to her, and hope that you are all doing well.”

“Yes, thank you, Edwina,” the man replied. He glanced at the duke, then at Cheltam—Edwina, that is—then back at the duke.
“I will be on my way, then.” He stepped forward to chuck Gertrude under the chin, as she tried to duck her head to avoid the
touch. “You behave for your mother, now.” He looked up at Edwina, his expression hardening. “Since you don’t have your father
anymore.”

Michael was now seriously considering not just punching him, but knocking him down and stomping on his ridiculous hat.

Thankfully, Mr. Cheltam turned and walked quickly away, leaving him with a tingling in his hands, which had curled up into
fists, and a fierce urge to take both ladies home immediately, for no other reason than that they’d be in his house, under
his protection.

Only that wouldn’t be what either one wanted, would it? Gertrude was, as he’d already gratefully noticed, pleased to be there
in the first place, whereas Cheltam would raise her chin and make some pointed remarks about her being able to take care of
herself.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This whole finding-people-one-might-possibly-have-an-interest-in thing was
complicated. He hadn’t expected that. Which made it all the more interesting, adding layers of interest to his . . . interest.

Now he would have to admonish himself not to be an idiot.

If only he could avoid being idiotic—again—with her. He wasn’t entirely certain he could, however.

Interesting.

For a moment there, Edwina thought she might have to extricate Robert’s face from Hadlow’s fist. Thankfully, he hadn’t done
anything, but she still felt herself wary, as though he might go off at any moment.

Not that she thought he was impulsive—his proper-time-and-place-for-inappropriate-indulgences-with-his-secretary remark would
indicate that—but she did know he did not like people who—

Well, she could just stop there.

But to finish her thought, she knew he did not like people who presumed, or insinuated, or did anything but flat-out say what
they meant. He’d told her that during one of their first times working together.

It was unpleasant seeing Robert again, but its unpleasantness was assuaged because she didn’t have to worry about him, or
what he might say, or do. George had stipulated that his brother had guardianship of Gertrude, along with Edwina, but Robert
had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with any of that, beyond a perfunctory offer for Gertrude to live there.

“I’m not going to live with Uncle Robert, am I?” Gertrude’s question made her throat tighten, even as she tried to keep her
expression calm.

“No, you’re not.” The duke spoke before she could, and she wanted to snap at him, to tell him she could answer her daughter
on her own, but she also felt grateful that he had replied so quickly and so assuredly.

Even more after she saw Gertrude’s face, which broke out into a smile. “Good. Because he smells funny, and there are no treats,
and he doesn’t even have a
dog
.” The last part was spoken in outrage, as though not having a dog was the worst thing imaginable.

Edwina was grateful that in her daughter’s world that might very well be the worst thing imaginable. And it was up to her
to keep it that way.

“Miss Gertrude,” the duke said, taking her hand again, “can we go over there? I want to look at those other engines.” He looked
over his shoulder at her, his eyebrows narrowing as though to ask,
Are
you all right?

She nodded, and allowed herself to breathe a little more deeply. It was just a chance encounter, it didn’t mean anything.

What did mean something was that she was communicating nonverbally with him. She hoped he couldn’t read her entirely, or else
he would know about all the times she’d watched him from under her eyelashes, when she was supposed to be examining boring
documents or transcribing notes or doing anything that was less interesting than looking at him.

“Mrs. Cheltam,” Miss Clark said as the duke and Gertrude walked away, “I hope you did not think it rude of me to discuss our
employer as I did.” As usual, the woman—or girl, really—sounded worried.

Edwina turned to her and patted her arm. “No, of course not.” Even though it actually was rude, wasn’t it? But like him, she
thought she preferred people being honest and open rather than hiding things away. It made things much easier.

I want to kiss you.

Yes, like that.

“Should we go find a place to sit?” Edwina nodded in the direction the duke and Gertrude had headed in. “I am guessing they
will be some time.”

“That sounds lovely,” Miss Clark said. “I am not accustomed to all these crowds, I have to admit to being a bit nervous around
so many people.”

Again, Miss Clark probably could have stopped at “being a bit nervous,” since it seemed nearly everything made her nervous—the
intimidating duke, the people gathering together to view engines—far more than Edwina would have expected, given her own lack
of interest in them. But it made sense that Miss Clark would be skittish; from what she’d offered during their initial meeting,
she had spent many years at a small school, the last few of them as a teacher after her parents had died unexpectedly. Leaving
her with nothing. Rather like Edwina herself, only Edwina also had a child to care for. And she felt decades, not just years,
older than Miss Clark, who somehow managed to retain an air of innocence, despite having been forced to encounter the hard
truths of her life such a short time ago.

The two of them walked to the side of the room, where there were fewer people, and Edwina thought she saw a few benches. They
found an unoccupied one and sat, Edwina allowing herself to lean back, smiling to herself as she thought about the duke commenting
on her posture.

“Have you worked for the duke long?” Miss Clark asked, wriggling her feet in a very girlish way. Edwina smiled, then shook
her head.

“No, just a few days or so before you joined us.”

The other woman looked surprised. “I would have thought you had been there for some time; you seem so comfortable with him.”

She wished she could tell Miss Clark she was comfortable, entirely too comfortable, but that he also made her uncomfortable
in a very pleasant way. But of course she couldn’t. She didn’t think she should even share that kind of information with Carolyn—it
would be just as her friend had feared, her getting entangled with her employer.

Thankfully, Miss Clark changed the topic before Edwina had to figure out anything to say. “I was wondering about taking Gertrude
out for longer walks. Would that be acceptable to you?”

“Of course, you don’t have to ask. As long as you don’t mind having a third accompany you,” she said with a grin, thinking
of Chester.

Miss Clark laughed. “Not at all. It wouldn’t shock me if he suddenly started to recite his alphabet, he is with Miss Gertrude
most of the day. I like dogs. We had one when I was small.” She gave a wan smile. “Before everything happened.”

There was a story there, Edwina could tell. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

Miss Clark shook her head, her eyes suspiciously bright. “No, not here. Thank you, though. It is comforting to know I could,
if I wished to. I am so glad Miss Carolyn recommended me for the position, I am very happy, even if the duke does frighten
me a little.” She laughed. “A lot.”

Edwina found the duke and Gertrude in the crowd, a contented sigh emitting from her mouth as she thought about how much had
changed in the past month. Not only was she handling the bare necessities of life for herself and her daughter, but she felt
as though she had, perhaps, found a home, a place where she belonged, where she was valued for something other than her appearance.

Although she didn’t think the duke would wish to kiss her if she was the male secretary he might have wanted to hire, so perhaps
her appearance did play somewhat of a part in her current mood. But she didn’t mind that, since she had agency over what she
did with her appearance—she knew she could tell him she did not wish to continue kissing him after all, and he would be fine
with that.

She wouldn’t, she knew that, but he would.

“That was your brother-in-law. The one to whom your husband entrusted his business dealings?”

It was the day after the engine exhibition, and she was settled into her seat opposite his, her cup of coffee half drunk already.
He hadn’t been able to fall asleep until long into the night, his mind blurring with ideas and images of the day—the particulars
of the engines, the way Gertrude had asked him questions, how Cheltam had looked when she saw her brother-in-law, how he felt
when he thought there might be a threat. It was all entirely disconcerting, and he wasn’t certain he was comfortable with
it all.

Not to mention, there had been no opportunity for more kissing, and he had found himself thinking more about that than he
reasonably should have. In the past, when he had been pursuing a lady, he had spent only as much time as the pursuit seemed
to warrant. Now, he found himself thinking about her at the most inopportune times—when his valet was shaving him, when he
was supposed to be reviewing documents, when he was lying awake instead of sleeping.

“The very same,” she said, her tone flat.

He glanced up at her. She wasn’t looking in his direction, but was staring down into her cup, as though it were far more interesting
than he was. Given what her daughter had said about her mother’s need for coffee, perhaps it was. But he didn’t like it, even
if it was true.

“He cannot do anything to you, can he?” And why did he ask, anyway? Maybe he just wanted to hear her say she felt safe here.
That she knew he would do whatever was necessary to keep her and her daughter protected against any potential danger.

Although that would imply a far closer relationship than he should be having with his secretary.

Although to be honest—as he always was—the relationship seemed to have progressed far beyond what he would have expected of
the usual employer/secretary relationship.

He did not generally think about kissing his employees as a rule, for example.

Nor did he want to immediately pummel anyone who might seem to threaten anyone in his employ.

No, never mind, he did. It just hadn’t happened all that often.

But still. It was different.

“He did offer to take Gertrude, after George died. George appointed both of us her guardians. But he did not offer a place
for me, so I declined. And that was the end of it.”

She didn’t sound concerned at all about her brother-in-law’s potential interference. “Ah, so that is why you were willing
to let the position go rather than be separated from her.”

She nodded, biting her lip. The lip he still wished to bite himself. “I suppose that was foolish of me, to possibly decline,
but—”

“It wasn’t foolish,” he interrupted, sounding fierce even to himself. “It was what you should have done. It isn’t right that
a person in your circumstances would have to even consider making that kind of a choice. Children belong with their parents.”

When had he ever thought about what it would be like for people in her circumstances? He’d have to admit never. He’d never
thought about what it would be like to have to confront such a possibility. His parents had of course been wealthy, he’d been
sent to school, but those were the only times he had been away from them. He had taken that for granted, he supposed, since
he’d never thought about what it would have been like to be on his own, without any kind of parental support. Plus as the
heir to a dukedom, he was secure, knowing his place in the future.

To think of Gertrude, all the tiny willfulness of her, having to live with that unpleasant toad of a man—granted, Michael
didn’t know him, but he had to assume he was an unpleasant toad—instead of with her mother, who loved and cared for her.

It made something in his chest area hurt. That was unexpected. He hadn’t felt that kind of pain since—well, since many years
ago.

“I have you to thank for us being able to stay together without starving.” She spoke in a low, resonant tone. A tone that
cut through the hurt in his chest and made it ease. “Thank you. For hiring Miss Clark, and ensuring that your staff is kind
to Gertrude, and—”

“Well, I haven’t done that, precisely.” Should he have? He hadn’t even thought of it.

She laughed. “No, perhaps not directly, but the way your staff behaves is the way you wish them to behave—not judging anyone
without knowing them first, not being all fussed up about propriety and the honor due your title.”

“That would be just silly,” he said, almost without thinking.

“Mr. Hawkins did take a few moments to come around,” she added, “but now it is just comfortable.” She looked at him, raising
her chin. “And uncomfortable, because of, of this,” she said, gesturing in the air between them.

It wasn’t the time he’d deemed appropriate to discuss or engage in the activity, and yet he found he was more than eager to.
Mostly because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

“This,” he repeated. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and regarded her. Damn, she was so lovely, she made his
chest hurt in an entirely different way. A pleasant, anticipatory way. “What are you thinking about ‘this’?” he asked, making
the same sort of gesture she just had.

She swallowed, and lifted her chin.
Please don’t let her say “this” was a mistake that should not be repeated.

“I think that we are both intelligent adults. And that what we do is our business, and our business alone.” She shrugged,
but he could tell she wasn’t casual about her words, not at all. She licked her lips before continuing. “So if we choose to
do more of ‘this,’ we should.” She took a deep breath. “Do you wish to?”

“The question isn’t if I wish to, but if you do.” He leaned back in his chair, keeping his gaze riveted on her face. “There
is no possibility of this being anything more than what it is, you understand.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be so,” she snapped back. Somehow, even though that was the answer he wanted, he felt disappointed.
Odd.

“Then what do you say, Cheltam?” His breath hitched in his chest as he looked at her, as she returned his stare, as he felt
the impact of a new event, something to which he would look forward—God, but he’d look forward to it—and anticipate, and savor,
and get to have. Her. Her with all her beauty, but more than that, with her wit, and intelligence, and how she challenged
him.

He would bet she would challenge him in bed, too, or on desk, or on sofa, or wherever they engaged in “this.” His cock rose
in his trousers, and he felt the shock of lust traveling through his whole body.

He’d rarely, if ever, had such a visceral reaction to a woman before. It should make him nervous—hell, it
did
make him nervous—but it also made him feel somehow more alive than he had a few weeks ago.

“I say we should, Hadlow,” she replied, a wry twist on her lips. She dropped her gaze to her coffee cup, that siren’s smile
playing on her mouth. The mouth he was going to be able to kiss, when their work was done, of course.

Except—“Damn it,” he muttered, getting up and striding over to her side of the desk. He clamped his hand on her arm and drew
her up out of her chair, his other hand going to her waist to pull her into him.

And then he lowered his mouth to hers, claiming it, branding it with as clear an agreement to their bargain as if he had signed
a legal document.

Oh, he was kissing her again. How had she gone so many days without this? She was awkwardly twisted, standing in front of
her chair, him to the right of her, devouring her mouth with a ferocity she fully reciprocated. She broke the kiss for a moment,
and he looked at her as though he was devastated she had stopped it, but she just pushed at his chest, pushing him backward
toward the sofa behind him. His expression eased, and he walked backward, his hands on her elbows drawing her with him.

He sat down and reached up to draw her onto his lap. She felt his hardness underneath her bottom and it made her ache, deep
inside, lower down where the activity generally took place.

George had rarely kissed her, and she had been fine with that, since he tended to slobber and maul at her mouth in an entirely
unpleasant manner.

If the duke didn’t kiss her, however, she thought she might cry. Thankfully, she was able to spare her handkerchief since
he resumed kissing her, his hands touching her as though he couldn’t feel enough of her, his tongue inside her mouth, exploring,
licking, sucking.

Owning. She grasped his shoulders—those broad, strong shoulders she’d been admiring, along with the rest of him—and wriggled
closer, making him groan low and deep in his throat.

She had made him like this, made him needy, and wanting, and groaning, for goodness’ sake. Not the precise, logical duke she
worked for, but the man she was kissing, the man whose mouth was ravishing hers, whose hands were sliding their way to the
top of her gown, his long, elegant fingers working at the neckline of her bodice. She pushed up into his hands, wanting, nearly
desperate to have his hands on her body, on her breasts, bare, without any kind of fabric between them.

She wanted to feel his naked skin on hers, also. She yanked on his cravat, untying it with impatient hands, sliding it off
his neck and dropping it to the floor. She slid her fingers under the collar of his shirt, touching his collarbones, the strong
slide of his shoulder. Her fingers undid the first few buttons of his shirt, and then her palm was on his chest, rubbing the
hard planes, feeling the soft prickle of his chest hair on her skin.

He wasn’t able to reach her nipples, not with her gown laced as it was—at least, she assumed that was what he was working
toward—but he’d slid his fingers as low as he could and was rubbing her skin, making her achy and hot and needy as well.

His erection was a hard throb against her, and she shifted so it was resting against the part of her that seemed to practically
be clamoring for it—she’d never felt like this before, that was for certain. No wonder some married women looked so thoroughly
smug all the time, if this was what they got to feel every evening.

With George, she’d gotten to feel pressed down into the mattress and then somewhat messy. That was about the sum of her marital
experience.

But this—this was already way, way better than anything she had done or experienced before, and they were both still fully
dressed.

He withdrew his mouth, his breathing loud and ragged in the still room. “I have never,” he began, only to shake his head as
though he couldn’t even find the words.

“Me neither,” she said in a murmur. She looked at where she’d bared his skin, wanting to rake her teeth on his neck, nip at
his collarbones, run her hands all over his naked chest.

But this was—this was too fast, too much, and she was acutely aware that just beyond this room was his staff, and her daughter,
and her daughter’s governess, and even his dog. None of whom would understand what was happening here, not if they discovered
it.

“We should go slowly,” she said, unable to keep her fingers from stroking his neck.

He looked as though he were about to argue, and she couldn’t blame him—she didn’t entirely agree with herself, either, but
it seemed as though it was the best way—but then he nodded his head. “I do not wish to push you into anything you are not
comfortable with,” he said at last, his words coming out slowly, roughly, as though it hurt to speak.

“You will not,” she said. She knew that, just as she also knew she felt as though she were on the verge of losing control,
of losing herself in finding him. She couldn’t allow that, and what was more, her priorities—or priority, since Gertrude was
everything on that list—demanded it. She needed to treat “this” as it was—something that was enjoyable, but not all-encompassing.

Which meant, unfortunately, she should remove herself from his lap and they should continue to work together.

She couldn’t resist kissing him one last time, just a soft, gentle kiss as she redid his shirt buttons.

He could find his own cravat; there was only so much that was required of a secretary, she thought wryly.

She let out a deep breath and rose, feeling how shaky her legs had gotten and how it felt as if she’d been running for an
hour—all breathless, and hot, and trembling.

He kept his gaze on her, stretching his arms out along the length of the sofa. Looking every inch the aristocrat he was, each
indolent, comfortable inch of him.

And, she couldn’t help but notice, quite large in that area as well. And not at all seeming to be embarrassed by it.

Of course he wouldn’t be. She doubted he was ever embarrassed, except she had seen him that way, hadn’t she? When he was with
Gertrude, holding her hand, of all things.

If she bet on such odd things, she would bet that was the first time he’d actually been embarrassed. The thought made her
smile.

“I suppose you are about to tell me we should get back to work, since we won’t be doing this for a while.” He frowned, as
though the thought that it would be a while bothered him.

Or maybe that was just her.

“Yes, we have to make the final decisions on which company, if any, to invest in. Isn’t that what you said a few days ago?”
Not that she had much of an idea of what she was saying—honestly, she was still thinking about his
that
, and wondering when would be the next not as entirely inappropriate time to investigate things—but she was trying, at least.

“About that,” he said, and she gasped, wondering if he was talking about the same “that,” only of course he wasn’t. “I think
we should take a tour of some of the factories that are manufacturing the engines. To see for ourselves rather than relying
on papers that anybody could write anything on.” He stood and returned to his desk, moving as unself-consciously as ever,
as though it was habitual for him to be doing these kinds of things during the day.

Maybe it was. What did she know about him, anyway?

Although she doubted he had ever done this sort of thing with anyone in his employ, she imagined he found his pleasure elsewhere,
outside his home.