Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (7 page)

“Chester! Blast it, where is that damn dog?” Michael looked under his desk, although he knew perfectly well his rather large
dog would be noticeable if he were under there.

He glared around his study, as though it was the furniture’s fault his dog had gone missing. Mrs. Cheltam wasn’t there, either,
but that was his fault; he’d sent her to deal with someone he did not wish to deal with himself, one of the many benefits
of having a secretary in the first place. But he had to admit he missed her presence. And he wanted his damn dog.

He knew where his dog probably was. The traitor.

“Miss Gertrude!” he called as he strode out of the study into the hallway. Several of his footmen jumped, but he didn’t waste
time glaring at them, as he might have done under normal circumstances. He took the stairs two at a time, up two flights to
where he’d instructed the schoolroom be set up.

“Miss Gertrude!” he called again as he nearly ran down the hallway. Not that it was imperative he find his dog; Chester was
a slow, good-natured creature who wouldn’t venture too far from his food source. But he did have to admit to feeling . . .
jealous, perhaps, that his dog had decided that spending all of his waking hours and many of his nonwaking hours with the
youngest and newest inhabitant of the house was his preference.

“We are in here, Your Grace.” It was the governess speaking, her tone tremulous and nearly fearful. As it should be.

He walked into the room, his eyes narrowing as he saw Chester slumped on the floor right next to Gertrude’s chair. Gertrude
herself looked up at him with a bright smile on her face. Which made him feel something unfamiliar. Some sort of guilt?

“I need to take Chester for a walk,” he said abruptly. As though Chester’s life was hanging in the balance unless he went
outside to relieve himself in the next few minutes, when actually the dog in question was sleeping. Likely drooling as well.

Gertrude’s eyes—so like her mother’s—lit up, and she jumped out of her seat. “Can I walk with Chester and the duke?” She directed
her question to the governess, Miss Something-or-Another, who just looked flustered, sending a look of apologetic misery toward
Michael.

“That isn’t—that is, I don’t—” the governess began.

“Fine, walk with us. Get your things, and you can meet us downstairs in five minutes.” Michael leaned down to take hold of
Chester’s collar. His dog made a whine of unhappiness, but stood up willingly enough, wagging his tail against Michael’s trousers.

That was one of the reasons he had a valet after all, wasn’t it? To remove yellow dog hair from his clothing?

Gertrude uttered a shriek of delight so loud it made Michael wince, then bounded out of the room, presumably to get her coat.
Perhaps her mother’s permission as well, but Michael doubted his secretary, stalwart though she was, could withstand the pleadings
of a six-year-old determined to take a dog out on a walk.

“Your Grace, I hope—that is, I hope this isn’t too much of an imposition.” The governess had gone scarlet, and was hesitating
between each word. She was so awkward, in fact, that Michael almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“It is not your fault, Miss—”

“Miss Clark,” she supplied. Cheltam must have told him her name, but of course he hadn’t retained it, since it hadn’t been
important. Now that seemed as though it were as rude as Cheltam was always implying he was. Was it? He wished she was here
so he could ask her.

“Miss Clark. Gertrude has made a friend of my dog, and it is only natural to expect she would prefer to go outside with the
dog—and me, of course—than stay here and do whatever lesson you are doing.” He picked up one of the papers on Gertrude’s table.
“You are learning the countries of the world?”

Miss Clark’s tone grew more assured. “Yes, Your Grace, I am teaching Miss Gertrude where all the countries of Europe are,
and what languages they speak. In addition, we are learning a few phrases in each of those languages.” She finished with a
smile that revealed how pleased she was to be instructing the girl thusly.

Normally Michael would have cut her off mid-sentence, but he somehow didn’t want to do something so—so abrupt, as Cheltam
would say.

Was he going soft? He couldn’t think about that now. He had a dog, not to mention a young girl, to walk.

“That sounds excellent.” He must have sounded convincing, since she beamed in return, bobbing a small curtsey. He nodded in
response, then tugged on Chester’s collar. “Come on, you troublemaker,” he said, walking out of the study. Feeling as though
he’d somehow betrayed himself, his character, but not certain how. And not certain if he felt bad about that.

“My father never let us have a dog.” Somehow, Gertrude had managed to wrest control of Chester’s leash. Michael wasn’t sure
how that had happened, just that he’d handed it to her when he had remembered to tip his hat to a lady he thought he knew.
The lady herself had looked startled; not only, probably, because he was with a young girl who was not related to him, but
also because he’d tipped his hat in the first place.

He should have just ignored her, as he usually did most people he saw when in public.

But Gertrude had mentioned her father, Mr. Cheltam. Apparently not very lamented by his widow. He wasn’t normally curious
about people, especially dead people, but he had to admit—if only to himself—to being curious about this gentleman.

“What was your father like?” he asked.

She looked up at him as though he were an idiot. “He was
old
,” she said.

He waited. He was very good at staying silent so as to make other people talk.

And waited. Gertrude just walked alongside him, seeming to think the conversation was at an end. Michael wished he could just
demand she answer all his questions, but that would be to admit he had questions in the first place, and in the second place,
to expect to get any kind of reasonable answer from a six-year-old. Or any sort of child. As he’d told Cheltam, he had no
experience with children. He had been a child himself when his brother was alive, but then he had died, and since then his
parents had spoken to him as though he were an adult. He’d felt like an adult, hewn into adulthood at the age of four because
of his brother’s death.

And now he felt like an adult who had no idea how to speak to a child.

“Why is Chester named Chester?” She looked up at him, screwing her face up in a faintly disapproving look. “Because he doesn’t
look like a Chester.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue with her, to tell her that Chester absolutely looked like a Chester, but that felt
ridiculous, even in his head. So he told her the truth.

“When I was little, I had a book I liked to read.” He felt . . . awkward. He hadn’t ever spoken of this to anybody. Not that
they would have cared. “It had a family”—a family with a normal set of parents and three normal children, no dukes or any
titles at all, actually. “They had a dog, and the dog’s name was Chester. So when I got Chester here, I named him after the
dog.”

She kept looking at him, apparently processing the information, until her expression eased. “Do you still have the book?”

He shook his head, wondering why he felt so—so relieved that she seemed to accept his explanation about Chester’s name.

“That’s too bad. I like books.”

“I do as well,” he replied, to his own surprise. Not surprised that he liked books; he knew that, or he wouldn’t have said
it. Just that he felt as though he wanted to share something with her, this small creature who was so different from him,
and yet liked Chester and books, as he did, and apparently didn’t have patience for small talk, like him also.

It was disconcerting to think he had so much in common with a being who could be distracted by the promise of a sweet, but
there it was.

That he could be distracted by the promise of another type of sweet was something he did not even wish to contemplate.

“My father wasn’t as tall as you are.” She spoke as though it was the natural next thing to say. He had to admire that aplomb.
“And he didn’t like to read, like you do.” He felt a sense of pride, already, that he had more in common with her than her
father did. A dead man. Honestly, he was ridiculous.

“What did he like to do?” he asked, wondering if she would report his interest in Mr. Cheltam to her mother. What would she
think about that?

A shrug. “Mostly talk about boring things.” Michael resolved never to speak about anything she might find boring in her hearing.

Sadly, that meant he could likely never speak about anything, since the only things that interested him were new technologies,
certain political issues, and—

And
her
. And he definitely couldn’t speak about that.

“The duke took Gertrude out?” That was unexpected. And somewhat worrisome. She knew he hadn’t the faintest idea of what to
do with a child, what if he decided to bring her to a pub and give her ale? Or if he forgot he was with her, and stopped to
talk to someone he knew and she wandered off?

But that would assume he would deign to drink in a pub in the first place or actually want to speak to anyone he might encounter.

She felt a tinge of relief.

She had spent the morning in a meeting with someone who had heard of the duke’s business interests and wanted to persuade
him to invest in their new venture, something involving playing cards, bird-watching, and vast amounts of the duke’s money.

The duke would have just denied the meeting entirely, but the person behind the company was related to one of the members
of the House of Lords, one who could influence votes the duke wished to pass.

So she had to take the meeting. And then she had spent an hour trying to make sense of the presentation, so she hadn’t seen
him all morning.

And now he wasn’t in his study, and it seemed he was out with Gertrude somewhere.

“And the dog,” Miss Clark added in a worried tone of voice.

Out with Gertrude and the dog, that is.

“Should I not have let them? I would have, only—only . . .” she said, her hands fluttering.

“I know,” Edwina replied. “The duke is not someone you would say no to. Not to dukes in general, and definitely not this duke.”

Miss Clark’s expression relaxed. “Yes, that is just what I thought. And Gertrude begged as well; she is so hard to resist.”

Especially when she gave one of her winsome smiles. But that didn’t explain why the duke let her accompany him—she didn’t
think he would succumb to the blandishments of a six-year-old girl. Not when he seemed to have successfully resisted all the
eligible young ladies in his world, what with not being married and all.

And then that thought hit her in the gut, causing an unpleasant ripple to course through her. Why hadn’t he married? He must
be either on the verge of it, or was perhaps betrothed already, although she would have heard the gossip about it belowstairs,
if that were true. Or maybe not, since he seemed to be very good at not talking about things he did not wish to discuss. But
it would make logical sense for him to marry, to have a hostess who could throw parties and dinners in order to ensure the
people he wished to persuade to vote certain ways in the House of Lords were, indeed, persuaded.

Would his new wife be comfortable with him having a female for a secretary? If Edwina were married to him, she would not.

Oh. If she were married to him.
Oh
. She couldn’t help but shiver as she thought about it—waking up beside him in the morning. Asking him if she looked presentable
for a party, and him answering truthfully. She winced as she thought about that.

Being able to touch him, to find out what his shoulders felt like under her hands, if his legs were as long as they looked
when he was wearing trousers during those times he was not wearing trousers.

That might be worth a few frank comments about how she didn’t look her absolute best.

And while that might be a tantalizing daydream, it wasn’t at all possible. When he married, he would choose someone who made
logical sense. Someone who would be of his class, with all the proper bloodlines and ladylike behavior he needed in a wife.
He would never choose a woman whose very existence in his life was a scandal, one that would reverberate through the House
of Lords and all his plans.

But meanwhile, she had to return to reality, which was helping her figure out where her daughter, her employer, and her employer’s
dog had gotten to.

“Hopefully they will have just gone to the park. To allow Chester to, er, to allow him to . . .” She made a general hand-waving
gesture in the air and hoped Miss Clark understood her.

Miss Clark’s face turned pink. An indication she had, indeed, understood.

“But while we are waiting,” Edwina continued, “perhaps you can give me an update on Gertrude’s progress.” Miss Clark had been
here for close to a week, but Edwina had been too busy, and then too exhausted at the end of each day, to meet with her daughter’s
governess, trusting that Gertrude would tell her if anything was amiss.

Because Gertrude told her everything. She knew Miss Clark preferred apples to cherries, that she was raised in York, that
she drew cats better than dogs, and that she smelled good.

Which meant she would hear everything about what Gertrude and the duke had spoken about today. If they had spoken, that is.
She wouldn’t put it past either of them just to walk together without speaking.

Miss Clark beamed at her. She was so very, very young. “She is such a lovely child; she is so inquisitive and smart, and she
is just a joy to teach.”

Edwina smiled. She couldn’t doubt the sincerity in the younger woman’s voice, which just meant Gertrude hadn’t unveiled her
I-am-determined-to-have-a-sweet-and-nothing-you-can-say-will-deter-me persona.

“Thank you for saying that.” She patted Miss Clark’s arm. “You do know you can tell me if there is ever anything you have
concern about in regard to Gertrude.” She uttered a little chuckle. “I hope I am not one of those parents who believes her
child is perfect in every way.” Because she most definitely did not.