Why Do Dukes Fall in Love?: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novel (24 page)

“Thank you for your help,” he said, and strode back down the path to where his horse stood grazing on the grass.

The dowager countess was sleeping again. It had been a busy day, visiting Lady Patten, talking about every single thing that
had happened to the two of the ladies in the two months since they’d seen each other. Going to the dressmaker’s shop where
ribbons were bought, fabric was exclaimed over, and a new hat was found that would sit nicely on the dowager countess’s gray
curls.

They had been on the road for perhaps thirty minutes when Edwina felt the coach slowing. Too soon for them to be home, and
as far as she knew, they hadn’t planned on making any more stops.

The coach came to a complete stop and Edwina opened the carriage door, wincing as her eyes adjusted to the sun.

“Cheltam.”

Oh my God. Was she hallucinating? Her vision cleared, and she saw him, standing next to his horse in the middle of the road.
Gazing at her with an intense expression on his face.

“Move along, we got places to be,” the dowager countess’s coachman said. “Miss, you might want to get back inside, we’ll be
starting up again once this gentleman gets out of the way.”

“I won’t be getting out of the way.” He didn’t take his eyes off her, and she felt his scrutiny throughout her entire body.
“Not unless you get out of the way with me.”

He ran a hand over his face as though frustrated. “That is, that isn’t what I mean.”

She didn’t think she’d ever hear him admit to saying something wrong again.

“Come walk with me?”

Nor had she ever heard him ask something in such a hesitant, wanting tone.

“What is it, Edwina?”

Edwina turned her head to see the dowager countess’s head poking out of the carriage window. “Who is that?”

“I am the Duke of Hadlow, my lady,” Michael said. “I wish to speak with Mrs. Cheltam, if you might spare her the time.”

The dowager countess beamed. Of course she did. “Of course, we are in no hurry. Do go on and hear what the duke has to say,
Edwina.”

Edwina turned back to him. He was still staring at her with a passionate intensity that unnerved her.

“Well? Will you hear what I have to say?” His voice was pitched low, nearly too soft for her to hear. But she did.

“Yes,” she replied, walking toward him.

He walked as well, reaching his hand out as though to take hers, then dropping it, a grimace twisting his mouth.

“Let’s go over there,” Edwina said, gesturing to the side of the road where a few trees offered respite from the sun. As well
as being distant enough so the dowager countess wouldn’t overhear.

They walked in silence, Edwina hearing her heart pounding through her body. What was he doing here? How had he found her?
Why did he have to be so handsome still, even though he clearly hadn’t shaved, and he was dressed in simple traveling clothes?

Most importantly, why was that what she noticed?

“Why are you here?”

He appeared to take a deep breath, then held his hands out in front of him. “I’m shaking,” he said in wonderment. Edwina looked
down, and yes, his hands were shaking.

Something must be terribly wrong.

“What is it? Is someone hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, not—well, yes.” He took her hands in his and she nearly gasped aloud at how it felt to have his skin
touching hers—neither of them wore gloves, and the bare contact was almost more than she could stand.

“Are you hurt?” she asked in a softer voice.

He regarded her with a look in his eyes she had never seen before. Something vulnerable, wanting, and yes, hurt.

“I hurt myself,” he said at last. His gaze didn’t leave her face. “I need to tell you this, to explain everything, to tell
you what an idiot I am.”

Her face must have shown shock, since he chuckled dryly. “I know, not anything you—or I, for matter—ever expected to say.
I’ll say it again. I am an idiot.”

“Why?” It was a whisper.

“Because I—” and then he did the most surprising thing, dropping to his knees onto the grass. Still holding her hands.

“Because I love you.”

“That’s why you’re an idiot?”

He snorted. “No, and may I point out I am doing this terribly?”

“I don’t think you have to,” Edwina said in a voice that trembled only slightly.

“I am an idiot,” he said in a return to his normal arrogant tone, “because I didn’t see past my own image of myself and who
I thought I was to see who I could become. Who I was, with you.” He squeezed her hands. “I always thought that to be the best
person I could, I’d be reasoned, logical, and practical. That any hint of love, of the possibility of more, died with my brother.”
A pause. “But it turns out that the best person I can be—the happiest person I can be—is when I am with you, loving you so
intensely I can’t imagine life without you, even though it makes absolutely no sense for me to be in love with you. To marry
you.”

Her heart felt as though it had gotten stuck in her throat.

“But I want to be that person. I want to forget reason, and logic, and intelligence—”

“By marrying me?” Edwina interrupted.

“You did hear the part where I said I was doing this terribly, didn’t you?” he asked in a dry voice. “Yes, by marrying you.
It isn’t practical, you said that yourself. I should find a woman of my own class who can fit into my world. But I don’t want
to. I don’t want to live in my world without you. I want to make my world one where you are. All the time. With me,” he said,
as though he hadn’t just said basically the same thing a multitude of ways.

“You want to marry me . . . because you love me?”

Apparently she was just as idiotic as he, since she hadn’t understood precisely what he was saying in all the ways he was
saying it.

“Yes. I love you, Edwina. I want you and your daughter in my life, and I don’t give a damn if it’s not practical. If you want,
I will promise to do at least one poorly thought-out thing a day to prove my love.”

She couldn’t suppress the burst of laughter that emerged. He really was terrible at this, and yet—and yet, illogically, it
only proved his sincerity. His honesty in confessing his feelings to her.

“Well?” he said in an anxious tone. “Do you have anything to say?”

She nodded. “I do. That is, I will. I will say I do.”

And now who was being overexplanatory?

It didn’t matter, though, since he leaped to his feet and swept her into his arms in one motion, his mouth claiming hers in
welcome possession.

In the distance, Edwina heard the dowager countess emit a huzzah as she kissed him back.

If he loved her, none of the problems she’d mentioned before would matter. It would be enough to deal with the comments, the
difficulties, the glances that would imply he had married beneath him—she knew full well what she was about to do, and none
of it mattered. If he loved her, if he loved Gertrude—which she knew he did—it didn’t matter.

Love really could overcome logic.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Gertrude said, frowning.

Michael smiled in satisfaction. “Exactly.” They were all sitting outside in the duke’s gardens, the rain starting to fall.
Dark clouds scudded across the sky, and yet Michael had said they would stay outdoors for just a bit longer.

Chester didn’t seem to mind, having chased a squirrel up a tree and then dug up some of Edwina’s flower beds.

“We’re going to get rained on,” Gertrude continued in exasperation.

“You can go inside, dear, if you like,” Edwina replied. “The duke and I will stay outside for just a bit, just to enjoy the
unreasonable weather.”

She gave him a secret smile, one that lit him up as unreasonably as the weather.

He’d kept his promise, having done one nonsensical thing a day, at least, since they’d gotten married. It felt so freeing
to be able to just do something because one wanted to, or one knew one shouldn’t. It was getting to be a habit, nearly as
addictive as having Edwina in his bed every night, seated at his breakfast table every morning.

They’d hired a new secretary together, a meek young man who nonetheless told the duke—to his face—when he was making a mistake.
That had happened once in the month since he’d been hired, but still, it was impressive.

Gertrude was delighted to be reunited with Chester, not to mention the duke’s staff, who welcomed her like a long-lost hero
on her return.

And his wife—his lovely, intelligent, passionate wife—told him every day how much she loved him, and his height, and his position,
and his influence, and his power, and his money. Only being practical, she assured him.

Thanks, as always, to my critique partner, Myretta Robens; my editor, Lucia Macro; and my agent, Louise Fury. You guys make
my writing so much better. Thank you.

Don’t miss the other delightful and sexy stories in
the Dukes Behaving Badly series
by Megan Frampton!

The Duke’s Guide to Correct Behavior
Put Up Your Duke
One Eyed Dukes Are Wild

Available now from Avon Books!

And read on for a sneak peek at the next . . .

MY FAIR DUCHESS

Coming Spring 2017!

“There’s only one solution,” Lady Sophia said, holding the letter in her hand as Archie felt his stomach drop. “You’ll have
to go to London to sort my niece out.” She embellished her point by squeezing her tiny dog Truffles, who emitted a squeak
and glared at Archie. As if it was his fault.

“But there is work to be done here,” Archie replied, hoping to appeal to his employer’s sensible side. He had left the Queen’s
Own Hussars over a year ago, and had been working for Lady Sophia for nearly all that time since.

During which he had come to realize his employer didn’t really
have
a sensible side, so what was he hoping to accomplish?

“Didn’t you tell me Mr. McCready could do everything you could?” Lady Sophia asked. “You pointed out that if you were to get
ill, or busy with other matters that your assistant steward could handle things just as well as you.”

That was when I was trying to get one of my men
work
,
Archie thought in frustration.
To help him get back on his feet after the rigors of war.
And Bob had proven himself to be a remarkably able assistant, allowing Archie to dive into Lady Sophia’s woefully neglected
accounts and seeing into her investments, neither of which she paid any attention to.

Despite his protestations to Lady Sophia, however, he had to admit he couldn’t resist the letter-writer’s plea; he knew what
it was like to be in need of guidance, even if he didn’t understand how a female could inherit a duchy. He’d found a mentor
when he’d first joined up, a man who made sure he understood what was expected, and what he was capable of. That man had perished
in battle, and Archie had made it his purpose in life to help others who needed it.

But he did not want to ever return to London—there was a chance, in fact a distinct possibility, that his family would be
there, and he did not want to see them. But he owed it to his colonel.

This duchess would be just like one of his young soldiers, although hopefully she was not armed.

He took a deep breath, recognizing his duty, even though it chafed. Even though the memories of his familial estrangement
were still too tender six years later. “Yes. Bob is more than capable of taking care of things while I am gone advising your
niece.”

Lady Sophia placed Truffles on the rug before lifting her head to look at Archie.

“She is not my actual niece, you understand,” Lady Sophia explained. “She is the daughter of my goddaughter, who married the
duke, the duchess’s father.”

“Who?” Archie had yet to untangle the skeins of Lady Sophia’s conversation. Thankfully she was more than happy to continue
talking. And talking.

“Genevieve,” she exclaimed, gesturing to the letter. “The duchess. It is quite unusual for a woman to inherit the duchy.”

“Quite,” Archie echoed, feeling his head start to spin.

“But it happened, somehow, and now she needs help, and since I don’t know anything about being a duchess . . .”

Because I do?
Archie wondered. But there wasn’t anybody else. She wouldn’t have asked Lady Sophia, of all people, unless there was anybody
else.

Or if she was as flighty and confident as her faux-aunt.

“. . . You’ll have to go. It’s all settled.” She punctuated her words with a nod of her head, sending a few gray curls flying
in the air. “I have every confidence you will be able to take care of her as ably as you do me. Mr. McCready will assist me
while you are away.”

She leaned over to the floor to offer Truffles the end of her biscuit. “The only thing Mr. McCready can’t do is attract as
much feminine interest as you do, Mr. Salisbury.” She sat back up and regarded him. “Which might make him more productive,”
she added.

Archie opened his mouth to object, but closed it when he realized she was right. He wasn’t vain, but he did recognize that
ladies tended to find his appearance attractive. Lady Sophia received many more visitors, she’d told him in an irritated tone,
now that he’d been hired.

Bob, damn his eyes, smirked knowingly every time Archie was summoned to Lady Sophia’s drawing room to answer yet another question
about estate management posed by a lady who’d likely never had such a question in her life.

Archie responded by making Bob personally in charge of the fertilizer. It didn’t stop Bob’s smirking, but it did make Archie
feel better.

“And you will return in a month’s time.”

“Sooner if I can, my lady.” If this duchess needed more time than a month, there would be no hope for her anyway, and he could
depart London without seeing any of his family. Plus he’d discovered country life suited him; he liked its quiet and regularity.
It was a vast change from life in battle, or even being just on duty, but it was far more interesting than being the third
son from a viscount’s family. A viscount who disowned his third boy when said boy was determined to join the army.

Meanwhile, however, he had to pack to head off to a new kind of battle—that of preparing a completely unprepared woman, likely
a woman as flighty and often confused as Lady Sophia, to hold a position that she was entirely unsuited for.

Very much like working with raw recruits, in fact.

“Three days’ time?” Genevieve heard herself squeak. When did she start
squeaking
? Squeaking was not something she had ever done before.

Then again, she’d never been a duchess before. Maybe it was some understood thing that duchesses squeaked, and now that she
was one, she did as well. And if that was the case, then she wouldn’t need Mr. Archibald Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.), after all.
It would just be intuitive. Rather like when she just knew that choosing to read
The Miser’s Daughter
was far preferable to
Threshing and Other Exciting Farm Things
or whatever other boring tomes resided in the library.

“What is happening in three days’ time, dear?”

Genevieve turned and smiled at her grandmother, who was sitting in what was now referred to as the Duchess’s Sitting Room,
even though it had been her father’s Study. Apparently female dukes—also known as duchesses—didn’t need to Study.

But she would. She did wish there was some sort of book she could just read on the subject.
Duchessing and Other Very Specific Occupations
, or perhaps
How to Duchess Without Being a Dullard
.

“A Mr. Archibald Salisbury,”
Captain, Retired
, she added in her head, “is Aunt Sophia’s steward. And she is sending him here to answer some questions I have.”

“I can answer questions,” her grandmother said indignantly. “Why just this morning Byron asked for breakfast and I gave it
to him.”

Byron looked up from her grandmother’s lap and regarded Genevieve sleepily, one paw stretched out.

“If only it were that simple, Gran,” Genevieve replied in a fond tone. She looked back at Mr. Salisbury’s letter. “We will
have to see if this gentleman can be of assistance.” And if he couldn’t, she would just have to blunder along as she had been.

Her grandmother lifted her head in Genevieve’s general direction. Her grandmother was almost completely blind, which made
it difficult to ask her opinion about anything Genevieve might wear. Among other things. “You will know best, I am sure.”
She accompanied her words with a warm smile and a pat on Byron’s head.

It was heartening, if also terrifying, that her grandmother had such confidence in her. That the staff back at home in Traffordshire—where
she had spent the first twenty years of her life—were also so confident, even though she had had no training in how to be
a duchess beyond having Cook address her as Your Highness during the two weeks Genevieve had insisted she was a princess from
the country of Snowland.

She should have spent less time imagining that cold possibility and more time facing the reality that she would be inheriting
the duchy.

But it hadn’t seemed real. And that was the problem. Nobody had thought it would happen, even though theirs was an ancient peerage
that granted any heir (not just a son) the title. A bit of royal legerdemain that allowed women to become duchesses in their
own right provided there was no male heir. Her father had remarried after Genevieve’s mother’s death, and it seemed certain
that her father would have a son to inherit the title. But he had not, and then his wife had died, and now he was gone, too.
The only ones who had paid her any type of attention were the servants in the house she’d grown up in. Who’d loved her, and
been kind to her, and who’d brought her books, and biscuits, and smiled as she explained the intricate plot of the novel she’d
just read.

But who didn’t have any clue of what it would take to be a successful duchess.

Although she should be grateful she hadn’t learned how to be any kind of ducal entity from her father, who had apparently
been terrible at the whole thing.

He was far more interested in sampling London life to pay attention to pesky things like estate management. Genevieve’s strongest
memory of her father was of him kissing her cheek and making some sort of inarticulate approving noise at her.

Which reminded her that she was about to get some help in the form of the unknown Mr. Salisbury. Help that she sorely needed,
even though apparently it also made her squeak.

She rang the bell, making both her grandmother and Byron jump. She heard footsteps, then the door opened to admit her butler.

“Your Grace?”

Thus far, Chandler had treated her with the utmost external respect, but Genevieve had caught an expression of disbelief on
his face at times he’d thought she hadn’t been looking at him.

She couldn’t fault him for it; it was the same expression that she had when she looked at herself in the mirror.

She pretended she was the princess of Snowland again. It was easier than dealing with the reality of who she was now. “A Mr. Archibald
Salisbury is arriving in a few days,” she said in what she hoped was a suitable tone. “He is my aunt Sophia’s steward, and
he will be attending to my affairs until we locate a suitable person for the position.” Was she explaining too much to him?
Not enough? Why didn’t she know? Oh, of course, because she hadn’t been raised to become a duchess. It had been thrust onto
her, through a variety of mishaps and unfortunate demises.

“Yes, Your Grace. I will place your guest,” and was it Genevieve’s imagination, or did the butler seem to sneer the last two
words, “in one of the guest rooms on the third floor.”

“Excellent. Oh, and,” she added, as though it was an afterthought, “Mr. Salisbury is not precisely a guest. But he is to be
treated as one for the duration of his stay.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied, bowing. She thought there was a tinge more of a thaw in his manner—because she was behaving
as a duchess ought? And since when did she care so for the opinion of people she’d just met, and who worked for her?

Of course. Since she recognized that even the barest hint of talk would undermine her position and her ability to carry out
her duties. Since then.

She hoped Mr. Salisbury was as stuffy, appropriate, and efficient, not to mention boring, as his letters implied. The last
thing she needed was someone else to upset her peace of mind.

“Your Grace?”

Genevieve paused in the act of dropping a bit of cheese for Byron, whose expression of expectation turned to disgust as Genevieve’s
hand stilled in mid-air.

“Yes?”

She and her grandmother were in the Duchess’s sitting room again, since her grandmother was most comfortable navigating her
way around the furniture here. Genevieve knew she would have to redecorate eventually, all the furnishings were worn, or old,
or both, but she was hoping to be able to keep everything in the same basic location so her grandmother wouldn’t fall.

“Your Mr. Salisbury is here.” Chandler’s sharp eyes focused on Byron, and his gaze narrowed. He had not said so in so many
words, but he did not have to—it was clear he did not approve of Byron’s being in the household. Of course, he probably didn’t
approve of Genevieve, either, so she couldn’t pay heed to his opinion on either of them.

“Do show him in, Chandler.”

She took a deep breath and settled her hands in her lap, her thumb and index finger rolling the crumb of cheese into a ball
as Byron continued to glare at her. Drat, and her hair was likely untidy. She’d felt it unwinding when she came to the room,
but then her grandmother had needed help with some yarn, and then Byron came begging, and now the likely very proper and properly
dull Mr. Salisbury, Capt. (Ret.) was about to come in, and he would be shocked at her impropriety. And her hair.

Although as far as impropriety went, an unmarried duchess living on her own with only her grandmother and a hungry cat as
companionship was far worse than untidy hair.

“Mr. Salisbury,” Chandler said, then stepped aside to let the gentleman in.

Oh goodness.

The man was so tall it seemed he filled up the entire doorway, blocking out the light that streamed from the large windows
in the hall. All she saw was an enormous shape that looked vaguely man-like. And then he came into the room and Genevieve
was able to focus, and then it felt as though he’d blocked out all the air from her lungs. Even though he hadn’t, he was just
standing there holding his hat in his no doubt equally compelling hands.