One-Eyed Dukes Are Wild Read online

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my editor, Lucia Macro, for her encouragement, enthusiasm, and something else beginning with “e.” Thanks to my agent, Louise Fury, for her support and continued guidance. Thanks, as always, to my critique partner, Myretta Robens, who tells me to keep going every time I doubt what I’ve written (spoiler: that happens a lot).

  And finally, thanks to my husband, Scott. I love you, and I know you’ve got my back.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 1

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 2

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 3

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 4

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 5

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 6

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 7

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 8

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 9

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 10

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 11

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 12

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 13

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 14

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 15

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 16

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 17

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 18

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 19

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 20

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 21

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 22

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 23

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 24

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 25

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 26

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 27

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 28

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 29

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 30

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Chapter 31

  Dear Lady Margaret

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Don't miss other stories by Meg Frampton

  About the Author

  By Megan Frampton

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Georgiana and the Dragon

  By A Lady of Mystery

  Georgiana stopped as she walked toward the well. What was that smell? It was as though someone had set the woods on fire, or something, only there was no smoke, or burning trees, or anything but the odor itself.

  She shifted the bucket in her hand to the other hand, pushing her hair out of her face. It was windy, and perhaps there was a distant fire somewhere, someone burning brush, and that was the cause of it.

  Shaking her head, she continued walking, counting her steps, as she always did, on the way to the well. It was her task to fetch the water every day, sometimes twice a day, for her father’s smithy.

  It was hard work, but Georgiana never begrudged it; her father worked hard to keep her and her sisters fed and clothed. Her mother had died when her youngest sister, Mary, was born, and Georgiana had only the slightest recollection of her. Nor did she have time to wonder about distant fires. She had water to collect, and soon—the King had honored her father by giving him the task of shoeing his horses, but the job had to be completed before the King went hunting in the spring. That gave her father just a month to complete it all, in addition to his usual work.

  Chapter 1

  1844

  A London ballroom

  Too many people, too much noise

  Lasham took too big a swallow of his wine, knowing his headache would only be exacerbated by the alcohol, but unwilling to forgo the possibility that perhaps, for just a few minutes, his perception would be muffled, blurred a little around the edges.

  So that he wouldn’t be in a state of constant keen awareness that he was the Duke of Lasham, that he was likely the most important person wherever he happened to be—according to everyone but him—and that he was under almost continuous surveillance.

  The ballroom was filled with the best people of Society, all of whom seemed to be far more at ease than he had ever been. Could ever be, in fact. He stood to the side of the dance floor, the whirling fabric of the ladies’ gowns like a child’s top.

  Not that he’d been allowed anything as playful or fun as a top when he was growing up. But he could identify the toy, at least.

  “Enjoying yourself, Your Grace?” His hostess, along with two of her daughters, had crept up along his blind side, making him start and slosh his wine onto his gloved hand. Occurrences like this weren’t the worst part of having lost an eye—that obviously would be the fact that he only had one eye left—but it was definitely annoying.

  “Yes,” he said, bowing in their general direction, “thank you, I am.”

  The three ladies gawked at him as though waiting for him to continue to speak, to display more of his wondrous dukeliness for their delight. As though he were more of an object than a person.

  But he couldn’t just perform on command, and his hand was damp, and now he would have to go air out his glove before bestowing another dance on some lady he would be obliged to dance with, being the duke, and all. Because if his glove was damp, it might be perceived as, God forbid, sweaty, and sweaty-handed dukes might mean that the duke had gotten said sweat because he was enthralled with the person with whom he was dancing, which would lead to expectations, which would lead to expect a question, and Lasham knew he did not want to ever have to ask that question of anybody.

  It was bad enough being the object of scrutiny when he was out in public. At home, at least, he was by himself, blissfully so, and taking a duchess would require that he be at home by himself with somebody else, and that somebody would doubtless have ducal expectations of him as well.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the silent, gawking ladies. He sketched a quick bow and strode off, trying to look as though he had a destination rather than merely wishing to depart.

  “It is my trick, I believe.” Margaret leaned forward to gather the cards and swept them to her side of the table, along with the notes and coins that had been tossed in. She glanced to either side of her, noticing the telltale signs of disgruntlement on her companions’ faces. She would have to start losing for a bit, then, in order to win more in the end.

  Not that she cheated, of course; she was just very, very good at cards, and the people she played with were usually quite bad. Plus she was able to recall just which cards had been played, and that no doubt helped her as she weighed what cards might be coming up next.

  It got to be boring, after a while, constantly winning. Though the winnings at the table helped to keep her suitably decked out in the gowns she required in order to keep her place in Society, and also would help some of her other less superficial interests, so she didn’t really wish to be losing. Who would wish to lose, anyway?

  But sometimes, after she’d won yet another considerable sum, she wished she could be surprised into a loss. To find an opponent who would be worthy of her skill and her attention.

  That, it seemed, was not to be. Might n
ever be.

  Not that she wasn’t grateful to be here at all; she certainly was. The cold truth of it was that she was invited to these events not because she was a good cardplayer, but because she was a scandal, but not too scandalous. So any hostess who invited her would be seen as daring, and she would add color to the festivities, simply because of who she was.

  That she was able to support herself and the causes to which she’d dedicated her money was a welcome side effect of her scandalous wake.

  “It is your deal, Lady Sophia,” Margaret murmured as she passed the cards to her left. The lady took the cards, nodding, and Margaret leaned back in her chair, glancing around the room.

  She’d been back in London for only a few months, as soon as she’d found out her parents had departed, and it already seemed as though she hadn’t ever left. She’d missed it, even though she’d liked living out in the country, just walking alone for hours at a time and thinking. Just thinking.

  Thinking was at more of a premium here, what with all the other things she had to be doing as well: attending social gatherings such as this one, visiting with her sister, the Duchess of Gage, and her new niece, plotting out how to get her heroine even more in danger with the dangerous hero in her ongoing serialized story, which had just been increased to a weekly publication—another delicious bit to add to her scandalous reputation.

  Avoiding her parents.

  She felt her jaw clench as she thought about them, how they steadfastly refused to acknowledge her in public since she’d rebelled against their plans for her. As though she would marry someone as loathsome as Lord Collingwood, not that he had any desire to marry her, either. He had just wanted the funds her parents had promised along with her body, and had been dumbfounded when their second—in so many ways—daughter had refused to go along with their plans.

  It hurt, even though she should have been accustomed to it by now. And it must bother them, as well, to know that she had returned to Society and had continued to be accepted at parties, and that she was perfectly able to survive on her own. If they thought about it at all, of course.

  “Lady Margaret?” Oh, she’d been too engrossed in thinking to realize it was her turn to play. She took a quick survey of her cards, sorted them into their respective suits, and glanced at what had been played. Jack of hearts, two of hearts, and the ten. She had four additional hearts in her hand as well, which left six other cards. She figured out which ones were missing, then tossed her queen into the pile and took the hand, before laying down a six of diamonds.

  It wouldn’t do to play too many hearts, she thought to herself ruefully. Not that she had ever given her actual heart. That organ remained intact, not even dented by her close encounter with Lord Collingwood. Her pride, now that stung, but pride would heal; a heart would not.

  The play lagged as a footman bearing wine approached the table. Everyone but Margaret took a glass, and then out of the corner of her eye she spotted a large black shape reaching for a glass as well.

  It was a man, of course, a gentleman, since if it were a bear or a mobile rock or something there would have been more screaming and less allowing of the bear/rock to take a refreshment. And as she turned her head to look at him, she felt something inside her stutter to a stop, her breath caught in her throat as she looked.

  He looked as though he could have walked right out of the pages of one of her more outrageous serials. He was tall, very tall, taller than all the other gentlemen in the room. And broad, as well, with shoulders that would have strained at the seams of his jacket if the garment in question had been less impeccably cut and less exquisitely molded to his form. His very excellent form.

  And that was without even mentioning his face, which was just as excellent. He was clean-shaven, a rarity among the gentlemen in the room, and that meant the sharp planes of his face were clearly displayed. Of course what most people likely noticed was the black patch that covered his left eye, the ribbon tying it on also black, which happened—fortunately—to match the black of his hair and his eyebrows.

  As she regarded him, he caught her eye and stiffened, as though he’d recognized her and didn’t want to associate with her, or he hadn’t recognized her but hadn’t appreciated her gawking at him.

  Either way, she thought with a mental shrug as she returned to the play, he clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Pity, since he looked as dangerous as she felt.

  “My trick, I believe.” Lady Sophia scooped up the coins from the table and Margaret leaned against the back of her chair, only about the seventh most shocking thing she’d done this evening.

  The first, of course, had been having the audacity to win at cards despite being a female with a slightly tarnished reputation. The second and third likely had to do with the hat and gown she was wearing—she refused to continue to wear the pale colors of an unmarried woman. The colors didn’t suit her, for one thing, and for another, she had no desire to indicate her unmarried status. So instead of insipid ivory, she was wearing blue, and not the wan blue of an early morning sky. This was the fierce, triumphant blue of a cloudless summer sky at midday.

  The numbers leading up to seven likely had to do with declining to dance when asked by gentlemen who thought that because her reputation was tarnished, her behavior would be equally suspect, and taking a second glass of wine. Although she wasn’t entirely sure, she imagined that she had likely done things to tick up the number of shocking events that she wasn’t even aware of.

  And that was why she’d been invited anyway, wasn’t it?

  It didn’t miss her notice that leaning against the back of the chair was just as shocking as refusing a blackguard or a dance. Now if she were a man, she could get away with such behavior. She could lean against chairs, drink as many glasses of wine as she chose, and never have to dance with anyone she didn’t wish to. She sighed as the possibility floated above her, like a tantalizing balloon she just couldn’t catch.

  And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw another black shape, only this one didn’t intrigue her as the pirate had. She knew this man, and she wanted nothing to do with him. Hadn’t seen him, in fact, since before her parents had announced she was to be married to him. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to come proposing himself; he’d allowed them to tell her what was to be done. Even thinking of it, thinking how close she had come to surrendering her freedom, made her grit her teeth and raise her head as though in challenge.

  Although that was incredibly stupid, wasn’t it, because then it increased the chances he’d spot her.

  “Excuse me,” Margaret said, nodding to one of the people watching the card game, “would you mind taking my seat? I find I am in need of some air,” and she left without waiting for a reply, walking through the crowd quickly in the opposite direction from Lord Collingwood.

  Lasham took a sip of his wine with the nondamp hand, squelching the desire to find out just who the lady was who’d met his gaze so—so directly. He wasn’t accustomed to that, not at all; ladies didn’t look at him either because they were awed by his title or because they were frightened by his eye patch. But her—she’d looked at him, and looked at him some more, so he had to avert his own gaze from hers.

  He had noticed, however, that while she wasn’t as young as most of the debutantes currently giggling in the ballroom, she wasn’t old, either. Nor was she beautiful, not in the way of most beauties, but there was something—something sparkling about her, as though she’d been dusted in starlight or something like that. A ridiculous thought, and he didn’t know where it had come from.

  Her hair was a rich, lustrous brown, pulled back from her face with one curl resting coquettishly on her shoulder, which was bare. Her eyes were brown as well, huge, with thick lashes surrounding them. Her mouth was wide and sensuous, if a mouth could be sensuous, and as he regarded her, he’d seen a tiny smile creating a dimple on one cheek. Unlike the usual beauties, she looked utterly, deliciously approachable, which was why he absolutely must not
find who she was or plot to meet her. She looked dangerous, if not in reality, then to his peace of mind.

  Lasham continued threading his way through the crowd, nodding to people here and there, keeping his focus away from anyone’s eyes so as to avoid conversation. He just wanted, needed a moment away from the party, from the constant scrutiny, from people who kept regarding him as though waiting for him to do something remarkable. Or unremarkable.

  He arrived at a door near where the servants were bustling in and out, turned the handle, and stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. He stood in what appeared to be a small library, the streetlamps outside lighting the room enough so he could navigate, even with only one good eye.

  He went and leaned against the windowsill, looking out at the street below, the carriages and their patient horses and coachmen waiting for the partygoers to finally decide they were done for the night. At the yellow glow of the streetlamps making the night seem as though it were faintly tinted, at the dark streets with the day’s detritus still scattered on the ground.

  And he was at last, finally, blissfully alone.