If he were still a duke, Sebastian wouldn’t have left. He would have squared off against her, continuing to press his point until the inevitable happened—they fell into bed. And then they would have taken their anger out on each other with vigorous fucking on satin sheets.
But he couldn’t. And what’s more, even only a few days later, he could see that he didn’t want that any more either. Granted, he knew he was charming and handsome. That wasn’t going away with the dukedom.
Now, if he wanted to coax a woman into bed following a heated argument, he was going to have to rely entirely on himself.
Game on, he vowed as he strode back to his room, Byron and Keats at his heels.
“Your Grace.” He stopped in his tracks and began to turn around.
This time, the honorific wasn’t said in her teasing voice. This time, it came from the largest of the disgruntled men Ivy had introduced him to. The other one, the Black man who had spun the roulette wheel that first night, stood beside the large man. Both of them were wearing matching expressions that were . . . not friendly.
“I am sorry,” Sebastian said, glancing between them. “I don’t recall your names.”
“Of course you don’t,” the first one said. He gestured toward his companion. “He’s Samuel, I’m Henry. We’ve both been with Miss Ivy from the start. We know she’s determined to have you work here, but we wanted to warn you.”
Samuel nodded as he spoke. “You might have been a fancy gentleman out there, but here? You’re just another employee. And all employees, even former dukes, have to work hard. Especially former dukes,” he added, folding his arms over his chest.
“I intend to,” Sebastian replied through his clenched jaw.
“You might intend to,” Henry said. “But things for the rest of us are different than they are for you lot.”
“You do know I’m not part of that lot any longer.”
Henry snorted. “Right, or why else would you be here? Slumming in a gambling club, and not even the biggest one?”
“But just because you aren’t still one of them doesn’t mean you know all about what it’s like here. For one thing,” Samuel said, staring Sebastian straight in the eyes, “we all do the work. We don’t just call for someone else to take care of unpleasant tasks. And we don’t favor certain people over others.” He lifted his chin. “What’ll happen when one of your lord types comes in and breaks club rules?”
Sebastian’s chest tightened. He’d barely spent a thought on what would happen when one of his former peers saw him working. That was a failing on his part. The ignominy of the scene washed over him, immediately followed by shame that he wouldn’t be proud of who he was now. But he wasn’t. Not yet.
“I’ll do my job,” he replied stiffly.
“Of course you will.” Samuel’s tone belied his words.
“Miss Ivy doesn’t deserve to be betrayed by her own employee,” Henry said. “You’d best remember that.” Now he folded his arms over his chest, as well. He certainly was a large man. “There’s no changing her mind, and for some reason you want to be here, but let me tell you, you won’t be staying.”
“Is that a threat?”
Henry slowly shook his head. “No. Not a threat. A prediction. You won’t be able to stomach it here, working as you’ll have to. Just make sure you give her enough time before you leave. And you will leave, we know that. But while you’re here, you’d best behave.”
Exact words he had spoken to his dogs.
Did she think that also? That he wouldn’t be able to stomach it here?
“I will take your advice into account,” Sebastian said, unable to keep the cold, duke-like tone from his words.
“You do that.”
And then the two men turned and walked away, leaving Sebastian even more keenly aware of the discrepancy between who he had been, who he was now, and who he hoped to be.
Byron was settled against his hip as he worked. There was no desk in his temporary room, so he was sitting on the bed—still unmade because of course there were no servants to take care of it, and he hadn’t figured out how to do it himself yet—and he was propped against the headboard, already feeling the strain in his neck.
Not to mention the strain of being viewed with suspicion by at least two of his fellow employees.
And yet, somehow, he’d never felt better. More useful.
He’d heard noises in the hallway, and knew she must be out there, bustling back and forth from her office to the club, then upstairs for something, giving orders to the maid, and back down again. He’d resisted the urge to go out and speak to her. Mostly because he didn’t know how he felt, even the next day. Was he upset that she had refused to confide in him? Was he regretting his strong reaction? Did he want to establish that they were employer and employee, nothing more?
And was this the first time he hadn’t been entirely certain?
He could answer that definitively. Ironically, since the answer was yes.
“Mr. de Silva?”
The words were accompanied by a quick knock, then the door opened before he could respond. Miss Octavia stepped inside, her gaze immediately going to Keats, who was lying on the floor next to the bed. She rushed forward to kneel down and place her hand on his head. “He’s friendly, isn’t he?”
“Well,” Sebastian replied dryly, “if he weren’t, you would know by now.”
She glanced up at him, smiling. “How old is he?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” He cleared his throat. “I am not his original owner.” He had gotten the dogs from a local farmer, who’d had them as a deterrent against rodents intent on eating his crops. The farmer had sold his farm to Sebastian’s father, who was going to install a new tenant on the land. A tenant who had a fear of dogs.
The duchess hadn’t cared about what would happen to the dogs, but Sebastian had, so he’d managed to persuade his mother that owning dogs was a mark of a proper English aristocrat.
That was seven years ago, and Byron and Keats had been with him ever since.
“What are their names?” Miss Octavia asked, scratching behind Keats’s ears.
Sebastian paused before replying. “Uh—that is Keats, and this is Byron. Byron is a girl.”
Her eyes brightened, and she smiled. “How did you name them?” She drew her brows together. “You did name them, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “Yes, I went through a period where all I did was read poetry and dress like the Romantics.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I would not have thought you to be the romantic type.” She thought for a moment, then spoke again. “In the pining-over-a-distant-love kind of way. I have seen you flirt, so I know you are romantic that way.”
The retort was on his lips, but he didn’t speak. Was he romantic now? He had been, back in those days. He’d thought at the time that his cold mother was merely the product of her upbringing, that there was warmth lurking within. That his careless father was just distracted, not unloving. That his sister actually enjoyed the drudgery she was forced into.
He’d been so naive. No, he wasn’t romantic now. He was realistic.
“But I am not here to discuss your dogs, lovable though they are.” She gave Keats one last pat, then rose. “You have done something to Ivy, I don’t know what.” She gesticulated toward the door. “She’s been stomping around ever since, and—”
“I can apologize,” he said.
“Oh no, don’t!” she replied, shaking her head vehemently. “It is good for her to be ruffled, she is entirely too settled. Do you know,” she continued, planting her fists on her hips, “that she thinks she will never get married?”
I have no expectations.
“Not that I want you to marry her, far from it.” She spoke in a dismissive tone, and he felt immediately argumentative—Why not? he wanted to say.
But of course he didn’t want to marry her either.
“I want someone to argue with her, as it appears you’ve done. Someone besides me, of course.”
“Why?”
Miss Ivy’s younger sister was wasted in the gambling club; she should have been ensconced in Society, dazzling young gentlemen with her mischievous charm and convoluted schemes.
Although he didn’t think she would agree.
“Because everyone here thinks she is absolutely marvelous!” Miss Octavia’s exasperated tone told him what she thought of that. “And she is content to just work on the club. Her goal is to make enough money so she can go live quietly in a cottage somewhere.” A dismissive snort accompanied her words.
“I take it you don’t think that will suit her?” Sebastian replied amusedly.
“Of course not! Ivy should give herself as much opportunity as she wants me to have. To have fun, to fall in love, to have a marvelous future.”
“And how do I fit into that?”
“You have already challenged her. I haven’t seen her that worked up since the night she won the wager.”
The wager. He would need to discover what that was all about. But he wanted to hear it from her directly, not from her sister.
“So you want me to work her up?” Sebastian replied.
She beamed at him. “Exactly! And it could be fun for you, too. I doubt that you have ever met anyone like Ivy before. She is very smart, you know.”
No, he hadn’t. He’d met smart women, of course, but none he’d deem capable of running a business. None that would ever deign to run a business, in fact. Nor did he think those women—those ladies—would inspire the same sort of devotion it appeared she inspired in her staff.
“I will do what I can,” he replied.
“Excellent.” She gave Keats one last scratch, then turned and whirled out of the room, leaving Sebastian to consider just what he’d agreed to.
A game. A wager. A challenge.
This not-being-a-duke thing was proving to be far more interesting than he’d ever imagined.
Not that he’d ever imagined it.
“I understand your concern,” Ivy said, “but there is no reason to be alarmed, I promise.”
Ivy was sitting in her office, behind the desk, as Henry and Samuel stood facing her. Their expressions had not changed.
So much for her reassuring words.
“The thing is,” she continued, leaning forward to make her point, “Mr. de Silva is here with some interesting ideas. If they don’t work—if he doesn’t work—then I will get rid of him.”
Samuel looked skeptical.
“How long will you let him stay?” Henry asked. She could see his fists balled up, as though he wanted to go punch Mr. de Silva at this very moment.
It was a good thing Henry didn’t have access to a cribbage board.
“Because we don’t want you to get hurt.”
Ivy’s eyes widened as she absorbed what Samuel had just said. “Hurt?” She narrowed her eyes. “How do you mean hurt?”
Samuel glanced at Henry, who shrugged in reply.
“I won’t get hurt.” She lowered her gaze to her desk. Thankfully, there were some papers that required her attention. “I’ll be up later.”
It was a clear dismissal. She waited as they still stood there, then exhaled as they exited the office, closing the door behind them.
Hurt. Did they think she was going to do the unthinkable and fall in love with him? He was her employee. It wouldn’t be appropriate for her to be in a position to get hurt by her employee.
What’s more, he might be plain Mr. de Silva right now, but he wasn’t of her world. Her new world, the one she had made for herself.
She had no doubt that he would return to his previous life once he realized what it meant to inhabit this new world. It was hard, far harder than he likely knew. Not only would he have to shave himself, he would have to adjust to being entirely without servants, without power, without privilege.
It was clear the new duke wanted him back, as did his sister. Once he was done sulking about the change in his life, he would go back.
And she would have gotten the benefit of his ideas, so perhaps she could quit this life, too.
The club was fun; the work was hard, but it was satisfying.
That was a conversation she would have to have with herself at another time.
For right now, she knew she would not allow him to be in the position to hurt her, no matter how charming or handsome he was. No matter that he was going to be living in her home. No matter that she had already thought about his forearms, his stubble, and what it might be like to undress him.
Oh dear. She was already in so much trouble.
“Miss Ivy?”
Ivy raised her head sharply at the interruption. She’d been engrossed in balancing the accounts—who knew a gambling club could spend that much money on glassware and replacement dice, for goodness’ sake—and for a moment, was startled at seeing such a tall, handsome gentleman standing at her doorway.
“Mr. de Silva,” she said, reminding herself to breathe. “Come in.”
He walked in, his eyes focused on hers, his expression neutral.
Right, he had been irked with her last time they’d spoken.
“What is it?” she asked. She curled her mouth into a slight smile. Not so much as to be encouraging, but not so little as to be censorious.
She’d never had to think so much about managing an employee before.
Then again, she’d never had a remarkably handsome ex-duke as an employee before either.
“May I?” He gestured toward the chair.
“Please.”
He sat, crossing one long leg over the other. He leaned forward to put a few pieces of paper on her desk, sliding them toward her. “My ideas for the club.”
She drew them near her, then looked up at him. “Before I take a look, we should discuss what happened yesterday.”
Because if they couldn’t get past it, they wouldn’t be able to have a working relationship. And she’d rather cut her losses now than tread carefully around him, or vice versa.
His mouth thinned, and he took a deep breath. “I apologize. I should not have presumed.” She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “It is not an excuse, but I haven’t had to do . . . any of this before,” he said, gesticulating widely.
She held his gaze a moment before nodding in reply. “That is completely understandable. It is a difficult position to be in, I presume.” She wanted to add, I know myself, but that would be leading him back into a situation where he’d want to ask questions, and she wouldn’t want to answer.
And yet—and yet she wanted to tell him that he wasn’t alone. That even though of course she hadn’t been a duke, she had been a lady, with every expectation of following the usual course that ladies did: come out in Society, meet a gentleman, get married, live comfortably for the rest of her life, having children and taking tea.
Perhaps it would give him some measure of comfort to know it was possible to survive, even though she was absolutely certain he would eventually grow tired of this working-for-a-living life and return to his relatives.
But meanwhile—“It can’t happen again.”
“It won’t. Not unless you give permission. Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere.
“Let me take a look at what you’ve done,” she replied, lowering her gaze to the papers.
She read for the next ten minutes, acutely conscious of him sitting there. Not that he was doing anything but sitting, but still. It wasn’t usual for her to have an insanely attractive gentleman watch her do anything, so it felt odd.
“These are good.” She tapped the papers. “It’s good you laid out the strategy for implementation. It’s easy to come up with ideas, but it’s not always as easy to follow through on the plans for them.” She glanced back down again. “These ideas are fun.”
He raised his eyebrows at that, then shifted in his chair. What could she have possibly said to make him react like that?
“Speaking of fun,” he began, his expression returning to its natural rakishness, “your sister doesn’t think you have any.”
Ivy froze. Of course she should have anticipated Octavia would have An Opinion about what Ivy was doing. She had said as much to Ivy in the past few months. But she hadn’t thought that her sister would share her thoughts with the club’s newest employee.
Although she suspected why her sister had done just that.
She felt her cheeks heat, and knew she was close to matching the red pockets on the roulette wheel.
“Octavia is far too interfering,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “And I do have fun.”
His expression practically challenged her to prove it.
So she rose, slowly, crooking her finger at him in an indication to come closer.
He stood, uncoiling his lean frame, and walked to stand in front of her. Just standing. And looking. Not reaching for her, or otherwise indicating what he expected. What he wanted.
Well, he might not be speaking the words aloud, but she knew what she wanted.
And she was going to act on it. That was what independent businesswomen did—they saw something and they went for it. A piece of property, a viable business proposition, a spectacular opportunity.
A handsome gentleman with charm and wit and intelligence.
A spectacular opportunity, indeed, she thought as she grasped the back of his head and drew him down to her mouth, pausing to let him decline if he wished.
The alacrity with which he fastened his mouth on hers told her that he did not wish.
And now they were kissing.
She tasted even better than he had been imagining. Sweet and luscious and open. He placed his fingers at her waist, holding her lightly, bending down to meet her mouth. She was so much shorter than he that it was awkward, but it was oh so worth it. Even if he had neck strain afterward.
He’d never not been the pursuer. He’d always been the one in control, in charge, of any situation, not just one involving amatory pursuits.
But today was an anomaly, an anomaly that would likely last the rest of his life—he was following someone else’s lead. Letting her direct what was happening, whether it was discussing their future work at the club or following her desires.
Thank God she had. He didn’t know if he could have resisted for much longer—not when she licked her lips with that pink tongue, her raised color indicating just what she was thinking about.
But it was even more delicious for having waited.
She held his face down to hers, her fingers digging into his scalp as they threaded through his hair. He wanted to preen like a cat under her touch, but that would require lifting his mouth from hers, and there was no possibility he was going to do that.
She made a small noise in the back of her throat, and he gripped her tighter, raising her slightly, spreading his fingers across her torso.
Her tongue was sliding tentatively into his mouth, and he sucked it inside, feeling her shock at the action. Nearly releasing her then since he didn’t want to startle her or seem to force her into something she didn’t want, but then she made another noise, and her tongue tangled with his as she slid her hands down his back to link together at his waist, pulling his body closer into hers.
Which brought his cock in contact with her body, and it reacted predictably, hardening as she continued to kiss him, an enthusiastic fervor tempering the kiss, making him lose his mind and forget everything but the taste of her, how close his fingers were to her breasts.
And then she brought her hands back up over his shoulders, sliding down his chest, pushing the lapels of his jacket aside, touching his chest under his shirt, making him wish he wasn’t wearing anything at all, so she could touch him better.
He groaned, bringing his right hand up to close over her breast, squeezing its lush fullness, pushing his cock closer against her.
It felt good. So good. And they were both still fully clothed, his cock straining in his trousers, their mouths fused together as they licked and sucked with an equal amount of passion.
He took his hand away, bringing both his hands around her, under her bottom, lifting her up, and setting her on top of her desk.
Now this was a game he wanted to play.
Her legs widened, and he stepped between them, wrapping his arms around her body, holding her up as he ravaged her mouth. And she ravaged his.
It would be just a matter of time before he ran his hands up her legs, pushing her skirts up so his throbbing cock could find its purchase.
Slow down, Sebastian. This isn’t one of your experienced ladies.
So he tried to stop thinking about her willing warmth, the satisfaction he’d feel at thrusting into her. How he wanted to cover her nipple with his mouth, suck the tight bud as she arched under him.
Admittedly, he was not doing a good job not thinking about all of that.
But then they heard a door, and sprang apart, her still sitting on the desk, her face flushed, her mouth bruised and swollen.
She looked gorgeous.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she held her hand up to her mouth, which had opened to an O of surprise.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean—” she said, shaking her head as she leaped off the table. Her hair fell forward into her face, so he couldn’t see her expression.
They heard footsteps, and her gaze darted toward the door. “It won’t happen again, I promise. I am not in the habit of taking advantage of my employees, you have to forgive me.” She spoke in a rapid whisper, her tone agitated.
“Yes, of course.” It was an automatic reaction, one bred into him as a gentleman. Not that he was that any longer, but his training still remained.
Had a lady ever apologized for kissing him before?
Of course not. Nor should they.
He frowned as he realized precisely what she’d said. That she was sorry she had kissed him. That it wouldn’t happen again.
Not only did he not want her to be sorry—sorry!—she’d kissed him, he definitely wanted it to happen again.
He wanted to show her all the fun they could manage.