Disciplined by the Duke Page 10

  “Subvert the power structure?”

  Marcus nodded. “Mr. Todd is in a position of dominance over your friend. The threat of discipline hangs over her head, the threat intending to guide her actions. By choosing the discipline, by enjoying it, she takes that power away from her superiors.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing her ear. “She also may be one of the lovely creatures who enjoy the pain, desire the release.”

  Her breath blew hot against his throat. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Not yet. But you will.”

  He stumbled back. Fuck. Why had he said that? He was pushing all sorts of boundaries. Boundaries he’d set up for good reason. He took another step back, sense returning as the distance between them grew. He should leave his little peeping maid to her show. If she was so curious she could break her own figurine and let Mr. Todd explain discipline to her.

  A knot formed in his gut at the thought. Bent over in front of his steward? Lifting her—He ground his teeth. No, she wouldn’t be hiking her skirt up in front of Todd anytime soon, not if he had any say over it.

  And he did. He was the damned Duke of Montague.

  The faint light streaming in from the spy holes backlit her head like a halo. A few loose tendrils of hair escaped her tight chignon, and his fingers itched to sweep them back behind her ear. To feel the dark silk, dig his fingers deep into her hair, tug her head back and—

  A soft moan and a breathless “thirty” interrupted his reverie. With a muttered curse, he grabbed Miss Smith’s hand and strode down the corridor, dragging his maid behind him. He needed to get out of the secluded hallway. The dark and privacy, not to mention the floor show in front of them, were too tempting. His blood pulsed through his veins with each step, a pounding that had his body aching to push his maid to the cold floor, lift her skirts, and pound away in rhythm.

  What was it about this woman? He was on the razor’s edge of control around her, a control that he prided himself on. That defined him. Yet the thought of losing himself in her was dangerously thrilling.

  He found the hidden door that led to his study and pushed his way in. The bright afternoon light cleared the last of the muddle in his head.

  His control was necessary. Not only was it expected of a duke, but also past experience had taught him it was vital. He’d relinquished control before, and it had cost his younger brother his life.

  A soft tug on his hand brought him up short. He turned to his maid.

  Her soft brown eyes darted from his face to every corner of the room; her white teeth chewed on her lush bottom lip. She tried again to extricate her hand and, with regret, he let her go.

  “You should return to your duties.” His voice sounded harsher than he’d intended, and she took a step back.

  “My apologies, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat, lifted her chin. Damn, she could gather her composure fast. Faster than he. Even when caught in a compromising position, the woman had a spine of steel. “This won’t happen again.” With a curt nod, she spun on her heel and left the room, her skirts swishing behind her.

  Marcus sank into his wingback chair. God save him from distracting women. His head dropped to the seat back and he stared at the ceiling. This wouldn’t do. He had life-and-death business to attend to, and here he was mooning over a chit like a lackwit. Fantasizing of sliding into her heat.

  He pounded his fist against his thigh. No more. Time to focus on his duties. The Crown and his estate. Thinking of his estate, he groaned. Miss Smith wasn’t the only female vexing him. He glanced at his desk where Lady Arabelle Toller’s letter lay. He avoided her company whenever possible. When he was in London during the Season, he made sure not to be present at balls and soirees she would attend. But, rude as her announcement had been that she and her party would appear at Hartsworth in two days’ time, it was one he couldn’t ignore. She would be in his home for several weeks.

  He gritted his teeth. Arabelle and her family still hoped that she and the duke would form a marital alliance. He had been as clear as he could to her father, the Earl of Brunswick, that a marriage between the families would never happen. Short of insulting the girl, he didn’t know what he had to say to get his point across.

  Memories swamped him. A wild feminine laugh. His brother’s scream. The awful silence after everything stopped moving.

  Even if he’d been attracted to Lady Arabelle he could never marry her. Every time he looked at her, he saw his brother’s bloody face. Pain arced through his chest. If only—

  No. There would be no more if-onlys. He’d let his brother down, and he’d learned his lesson. No woman would make him loosen his grip on his control.

  No matter how much she might make his blood pound.

  Chapter Nine

  The gold morning parlor in the east wing was alive with chatter. Liz was in the adjoining sitting room, dustrag in hand, trying her best to make the pianoforte gleam. She didn’t much care about the instrument, she’d never liked playing it herself, but its position near the cracked open door between the two rooms allowed her to overhear snippets of conversations.

  What she’d heard so far she didn’t like.

  The duke’s guest, Lady Arabelle, had clearly set her cap at him. Her soft coos and inquiries over Montague’s health attested to that. Her squealed “Monty” when she fake-chastised him. Her high-pitched giggles whenever he spoke. All tactics Liz had witnessed in her two seasons on the marriage mart. Techniques she’d never perfected. Techniques that tended to work on society men.

  She snapped her rag in frustration and the tail end struck a key. A faint high C reverberated. Molly raised her head from the Aubusson carpet she knelt upon, and Liz shrugged. She focused on running her cloth along each taut string of the instrument, not wanting to meet the other woman’s eyes.

  For the past two days, she had rarely been able to look Molly straight on. Her cheeks would heat when she remembered Molly over Mr. Todd’s desk. Her chamber-mate, however, had been almost giddy since the encounter, the corner of one lip permanently upturned.

  Another giggle tore through the air, followed by the deep tones of the duke. Liz knelt by the door and pretended to dust the elaborately carved wainscoting. What was the woman laughing at? Montague wasn’t a humorous man. He was serious. Stern. Commanding. A shiver danced down her spine. He wasn’t the sort of man to jest.

  At least not with her. Maybe for his friends, his perceived equals, he was a different sort of man.

  She twisted the rag in her hands. Why did she even care? He was a means to an end. That was all. The man who, albeit unwittingly, would be her sister’s salvation. He could dangle after whomsoever he chose. And it was for the best. The next couple of weeks he would be overly distracted by his lovely guest, spend less time in his rooms, and that would make her job easier.

  Still, she pressed forward, angling her eye at the door’s opening. Her gaze fell directly on Montague’s broad back. He stood out like a wolf among sheep, his midnight blue tailcoat a stark contrast to the light browns and pale colors of the other men’s and women’s daywear.

  A pale hand grasped the dark sleeve. Lady Arabelle leaned into Montague, her blond hair, so pale it appeared almost white, brushing his shoulder. She whispered something and the duke leaned his head close to hers. They looked good together, the lady and the duke. Like they belonged. A matching set.

  A wave of nausea rolled through Liz. She clasped a hand to her abdomen, and sank down to sit with her back against the wall. She couldn’t watch them anymore.

  Molly raised an eyebrow and walked towards her. “Are you all right? You’re looking awfully pale.”

  Liz forced a smile. “I’m fine. Only a little dizzy.”

  Molly’s green eyes flicked down to where she held her stomach and back up, a smile curling her lips. “So it’s true then, is it? You’re expecting.”

  “What?” Liz pushed to her feet. “No, of course I’m not! I’m an unmarried woman.”

  Molly snorted and
turned back to her cleaning supplies. “What does that matter?” She picked up her bucket and looked at Liz, her face creasing with sympathy. “Is it the earl’s, the one you worked for? Is that why you had to leave his service?”

  “Molly. I am not with child.” Her cheeks heated just saying the words. “The earl has never . . . I’ve never . . .” She twisted the rag tight around one finger. “I mean, there are many things I don’t know concerning what a man and a woman do after they are married”—Molly raised another eyebrow—“or before, but I do understand some basics of biology and let me assure you that I cannot be carrying a child.”

  “If you say so,” Molly said as they walked to the door.

  “I do. Now, shall we start with the guest rooms?” As they trudged up the back staircase, Liz reminded herself that this was another benefit to Lady Arabelle’s visit. Because five guest rooms were in use, the usual second-floor maids needed assistance with their duties and she had access to the upper floor. The duke’s chambers were around the bend in the corridor in another wing, and she had yet to find the time, or the gumption, to search his private rooms.

  Two other maids hurried past, and directed them to a room across the hall that needed cleaning. Liz eyed a wrinkled cravat tossed over an armchair and a pair of muddy boots. “Is this Lord Spencer’s room?” The brother of Lady Arabelle bore a courtesy title derived from his father’s lesser title as Viscount of Spencer.

  “Yes.” Molly rushed to the bed and yanked off the coverlet. She stripped the bed with quick movements. “He’s handsome, that one is, don’t you think?”

  Liz started gathering the rumpled clothing to take down to the laundry. “I suppose. He seems awfully young, however.” In truth, she didn’t remember what Lady Arabelle’s brother looked like, only recalled an overall impression of an exuberant puppy.

  “Cor, you may be right about that. His friend, the one with the limp, he looks like one who knows what to do with a woman.”

  Liz cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t know.” She peeked into the chamber pot, and blew out a happy sigh when she saw it was empty. She hated that part of her new job. “How long do you think the Spencer party will stay?”

  “At least a fortnight. Although there is one guest of the duke’s who might stay here permanently.”

  Liz dropped a pillow. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Sally, you know Sally, the maid with the horrible pox scars, she was talking to Lady Arabelle’s maid who said that Lady Arabelle and the duke are nearly betrothed.” Molly gathered up all the dirty linens in one big ball and wrapped them in a sheet.

  Liz fumbled with the blanket she was folding, her fingers numb. “What do you mean by ‘nearly’ betrothed?”

  “Apparently it’s been agreed upon between the families for years; it was just a matter of waiting for the lady to come of age.” Molly outlined a well-rounded figure with her hands. “She certainly looks of age to me.”

  Clenching her fists, Liz looked away. Yes, she’d noticed that the lady was certainly . . . well endowed. And she had wondered if that was the kind of thing that appealed to Montague.

  Of course it was. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. Not only was Lady Arabelle a beautiful woman, but she and the duke also had a shared history and a planned future. She grabbed the bundle Molly had made and threw it down outside the door. She wished the duke happy in his marriage to his blond, buxomy harlot. She sincerely did.

  She strode down the hall to the linens room, and pulled out a fresh set of sheets. When she made the bed, her corners were razor sharp, her mind focused. Montague was a duke and would marry a lady. That was the way of the world. Even had she met Montague before her father died, been introduced as Miss Elizabeth Wilcox, a gently born lady, he still would have gone on to marry someone like Lady Arabelle. Liz and Amanda might have giggled under the bedcovers and gossiped about marrying a prince or a duke, but even then she’d known that was but a dream. She had hoped to marry a good man, an honorable one, someone she would be proud to stand beside. . . .

  Liz ignored the pain in her chest. She could do nothing about that wish, but she could save her sister and live a comfortable little life with her. Montague would be so happy with his new bride and his vast wealth that he would hardly notice when one of his shipments went missing. If the Earl of Westmore released her from this job she would happily leave. But until then, she would continue on in her mission to search for the letter.

  That determination lasted her through the day and evening. When she finally sat down after dinner to have a cup of tea with Peggy, she wondered why she’d ever felt any compunction against taking the letter. It was a simple job with the ultimate reward.

  “Is something a’matter, dearie? You seem awfully distracted.” Peggy’s brow furrowed.

  Liz stretched her lips into a smile. “No, I’m fine. Thinking about home.”

  Peggy patted her hand, a gesture Liz was beginning to find comforting. “I know what it’s like to be homesick. How about a big piece of that spice cake to go with your tea. I know that always makes me feel better.”

  Liz’s smile was genuine this time. The spice cake was freshly baked and the scents of nutmeg and cinnamon clung to the kitchen. She inhaled deeply, and her stomach gurgled in happy anticipation. Until she glanced over at the cake resting on the counter. The light dusting of powdered sugar sprinkled on top became mold. The crumbs on the plate it sat upon, maggots, wet and wriggling.

  She took a hasty swallow of tea. Insect-infested food was what her sister was eating. Her stomach turned at the thought of eating something so self-indulgent as delicious cake until her sister could also enjoy the privilege. “No, thank you. The tea is all I need.” Before Peggy could express the concerns written all over her face, Liz asked, “Have you heard anything about the footman? Has he resurfaced?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Peggy stirred another lump of sugar into her tea. “I haven’t heard anything about Bob, mind you, but I did learn of his family. He has an aunt and uncle who raised him in Lincoln.”

  Liz tried to visualize a map of the area. “That’s the town directly north of the village? About ten miles away?”

  “Less than that, I’d think. It only takes around two hours to get there by cart. If you’d like to go I’ll send the boy Joseph to pick up some supplies there on Saturday afternoon and he can take you.”

  Liz nodded. Even though she’d recommitted herself to stealing the letter, that didn’t mean she wasn’t still curious about what had happened to the young man. And whether Mr. Pike had anything to do with his disappearance. “I would appreciate that. What’s the name of his uncle?”

  “A Mr. Blackmun, same last name as Bob. He’s the town’s smithy, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.” She gathered up their cups and saucers and started washing up. Liz grabbed a wet rag and wiped down the counters. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, dear. I’ll get to it when I’m done with the dishes.”

  “I don’t mind, Peggy. It’s nice to have someone to talk with. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your kindness.”

  Peggy’s cheeks glowed a rosy hue. “Oh, get on with you. But if you ever do get lonely come down and talk to me. I like having a nice chat and a cuppa as much as the next person.” She picked up a cloth and began drying the dishes. She heaved a great sigh. “You’re not the only one who needs company, dear.”

  Liz tapped her fingers against the tile counter. “Peggy, if you really didn’t want to be alone I don’t think you’d have to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, only that there is someone here who is looking to be friends with you, more than friends actually, and he might make a very nice companion, if you’d let him.”

  Peggy paused, saucer in hand, water drops pattering against the stone floor. “Are you saying you know a man who’s interested in me?”

  “Yes.”

  Peggy’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Well, who? Who is it?”

  “He’
s a man who is very proper in his address, so proper that some might think him a bit pompous. But I think he just takes his duties very much to heart. He is very hardworking and has a good position. He needs to learn to relax a bit, but if he can do that truly I think he would make someone a very solid match.”

  Peggy clasped the wet saucer to her ample bosom. “Surely you don’t mean . . . you can’t think . . .”

  Liz thought about her sister alone in a cell. Peggy alone in her room with a kitten. Herself alone in that room in London for months on end. It was time for someone to be happy. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I do. I do mean him. You were quite willing to overlook the many flaws in Mr. Pike for a chance at love, but it’s time you set your sights at better men. Men who might be blustering and stiff on the outside, but who are decent and caring inside. So next time you think of passing out sweets to men like Mr. Pike and the like, I think you should know that Mr. Todd is very fond of your desserts. Very fond indeed.”

  She spun on her heel and left Peggy gaping like a fish. She hoped she hadn’t overstepped her bounds and lost a friend in the process, but Mr. Todd and Peggy were both sensible people who, if they put their minds to it, could make each other happy. Peggy just needed someone to point it out to her.

  If only Liz could organize her own happiness so easily.

  * * *

  Marcus sat through the evening meal with grim determination. Entertaining his guests was a duty to be endured, not enjoyed. He nodded at something the young Lord Spencer said, not caring about whether the new precision rifles could shoot a distance of three hundred yards or four. Everything about his guests bored him, and it was no wonder. The twentysomething lord and his two friends were nearly a decade younger than him, with nothing more pressing on their minds than their latest racehorses and which party to next attend.

  A middle-aged couple, family friends of Spencer and Arabelle’s parents and accompanying the youths nominally as their chaperones, were no better. Marcus had tried to engage the husband in a discussion about crop rotations but was rebuffed. The man had a “steward” for that and never concerned himself with such “tawdry” matters. Marcus snorted at the thought, and slurped at his soup to disguise the sound. How a man at any age could think the business of running an estate tawdry was beyond his comprehension. Proper management provided food and shelter not only for the estate but for its tenants, as well.