Disciplined by the Duke Page 11

  Each year it became more and more difficult to keep Hartsworth self-sustaining. His father had been aware of that and had the idea of entering a trade in order to compensate for any losses. The previous duke had taken his responsibilities as steward of the land seriously and had made sure that no tenant or villager ever went to sleep under a leaky roof and no child ever went to bed hungry. But he’d been too concerned with public opinion about a peer entering trade to ever actualize his idea.

  Marcus had no such compunctions. The year after his father had died, he’d started his shipping line with one schooner, and now, nearly ten years later, the company had a fleet of twenty-eight ships. Other aristocrats had laughed at the duke who sullied his hands in trade, but when one of them needed a loan he came to Marcus.

  “Monty!”

  A pale, plump hand waved in his face, and Marcus turned to Arabelle. “Yes?”

  “I do believe that you haven’t heard one word I’ve said.” She pouted her pink lips and leaned back in her chair, the picture of a spoiled child. Some men might have found her arts charming. Marcus merely grimaced.

  “Tell me now and I will listen.” And forget soon thereafter, he was sure. Arabelle Toller was as interesting as a piece of glass, and as transparent. Over the years she had proven herself impulsive, reckless, and self-centered. There was no maliciousness in her, but the people around her were hurt all the same. He’d forgiven her for her part in his brother’s death, but he could never forget the part her wildness took in the tragedy.

  He listened with half an ear as she complained about the steed he had given her for their morning rides. Her pale blue eyes had a feral look about them, as though she were feverish. Nothing like the pair of brown eyes he saw when he closed his own, a brown as dark and smooth as his favorite Hessians.

  Miss Smith wouldn’t chatter at him, pester him until he hid in his study. There was a stillness about her, a singular focus that intrigued him. Dinner with her would be a quiet affair. Perhaps some discussion on literature, about Parliament. She was one of the most composed women of his acquaintance, and it drew him to her like a honeybee to a flower.

  He drummed his fingers on his armrest. If he admired her composure why did he want nothing more than to strip her of her control, set free the raging cauldron of emotions that bubbled beneath the surface? It made no sense.

  “Monty!” Arabelle’s voice was an exasperated whine.

  “You believe Buttercup does not like you. Yes, I heard.”

  “So you will let me ride Darkwing then?”

  “What?” He focused fully on her. “No, of course not. It would be too dangerous.” For Darkwing, a horse he was not willing to risk.

  “But you said I could have a challenging mount.” She wrapped a coil of hair around her finger and leaned against the table, her pale breasts threatening to break free from the confines of her low neckline.

  He forced his eyes to remain on her face. “And as you very nearly fell jumping the fence on Buttercup, I would say she is a challenging-enough horse.” She started to protest again, and he held up a hand. “No,” he said with finality. “Only I ride Darkwing. No one else.” Except for errant maids who needed a ride back home.

  It was easy to ignore Arabelle’s sulking with the memory of that ride fresh in his mind. The press of Miss Smith’s warm back against his chest. The rocking motion of her round bottom prodding against his—

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” a quiet voice said, interrupting his thoughts. A footman holding a silver tray stood beside his chair. Marcus plucked the white calling card from the tray and tossed his napkin on the table.

  “Please excuse me,” he said, standing. “Enjoy the remainder of your dinner and I will see you all later in the rose salon.” He strode from the room, glad to escape the insipid company.

  Rothchild sat in a wingback chair in his study, a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.

  “Please, make yourself at home.” Marcus threw himself into his desk chair and narrowed his eyes. “Can I get you anything else? A nice foot rub, perhaps?”

  Rothchild puffed at the cigar. “No, I wouldn’t inflict these feet right now on anyone. There was a charming-looking maid I saw, however, that if you’re offering—”

  “Not on your life,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. He had many maids, and the odds of Julius seeing his Miss Smith were slight, but still. He didn’t want anyone else looking at her in that manner.

  Rothchild lowered his snifter. “It was a joke, Marcus. You do remember those, don’t you?”

  Montague grunted, and turned his chair sideways to avoid his friend’s curious stare. He lifted his legs and crossed them at the ankles on his desk. “I assume you’re here for a reason. I know how much you dislike spending time at Hartsworth, drinking my expensive brandy and smoking my cigars imported all the way from the Caribbean.”

  One side of Rothchild’s mouth crooked up. “Ah, you do have a sense of humor. Or what passes for it in the Upper Ten Thousand.”

  Marcus growled, and Rothchild quickly rose to his feet. “Calm down. Of course I have a reason.” He set his glass down on the desk and reached inside his breast pocket. “I ran into your man just come back from Paris at Jackson’s Saloon. He thought he was being followed and didn’t want to risk being seen traveling to Leicestershire.” He flicked his wrist and a white rectangle of paper landed on Marcus’s blotter. A white letter with a royal purple seal. “So, he gave it to me.”

  Marcus picked up the missive and stared at it. He could be holding the death sentence to someone he knew, someone he liked. He pinched the top of his nose and blew out a breath. “Will you stay?” he asked, not looking up.

  “Stay? Why?”

  Marcus slumped back into his chair. “Because I need you to. I have a houseful of guests who need entertaining, and if this letter contains what I think it does I will be busy for the next several days. And . . .”

  Rothchild cocked his head to the side. “And?”

  “And it would be nice to have a friend here.”

  Rothchild rocked back on his heels. “All right. And not just because you sounded bloody pathetic there and I feel sorry for you. But you seem different, and I want to know why.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered. Marcus rose to his feet, pocketed the missive. Its contents could wait until he was alone tonight. “It’s always comforting to know one’s friends will lend a hand out of pity and morbid curiosity.”

  “More sarcasm? You really are a changing man.” Julius knocked back his brandy and plastered a charming smile on his face. To the rest of society, the Earl of Rothchild was the life of the party. Only his close friends knew it was an act.

  “Lead me to my awaiting admirers.”

  Chapter Ten

  A new day found Liz in an old position, on her knees near an open door eavesdropping. Montague and his guests had finished their breakfasts and were in the east parlor, chattering like magpies. She had thought to use this time to search the duke’s rooms. After telling Molly that she would empty all the chamber pots that day in exchange for a thirty-minute break, a task her chamber-mate was more than happy to avoid, Liz had slipped away. Her careful use of the servants’ back passages and stealthy creep down the corridor to his room had been for naught when she’d discovered his room already occupied by three middle-aged women putting it to rights.

  With slumped shoulders, she’d attended to her dirty task. Instead of her rejoining Molly in the guests’ rooms, however, her feet had led her to this corridor. Where he was.

  She rested her forehead against the wall, her stomach churning with a tumult of emotion. She was making a right cake of herself, following the duke around like a puppy. She could forgive the feverish dreams that plagued her sleep each night. The ones that woke her feeling achy and wanting. Those she couldn’t control.

  Her actions during the day were another matter, however. Those she had to own. She would learn nothing useful for her mission listening in on his polite inte
rcourse with his guests. It served no purpose for her to stalk his movements, clean whatever room was closest to his presence. But just the sound of his voice soothed her. Its deep timbre stroked across her skin until she wanted nothing more than to curl up on his lap and listen to anything he wanted to say.

  She struggled to her feet on aching knees, and blew out a long breath. Being near the duke clouded her mind, made her forget her problems, and that was unacceptable. Her sister deserved better. She tucked her rag into her apron’s waistband and smoothed down her skirts. The maids must have finished with Montague’s rooms by now and that was where she should be. She walked towards the stairway at the end of the hall, crossing in front of the parlor’s open door.

  “Stop! You there.” Lady Arabelle’s loud voice made Liz pause. “Yes, you there, maid-girl. Come here.”

  Liz peeked into the sunlit room. The beautiful blonde flapped her hand, beckoning her to enter the parlor. She stepped to the doorway, halted. Unsure whether to enter or not, she looked to the duke, but his face remained expressionless.

  “Come now, Belle,” her brother protested. “Let the poor girl go back to her duties. You can hardly expect an answer from her.”

  Lady Arabelle frowned at her brother from the pale green settee she sat perched upon. She was the focus of a tableau as pretty as any painting, a woman in white the center of attention of five virile males standing beside her, vying for her attention. An older couple sat across the room, quietly involved in their own conversation.

  “And I say this question needs a woman’s opinion.” The blonde cocked her head, examined Liz’s shapeless black gown and starched white apron. “She might not be a lady, but maids are still women, as I’m sure you are well aware.” She lifted one brow at her brother, who flushed and shifted on his feet.

  “I don’t think it’s right,” he muttered. His friends snickered behind him.

  “Well, let me ask who this question most concerns.” She laid one pale hand on the duke’s sleeve. “Monty, is she or is she not a woman? I only want to ask her a question.”

  The silence probably only lasted a second. Liz’s skin prickled as she awaited his answer. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath.

  “She is a woman.”

  The cheerful yellow room faded away as she locked eyes with him. Her breath sounded loud and raspy to her ears. His words were brusque, stated only a simple fact. But the way he said them made something deep inside of her melt. At that moment, he didn’t see her as a maid, his servant, someone of the lower classes that peers liked to pretend didn’t exist. He saw her, a female to his male. An equal partner in their wanting.

  “Hallooo.” Lady Arabelle’s voice cut through her reverie, and the rest of the room came back into focus. The blonde’s lips were tightly pinched, making Liz wonder how long she and Montague had been staring at each other. Lord Spencer and his friends were laughing together, not noticing anything amiss, but the man beside the duke, a guest she hadn’t seen before, was looking between her and Montague, a furrow creasing his brow.

  Liz walked into the room and dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lady?”

  Lady Arabelle wriggled her round bottom deeper into the settee. “Now that I have your attention, I would like to ask your opinion, as a woman, on a most important matter.”

  Liz clasped her hands together in front of her at waist level, pressing her thumbs together tightly. “I don’t know if I’m the right person. Shall I get—”

  Arabelle waved her objection away. “You’ll be fine. Now tell me, do you not think it is past time for the duke to give up his breeches and get himself a pair of pantaloons? I swear he is the only member of the peerage who has not remained current with the fashions.”

  Liz snapped her jaw shut. “Current men’s fashions are not something I feel competent to comment upon, my lady. Perhaps Mr. Todd would be the right person to ask, or the duke’s valet.”

  “No, I want the opinion of a woman on which looks better on a man.” Lady Arabelle frowned. “Take Monty’s friend, here, Lord Rothchild. Are not his legs better displayed to advantage by his pantaloons? The duke’s breeches are quite passé.”

  Liz’s eyes roamed unwillingly to the legs of the man who stood next to Montague. The silk pantaloons clung snugly from the man’s ankles up to his waistcoat, leaving nothing to the imagination. Cheeks burning, Liz swallowed. “Um, I don’t, I mean . . .”

  “Leave the poor thing alone.” Lord Spencer leaned a hip against the arm of the settee. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing her?”

  His sister flicked her fingers at him in dismissal. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. It is a simple question. Whose legs look better? The duke in his breeches or the earl in pantaloons? Come, come, girl. Don’t be shy.”

  “Yes, Miss Smith.” Montague’s eyes glittered darkly. He was taking pleasure at her discomfort. “Whose legs do you prefer?”

  Liz didn’t need to look at the duke’s breeches to know how well they showed his form. She had it memorized. Regardless, she took the opportunity to slowly examine him. If he had no qualms over toying with her she would not scruple to maintain proper decorum.

  She examined the fall of his breeches for only a moment before dropping her gaze farther down. Cream linen stretched across muscled thighs that flexed as he shifted from one foot to the other. The fabric draped down to his knees and ended at chocolate-colored knee-high boots. Unlike the other men who wore either slip-on shoes or ankle boots, the duke seemed to always wear Hessians.

  A shiver raced down her spine when she remembered the creak of the stiff leather of those boots when he walked towards her in the stable. The smack of the riding crop against the shaft. She cleared her throat, raised her head, their eyes tangling. He stopped breathing; so did she.

  Digging the nail of her middle finger into her palm, she blew out a long stream of air. “While all the gentlemen here look very nice, I believe the style of dress the duke employs suits him well. Some men aren’t meant to follow the latest fashions.”

  “Hmph.” Lady Arabelle turned her head between the duke and the earl, lips pursed. “Well, I believe you’re wrong, but perhaps it’s my fault for seeking counsel on fashion from a chambermaid. You may go now.”

  Lord Spencer smirked. “That is hardly fair, Belle. You wanted the opinion of a woman and you got it. Just because it wasn’t what you wanted to hear doesn’t mean you can be so dismissive. Sometimes you have to admit you’re wrong.”

  Liz backed up a step, unsure if her part in this conversation was over. Montague watched her like a cat does a bird. Eyes unblinking, every muscle in his body coiled for action, ready to spring upon her at the slightest misstep.

  Rothchild stepped between them, breaking the invisible current running between the two. “I must agree that different styles suit different men. Just as no other woman would look as lovely in that dress as you, no other man will look as good in pantaloons as I do.” He winked bawdily at Arabelle, who grinned up at him. “Although I must say that anyone who asks a servant whose livelihood depends upon the duke’s good graces to compare him to other men is destined for a biased report.” He clapped a hand on Montague’s shoulder and turned him to face the other guests. Liz was blocked out of the conversation, effectively dismissed.

  She dropped a quick curtsy in case anyone watched, and hurried from the room, her heart hammering like an anvil. She fled to the duke’s study, and into the back passages, pulling the door shut tight behind her. Leaning against the stone wall, she inhaled deeply and let the darkness and cool air calm her frazzled nerves.

  Nothing was going the way she’d planned. She wasn’t supposed to engage with the guests. Anonymity was an asset that she was squandering. She wasn’t supposed to be wasting time with silly fashion questions. And she definitely was not supposed to feel as delighted as a child with a new toy whenever she encountered the duke. She had one job to do.

  Pushing off from the wall, she made her way to the second floor where the du
ke’s chamber lay.

  It was time to get back to work.

  * * *

  Darkwing’s flanks heaved between his thighs. Marcus was driving his horse too hard, and a rush of guilt twisted his stomach. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his mount to an easy walk, and patted the sweaty neck of the beast he liked better than most people.

  “Sorry, boy. We’ll walk from here.” The pointed ears twitched, and Darkwing shook his head up and down. Apparently he was not yet forgiven.

  “Dammit, Marcus.” Rothchild pulled his horse to a stop next to him, man and horse both out of breath. “Had I known this was to be a race I would have chosen a faster mount. What has gotten into you?”

  “Nothing.” The duke tightened his fist in the reins. “I didn’t ask you to accompany me today. You can always turn back and have tea with the ladies if this is too strenuous for you.”

  His friend blew out a frustrated breath and fell into step beside him. “Have I not ridden with the insipid Lady Arabelle and her retinue each morning in your stead? Do not think to send me back into their clutches when I can have an afternoon of freedom in the out-of-doors.” He took a deep breath of fresh air as if to emphasize his point. “Besides, you’re meeting with one of your informants on a matter that you’ve brought me into. It’s now a matter of my concern, as well.”

  Marcus inclined his head. His friend was of course welcome to this meeting at the village tavern. Just because he was as restless as a six-year-old at church was no reason to take his frustration out on his friend, or his horse. His mind needed to settle on the matter at hand. The security of England was at stake. He never allowed his personal life to interfere with his duties before, and he would be damned if fantasies of his maid clouded his mind now. No, that little bird was definitely locked out of his musings, for good.