Disciplined by the Duke Read online

  Peggy stared at her blankly.

  “From the master of the house,” Liz clarified.

  A wrinkle creased the cook’s forehead.

  Liz sighed. “Do I need to stay out of the path of the duke?” Her heart beat a bit faster, and she turned her head from side to side to make sure no one was listening. “Is the Duke of Montague accustomed to enjoying the favors of his servants?”

  Peggy’s eyes popped wide. “I should say not!”

  Her voice was loud, and Liz should care if anyone overheard them. But the crushing relief she felt at Peggy’s words overruled her caution. Montague hadn’t seemed the sort of man to have sport with his maids, but the confirmation was enough to make her hands tremble. She squeezed them into fists to hide her emotion.

  Not that it should matter. In fact, she would have been safer had the duke been acting in his usual manner. If his interest was solely directed at her that could be . . . dangerous. And delicious. She rubbed her thighs together, trying to rid herself of the ache deep inside.

  Peggy leaned in close. “Has anyone here said otherwise? Because on that score you needn’t have any worry. There has never been a hint of scandal from this duke, or his father.”

  “No,” Liz was quick to reassure her. “No one’s said anything. It’s just a worry a woman has when she gets a position in a new house. You’ve eased my mind.” The lie came easily, and Peggy sat back, sighing with relief.

  Liz’s stomach knotted, far from relieved. She didn’t know what to do with this new information. Avoiding the duke would be smart. Focusing on her tasks would be smarter.

  Peggy reached for a broad white bowl filled with a mix of corn, peas, and onion. “I’m going to go see if Mr. Pike needs a second helping of vegetables.”

  Liz popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “I’ll do that. I need to speak with my cousin.” Taking the bowl from Peggy’s hands, she tried to ignore the disappointed look that swept over the cook’s face. The sooner she figured out what the groom was up to, the better. If he was doing more at Hartsworth than merely keeping track of Liz she wanted to know about it. She walked towards the groom and nudged her hips in between him and a stable boy. She held out the bowl. “Would you like some more vegetables, Cousin? Mrs. Johnson is concerned you haven’t eaten enough.”

  His dark eye glinted at her from behind swollen skin before rolling back to his plate. He tore a large bite of roast from his fork and chewed loudly.

  She rested the bowl on one hip. “I was hoping we could speak after dinner,” she plowed on. The silent treatment was not an effective deterrent for her. “I have some news from home I’d like to share.”

  “No. I’m busy.” He worked the hunk of meat into the side of his cheek while he spoke, like a squirrel with a nut. A dirty, ugly squirrel.

  A small hand reached under her arm and searched for the wood spoon, grasping at air. Liz turned her head, and the stable boy snatched his hand back, stared at his plate. She put the bowl of vegetables down in front of him, and the boy bounced on his seat as he grabbed the serving spoon.

  As she turned back to the groom, her smile faded. “Mr. Pike, I must speak to you. Not least of which, I’d like to know how you obtained your black eye.”

  He hefted to his feet, and Liz held her breath as his stench rose with him. He pushed his chest into her and leaned down until his face was inches from her own. “That ain’t no account of yers, missy. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop with yer questions.” He grabbed the hunk of greasy meat with his bare hand and slammed out of the kitchen.

  She took a deep breath. It was difficult to remember at times how her life had changed. She’d been used to being answered when she asked a servant a question. But she was no longer their superior.

  “Fam’ly ought t’be nicer to each other,” the young boy said around an open mouthful of food.

  “Keep your mouth closed when you chew, young man,” she said, her eyes flitting back to the door that had shut behind Mr. Pike. “And yes.” She thought about her father and her sister. “Family should be nicer.”

  Returning to her seat, she avoided the curious gaze of the cook. “He wasn’t hungry. But the stable boy, Bob I think his name is, quite enjoys your cooking.” She sipped at the cup of tea in front of her, now cold.

  “That’s Bobby, sweet boy. Bob is the footman.” Peggy scraped the side of her bowl with a chunk of bread, sopping up the last dregs of soup. “Or he was the footman. Apparently he left the duke’s service last night. And without a word to anyone,” she said, a hint of wonder in her voice. “Mr. Todd wasn’t pleased when he learned about it this morning.”

  Both women looked down the table to the man in question. He dropped his face to his plate.

  “Why did Bob leave?” Liz pushed her own vegetables around on her plate. She hadn’t bothered putting any meat on her dish.

  “No one knows for sure. He didn’t say anything before he left. I guess he got a better placement, hard as that is to believe. Maybe he ran up to Gretna Green with a sweetheart.” Peggy sighed deeply, looking wistful. “So romantic.”

  Liz frowned. “If that’s what happened.” She tipped her head to the side, considering. The same night Mr. Pike got a black eye a footman went missing. She’d learned not to trust in coincidence. Positions at Hartsworth were highly prized, and for a young man to leave without telling anyone . . . Well, Liz didn’t like it. “I don’t suppose Bob has any family around here?”

  Peggy’s eyebrow disappeared under her fringe of red hair. “I couldn’t say. Do you want me to ask around?”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it.”

  Peggy patted her hand. “Well, then, consider it done.” She looked down at Liz’s plate. “Aren’t you going to eat any more? You hardly eat enough for a bird.”

  Liz stretched her lips into a facsimile of a smile. “I eat plenty. I just haven’t been feeling well lately.” Thinking about her sister’s situation did make her sick to her stomach, but she could hardly explain that to Peggy.

  The cook bit her lip, brought her head in close to Liz’s. “You’re not increasing, are you? Is that why you left Lord Westmore’s service?”

  “What?” Liz jerked her head from side to side, praying no one had overheard that question. “Of course not,” she hissed. “Why would you even think that?”

  She laid a hand on her flat stomach. Children had once seemed an obvious part of her future. Now they were likely but a fancy. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “No, Peggy, I’m not with child.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Peggy stood and pulled a large loaf of nut bread off the counter, carrying it to the table. She sliced off a large piece. “Now, how about a nice bit of bread and butter? It might do your stomach well.”

  Liz stood and picked up her plate. “No, thank you.” She looked at the woman next to her. A kind woman with a heart longing for romance. Liz’s future might not have options, but that didn’t mean the cook’s shouldn’t. “Why don’t you give my piece to Mr. Todd? He still looks hungry to me.”

  Liz turned away as Peggy’s eyebrows shot up. It would be nice if someone got a happy ending.

  Chapter Seven

  Darkwing’s sides heaved between Montague’s thighs. Marcus reached the top of a rolling hill, and pulled on the reins. The stallion snorted and danced beneath him.

  Marcus raised a hand to his forehead, blocking the sun. Verdant meadows dotted with oak trees and craggy boulders spread out in every direction. A folly of a crumbling Greek temple, ivy winding around its graceful columns, was but a speck in the distance. Usually the sight of his home filled him with pride and gratitude. Today, his mind was more singularly focused.

  Mr. Todd, when informing him about the status of his newest servant, had mentioned that the woman had gone for a walk on her afternoon off. The fastidious older man prided himself on keeping track of all those under his management.

  With a stack of correspondence to reply to, one of Marcus’s least favorite occupations, and t
he blue sky beckoning outside his window, the duke had been struck with the urge to take Darkwing for a ride. The horse needed frequent exercise, after all, and it was always important to periodically inspect his property. If he happened to catch sight of his maid on the tour he would stop and bid her well. It would only be polite.

  Darkwing snorted again, and Marcus silently concurred. All of those reasons were pure bollocks. He shouldn’t be wasting his time hoping for a glimpse of the blasted woman like a lovesick schoolboy, but here he was. He slapped his heels against the horse’s flanks and directed him into a more sedate trot. If he was going to act the fool at least he could do so in a more dignified manner.

  A mile and a half later, he saw her. Her back was to him as she sat facing a stream that crossed his land. He walked Darkwing closer. Her knees were tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around them, holding a book. A plain straw hat blocked her face from his view. He dismounted by a nearby tree and threw the stallion’s reins over a limb.

  His shadow fell across her form, and she tilted her head up, her eyes growing wide.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Smith. Lovely day.” Lovely day? He sounded like a fool, too.

  “Uh, yes, Your Grace.” She bit her lip. “It’s my free afternoon. I’m not shunning my duties.”

  She also wasn’t popping up to her feet to curtsy her master, he noted. Marcus settled himself on the soft grass beside her, hiding a smile when her eyes grew even larger. “I didn’t come to berate you. Don’t concern yourself on that account.”

  “Why did you come?”

  Damn. Why did he come? He couldn’t tell her he wanted to look upon her face again. Trace her figure with his eyes. His gaze flicked down to where her rump met the soft earth, to the curve of her breasts pressed against her legs.

  He frowned. Had she lost weight since her arrival? He didn’t think Mr. Todd worked the servants that hard.

  A tiny furrow appeared above her nose. “Your Grace?”

  Ah, yes. Why he’d come. “I was merely making a circuit of my estate and saw you sitting here.” He shifted on the ground and stuck one leg out to lie flat. After a moment, he brought it back in and stuck out the other one. How did she look so at ease sitting on the ground when he couldn’t get comfortable?

  “Oh.” She faced the brook, her hands clenching the pages of the open book.

  Clearly she was uncomfortable. And why shouldn’t she be? It was most unusual for a lord, let alone a duke, to speak to a maid. At least not during the daytime hours. Marcus knew many peers who saw their female servants as nighttime playthings. He tugged down at the hem of his jacket with both hands. He hoped she didn’t think he was trying to engage in such behavior. Yes, she was enjoyable to look at, but he would never toy with someone under his power.

  The silence between them thickened, became almost tangible. He waited. Waited for her nerves to force her to speak, for her body to give away her emotions in some mindless fidget.

  She was as still and silent as a statue.

  He tapped his thumb against his thigh, saw what he was doing, and stilled his hand. Christ, he was the one filled with nerves. For the first time, he was the one who couldn’t bear the silence. Tipping the cover of her book up, he read the title. “Les Jardins? Do you enjoy the works of Delille?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. This is the first I’ve read of him.” She tipped her head, the brim of her hat blocking her face. “This is one of your books, Your Grace. You did say your library was open.”

  The corners of his mouth tugged up. So this was one of the books she’d gone to so much trouble to borrow that night. A volume of French poetry.

  He paused. His chambermaid read French poetry. That wasn’t usual, even for a duke’s household. He tipped her hat back, wanting to see her face. The straw concoction slid off her head and landed on her back, pulling tight the pink ribbons that were joined in a bow under her chin. “Sorry,” he muttered, tried to right the bonnet. It didn’t want to sit on her head properly, so he pushed down on the crown more firmly. The straw bent under his fingers, and he cursed.

  “I apologize, Miss Smith. I believe I’ve ruined your bonnet.”

  She unlaced the ribbons and took the dented covering off her head. “That’s all right, Your Grace. It wasn’t worth much.” She pushed at the crown from the inside and managed to remove most of the depression. “There. Good as new.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, good enough to serve its purpose.” She resettled the hat on her head, smiled at him from under the crooked brim. His heart skipped a beat. “It blocks the sun and that’s all I need.”

  A woman who needed so little. He was used to simpering chits and maneuvering widows whose hats generally had more feathers than the birds they plucked them from. But his little maid cared for the functionality of an item instead of its appearance. How refreshing. That didn’t explain why Marcus had the urge to buy Miss Smith a new hat, something elegant and expensive.

  Something a woman in her situation would never have an opportunity to wear. He sighed.

  “How did you come to learn to read French?”

  Miss Smith flinched at his abrupt question. “I suppose how anyone does, Your Grace. A man my father knew spoke French fluently and taught me and my sister. She speaks it much better than I.” The brim tipped down, brushing her knees.

  “Where is your sister now? Does she have a similar situation?” He’d only meant it as a friendly inquiry, something to keep the conversation flowing. He didn’t expect the woman to bolt upright and slam the book shut. He rose to his feet and stared down at her flushed face, curious.

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “Something similar.” She brushed a hand down her skirts, shaking them out. “Now, I must return, Your Grace. Thank you for the loan of the book.”

  She turned and started walking up the hill, away from him.

  Without waiting to be dismissed.

  He caught up and took her elbow. “Wait a moment, Miss Smith. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Nor did you. It’s merely time for me to leave.” She tugged her arm, but he didn’t release it from his clasp.

  “Very well. It’s several miles back to Hartsworth. I’ll give you a ride.” Turning, he began walking her towards his horse.

  “That’s not necessary, Your Grace.” She stumbled, and he tightened his grip, keeping her upright. “I enjoy the walk.”

  “And now you may enjoy the ride. Besides,” he said, looking up to examine the cooperative skies, “a storm is coming in and we can’t let you get caught in it.”

  “Really, Your Grace, a little rain . . .”

  Raising an eyebrow, he arrowed the same look at her that he gave to dissidents in Parliament. She pressed her full lips together.

  “Did you argue this much with Lord Westmore, Miss Smith? I do think you forget your place.” A stain of pink flushed her cheeks and crept down her neck. He wondered how low her blush went, and his cock stirred behind his trousers.

  Instead of thinking on what he shouldn’t, Marcus focused on settling his maid onto Darkwing. Placing his hands under her ribs, he ignored the slight tremor beneath her gown and stays. As quickly as he could, he lifted and placed her at the front of his saddle, one of her legs cocked in front of it, the other hanging down in front of the stirrup. He leaped up behind her.

  His saddle was not meant for two. He started Darkwing at a sedate pace, but with each step the horse took, she rocked into him. The air sizzled in the scant inches of space between their bodies. Space he would love nothing more than to cross.

  “So.” He cleared his throat. He needed a topic of conversation that would take his mind off the fact that his cock lay an inch from her arse. “How are you faring at Hartsworth? Are your needs being met?”

  In her position riding sidesaddle, she could easily turn to look back at him. “My needs? What an odd question.”

  Indeed. She was there to serve his needs. But Marcus did feel that keeping his s
ervants content was optimal on all accounts. They worked harder, enjoyed their situation more, and a relationship of mutual respect between the duke and his domestics led to fostered trust. It was shocking how easy it was for him to bribe the domestic help of fellow aristocrats when the servants held no esteem for their master.

  He prodded Darkwing’s sides and the stallion quickened his pace. “It’s my duty as the Duke of Montague to ensure the well-being of those under my command. That duty doesn’t only extend to my tenants and the villagers, but to everyone.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” At the faster movement of the horse, she struggled to maintain her seat high on the saddle. Gripping Darkwing’s mane, she hefted herself forward. “My situation is most acceptable.”

  He snorted. Acceptable was a two-year-old whiskey on a night when he needed to forget. This woman should have more than merely acceptable. She deserved a fine cognac. It was a pity she’d been born into such a lowly station. With her bearing, education, and appearance, she could rival the wives of any in his class.

  “Do let me know if you have any suggestions to improve the situation of you and those around you. I take my duty very seriously.”

  Her wide brown eyes filled his vision, and dropped away as quickly. “As do I, Your Grace.” She faced forward. “Duty is very important.”

  He wondered what duties a chambermaid could have, besides the domestic ones. Her shoulders drooped as if the weight of the world were hers alone to bear.

  Darkwing spotted a hare on the next hill, and Marcus let him have his head. The sudden speed sent Miss Smith sliding down the leather of the saddle and onto his lap.

  “I apologize, Your Grace!” Placing one hand on his thigh, she pushed herself up only to bounce back down. “I can’t seem to regain my seat.”

  “Please desist,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re only making matters worse.”

  “Worse than what?” she asked, and began to tip off the horse.

  Grasping the reins in one hand, Marcus circled his other around her waist, securing her to him. Her bottom was now solidly between his thighs and, with every gallop, rubbing against his most sensitive bits. He waited, expecting an exclamation of shock or outrage at what she must feel hardening beneath her seat.