by Alyson Chase
Mastered under the mistletoe
______________
A Lords of Discipline Holiday Novella
ALYSON CHASE
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A Note from Alyson
This book is a work of fiction. I don’t think I’ve made references to any actual historical figures in this novella like I have in past books, but if I have, please be advised that besides their names and the general dates in which they lived, I have made up everything about these characters. Nothing I write about them is meant to be taken as historical fact. They just made good plot bunnies.
And now to the legalese: All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing or any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. It will also result in the author not being able to afford the important things in life, like snacks and rent. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
© 2018 Alyson Chase
Marcus & Liz’s story (again) – Mastered Under the Mistletoe
Chapter One
December 21st, 1815
Elizabeth Hawkridge, Duchess of Montague, leaned over the simmering pot and inhaled the steam wafting over her face. The scents of apples, cinnamon, and cloves made her mouth water. A large bubble swelled on the surface before popping.
“Careful now, Your Grace.” Mrs. Peggy Todd, the head cook at Hartsworth House, drew Liz away from the boiling pot of spiced ale. “You’ll either topple into the wassail or catch your skirts on fire. Either way, His Grace won’t be happy.”
Liz wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders and squeezed. Her first Christmas at Hartsworth. How could she not be excited? Last year’s holiday had been spent at Marcus’s London townhouse, a very nice home to be sure. But Hartsworth was where her heart lay. She wanted this year’s celebration to be perfect.
She smoothed her palm over her swelling belly. Their first Christmas as a true family, even if one member of the family was still in hiding.
“Do you think it will be enough?” Liz stood on her toes to peer into the pot. “I know I’m putting additional burdens on the servants due to my desire for Hartsworth to be made beautiful for Christmas. The least I can do is ensure they are well fed and quaffed for their efforts.”
It was yet three days until Christmas Eve, but Liz could wait no longer to decorate the manor. Not only was Hartsworth receiving a thorough cleaning from top to bottom, but Liz had directed that each and every room be ornamented for the holidays in some way. Maids had been put to work shaping balls from the mistletoe the tenant children gathered and sold. Footmen hurried about hanging boughs of greenery tied with red ribbon over doorways and along nooks and shelves in every parlor, picture gallery, and library.
There were a lot of rooms in Hartsworth House. Liz should know. At one time she had cleaned each and every one of them.
A knock sounded at the kitchen door.
Peggy wiped her hands on the towel tucked into the front of her apron and hurried to push open the heavy wooden door. Two footmen stood on the other side, the trunk of a large yew tree wedged between their shoulders. Two more faces peered out over the other end of the tree.
Liz clapped her hands together and only just repressed her squeal of delight. Duchesses did not squeal.
At least, not in public.
The men surged forward, squeezing their bodies through the doorway. The branches of the yew bent, and fought back.
Peggy snapped her towel at the men. “Not through here!” A lock of her curly auburn hair, burnished with fine strands of silver, drifted down to her face. She impatiently brushed it back. “I won’t have that thing coming through my kitchen. Take it through the front.”
“Not the front.” Mr. Todd, the steward of Hartsworth and Peggy’s husband, hurried down the steps into the kitchen and scowled at the needles dropping on the doorstop. He tugged at the knot in his cravat. “Sally mopped the marble tiles in the entry this morn.”
“Do you want me or my girls to mop the kitchens twice in one day?” Peggy tapped her foot on the stone floor, giving her husband a look Liz had come to recognize.
And, as per usual, a tender look softened the steward’s face at his wife’s imperious tone. “Of course not,” he said. “I’ll think of another route for the lads to take the tree to the Green Drawing Room.”
One of the footmen rolled his eyes. “All right, boys. Let’s back it up.”
Liz chewed on the inside of her cheek. She wouldn’t laugh at poor Mr. Todd. But really, the steward transformed from a strict taskmaster to a biddable peagoose at the smallest quirk of his wife’s finger.
“Liz!” a deep voice thundered. Footsteps echoed down the stairs, growing louder until Marcus, eighth Duke of Montague stood next to Mr. Todd. A muscle twitched in his jaw and his chest heaved.
She, however, did not have the same effect upon her husband as Peggy did on hers.
“Yes, dear?”
He stretched out his hand. “A word, please.”
Liz hurried forward, lifting her skirts when she reached the stairs.
Cupping her elbow, Marcus guided her up to the main floor. He turned left down the hallway. “Did I, or did I not, state that my library was not to be touched in your mad dash to decorate for the holidays?”
Ah. That explained the jaw tic. “You did, but you were quite distracted when you said it. I didn’t think you truly meant it.”
“Have you previously found me not to mean what I say?” He pushed open the door to his library and tugged her through.
“Of course not, but …” Gripping his hand with both of hers, she pulled him to the center of the room. She swept her arm out in a circle. “Look how splendid it looks. Sally, Molly, and I worked very hard decorating your library. It’s the room you spend most of your time in. I wanted it to be lovely.”
“The room I spend the second most amount of time in.” He reeled her toward him, a smile softening the stern lines of his chiseled face. He placed his hand over her rounded abdomen, then bent down and pressed a kiss to the bump. “I believe most of my time is now spent in the bedroom.”
A tingle danced up her spine. Yes, and she was fortunate for it. She combed her fingers through his thick, dark blond hair. Her husband had taught her much of the pleasures that could be found between two people who loved one another.
He straightened, and the light slanting through the window struck him full on.
Liz’s breath caught. He was beautiful. Her familiarity with every line and curve of his face sometimes made her forget. His eyes, usually a grey so dark they reminded her of a raging sea, turned as soft as her favorite cashmere shawl when he looked upon her. His cheekbones were high, his lips full and soft. And his form …
She brushed a bit of lint off his black jacket, letting her fingers linger on his chest. The muscles beneath the wool were firm, unyielding. His waistcoat nipped around a flat stomach. The fawn trousers he wore cupped narrow hips, stretched across firm thighs, and disappeared into the shafts of his black Hessian boots.
She sighed. She adored those boots.
Yes, she was a fortunate woman, indeed.
Marcus drew his eyebrows together. “Wait. Did you say you helped the maids decorate?” He stepped forward, and Liz took a corresponding step back.
Oh, dear. Marcus and his silly rules. �
��Help might be too strong a word. Supervised is more accurate.”
“Hmm. That’s good. Because if I discover that you have lifted one single, solitary box, stood on one ladder to hang these absurd balls of mistletoe or pervasive boughs of Scots pine that have sprouted from every nook and cranny, there will be consequences.”
Her nipples tingled at just the thought of those consequences.
He stalked forwards, matching her retreat, until the backs of her thighs met the hard wood of his desk. Marcus pressed his palms flat on the desk beside her hips and leaned in, his strength surrounding her. He lowered his head, turning his face aside to avoid her questing lips before burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Slowly, so damn slowly, he dragged the tip of his nose up her throat.
She dropped her head back and blinked at the ceiling. “You know I adore the concern you have for me and our child, but truly, Marcus, you take it too far at times.”
His lips brushed her ear lobe. “Is that so?”
Her thoughts faded, went grey about the edges before she snapped them back into focus. Marcus was an expert at making her forget herself, but this was important. She had four more months until their child arrived, and she wouldn’t let him hector her into obedience.
The edges of her lips curled. That was better left for the bedroom.
She placed her hand on his chest and prodded him back. “Yes, that is so. I promised I will not exert myself, but you snapped at me over carrying a book yesterday. A book.”
He lifted a strand of her hair and rolled it between his fingers. “Books can be heavy.”
“It was a volume of poetry by Blunt! Not fifty pages long.”
Marcus took her hand from his chest and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles. “All right. I understand your point. I know I have been a bit …”
“Overbearing? Tyrannical? Imperious?”
One golden eyebrow winged up, making him look as imperious as only a duke could. “Protective,” he amended. “But this is my first child. I believe some precautions should be taken.”
“And they are.” She brought their linked hands down and flattened them over her rounded abdomen. “But we’re not made of porcelain. And there are still duties I must attend to, especially with the holiday approaching. Amanda will be here soon. This will be my sister’s first Christmas since … well, since she’s become like the Amanda of our childhood. Last year she might have been freed from prison, but she wasn’t yet free in her mind. She was hardly more than a ghost. I want this year to be perfect.”
Marcus pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “Then it will be so. Although I think Julius would like some credit for making his wife happy this Christmas, as well.”
Liz smiled. Yes, Amanda’s new husband had done much to bring a smile back to her sister’s face. He’d truly rescued her twice – once from the hangman’s noose and once from the prison of Amanda’s own making.
Liz turned and leaned back against Marcus’s chest. There had been many dark days in her past. But Liz’s circumstances had changed dramatically, and she wanted this holiday to be a celebration of her new life. Of their new life.
He wrapped his arms around her, dipping his chin to rest on her shoulder.
Liz sighed in contentment. The rays from the fading afternoon sun joined with the light from the fireplace to cast a golden glow about the library. Although the room’s purpose was difficult to discern at the moment. Fluffy boughs cut from conifer trees were tucked along every shelf of the floor-to-ceiling book cases, hiding the spines of the tomes. An immense wreath, studded with fresh holly and small white rosebuds, hung over the window, blocking the view of the gardens. And an immense ball of mistletoe dangled above Marcus’s desk, its length of ribbon stretching all the way to the high ceiling.
Perhaps she had taken Hartsworth’s ornamentation too far.
“Do you truly think the mistletoe is absurd?” she asked.
“No.” He squeezed her arms. “But I do think no work will get done until after Christmas. All the unmarried maids will dally under the balls with the footmen, forgetting to attend to their duties.” Reaching up, he knocked the mistletoe, setting the ball to swinging.
She slapped his arm. “Oh, Marcus.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It looks wonderful.”
“Then why were you upset about the decorations in here?”
Inhaling sharply, Marcus released her and stepped to his desk. He cocked a hip up on the edge. “Turning my library as green as a forest wasn’t the issue. I asked you not to decorate because I’d received a package from Summerset which I put in my desk here for safekeeping. Now, it is missing.”
“A package from Summerset?” She worried the hem of her shawl between her fingers. “It concerned your work for the Crown?”
Marcus nodded.
Liz’s stomach spiraled to the ground. Her husband and several of his friends were part of a select group in the House of Lords. Select, because the prime minister insisted on calling upon them to perform certain tasks in service to their country.
In short, they were spies. And men who took their responsibilities with utmost seriousness.
“What did the package look like?” she asked.
“It was a wood box, approximately two-by-five inches long. Inside was a porcelain figure of a turtle-dove, wrapped in a velvet cloth.”
Liz pressed her palm to her heart. That hadn’t been one of the boxes she’d moved to the drawing room. While the maids and footmen had been hanging the wreath and mistletoe in the library, Liz had asked for all of her boxes of ribbon to be brought down from her apartment so she could make bows. When the room had been decorated to her liking, Liz distinctly remembered stacking up all of her flat boxes full of bows and handing them to the footman to take to the Green Drawing Room to adorn the tree. No wooden box in the bunch.
“Why would a turtle-dove be important?” she asked.
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. He slid off the desk and paced across the room. “The bird was made to top a special music box. It acts as a key of sorts.”
Liz straightened, her shoulders popping back. “A music box? I’ve never seen one. Can they really play entire songs, all on their own?”
“So it is said. This particular music box can only be opened by locking the figure into place. Dunkeld is in negotiations to obtain the box. Once he gets it, he will send it on to me. We were told that a letter is hidden within, one containing information vital to England’s national security.”
“And you need the top to open the box.”
Marcus nodded. “The Swiss watchmaker who was hired to build it devised a trap. If one attempts to force the box open, a small vial of acid will destroy the document within. The key is needed to safely retrieve the letter.”
Liz pursed her lips. That was a sly trick. But she had learned that level of cunning was part and parcel of the spy world. A box was never just a plain box. Nothing was ever as it seemed. She tapped her thumb against her lips. So, if it hadn’t been her own carelessness that had brought on the disappearance, there was only one other reasonable conclusion to be drawn.
“You think another spy stole it?”
Marcus drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Or paid someone in my service to take it.” He dipped his chin and gave her a small smile. “We do know maids can’t always be trusted.”
Liz pressed her lips together. “I think I proved myself in the end.” Good Lord, Marcus did enjoy reminding her of her own foray into espionage when she’d pretended to be his maid.
Marcus settled his hands on his hips. “Are you certain you didn’t move the box? Send it up into a storage room with the rest of the unused ornaments?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m certain.” Besides, there were no unused decorations. She’d found a spot for everything. “I’ll speak to Mr. Todd, but I don’t think we have any new servants. And anyone who’s been at this house for more than six months is loyal.” They were like a family at Hartswort
h. Perhaps it was because Liz had been one of the servant class for a time. She understood the pressures their domestics faced, their worries, their hopes for the future. She cared about each and every one under their roof, and knew they respected and held Liz and Marcus in regard, as well.
Yes, perhaps she could no longer speak as freely with them as when she wore the maid’s uniform. And there were times when their easy laughter would abruptly end when she walked into the kitchens. But she still prided herself that she had a closer relationship with their servants than any other duchess in history.
The generous wages Marcus paid and the prestige of working for a duke didn’t hurt in earning loyalty, either.
“I will speak to Todd.” Marcus retreated behind his desk and dropped into his chair. “But please, don’t invite any more decorating parties into this room. I want as few people in here as possible. When the music box arrives, I can’t have that going missing, as well.”
Liz circled behind him and placed her palms on his shoulders. She kneaded soothing circles with her thumbs. His muscles slowly unbunched under her ministrations. “Why didn’t you tell me about the box and key?” she asked quietly. “If I had but known the true reason you wished this room to remain empty …”
Marcus gripped her wrist, stilling her hand. “There is much in my business that I cannot tell you. It is for your own safety.”
A strange tightness spread through her chest. Since their marriage, Marcus had taken on fewer and fewer jobs for the Crown, but to Liz’s mind, there were still too many. Yes, protecting the security of England was important. And there were some tasks that only Marcus or his friends could perform because of their unique position as members of the House of Lords.
But that didn’t mean Liz had to like it.
She didn’t try to keep the vinegar from her voice. “And look how well that worked out for you. If you’d kept me informed in this matter, I would have made sure no one entered this room until the next year.”
