by Eva Devon
It wasn’t the horse who was the Devil. It was the duke. And the Devil did not appear amused.
He stood in the shadows, the darkness caressing him like a familiar friend. “Do tell, what is sweet about my stallion. . . Boy.”
Chapter 2
Nicholas Edward Andrew Forth, The Duke of Roth, studied the stable boy and felt a wicked twinge. How long should he let the stable hand squirm?
Several moments, at least.
The long silence, punctuated only by Devil’s pawing at the floor, amused him. And there was something else. He felt curiosity. An emotion which had long been absent from his life. The boy stood, bluebell eyes wide like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter.
Nicholas had been unsure moments ago about his strange suspicion. But something hadn’t been right about this young servant.
Geoffrey, the head of his stables, had always been a paragon of trustworthiness and so when Nicholas had felt a tug of suspicion when he’d locked eyes on the boy, he’d been tempted to ignore his instincts. But he’d learned long ago to never ignore those pangs. The few times he had had always ended in disasters worthy of surgeons or paying off bailiffs.
But could he be absolutely certain? Even now, many men would have immediately assumed that the desire pumping through their body was an indicator that the stable boy was not what he pretended to be, that he was, in fact, a girl. But Nicholas was no fool. He needed more evidence than desire.
And once he’d looked a little closer at the breeches sporting, loose coat wearing boy, he’d been fairly sure. But now, with Devil virtually falling all over himself to rub his head along the servant’s shoulder, Nicholas could hardly deny the signs.
Devil hated other males but had a soft spot for whatever ladies Nicholas had brought around his massive stallion.
The servant was a girl.
No. Not a girl. A young woman.
And what the hell was a young woman doing in his stable, caring for his horses, working for him?
That was a question he would damn well have answered.
First, he had to make absolutely certain he was correct. And oh, how entertaining that might prove to be. He smiled slowly. Feeling the first hint of anticipation that he’d felt in quite a while. After all, if she was as he thought, she was that one thing that so few people were. . . A surprise.
“You haven’t answered,” he drawled.
“P-pardon?”
“What is so sweet about Devil?”
She shuffled her feet. “Well. . . you see. . .”
Her voice wavered between a strange, roughened tone and a timbre so rich and sweet he wanted to groan. Clearly, she was unsettled by his attention.
It would have been kind to put the boy out of his misery and simply demand to know the truth, but he’d never been inclined to be kind.
“Yes?” he barked, deliberately adding an edge to his deep voice. “Speak up.”
To Nicholas’ astonishment, the boy lifted his chin and gave an impudent glare. “My name is not boy.”
Nicholas cocked his head and, unable to resist, drawled, “Is it not, boy?”
Those bluebell-colored eyes narrowed. Indignation brightened them and stained those pale cheeks red. A huff, worthy of a lofty young lady passed pursed, pink lips. “No, Your Grace, and since you said you wanted no forelock tuggers, it seems most odd that you insist on denigrating me so.”
“Denigrate?” Nicholas took a step forward, out of the shadows and into the weak, late February sunlight that spilled in through the high windows. “My, my, what a vocabulary you do possess.”
The boy flinched, the blush-touched cheeks deepening to a delicious apple red. That confident air deflated as the young stable hand looked askance, searching for a quick reply. “My-My father was a school master.”
A lie.
“Well, then,” Nicholas took another step, closing the distance between them, towering over the young thing, glowering because he could. “If I am not to denigrate you, what shall I call you?”
Tilting his head back, the stable boy said, “Alfie.”
Nicholas snorted. “Good God, that’s no name for a man.”
“I’m not a man.”
Nicholas lifted his brows. “Indeed?”
Alfie, shifted on his feet. “I’m a boy.”
“Even so, it’s a damned unfit name. I shall call you Alfred.”
“But Your Grace—”
“Now Alfred, you were going to tell me what’s so sweet about Devil.”
Alfred craned his neck. “Need you stand so close, Your Grace?”
“Do I make you feel uncomfortable?”
Alfred glared. “You’re rather tall.”
Nicholas nodded, growing more pleased with this by the moment. There was no way Alfred was a servant. The arrogance and indignation ruffling his feathers was too obvious. What a terrible liar Alfred was.
“Perhaps one day you shall achieve my height,” Nicholas offered.
“Few could achieve such a thing.”
He arched a brow. “Is that a compliment, Alfred?”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose, Your Grace.”
“You’re prevaricating.”
Alfred frowned, giving his face a generally disapproving look. “Do I have leave to step away, Your Grace?”
“As long as you don’t try to run off.”
Alfred drew up, perhaps managing to stand at five feet two and half inches. “Certainly not. I am no coward.”
“Ah. Brave young fellow. Have you slayed any dragons as of late or recused a maiden fair?”
“No. But I seem to have luck getting the best of Devils.”
“Why Alfred, are you making fun?”
Alfred stumbled back, stuttering, “Of course not, Your Grace. I beg your pardon.”
Nicholas had to fight a bemused smile. He hadn’t known such entertainment in ages. And with each word Alfred spoke, he became more and more certain that Alfred was a girl. There was something about her air, the way she carried herself that wasn’t quite masculine. But how the Devil could he be sure, short of groping the stable boy?
Even he was above such things.
Alfred turned to the gated door and unbolted it.
Nicholas was seized with sudden ill ease. Devil could be quite a handful. And whilst the stallion could be managed, if one was out of sorts, the stallion responded in kind.
The last thing he wanted was an inexperienced young woman trampled to death in his stables. “Alfred, wait. I’ll—”
But she’d darted in the stable and was cooing, cooing, at the stallion.
And Devil, the traitor, was positively eating it up.
Nicholas gaped at the sight of Alfred’s slight, pale hands stroking Devil’s neck, her fingers weaving into the long, thick mane.
“Aren’t you a beautiful boy?” Alfred soothed. “What a fine lad you are.”
Nicholas folded his arms over his chest, attempting to hide his shock and dare he say envy?
Devil and he got along splendidly, pounding over the moors, but the stallion had never responded with such unabashed devotion as if he would canter off the nearest cliff if Alfred but asked.
Devil blew out another breath then rubbed his face against the top of Alfred’s head.
Alfred laughed, a delightful, girlish sound. “You see, Your Grace? A sweet boy.”
“Indeed, I do see. But Devil does not usually care for men.”
“I’m not a man. I’m a—”
“Boy. So you’ve said. Even so. . .” Nicholas took a step into the stable and suddenly Devil turned towards him, let out a sharp whinny of displeasure, and stepped closer to Alfred.
Nicholas halted.
The damned stallion was possessive of the young woman. It was the only explanation. His bloody horse was in love with the little liar.
The indignity of it was almost too much. Luckily, the novelty of the unfolding events somehow made up for his stallion’s fickleness. And he wanted that novelty to continue. �
�Alfred, are horses your only talent?”
“Your Grace?”
“Have you any skills besides taking care of horseflesh?”
She stared at Devil. A beautiful smile warmed her face. “I adore horses, Your Grace. They are the only things that make me happy.”
“What? Even above people?”
“There is no even about it. Horses are far superior to people.”
“Superior to dukes?” he challenged softly.
“Your Grace, I didn’t mean. . .” Then Alfred hesitated. “I don’t know any dukes well enough to say.”
“Good answer, Alfred.”
“Thank you.”
“How would you like to know one better?”
Alfred’s eyes rounded into two panicked sapphires. “I beg your pardon?”
“I like you Alfred, and I don’t like many people. It occurs to me it might be pleasant to have a manservant—”
“I’m not a man—”
“You grow tiresome in this constant refrain. Boyservant then. It might be pleasant to have a boyservant that amuses me and that I like. It would be. . . Unique.”
“Your Grace, I hardly think. . .”
“Who is the master here?” he asked, delighting in the use of an authoritarian tone that wasn’t how he usually spoke to servants at all.
“You.”
“Yes. Me.”
He eyed Alfred up and down. “Do I make a good master, Alfred?”
“So far, yes, Your Grace.”
“Shouldn’t you like to see what advantages there might be to working more closely with me?”
“Whatever you wish, Your Grace.”
Nicholas nodded. “You’re learning, Alfred. You’re learning. Come up to the house this evening. After the breeding is done. And then we shall see if you suit me. After all, if you can tame Devil, surely you can handle a duke.”
And with that, he turned and strode out of the stable, leaving Alfred gaping. It was a marvelous feeling. And for the first time in years, Nicholas looked forward to the surprises the future might bring.
Chapter 3
Alfred, indeed! Allegra stomped up the hill, delighting in each pound of her booted foot against the perfectly trimmed grass. Master? She huffed a breath. Ha! She ought to give him a piece of Lady Allegra’s mind and then perhaps he’d sing a different tune, but stable boys did not go off on tangents to their superiors, let alone a duke of the realm. Even as the daughter of an earl, she might have to pause. But he was bloody insufferable.
Yes. Insufferable. Arrogant! She scowled and focused on the massive castle nestled next to the winding river built just up the steep incline. She supposed the castle had been built in a time when strategic placement in the landscape was necessary and the victor was the man who held the high ground. But frankly, each upward step only raised her ire.
Still, she had to admit the sprawling, towering castle suited its brooding, self-important master. It wasn’t such a stretch to imagine him, hair long and wild about his face, broadsword in hand, riding a powerful charger into battle. It was clear that the Duke of Roth, unlike so many other peers, had not lost the warrior traits that the first duke had to possess to achieve his title and lands.
Warriors were entirely unappealing. Truly. They took. They demanded. They barked. Their bodies emanated command. Yes. Entirely disagreeable.
Hadn’t he invoked his right as her superior and changed her position with a few words? He was ruining her plans and all because he was a fat-headed duke!
“Boy servant?” she grumbled.
She belonged in the stables with Gregory and her equine charges. The entire reason she’d chosen a ducal estate was that servants were so below the notice of dukes that she’d need to have little concern about discovery or notice. But His Grace had just had to look at her at the moment she’d moved! He’d just had to follow her into the stables. And he’d just had to insist he liked her.
She could give a tinker’s teapot for his likes and dislikes.
Yes. He was a most disagreeable sort and there was nothing pleasant about his imperious person. Nothing. Not even the way his voice rumbled, caressing her skin with its deep, rich waves. Or the way his scent, combining lemon, leather, and sandalwood, had wafted towards her when he’d towered over her.
That was unpleasant, too. The way she’d had to twist her neck to look him in the eye? A gentleman would never have done such a thing. A gentleman would have kept his distance and not noticed his servant except for an occasional, vacant inquiry into said servant’s health.
Allegra stormed up to the servants’ entrance, swung the door open and marched in. She kept to herself, generally speaking, but no one could quite avoid Mrs. Thackery. The cook insisted on knowing everyone, giving them a cup of tea, and seeing how they responded to her special scones and raspberry jam. Any disparagement of the offering and one was banished from the kitchen and all promise of delicious nourishment for the foreseeable future.
However, if one passed muster, one could look forward to a cup of tea and a nice sweet whenever one showed up in the kitchen.
It had been quite the trick, playing the naughty young fellow, sneaking a second scone. But whatever she’d done, Mrs. Thackery had approved. And at this moment, Allegra wanted the only thing that might cure her foul temper: one of Mrs. Thackery’s sweets.
She headed into the kitchen filled with two long tables and several kitchen servants bustling about, preparing both the upstairs and downstairs dinner.
Allegra searched for Mrs. Thackery, but didn’t see her. She stopped one of the scullery maids who was bent over an intimidating pot, scrubbing as if her life depended upon it. “Where is Mrs. Thackery?”
The girl didn’t even look up from her task. “In her office,” she said, her voice echoing off the insides of the large, copper pot.
“Thanks.” Allegra headed for the hallway and the head cook’s domain.
It was a bad habit, the cramming of sweets down her throat when wishing to perform murder. But there it was. Ladies had little access to things which might alleviate the temper. And well, nothing quite did the trick like pastry. Even with her ability to go for a quick ride, she preferred the idea of sugar and butter at present. Unfortunate for her middle, but true. Besides, she had gotten a good deal of fresh air and exercise already. Indulging in a sweet to prevent the murder of a peer of the realm was certainly applaudable.
As she neared the closed walnut door, she heard the sound of hushed voices. One significantly deeper than the other. In fact, that deep voice sent another shiver down her spine.
Him.
Allegra scowled. What power did this man have that he could cause such physical reactions in her being?
It was the duke behind that door with Mrs. Thackery. It had to be because her breath was coming at a suddenly rapid and shallow pace. No one had ever evoked such ridiculous behavior in her. In fact, she’d always been far removed from such earthly things. Escape to the fields on her father’s estate had been her preference, not the presence of the domineering and impossible male sex.
She paused, desperate to ignore the growing knot of tension in the pit of her stomach. It was such a puzzling sensation, pleasurable and yet foreign. She’d felt something similar many years ago when she was fourteen years old and she’d studied the estate’s blacksmith, awed by the power of his arms, and his long, black hair tied back with a simple strap.
Gasping, it occurred to her that the duke had a similar, raw power to his physique. Only far more intense. Those girlish feelings now seemed to be verging on a full inferno. She started to turn. A meeting with the duke was the last thing she desired at this moment. She had yet to cease being irritated by their last encounter and yes, that feeling dancing about her insides was alarming.
The door swung open and Mrs. Thackery jolted to a halt. Her soft, blue eyes widened. “Why, Alfie! You gave me a fright.”
Allegra cringed and stopped in her attempted flight. She drew in a calming breath, determined to speak
like a boy before the duke. She couldn’t afford any more slip ups.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Thackery, but I came to say hello,” she said, pitching her voice low.
“Oh.” Mrs. Thackery glanced back over her shoulder at the duke towering like an ancient oak behind her. “Well, now, my lad, that’s nice, but it seems you’ve new duties to attend to.”
Allegra bit back a frown. New duties? He’d told Mrs. Thackery so soon? That seemed odd. Certainly the butler or the housekeeper, but Mrs. Thackery?
Allegra forced herself to hang her head appropriately in lament at the loss of sweets. “Perhaps we can have a chat later, Mrs. T?”
“Mrs. Thackery, you young pup,” the duke boomed. “Show respect to a lady of her talents and take your hat off. You’re indoors for bloody sake.”
His wicked, whip crack voice sent another dose of shivers down her spine and something else. . . Admiration. She whipped her cap off. “Beg your pardon, Your Grace.” She bobbed to Mrs. Thackery. “Beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Thackery swatted at the duke’s arm. “Mind your language, young man.”
And at that playful touch, the duke’s hard face softened. “What kind of rascal would I be without you, Mrs. Thackery?”
“A worse one than you already are!” she countered, rubbing her hands over her crisp white apron. “Now, I’ve got the capons to dress. You go on now and I’ll have the footman bring you up a tray.”
“And a sweet for the boy,” the duke said, his voice rumbling as if with laughter. “That’s what all the boys want when they come say hello to you in any case.”
Allegra began to protest, but Mrs. Thackery tsked.
“Growing boys need nourishment.” The older woman eyed Allegra up and down, this time with a sharper degree of interest than she’d ever shown before. “Especially this one. A bean pole. That’s what you are.”
Allegra gave a tight smile, any temptation to tease Mrs. Thackery as she usually would have done, vanishing under the duke’s continuous stare.
Mrs. Thackery stepped out of her doorway and into the hall, followed closely by the duke, but he didn’t follow her into the kitchen. He stopped, his great coat swinging about his long legs. He lifted his hand and beckoned. “Come with me.”
