Disciplined by the Duke

by Alyson Chase

  Her expression didn’t change as she awaited a response to her question. An innocent then, unaware of the reaction men had to her presence. Darkwing leaped across a shallow trough, and Marcus pulled her tighter, the side of one soft breast flattened against his chest. Her pupils widened; her bosom heaved. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one responding to their proximity. The idea that she wasn’t immune to him sent a spiral of satisfaction coiling in his gut.

  But that was dangerous. His policy of not bedding his help was well formed, but if she was as attracted to him as he was to her it might be difficult to maintain.

  She turned forward, giving up on his answer. A lock of dark hair escaped her tight chignon and trailed down her back. His eyes were drawn to the square of exposed skin at her nape. The loose mahogany strand crossed the patch of skin, stark against her fairness. Such a small bit of flesh presented up to him.

  He tightened his hand at her waist, digging into her stays. It was either that or give in to the irresponsible urge to press his lips to that teasing bit of skin.

  Marcus turned Darkwing towards home. The sooner this woman was off his lap, the better. They galloped over the hillsides, the black stallion eating up the miles. By the time they arrived at the stable, Marcus was so hard he could pound nails with his cock. He handed her down to Mr. Pike and was thankful his greatcoat was long enough to conceal his state when he dismounted.

  She played with her hair, tucking loose strands back into their place. “Thank you, Your Grace. I, uh, will return this shortly.” She held up the volume, and he nodded. Taking it as a dismissal, she scurried from the yard, shooting a frown at the groom along the way.

  He handed the reins off and directed that Darkwing be given an extra cup of oats. For putting up with his foolishness, the horse deserved it. He strolled back to his study, deep in thought. A maid who read French, didn’t genuflect before him, and appeared to be a complete innocent. All most unusual in the serving class. She was as rare as the flowering Caleana major in his conservatory.

  But those orchises were deadly. Their beauty hid the poison that lay deep within. His London-based man of affairs was knee deep in background checks for this business with Lord Liverpool. No matter, he would add one more to the list. As much as he wanted to believe that Miss Smith was a charming peculiarity of her class, Marcus had learned never to take anyone at face value.

  In a se’nnight or two, he would know everything there was to know about Miss Elizabeth Smith.

  * * *

  Liz’s breath caught in her throat. The duke had that effect on her each time she saw him. It was growing tiresome; truly it was. Still, she didn’t pull her eye from its position pressed against the small crack between the bookcase and the wall.

  She hadn’t seen Montague in over a day, the distance giving her the focus to continue with her duties. Her true duties of spying and theft. Well, if she ever found the blasted missive it would be theft. It was her luncheon break, and instead of sitting at the table and pushing her food around, she had taken the opportunity to search.

  The warren of servants’ passages had become most useful in her endeavor. She tiptoed in and out of rooms with no one the wiser. Yesterday, she’d traced the route of each passage, making a mental map of her escape routes. Not only were the channels a boon to her search, but she’d also found that several of the passages contained spy holes into Hartsworth’s rooms. Mainly bedrooms, although the steward’s office wasn’t spared. Whichever duke had built the servants’ hallways hadn’t trusted his right-hand man.

  Today’s excursion had begun in the duke’s study. At her return, she’d found him occupying the seat behind his desk, blocking her exit. She could find a different way out of the passage to get back to work, and she would. She only wanted to look on him for a while more.

  His golden hair was mussed, the short locks twisting in every direction, looking as though he’d run his brown fingers through them repeatedly. Liz was accustomed to the pale effeminacy that marked the upper classes. The virile Duke of Montague didn’t fit into her preconceived notions. He intrigued her.

  She could little afford such a distraction. When he pinned her with that dark stare of his, her deceptions were difficult to maintain. She feared he could see through her, a prospect both alluring and dangerous.

  She placed a palm to her chest, tried to slow her rapid pulse. Just looking at the man made her warm. And when he touched her? She thought back to their horseback ride, and stifled a sigh. It had been torturous. Exciting. Disconcerting. She’d been attracted to suitors before. She’d even let one go so far as to brush his lips against hers. The experience had been nice.

  She stared at the duke’s lips, firm, with a fuller bottom lip than was fashionable. She had a feeling that if he ever pressed his mouth to hers the experience would go far beyond nice.

  Those captivating lips flattened into a hard line, and the tips of her breasts tingled at the sight. Focus. If he was angry about something he read it might be important. Pressing her eye closer to the splinter of light, she peered at the paper he held. It bore a red wax mark at its bottom edge.

  Her shoulders drooped. Red was the color de rigueur for seals, it seemed. That was all she had come across in her searches, red seals, with one envelope bearing a seal the color of the sky the sole exception. She couldn’t help but read that letter, curious who the feminine scrawl belonged to. Much to her shame, it had been written by a Benedictine nun, the missive profuse with thanks for Montague’s generous funding of the charitable hospital on their grounds.

  The other letters she’d read were much of the same. If it didn’t concern business it communicated gratitude for one good deed or another that the duke had performed. The man didn’t seem to correspond for pleasure. She took in his furrowed brow and the scowl that now marred his face. She could well imagine that Montague had few close to him. He was too intimidating, too self-contained to need anyone’s companionship.

  As quietly as possible, she pulled the bookcase shut, the tiny sliver of light disappearing. Stretching out her fingers, she let the wall guide her to a third-floor hallway near her chamber. At that time of day, it should be empty. Her thoughts remained in the study. For the duke’s sake, she hoped he had at least one or two close confidants. Now that she was walking alone in the world, she knew what a hardship it was to not have anyone to discuss one’s difficulties with, to not be able to unburden oneself of one’s troubles. That loneliness she did not wish upon anyone.

  Alone in her room, she settled herself at the desk with a piece of foolscap. Her pen flew over the page, only slowed by the necessary dips into the inkwell. She wanted this charade to end. She’d found nothing, and her lies weighed on her more each day. Westmore must see the reason to her returning to London. To be given another task with which she could win her sister’s release.

  When the earl had sat next to her in the Old Bailey that horrible day, he had become her only hope. The day Amanda had been convicted and dragged from the courtroom sobbing, Liz couldn’t force her feet to move. She’d watched her sister disappear into the back halls and done nothing. She’d watched every other trial that day, not hearing anything, just sitting silently in the gallery, unable to move. At the afternoon break, the courtroom had emptied. Except for her. And Lord Westmore.

  He’d told her he liked to watch the trials, and that she could now well believe. He enjoyed seeing others suffer. But at the time, he’d said that perhaps he could help her and her sister, and she’d thought him the kindest, most wondrous of men. He’d taken her to his town house to talk and she soon realized he was neither kind nor wondrous, merely a scheming, powerful man who collected minions like he collected artwork. He surrounded himself with people who would do his bidding, and Liz had become one of their ranks. And she’d still been grateful. Because someone scheming and powerful could help her sister.

  But it had been months. Months of following his orders, and Westmore making promises he had yet to keep.

  The tip of her
quill scratched against the foolscap. She didn’t beg; she wouldn’t give the man a power he would gleefully abuse. Rather, she appealed to the earl’s analytical side. After days of fruitless searching, she was no closer to discovering the missive. For a task with such a low probability of success, the risk of the duke uncovering their deception was too great.

  She reread her words. Simple. Straightforward. And completely false. After spending time with the duke, learning of all the help he provided to those less fortunate, she could no longer stomach the idea of stealing from him.

  She blew on the ink and folded her letter. She prayed the earl would see it her way. If Westmore demanded she complete her task, she would. Her sister’s life was too important. But each day she played this game, her heart hollowed little by little. By the time she earned her sister’s freedom, she wondered who it was her sister would come home to.

  After her day’s work, she would go to the stable. Give Pike the letter to send to Westmore. Decision made, she sought out Molly, needing to return to her duties. Liz slipped into the front breakfast parlor on the tips of her toes. Her chamber-mate’s back was turned towards her as she wiped at a seat cushion, and Liz quickly brought her own rag up to wipe down the buffet. She hoped Molly would assume she’d been there awhile.

  Molly pointedly cleared her throat, and Liz sighed. “I apologize for losing track of time. My foot was hurting and I went upstairs to change my boots. I saw the bed and thought I would just lie down for five minutes, take the weight off my foot.” Liz raised her hands, palms up. “But I fell asleep. I’ll work through dinner to make up for it, I promise.”

  The girl nodded, turned back to her work. Her silence letting Liz know that she wasn’t quite forgiven. The afternoon wore on and the foolscap in her bodice scratched at her with each movement.

  Why did the duke have to own so many things? So much furniture to be polished and dusted. For the first time since her sister’s arrest, she appreciated her bare lodging in Old London with a fervency that bordered on devotion.

  Molly went down to dinner, and Liz toiled on. There were twenty walking sticks in the hallway canister and each one had a brass head that had to be polished. She scoured the rounded horn of a ram, her pulse pounding at her temples. Montague didn’t even carry the silly accessory.

  Finally, she was done. She ached for a warm bath. Instead, she turned her steps to the storeroom exit. The urgency to find Mr. Pike and deliver him of her letter had only grown. Her previous jobs for Westmore, running correspondence for him, distracting a driver while another of the earl’s men lifted an object from a carriage, had gnawed at her. But nothing to compare with her present task. Even the day she’d donned a disguise and acted as though she belonged in Bedlam in order to cause a distraction in the Office of Patents hadn’t caused her stomach to twist as it did now.

  She needed to find a way out of this.

  Crossing the stone floor of the storeroom, she pushed open the door. The dirty figure on the other side made her jump back with a gasp. She placed a hand over her beating heart. “Mr. Pike, you startled me.”

  He grunted and stepped inside, stomping his feet on the floor and knocking bits of mud onto it.

  The edges of her letter dug into her fingers, and she remembered her task. “Mr. Pike,” she began, pulling the folded paper from between two buttons on her bodice, “I need for you to have this delivered to Westmore. It’s important that he receive it straightaway.”

  His broad palm swept through the air and snatched the letter. Pushing the missive into a trouser pocket, he peered around the room with narrowed eyes. “Keep yer bloody voice down.” Satisfied there was no one about, he crossed his arms, rocked on his feet. “So, you got what you came for, did you? I bet that wasn’t no hardship fer someone like you, spreading them knees for a dandy.” He blew out a breath. “And like any man, the duke gave up his secret fer a nice bit o’ skirt.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she sucked in a sharp breath. Her palm itched to smack the smirk off his face, but she didn’t want to touch his filth. A year ago she would have been struck speechless by such crude words. As a woman living alone in London, she was growing accustomed to the abuse, but it still had the power to make her simmer. That she should be treated with such disrespect was an affront to her breeding. No woman should be discussed so. But in another couple of months, even her outrage would most likely disappear into apathy.

  She dug her nails into her palms, the bite of pain easing her temper. “Mr. Pike, there is nothing improper regarding that letter. It is a letter that I wrote to Westmore. It is not a letter that I have stolen or . . . or seduced from Montague. Just because I work for Westmore doesn’t mean that I have to tolerate such boorish behavior from the likes of you.”

  He stepped into her, his brows drawn low, and her back hit the door. The acrid smell of manure and unbathed man assaulted her senses, and she struggled to keep her expression impassive. “Listen up and listen good. You’ll take whatever I give you. Yer job is to find the earl’s letter, and mine is to make sure you do. And if you can’t get yer job done . . .” Her vision filled with brown-stained teeth. “There’s nobody who will miss you. The earl told me all about yer predic’ment.”

  Half-moons were carved into her palms, but she clenched her fists tighter. She knew her spying could land her in trouble. Stealing was, after all, a capital crime in England. But the threat of that punishment lacked immediacy. It never felt real.

  Mr. Pike’s meaty hands and snarling face were real. Her legs quivered under her skirts, and she hated herself for the weakness. At least he couldn’t see it.

  “Is there a problem here?” a thready voice asked from the kitchen doorway. Mr. Todd stood inside the entrance, Peggy steps behind.

  Pike pushed himself away from Liz. “No, no problems. I came fer some grub.”

  The steward’s eyes flitted between her and Pike. “It appeared as though you two were having an argument.”

  Pike took a step towards him. “Not yer business, little man, is it?”

  “Just a minor family dispute, Mr. Todd.” Liz included Peggy in her reassuring smile. “It’s nothing of great amount.”

  Peggy’s shoulders relaxed. She walked forward and patted the groom’s forearm. “People never do fight like they do with their own. I’m sure once—”

  “Take yer hand off of me,” Pike growled. Peggy fell back, her face flushing as red as her hair.

  Mr. Todd stepped to her side. “Now there’s no call to be rude. No call at all. Mrs. Johnson was only trying to—”

  “I know what she’s trying to do and I want no part of it.” Pike glared at Peggy. “No part at all, you hear? Why you think I’d want a dumpy hag like you I don’t know. But stop it with the meat pies delivered to the stable and yer constant yammering at me. I want none of it, you hear me?”

  Peggy’s chin wobbled so much she couldn’t respond. Liz fought the urge to kick the man in the rear.

  Stepping up to the bigger man, Mr. Todd poked a finger into Pike’s chest. The groom didn’t budge. “How dare you?” Mr. Todd asked, his chest heaving. “You are the absolute lowest piece of guttersnipe to insult Mrs. Johnson in that manner. You aren’t fit to even clean her boots. You’re less than a man, you are.”

  Pike stared down at the steward. Blinked.

  “And you shall not step foot in Hartsworth any longer, Mr. Pike. Not one more step. Is that clear? All of your meals will be sent to you in the stable and you shall have no further association with the servants in here.” Mr. Todd glanced at the top of Peggy’s head, her face turned down to the floor. His hands trembled as they swept down his pressed black waistcoat; whether from indignation or fear of the larger man Liz didn’t know. Either way, the pompous steward earned her respect.

  Pike scrunched up one eye, tilted his head to the side. An expectant silence descended on the storeroom. Mr. Todd didn’t back away an inch.

  Pike cleared his throat, spat something disgusting onto the stone floor. Slapping his cap
on his head, he stormed outside.

  Peggy’s face remained downcast. Liz swallowed past the sting in the back of her throat. “Peggy, I apologize for my cousin’s behavior. He’s quite insufferable, and you mustn’t take a word he says to heart.”

  The older woman didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s all right, dear. He wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true. I am a foolish woman, and all he did was point that out.”

  Liz and Mr. Todd objected to that, their reassurances to the contrary tumbling over each other. Peggy’s smile firmed but didn’t reach her eyes. She picked at the ends of her apron and twisted it. “Don’t you worry yourself none.” Her eyes flickered to the steward, but she addressed herself to Liz. “I’m too old to let a little insult keep me down for long. Besides,” she said, turning back into the kitchen and walking to the counter. “He’s only your second cousin. You can’t be responsible for distant relations.”

  “Be that as it may, you shall not speak to your cousin within the walls of Hartsworth. And I’ll be speaking to the duke about relieving that man of his position.” Mr. Todd slid the fingers of his right hand between two buttons in his waistcoat, palm pressed firmly to his round stomach. “If I’d been aware of the man’s character I would never have taken into consideration any recommendations of his for open positions.”

  Peggy poured herself a cup of cream. “Mr. Todd, I believe it was the recommendation of the Earl of Westmore that you relied upon, not that of your groom. Lizzie’s character shouldn’t be connected to that of her second cousin.”

  His cheeks pinkened. “I didn’t mean to imply that was so, Mrs. Johnson.” He adjusted the knot of his cravat. “Miss Smith’s reputation will be derived solely from her own performance. And the fact that you think so highly of her, of course, weighs in her favor.” His blush deepened.