by Alyson Chase
Liz dropped her voice lower. “I may work for the man, but I will not be involved in causing harm to come to others. If you’ve hurt—”
“You’ll what?” He stepped closer, forcing Liz to stumble back. “You have one job to do here, missy. Nothin’ else is your business. I can do what I want and you can’t stop me.” Voices in the distance faded out to nothing, and Pike turned his head to watch the other grooms leave the building at the far door. When he turned his head back, a large smile creased his face. One that showed altogether too many brown teeth.
Her heart jumped like a rabbit caught in a snare. It was broad daylight, she reminded herself. She lifted her chin. Pike couldn’t very well harm her when the rest of the servants bustled with activity around the grounds. She hoped.
“Now I’m not saying I did somethin’ to no boy, but you’d be wise to remember that I could. Yes, sir, I could.” He held up one meaty hand and flexed his fingers. “A nice, small neck like yers I could snap with just this here hand.” He snapped his fingers and Liz flinched. “You’d be gone like that. So I’d be careful what I said and what I did if I were you.”
Her newly learned survival instincts flared to life. Show no fear to predators. She stepped into the odious man and poked a finger at his chest. “I wouldn’t be as easy to hurt as some poor unsuspecting boy, Mr. Pike, and you would do well to remember that. And if I find any evidence that you harmed Bob Blackmun not even the earl will be able to save you from the hangman’s noose.” She stepped around him and made her way to the door.
Her bravado would have been more impressive had she not walked backwards towards the door, never taking her eyes off the groom. She knew better than to turn her back on a snake.
He glared at her but made no move to follow her retreat. She was almost through the door when his voice stopped her. “I got an answer to your letter, Miss Smith.”
Liz paused, halfway in the sunlight. Her body quivered with the need to flee to the house, to safety, but she forced her feet to remain planted. She’d almost forgotten about her plea to Westmore. “And?”
He wrapped the leather strap of the girth around his left hand, his eyes never leaving hers. “Request denied.”
Even though she hadn’t been expecting a different response, her breath hitched.
“And Miss Smith?” He took one step towards her, lowered his clenched fists to his sides. “I’ve been told to do whatever I need to do to make sure you get the job done.” His gaze crawled over her body, as though searching for her weakest point. “I can be right convincing.”
Spinning on her heel, she hustled across the wide expanse of lawn to the closest door of the house. She tossed several glances over her shoulder as she fled, but he didn’t follow. She pushed the kitchen door open, hard, and it flung against the wall and bounced back, hitting her shoulder.
Peggy looked up from a wooden table, her hands covered in flour as she kneaded dough. “Whoa. Are you all right?”
Liz rubbed her shoulder. “Fine.” The smell of baking bread and the heat from the ovens enveloped her. Some of the tension eased from her muscles. She watched as the cook divided the dough into three parts, stretched them out, and began braiding the pieces together. “What are you making?”
“Brioche.” Her hands paused. “Some people don’t bake it anymore because of the war, but I don’t think it hurts anyone. The French have to be good for something.” She spread butter over the top and covered the loaf with a towel to rise. “Did you meet with Bob’s family?”
Liz picked up a rag and began wiping down the table. “Yes. His aunt hasn’t heard from him. She doesn’t think he would have left, or eloped, without telling her.” She rinsed out the rag and began attacking the counters.
“You don’t have to do that, dearie. I’ll clean up when I’m done here.” Peggy turned from peeking in the ovens and jabbed a finger at her. “And it’s your afternoon off.”
“I don’t mind.” She scraped at a hardened bit of flour with her fingernail. “Did you know that Bob took food to his aunt and uncle? Mr. Blackmun is injured and Bob was helping to care for his family.”
Peggy brought a bowl filled with brown eggs to the table. “Well, he was welcome to it. I’ve been here long enough where I remember the duchess taking food to the villagers that needed it. She was a kind lady. And after she passed, the housekeeper did the same. When we lost the housekeeper, well, the young duke didn’t feel a need to replace her. Mr. Todd seemed more than able to fulfill all the necessary duties. But I guess that duty wasn’t considered necessary.”
“Perhaps he’s not aware of the need.”
“Maybe.” Peggy wiped her hands down her apron. “Maybe he should be reminded.”
Liz scrubbed until the grout between the counter’s tiles gleamed white. Yes, they could probably make sure the blacksmith and his wife had enough food, but they couldn’t bring back their nephew. She forced herself to breathe past the large weight that seemed to settle on her chest. Was she responsible? If she had never come here, never agreed to the earl’s demands, would Bob still be here?
Her empty stomach twisted and grasped at nothing. Filling a small bowl with water, she dropped to her knees by the table. A dusting of flour had drifted to the floor and she was determined to scrub it away, the need to make something clean almost overwhelming.
Pike was a disreputable man who most likely had illicit meetings regardless of her presence at Hartsworth. Bob probably would have disappeared even if Liz weren’t guilty of deceit and attempted theft.
She scrubbed harder. Her breaths came in sharp pants and her head clouded.
“Be careful,” Peggy said, her voice sounding as though she stood in a cave. “You’ll take the skin right off your fingers.”
Liz paid her no heed. If she didn’t scrub the floor clean she knew her whole body would burst apart. Blood pounded through her veins, her heart beating faster and faster until she feared the organ must explode. The motes of flour danced across the floor, the tile beneath them twisting and stretching until she closed her eyes to block out the unnatural sight. A wave of dizziness crashed through her until she didn’t know which way was up or down.
She fell, not knowing whether she’d hit the floor or the sky, and not caring either way.
Blackness consumed her, and she escaped.
* * *
“ . . . Jameson reports that the crops in the east field are doing well, but the north field’s irrigation needs repair. I’ve directed . . .” Mr. Todd’s voice droned on while Marcus contemplated his next steps to uncover the spy. It was all very well to orchestrate his men in fact-finding missions, but perhaps he should travel to London himself. There were very few men who refused to answer to a duke.
First he would need to rid himself of his troublesome houseguests. He was tired of the batting eyes, the—
“Repeat that,” he demanded, his boots crashing down to the floor from their perch on his desk.
Mr. Todd looked up from his notes, blinked. “About the new maid? I said I fear we may have to let her go. Miss Smith does not seem to have the constitution required for service in a duke’s household. Her collapse in the kitchen proves such. I have heard it rumored that she may be increasing, although Mrs. Johnson swears that isn’t so. Regardless—”
Marcus pushed to his feet and paced across the study. “She’s ill?”
Mr. Todd nodded. “She was carried to her room to rest and seems well enough now, but should she be unable to perform her duties tom—”
“And people are saying she is with child?” A burning sensation coursed through his chest. Possessiveness, so elemental Marcus hardly recognized it, clawed beneath his skin. He shouldn’t care if another man had planted his seed in Miss Smith.
But he did.
“Rumors, Your Grace.” His steward tilted his head. “But she eats very little as though her stomach bothers her and some of the other maids say she tires easily while cleaning. But I’ll take care of it.”
Marcus slapped
a palm on his thigh. His steward was most efficient, but his solution would be to discharge Miss Smith. Send her out from Hartsworth, unprotected. Marcus dug a knuckle into his chest and rubbed. That wouldn’t do.
“No. I will.”
“Your Grace?” Mr. Todd’s forehead creased.
“Have her brought to my study. I’ll deal with her.”
Mr. Todd’s mouth gaped before he recalled himself. “Of course, Your Grace.” Bowing, he backed from the room. “Right away.”
Marcus strode from the steward’s office, and headed to his study. When he reached it, the room was dim, the evening dusk falling rapidly. He lit the lamps and waited for his maid to arrive. This was, if not improper, at the very least against protocol. The steward dealt with such matters.
But not this time. A duke was afforded eccentricities, improprieties, and it was time he enjoyed that benefit.
She slipped into the room and curtsied, her dark hair slipping free from a hastily assembled chignon. Her shoulders drooped with exhaustion, but the eyes that met his were clear and strong. “You wished to see me, Your Grace?”
“Indeed.” He circled her, noticing the looseness of her uniform, the press of her shoulder blades against the starched black cotton. Those shoulder blades drew together as he paused behind her. His hand hovered inches from the nape of her neck, itching to finger the silky strands of ebony that escaped from her updo.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and stepped in front of her. “I hear you’ve been ill.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m feeling better now.”
If this was her feeling better, he hated to think what she looked like feeling worse. “I understand arrangements may have to be made for you in the future,” he said. She cocked her head. “In a couple months’ time.” She drew her brows together as her only response. “For your confinement.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Not you, too! I mean, that is, arrangements will not be necessary, Your Grace. I’m not . . . you know.” This last came out as an embarrassed whisper. She lowered her head, and clasped her hands together in front of her flat stomach.
Marcus reached for the back of the seat nearest him, his muscles suddenly gone weak. He hadn’t realized how important her answer had been. He cleared his throat. “Then why haven’t you been eating?”
“I have.”
He stared at her as he did when one of his captains missed a deadline with a poor excuse. She managed to meet his eyes longer than most of his men before looking down somewhere around his chest.
“That is, I haven’t had much of an appetite of late. It is nothing to concern yourself over.”
“Everything in this estate is my concern.” He walked over to the servants’ pull and yanked the silk rope. Not waiting for one of his men to come to him, Marcus walked to the doorway and called to the servant bustling down the hallway, “Please bring us some dinner!”
The man bowed, hurried away. Marcus stalked back into the room, not taking his eyes off of his maid. She was breathing heavily, and flexing her hands as though she wanted to clench them but stopped herself.
He settled himself on an upholstered love seat in the corner of the room. “Take a seat.” She moved to a chair across from him. “Not there.” He patted the space next to him. “Here.”
She eyed him warily as she circled the low coffee table. “Your Grace, I think that—”
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
He bit back a smile as she narrowed her eyes and dropped onto the love seat as far away from him as possible. She hid such spirit, revealing her personality in such small doses. He would normally give his servants their autonomy when it came to their personal lives, but when her actions endangered her health he needed to step in.
Two servants hustled in, a rolling serving cart between them. At his nod, they unloaded the tray, placing plates of delicacies on the low table before them. Marcus picked up a decanter of red wine and poured two glasses. “Close the door behind you,” he told them as they left, ignoring Miss Smith’s sharp inhale. Pressing the glass into her hand, he began filling a plate with bits of beef and lamb. He buttered a hot roll and set the plate on her lap. “Eat.”
She picked up a fork with a deep sigh and brought a bit of beef to her mouth. Staring straight ahead, she took a small bite, swallowed as if she were eating sawdust.
“Is it not to your liking?” he asked.
“It’s fine.” She took another tiny bite. At this rate, she wouldn’t finish her plate of food until Michaelmas.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I . . .” She put the fork on the plate. “Honestly? It is . . . difficult for me to eat such rich foods when my sister cannot. She is, uh, ill and it doesn’t seem right that I can enjoy such delicacies when she’s unable.”
The hand holding his wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry about your sister.” She’d mentioned a sister before, one who spoke French better than his Miss Smith, if he remembered correctly. But a sister wasn’t mentioned in the background check he’d ordered. His man was falling down on the job. He’d have to order him to be more thorough. “That must be difficult. Are you two close?”
“Yes. She has done so much for me, given up so much. Now it’s my turn to take care of her, and I fear I am failing miserably.” She clutched the wineglass and threw back a large swallow.
Mouth dry, Marcus took his own long sip of wine. “I know what it is to fail a sibling.”
She blinked, the corners of her eyes damp. Lifting his hand to her smooth cheek, he rubbed his thumb over the wetness. She turned her face into his hand, and his heart pounded faster.
“But that’s no excuse to make yourself ill. What good are you to your sister if you’re sick in bed? Now eat.”
With great reluctance, he pulled his hand from her soft skin, rubbed it against his trouser leg. He could still feel her. When she hesitated, he nudged her plate.
Staring at the far wall, she dug her teeth into her plump bottom lip. His eyes avidly followed the movement, noting how the pink of her lips deepened with the abuse. She finally nodded and picked up the fork.
He leaned back in his seat. If he had to observe her eat every meal he would. Anything to make the hollows of her cheeks disappear. And he had to admit he enjoyed watching her. The tightness in his chest began to ease until she said, “You said you failed your brother. What happened?”
He froze, every muscle tensing.
She laid a hand on his forearm. “I apologize. I had no right to ask.”
He barked out a harsh laugh. “I dragged you in here and am almost force-feeding you. I think that gives you some rights.” He took a swallow of wine. “Besides, it’s no secret.”
“Nevertheless, if you don’t wish to speak of it I’ll understand.” One side of her lips turned up, the rueful expression endearing.
The smile warmed him in places that had been chilled for years. She would understand, and he wished to tell her. “My brother, James, was four years younger than me. He followed me everywhere when we were children, made a pest of himself. When we became older, I started to enjoy his company. I liked that he admired me, and I would sometimes act to impress him.”
He twirled the stem of his glass, lost in memories. Until that fateful day, they were mostly happy ones. “The Earl of Brunswick and his family were close friends of ours and we were at their home, visiting. Lady Arabelle used to run around with us like she was one of the boys. She was utterly fearless. And reckless. I knew this, and yet when she asked for the reins on the phaeton the three of us were driving in, I gave them to her.”
He paused, and let out a breath when she squeezed his arm. “I didn’t want to give them up, but James was laughing at her rashness and urged me to hand them over. So I did. And she drove us too fast around a bend. Our carriage overturned and James was killed instantly. Broken neck. All because I didn’t hold on to the damned reins.”
“That wasn’t your fault. You must know that.”
She sighed and picked at the food. “Sometimes no matter what you do, the consequences are always bad. But I don’t think James would blame you or want you to feel guilt for the rest of your life. Like Amanda wouldn’t want me to starve for her.” Shrugging, she popped another bite into her mouth.
The memory of that carriage ride rolled through his head, and his throat closed. It was different for her. Her sister was sick; she hadn’t gotten her killed. And she wasn’t in the same position as he. The son of a duke had different expectations for conduct, different responsibilities. Unless he maintained order, those responsibilities would swallow him whole.
He looked down at the woman beside him, eating as sparingly as a bird. She was his responsibility, too, but one that wasn’t a burden. He craved to take her in hand, give her the calm purpose that a disciplined mind could achieve.
He forced his muscles to relax. Because of their different stations, that wasn’t possible. So he would make sure she was safe and healthy, and discipline himself not to touch her.
She didn’t eat everything on the plate before she sat back with a hand to her stomach, but it was a good start, he decided. Marcus filled another small plate with fruit and held it up to her.
“No more.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite.”
“Every meal needs a little dessert to finish it.” He picked up a ripe strawberry and held it to her lips. “Open up.”
Eyes on his, she slowly opened her mouth, and all the blood in Marcus’s body rushed south. When her small white teeth bit into the red flesh, he nearly groaned. Shifting his legs, he held up another morsel. Bit by bit she ate the fruit he fed her.
Why had he never fed a woman before? This was quickly becoming one of the most sensuous experiences in his life. Her little moans of appreciation thrummed through his body. Each time her pink tongue darted out to lap at the juice on her lip his stomach clenched. Her warm breath caressed his fingers, making him wonder what it would feel like if her breath caressed other parts of him. The black of her eyes and heaving of her chest told him she wasn’t immune to the experience, either.
