by Alyson Chase
Peggy turned back to her tea. She didn’t see Mr. Todd’s stern mien soften into a look of longing as his eyes swept her plump form.
“Well, I’d best be going, dear. I’ll see you for breakfast.” Peggy walked past Mr. Todd with her nose in the air. She went to the counter and filled her teacup from a blue pitcher, and swept from the room. Mr. Todd deflated. Cutting himself a piece of her cake, he took a morose bite.
Finished with her meal, Liz cleared her place and walked to the counter. She tipped the blue pitcher towards her. It was filled with cream.
* * *
A scraping noise froze Liz to the spot, slippered foot paused in mid-air. She waited in the dark hallway, ears straining. Nothing. She inched forward. It would most likely be some time before she became accustomed to the sounds of the enormous house.
Reaching the door of the library, she eased it open. The odors of leather and bay rum teased her nose, and a tingle skittered down her spine. She recognized the scent. The duke must spend a lot of time in that room.
Once inside, she risked lighting her candle. She hadn’t wanted to chance getting caught making a search for the letter in the dark of night. It seemed safer looking for the missive while engaging in her cleaning duties when her poking around could be excused. But a trip to the library for reading material couldn’t get her into too much trouble. Probably. And besides, she had nothing else to do.
She didn’t know what the consequences would be for borrowing a book from the duke’s library. Maybe nothing. But Mr. Todd would most likely disapprove. Which was why she shouldn’t be here. But it was only nine o’clock and she needed some sort of occupation for the rest of the evening. An escape. And when she’d toured this room earlier in the day, with its floor-to-ceiling walls of books on three sides, her fingers had itched to browse the titles.
Molly had chattered nonstop until falling asleep ten minutes ago. Liz couldn’t fall asleep yet, not even knowing she would have to wake at five in the morning to begin her day. Thoughts of her sister, her father, and what lay ahead wouldn’t let her be, leaving her restless. The peace of mind that came with losing herself in a book was worth the risk. If she were left to her tangle of emotions her nerves would make her task more difficult.
Wandering to the contemporary section, she read the titles. A volume by Lord Byron caught her eye. His work had never been allowed in their home, on morality grounds her father had said.
She dug her nails into her palms, the sharp bite of pain drawing her focus, turning her thoughts from her father. His vicious hypocrisy. She took a deep breath. Well, she would read it now. Pulling the leather-bound tome from its place, she rearranged the books to hide the space left behind. Her candlelight illuminated the French literature section, and she removed a slim volume of poetry from the shelf. Perhaps she and her sister would move to the Continent after her release. Her French needed practicing.
Clutching the two books to her chest, she blew out her candle and started to the door. A creak, a rustle, sounded outside in the hall. Liz gulped down her breath, waited. There it was again. Someone was coming this way.
She scanned the room for hiding places. Underneath the desk looked safe, but she didn’t think she had time to reach it.
She ran to the wingback chair, her toe catching on the edge of the rug. Stumbling, she flung her hands out, the books tumbling to the seat, but stopped herself from falling on her face. Dropping to her knees, she huddled behind the chair. She pulled her elbows in tight, tried to make her body as small as possible.
Her breathing was loud, ragged in the silence. She pressed her face into her knees, hoping her skirts would muffle the sound. And waited.
The dim glow from a candle traced a pattern on the carpet next to her. Dizziness crept over her as she waited for discovery. Her mission would end before it had even begun. A minute passed. Two. Blood thundered in her ears. Whoever was at the door must have heard her thundering heartbeat.
If she weren’t frozen to the spot Liz would have kicked herself. This excursion had been reckless. She could no longer engage in such whims.
Her ennui just might have resigned her sister to the hangman’s noose.
Chapter Three
Heart in her throat, Liz awaited the inevitable. Hiding in the dark, what excuse could she give for her actions? If she hadn’t panicked she would have met her fellow nighttime traveler with chin raised, books in hand. A little light reading before bed. If it were Mr. Todd he might chastise her for taking the duke’s books. Worst-case scenario, she might have been released from service.
Now if she was caught it looked like more than a maid merely seeking a diversion. It looked like she was spying. Her chest burned. Damn it, and this was the one time she wasn’t spying.
The dim light from the candle flickered closer, skirted around the hem of her gown. Liz held her breath. The light held, shifted, before fading back, and she slowly released a hiss of air.
The library door snicked shut. She was alone in the room.
She waited five minutes, unmoving. The house remained silent, and her muscles began to unclench. Standing, she gathered the books to her chest, and crept to the door. She pulled it open just wide enough for her body to slip past. Moonlight streamed through the large window at the end of the hall, enough to convince her not to relight her candle. But learning from her past panic, she forced herself to stroll down the hall, not sprint for safety as she wished.
No illicit activity to see here.
All was quiet on the way to her chamber. A shiver rolled through her body as the cold from the stone stairs seeped through the thin soles of her slippers. Reaching the servants’ quarters, she picked up speed, eager to end this night. She threw herself into her bare room, leaned against the door, trying to muffle her heaving breaths so as not to wake Molly.
The books were as heavy as stones in her arms. Lifting the edge of her mattress, she hid her cache within.
Without bothering to change into her night rail, she flopped onto the bed. She no longer felt like reading.
* * *
Marcus loitered on the balcony overlooking Hartsworth’s entrance hall. Mr. Todd and their newest hire conversed down below on the main floor. Their voices were too soft for him to overhear, but nothing prevented Marcus from watching. He stood, unnoticed, in the shadow of the large marble statue The Rape of Proserpina. The stone Hades ignored the duke’s spying, far too interested in abducting his future bride.
The ten-foot-high double doors of the main entrance were flung open, and a gentle breeze drifted through the entry, billowing the skirt of his maid’s black gown out about her ankles. From the pompous puff to his steward’s chest, it appeared the man was dressing her down. But then, Todd always appeared pompous. It was a necessary trait for the steward of a duke.
Marcus had correspondence to answer, a broken pump to repair, but his feet remained planted. Something about his new maid seemed . . . off. She exuded calm and obedience, her face averted the proper amount from her superior’s gaze, her nods quick to follow Mr. Todd’s directives. To the untrained eye she was completely unassuming.
Resting his palm on the cool marble of Persephone’s thigh, Marcus leaned forward. There it was again.
Todd’s last remark must have been particularly irritating to his new maid. Her chin tipped up and the delicate skin around her eyes tensed. In a flash, it was gone, her face as serene as ever. He had to admire her acting. Most men would only see a subservient woman with a sweet smile.
But that outward tranquility only told half the story.
He’d been watching her since he’d discovered her in his library. She’d amused him, the little maid who’d felt the need to hide her reading habit. And he was a man rarely amused. He’d watched how she interacted with his other servants, seen her bite her tongue when lectured to by his steward. Just the slightest clenching of her jaw. Nothing overtly noticeable.
Strong willed yet restrained.
The marble warmed beneath his hand. Mar
cus slid his palm down the stone thigh.
Her ironclad control drew him. It was a quality that soothed his own raging emotions, but was in such short supply in his life. From the simpering chatterboxes scheming mamas threw in front of him to the posturing, blustering buffoons in the House of Lords, Marcus was surrounded by overly emotional half-wits.
Miss Smith dropped a brief curtsy. Bending over, she picked up a bucket full of dirty water and turned to leave. Todd stopped her with more blather. Even though the bucket must have strained the muscles in her arms and back, she waited patiently for the steward to finish his lecture.
Yes, most men would only see the passive woman she wanted them to see.
Marcus wasn’t most men.
He’d trained himself to notice what other people didn’t. First, when he’d gone into espionage. Then, as he’d discovered his sexual tastes ran to the darker side, he’d honed his skills of observation further. Whether playing with a doxy at Madame Sable’s, or dominating one of the willing widows of his acquaintance, he needed to gauge her breathing patterns, the tightening of her muscles, the dilation of her eyes.
Miss Smith was harder to read. The only clues she dropped were a slight heave to her breasts, and the knuckles on her hands whitening as she dug her fingernails into her palms to express her displeasure.
Marcus frowned. That was a bad habit he should break her of. Broken skin as a maid could lead to too many illnesses to let pass.
If she were his to play with. Which she wasn’t. And that was a pity, for she fascinated him. Dangerous currents ran beneath her calm façade. Currents he’d love to explore.
Because he was also trained to peel away a woman’s control. To give her just enough pain and pleasure to make her drop her defenses. To crash through the walls a woman could build.
Miss Smith’s true self was buried beneath layers of training and societal expectations. It could take months of excruciating pleasure before he fully revealed the complete woman.
But she was his maid. He couldn’t take her as he wanted.
That didn’t stop him from fantasizing.
Of stripping her bare of her drab uniform. Using that white apron’s long strings to tie her hands behind her back. Bending her over the back of the settee in the library.
Making her beg. Making her scream.
Until she lost control. Only for him.
Marcus clenched his fingers on the statue. Unlike Hades, his fingers couldn’t dig into Persephone’s flesh. She was impervious to his will. Something beautiful to look upon, but not his to touch.
As good a reminder as any to ignore his little maid.
* * *
Every muscle in Liz’s body ached. Her knees so sore from kneeling that she didn’t know if she could stand. She and Molly had been cleaning since they broke their fast at six that morning, and if she never held another rag in her life it would be too soon. Needing to get off the floor and out of the house more than she needed her next breath, Liz crawled to Molly’s bucket. Using its rim as a base, she pushed herself up onto shaking legs, pulling the bucket up after her.
“I’ll go down and dump this muck. Get us some fresh water instead.” Of course she wouldn’t dream of taking the bucket out the front doors. As Mr. Todd had so vehemently pointed out earlier that morning, a great house like Hartsworth couldn’t possibly allow a mere servant to use the front entrance for something as tawdry as emptying a bucket. Even though Liz had been cleaning the floor of the front entrance, and finding a suitable side door had added several hundred feet to her trip. While lugging a full bucket of water.
Molly placed a hand on her lower back and rubbed. “Good idea. I think I’ll pause for a cuppa in the kitchen before we move on to the next room.”
Relief at the break swept through Liz. If she didn’t hang for theft, cleaning the floorboards of Hartsworth might do her in. She took the bucket out a side door and dumped the murky water into a hedge. Her body felt stiff all over, and Liz stretched and took a couple stumbling steps along the garden path. She needed a short walk. Delicious as a cup of hot tea sounded, if she sat down now she wouldn’t be getting back up.
A breeze caught a loose curl and brushed it against her cheek. Tilting her head up, she let the sun soak into her face before continuing on her way. The path led her to the edge of the east garden and the wide-open lawns beyond.
Enthusiastic yips broke the quiet of the day. To her left, Liz saw a figure squatting on the grass, three puppies gamboling around him. The duke shook his head once and stood. Raising his left hand, he extended his fingers and held his hand out, palm down. One of the pups sank back on his haunches; another lay down, rolling onto his back. The third pounced at the duke, his small jaw attempting, and failing, to encircle the toe of Montague’s boot, ferociously adorable growls coming from the pup’s tiny body.
Liz didn’t think she’d laughed, but she must have made some sound. The duke whipped his head around. His jaw hardened.
She dropped a hasty curtsy. “I apologize for intruding, Your Grace.” Turning, she took a step back towards the house.
“One moment, Miss Smith.”
Liz took a deep breath, and pivoted to face the duke. Loosely clasping her hands together in front of her, she inclined her head. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Montague stood in his shirtsleeves, his coat lying on a bench a couple feet away from him, folded neatly. The black of his trousers, boots, and waistcoat was relieved only by the snowy white shirt he wore. He was a study of black and white in front of a brilliant blue sky. No cravat encircled his neck. The collar of his shirt was loosely tied, a vee of bronzed skin and golden hair peeking out.
Liz forced her gaze up from his chest to his eyes.
“I’m training hunting dogs and require a second body,” he said. “You arrived at a most auspicious moment.”
The puppy chewing on the duke’s boot left his meal to tackle another dog. Her lips remained flat, even though she wanted to squeal with joy. Playing with puppies instead of scrubbing more floors? Yes, please.
And best of all, no one, not Molly or Mr. Todd, could complain of her inattention to her duties. The duke himself had requested her help.
“Of course, Your Grace.” She took a step forward. A year ago she would have dropped to her knees on the grass and joined in the puppies’ fun. “I don’t know anything about training dogs, but any assistance I can give is yours.”
“Your presence is all that is required.” He picked up two of the puppies and gave them to her, one in each arm. “I know enough about training for the both of us.”
The two dogs wriggled, and she shifted her grip. “Your Grace?”
“I need to concentrate on each dog individually. Keep the other two occupied, if you will.” He strode to the bench and picked up his coat. With a flick of his wrists, he snapped the coat out flat and laid it out full-length on the grass. “For you to sit on with the dogs.”
Liz settled herself cross-legged on the fine wool and plopped the puppies in her lap. “I hesitate to point out that your coat most likely cost ten times as much as this dress.” Running her fingers over the soft superfine, she squinted up at the duke. “While a nice gesture, it was hardly necessary.”
Montague bent to one knee in front of the remaining fawn-colored pup. “Don’t be silly. That coat is at least one hundred times your dress’s worth.” One corner of his lips edged up.
Her hand froze on the thick fabric. Was the duke making a joke?
The rascal who’d made the duke’s boot a chew toy turned his attention to the hem of the coat, the coat that cost a small fortune. She pulled the fabric from between his sharp fangs and rolled him on his back, rubbing his belly.
Montague stood and backed up ten paces, never breaking eye contact with his dog. “Besides, I have a most efficient household. I’m sure a maid will clean it well.”
Liz snapped her back ramrod straight. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She petted her puppies as the duke went over the command
with his pup. After only a few minutes, the dog trotted obediently to his master whenever the duke called, “Come!” It didn’t hurt that the man had a pocketful of bits of bacon that he doled out judiciously.
Grabbing his pup by the scruff of his neck, he deposited the dog in her lap and grabbed the chewer.
Training didn’t go as smoothly with that one. The duke stood over the black and brown dog, leveling a stern look at his pupil, to no avail. The dog yipped at Montague and charged him, head down, bouncing off the duke’s boot and rolling to his side.
Kneeling, Montague settled the dog into a seated position and told him to stay.
The dog pounced on a dandelion.
A smile flashed across Liz’s face before she shut it down.
“Does something amuse you, Miss Smith?” he asked, not looking up from the dog.
“No, Your Grace.” A burr in her puppy’s coat garnered her full attention. She eased it out between her fingers.
“No? I could have sworn Reginald did something to make you smile.”
“I’m certain your training techniques are most effective.” She paused, tilting her head. “Reginald?” Liz watched the pup stretch on his stomach, his hind legs splayed out straight behind him in an almost human position. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth. “What an absurd name for such a dog.”
One golden eyebrow winged up. “Absurd? I named the dogs myself.”
Liz shifted on the coat. “Unfitting, then. I can only assume when you named him he was too young yet to show his personality. That dog is no stuffy Reginald.” The black and brown puppy crawled forward, his legs dragging behind him. “Scamp, perhaps. Or Mischief. But never Reginald.”
The dog quirked his head, popped up onto his feet, and trotted over to her.
“But he responds to his name,” Montague said. “I can’t change it now and confuse the beast. I already have concerns over this one’s ability to follow orders. I fear he will not make it as a hunting dog.”