by Alyson Chase
Liz picked up Reggie—he could never be Reginald—and cradled him close. His moist tongue rasped along her chin. She liked his independence. A lot of will was contained in that small, squirming body. And taking orders was overrated.
Her sister had meekly complied with every order of their father’s, right up until the day she’d plunged a knife into his side. Liz had never understood how despicable some of those orders had been until she’d visited her sister in prison and learned the truth.
“You wish to break his spirit? Bend him to your will?” Blinking, Liz was horrified to feel the burn of tears behind her lids. Clamping her jaw tight, she willed them away.
A pair of black Hessians planted before her at the edge of his coat. The leather was buffed to such a shine, Liz could see a shadow of her reflection on the shafts.
“Look at me.” His voice was quiet. Kind. But no less commanding than when he gave orders to his steward. Or his dogs.
Her gaze rose over hard thighs, the fall of his trousers, the flat expanse of his stomach, and the wider expanse of his chest. She looked up until his eyes captured hers and held on. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes weren’t the gray of unyielding stone anymore, but rather the shifting silvers and subdued greens of an ocean tossing in a storm.
“I don’t make a habit out of breaking anyone’s, anything’s, spirit.” Dropping to a squat, Montague ran his fingers under Reggie’s jaw.
The heat from his body, his sudden nearness, curled around Liz. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. But she was swamped with his scent, and her pulse ratcheted up even higher.
“Sometimes animals need to be molded so they can become their best selves. Guidance, a firm hand, training.” His breath bloomed across her cheek with every word. “My horse, Darkwing, has as much spirit as he did as a foal. I merely redirected it to productive channels. Now, he and I have a partnership. We each trust the other.” His lips quirked. “More so than I do most men.”
Digging his fingers into the soft fur at the back of Reggie’s neck, Montague gently lifted the pup. “Now if this fellow doesn’t wish to be molded that is his prerogative. He might not make the grade for a work dog at my estate, but he will make someone a lovely pet.”
Reggie yipped, and the duke lowered him to the ground. The puppy coiled around himself like a snake, obviously exhausted from his day. Montague kept his hand on the dog, his palm almost large enough to span Reggie’s entire back. He ran his long, tapered fingers slowly through the puppy’s coat, and Reggie gave one more sleepy yip before tucking his nose under his tail.
“You seem to have an affinity for the scamp.” Montague gently rubbed the tip of Reggie’s ear between his thumb and forefinger. Liz’s own earlobe tingled. “Perhaps you’d want him as a pet.”
Her heart twisted. She’d love to spoil a dog. But it wasn’t to be. And the duke should have known that.
“Where would I keep him?” She hated to do it. It would ruin the moment, these amazing few minutes when the duke spoke to her like she was a real person, an equal, not the hired help. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be able to sit without fear of violence or discovery. To not have every moment revolve around a job for Westmore, scraping together enough money for food for her and Amanda, finding enough coal to keep her warm at night.
This was like an afternoon of days past, when gentlemen treated her with respect and she wanted for nothing. She felt like her old self, if only for a moment. The decadence of it almost made her dizzy.
But being the old Miss Elizabeth Wilcox was a luxury she could no longer afford.
So she twisted the blade, just a little. Just enough to sting. “Mr. Todd doesn’t allow servants to have pets. And if Reggie followed me around on my duties I think he’d probably make more of a jumble than I could clean in a day.” Taking a deep breath, she clenched her stomach. “It doesn’t make sense for a chambermaid to have a puppy.”
And there it was. That small flicker. The stormy sea hardening back into granite. Montague had forgotten himself. Or, more accurately, forgotten her. Forgotten how low she was in relation to him.
Her lungs burned with the effort to keep her breathing steady. The reminder stung more than she’d expected. The duke would probably forget his momentary lapse in the time it took him to return to his house.
It would take her longer.
And she couldn’t keep forgetting who she was, why she was here. It hurt too much when reality crashed back in. So she dug the knife a little deeper into her side.
Picking up the sleeping puppy from her lap, she laid him next to Reggie. Standing, she brushed at her skirts, plucking an errant strand of fur from her apron. “Now if you will excuse me, Your Grace, I have some chamber pots I need to empty.”
Without looking to see whether she had shocked him, Liz turned on her heel and made her way back to the side door of Hartsworth. The servants’ entrance.
It wasn’t until she’d refilled Molly’s bucket and lugged it halfway up the stairs that she realized she’d forgotten to curtsy before leaving the duke. She could only hope her disgraceful chamber pot reference had distracted the man too much for him to notice.
Chapter Four
Marcus sipped his whiskey, enjoying the slow burn tracking down his throat. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet on the wide desk in his library. Darkness fell, but he made no move to light the oil lamp. He needed to think, and that didn’t require illumination.
He tapped the folded square of paper against his thigh. Liverpool was becoming impatient. He wanted answers. Answers that Marcus didn’t have. Yet. His contacts in the House of Commons were coming up empty. Not that he’d expected to find the traitor in that body. The information that the French were obtaining was above the purview of most of the members in that chamber of parliament. No, he hadn’t expected to find the traitor there, but he had desperately wanted to. Because the alternative . . .
He took another sip. He needed to organize his line of attack. Correspond with Sheffield in the office of the Clerk of the Parliaments. Start a list of the lords who had access to the information who also had high debts. Send one of his spies to Paris to start working on this from the other end.
A muscle in his neck twinged. Digging a thumb into the knot, he tried to relax. This business had him on edge, and he needed a distraction.
The dark brown hair and striking chocolate eyes of his new maid popped into his head. He shook it. That pretty little thing was not on his list of available distractions, so it was no use thinking on her.
His shoulders slumped against the chair’s back. He didn’t have time to think about any distraction. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Sheffield. Before he started asking Sheffield to poke around he would need to run another background check on him. The last one was a year old, and when it came to espionage that was too damn long.
He stared into the dark, his gaze losing focus. Her body had fit nicely against his, her soft curves nestling into his torso. And on the grass, Marcus had been hard-pressed not to cover her hand with his own as she’d stroked the pups. Her hair had been tied back in a severe chignon, and she’d smelled of honeysuckle and soap. Very sweet. She was a woman who tried very hard to downplay her looks with the ill-fitting clothes she’d arrived in, her unfashionable hair. But for a man who knew what to look for, she was a quality beauty. Even the drab maid’s uniform couldn’t hide it.
Marcus pressed one hand down on his cock, rubbed its length, semi-hard beneath his trousers. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the pleasures of a woman. Next time he was in London he would have to rectify that. He didn’t dally with his help. It was a rule of his. Although many of his peers took the maids as their due, Marcus thought it in poor taste to abuse his power in that manner.
Miss Smith gave him a twinge of regret over that rule.
Sheffield, he reminded himself sternly. Swinging his legs down from the desk with a thump, he placed his glass on the desk and lit a candle. Its wavering ligh
t sufficed to write his correspondence by. The routine of the task was enough to put thoughts of his new maid out of his mind.
Until he pressed his stamp to the seal and sat back to look at his shelves of books. Which ones had the chit taken? He’d seen two lying upon the chair but didn’t step close enough to read the titles. He could have asked her, but something about her hiding behind a chair to avoid detection had tugged at his heart. He didn’t want her to feel like she’d been caught. Not yet in any event.
He slapped a palm on the desk. Not ever. He would do no catching, restraining, or binding on anyone in his service. He paid for that sort of entertainment; he didn’t take it from those in no position to refuse.
Looking around at his books, he searched for any obvious gaps. A corner of his mouth tilted up. He wondered how she’d feel when she learned that his library was open to anyone, that she hadn’t needed to sneak. Foolish most likely. The knowledge would probably bring a lovely pink hue to her cheeks, much the way her little flash of temper in the pantry had. He wished he could be around to see it.
* * *
Everything ached. Liz had been no stranger to hard work this past year, and she had kept her own lodgings clean and tidy, but that experience had in no way prepared her for the backbreaking work of being a chambermaid on a large estate.
For her first week, she’d been accompanied by another maid most of the time. No doubt they thought they were being helpful, showing her the order in which they cleaned the rooms, giving her little tips. But it didn’t allow for her to search for the letter. It was teatime, and another day had passed where all she had to show for her labors were work-reddened hands and a sore back.
She paused near the entrance to the kitchens. There were three of them, built in a row with open walls so cooks and maids could freely flow between them. Peggy was the queen of all, with several kitchen maids to assist. It was unusual for an aristocrat as distinguished as the duke to employ a female cook instead of a male one, but Liz had learned that when the older man Peggy had trained under had retired, Montague had forgone tradition and raised the woman to head cook. He enjoyed her dinners too much to risk losing her. Peggy wasn’t one to brag, but her justified pride in her accomplishment was difficult to miss.
Several maids were enjoying their tea, laughing with one another. Molly was huddled tight with two other girls, all looking as close as peas in a pod.
As close as she and Amanda were. The hollowness inside Liz spread. She continued past the tables and escaped outside. The autumn air had developed a briskness that heralded the coming season, and the sun hung low over the junipers. She breathed in the odor of cut grass, and said a prayer for her sister.
Crossing a wide lawn, Liz headed towards the stable. Rising three stories high, it was a reproduction of an ancient Greek temple. A large reproduction. The home she’d grown up in would have fit inside it ten times over. On her tour with Mr. Todd she’d learned that it extended over three hundred feet in length.
A groom stood in one of the open arches that looped around the second story. He heaved a large grain bag hanging from a pulley into the upper storage area. Shouting a farewell to a man below in a wagon, the groom rolled a large clay urn back into place in the center of the arch, and disappeared from sight.
As she stepped between two Ionic columns, Liz’s stomach gave a little tug. Perhaps Mr. Pike would have a message for her from the earl. Perhaps he would call this crazy scheme off.
She’d thought pretty feelings like hope had slowly ebbed out of her this year, like a stream that dries into dirt in the summer. But apparently some small trickle yet remained.
Stepping inside the stable, she let out a gasp. She knew from the outside that the building was large, but nothing prepared her for its sheer vastness. The arched openings on the second floor, combined with the pale limestone of the brick construction, gave the building the ethereal air of a cathedral.
Montague’s stable truly was one of the grandest buildings she’d ever seen. His horses lived better than 95 percent of Londoners.
Three rows of stalls stretched into the distance, each one crowned by the head of a glorious animal. No swaybacks, plow horses, or mules marred the aesthetics. The duke would have only the finest purebreeds, of course. Tack was neatly hung by the gate of each stall, the leather of the saddles buffed to brightness and the silver of the bridles and irons shining.
Two groomsmen worked in the distance shoveling hay, and she shuffled into the next row of stalls. Mr. Pike was nowhere in sight. A tug on her hair made her spin around like a top.
The intelligent eyes of an Arabian stared into her own. He threw his head back and nickered, as if chuckling at his little prank. She fell in love immediately.
“Good day, handsome,” she murmured. Liz lifted her palm up to his nose, and he chuffed at it, rubbing his soft skin over hers. She stroked the horse’s white blaze, the only break on the coal black animal. “I wish I had something for you. Next time, I’ll bring you some sugar from the kitchens. Does that sound good, handsome?”
“Darkwing,” a voice said from behind.
She whipped her head around. The duke leaned against the far stall, one ankle crossed over the other. Tan riding breeches, taut across his strong thighs, were tucked into black riding boots. That same gabardine riding jacket that he’d worn the day they’d met hugged his torso. A snow-white cravat was knotted at his throat.
Full lips pursed beneath a straight nose, granite eyes flaring when she finally met them. He had taken note of her prolonged surveyal.
A flush heated her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”
“His name.” He strode to the gate and ran his hand down the horse’s nose, his arm brushing against her breast. “My steed’s name is Darkwing. Although I’m sure he doesn’t mind being called handsome. No male does.”
This was the duke’s horse, the animal he trusted more than most men. Of course he’d find her handling his precious horse. Not attending to her duties. Because that was just the way her life had been going.
She took a hasty step back. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll be certain to call him by his correct name in future.” She took a deep breath, and immediately regretted it. His masculine scent filled her lungs, and sent a tickle down her spine.
“For the many times you’ll be in my stable?” Plucking a riding crop off the wall, he flicked it against his boot, waiting for her answer.
“Your Grace, I . . .” No, maids didn’t belong in the stable. Her mind whirled. But no excuse to explain her presence leaped to mind.
He raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I miss my horse,” she blurted out.
The leather tongue of the crop stilled. “You had a horse?”
She focused on the whip, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I did. Years ago, Your Grace. I must return to my duties.” Dropping a hasty curtsy, she turned to leave. A heavy hand on her shoulder stopped her flight. Her gaze fixed on the hand that held her, golden from the sun. “Your Grace?”
“Look at me when you speak.”
She sucked in a breath. Weren’t the servants to a duke supposed to avoid the impertinence of eye contact? She was going to be tossed out on her ear before she’d even completed a search for the letter. “Yes, Your Grace?” A tremor threaded through her voice. She wished she could say it was intentional to cement her role as timid housemaid.
“Where are you from, Miss Smith? Who are your people?” His grip remained firm on her shoulder, but the lines around his eyes softened.
“My people?” She cleared her throat, and Darkwing took exception, shaking his head and pawing at the ground.
Releasing his hold on her, Montague turned to his horse, murmured soothingly while stroking his neck.
Liz seized the opportunity to take another step back. His nearness did funny things to her stomach, and his touch was utterly distracting when she needed a clear head. “My people come from Hampshire, Your Grace. My father was a clerk, and after he passed
I went into service. And I really should be getting back to my work.” The rectangle of light coming from the stable’s open door beckoned.
He didn’t excuse her. “You sound learned. More so than any other maid in my service.”
His curiosity of her situation didn’t bode well. Could he suspect she wasn’t who she pretended? Or was his interest for another reason altogether? His attention to a young, unmarried maid might not be unusual, certainly wasn’t for many men in his position. Westmore encouraged her to use her femininity to her advantage on her jobs, but she’d always found another way to accomplish her task. The idea of using her body now, trying to seduce the information she needed from the duke, wasn’t appealing. But it also wasn’t as distressing as it should have been. A method of last resort, she resolved.
“My father believed in education.” She forced the falsehood off her tongue. Her stays felt like they were cinched two sizes too small. She dug her nails into her palms and focused on keeping her expression even. She could lie with a straight face in order to save her sister. She was raised in a house full of deceit; she should know how it was done.
He tapped the riding crop against his boot, a soft thwacking filling the air. “I see.” His lips twitched before firming into their standard hard line. “In that case, feel free to make use of my library. Anyone from the village may borrow from it. I only ask that you return the books in a better condition than little Billy Jensen, the baker’s boy. I find the pages dusted with flour after he is through with them.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That is most kind.” Why had she bothered looking for Mr. Pike in the first place? If she hadn’t she never would have encountered the duke and fallen prey to this interrogation. If Mr. Pike had a message for her he could find her.
Those granite eyes crawled down her body. The steady tapping of the crop against leather mirrored the rapid beating of her heart. When he examined her like that, she swore he could see beneath her clothes. Her fists tightened.