by Alyson Chase
“Well.” Peggy shifted from one foot to the other. She looked at Liz, then the steward, before dropping her eyes to the floor. “Well. Yes. See that you don’t judge our Lizzie by her second cousin.” Picking up her cup, she plodded from the room.
Mr. Todd straightened his back. His gaze followed the cook out and remained on the empty doorway. “Miss Smith, I trust your disagreement with your cousin will no longer affect this estate. Now, if you will excuse me, I bid you good night.”
Liz trudged up the back staircases to her chambers. Her feet dragged. After that scene, she wondered whether Pike would even bother to deliver her message. She decided he would need to, that Westmore would insist upon such obedience from his men.
But the spark of optimism she’d had while writing the letter snuffed out. She’d been foolish to hope that the risk of her getting caught would matter to the earl. Yes, she was a useful minion, but he had a hundred more to take her place if she was arrested. There was little risk to himself. Even if Liz was caught she could never reveal the earl was behind the scheme. That would spell the end to any hope of her sister being released. Her appeal to Westmore had been nothing but a fool’s paradise.
Her toe caught on the edge of a carpet, her legs heavy, unresponsive. She forced herself to take a step. Another.
Maybe the best thing for her sister would be for Liz to be apprehended. While she awaited trial, she could blackmail the earl into releasing her sister or she would darken his name. In that case, at least the right sister would be punished. Amanda had been living in a prison her whole life, and Liz had been blissfully ignorant of her sister’s misery.
“Willfully ignorant” was more accurate. She hadn’t wanted to see the sickness that ran through her home. If anyone should pay the price with their freedom it should be Liz. Amanda had already paid enough.
She eased open her door. Molly was already softly snoring. Liz quietly disrobed and crawled into her bed in her shift. Gathering a fistful of the thin quilt, she tucked it under her chin. Her sympathies lingered with Peggy’s hurt, but right now she envied the woman. A worn bit of fabric was a poor substitute for a kitten to cuddle with.
Chapter Eight
Liz paused mid-stride on her way to the morning parlor. Raised voices had her peering around the doorway of the gold salon. Three maids and a footman argued over the removal of a painting.
Liz pursed her lips. It was unbecoming for the servants of a ducal estate to be heard speaking above a soft murmur. But tempers ran high as everyone raced to put Hartsworth in perfect order before the arrival of guests the next day.
Mr. Todd had given them notice that morning that the duke was to receive a party on the morrow, a brother and sister of Montague’s acquaintance and some of their friends, and the maids had immediately let their displeasure be known about the short notice. After the steward had admonished them that it was their duty to be ready for any eventuality at any time, he’d admitted that he also had only learned of the guests’ imminent arrival. Some members of Polite Society, he’d said, didn’t understand the etiquette that required notice before descending en masse upon the duke.
Molly’s skirts swished past hers as she hustled to a window. Liz pushed her bucket with her foot to the next section of floor to clean. The carpets were outside receiving a good beating, and it was her job to scour the oak parquet floors until they gleamed. Floors that would be covered under the hand-knotted pile carpets and that no one would see.
She sighed and dropped to her knees. Her shoulders ached and her knees had bruises. And for what? She didn’t understand this whirlwind of activity, the near hysteria of cleaning. The estate was cleaned every day. It was a beautiful house that was always prepared for guests. She plunged a rag into the soapy bucket and began scrubbing.
Mr. Todd was right about her. She wasn’t of a caliber to serve on a duke’s estate. From the daughter of a gentleman to not being good enough to be a chambermaid. The thought depressed her. Still, she had to admit that when the oval of her face reflected back at her through the wet shine of her efforts, a small streak of pride coursed through her body. Labor could be rewarding.
The steward bustled into the parlor and stood next to Molly. “There are two streaks in the left corner. When the footmen arrive with the ladder, I do hope you will take more care with the upper windows.”
“Of course, Mr. Todd,” Molly said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She tossed her rag into her bucket of water and vinegar, and a few drops splashed onto the steward’s trousers. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I do hope that won’t stain.” Bending, she swiped at the moisture.
“Clumsy girl!” He pushed her hand away and pulled out a handkerchief. “You’re fortunate I’m too busy to deal with your comportment. Now, get back to work.”
He turned to go, and Liz put her head down and scrubbed with all her force.
“Miss Smith,” he said stiffly as he walked out.
A stifled shriek snapped her head up. “Ooh, that man.” Molly stamped her foot. “I’ve had enough of him, ordering me here and there, badgering me about my windows. Look at them,” she ordered, pointing to the clear glass. “Not a streak on them. I know my business.”
Molly crossed her arms over her chest. Tapped the toes of one foot.
“Very clean,” Liz agreed.
The redhead snorted. “So clean the duke himself could eat off of them.” She yanked her bucket up, water sloshing over the side.
Liz hurried to the puddle and dried it with her rag, all the while picturing the taciturn duke trying to eat a meal as it slid down the window. Her lips curved at the absurdity.
Molly wasn’t done fuming. She turned from the French doors and kicked the settee’s leg.
Liz bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain how to handle the display of temper. In her house, anger was subsumed, sadness papered over with serene smiles, and passion unheard of. She’d never seen the true depths of her sister’s misery. Or her father’s depravity. Now, faced with such an overt display of emotion, she didn’t know what was expected.
Molly punched a closed fist into the palm of her other hand. “I’m about to lose my mind, I am.” A little more Cockney crept into her voice. “That old goat needs to be put in his place. Do you know he’s corrected me eight times this morning? Eight times! I counted. Talking to me like I’m no better than a scullery maid. I need—” She broke off, chest heaving, as a smile stretched across her face. Striding across the room, she plucked a porcelain figurine from the mantel before leaving the parlor.
Liz’s stomach dropped to her freshly washed floor. Something about the determined set to Molly’s shoulders spelled trouble. And trouble was something Liz had always tried to avoid.
She scurried after her chamber-mate. “What are you going to do?”
Molly peeked into one room after the other. “Just going to take the edge off.” Glancing at Liz’s worried face, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry yourself. I’m only going to have a bit of fun before getting back to work. I think this will help Mr. Todd’s comportment, as well.” She sashayed down a set of stairs and found her quarry in the ballroom.
Liz hovered at the wide doorway. Something bad was about to happen. Something she couldn’t stop. A pit opened in her stomach, the feeling all too familiar.
Molly skirted an immense crystal chandelier that had been lowered to the floor for cleaning. Stopping next to the steward, she said, “Mr. Todd, I wanted to show you this chip on—Oh no!” The figurine she held up to Mr. Todd’s face slipped through her fingers and crashed to the parquet floor. The crack as it broke into three pieces echoed around the cavernous room.
Mr. Todd squatted on the floor, came up with the wreckage. “You clumsy ninny! The sixth Duke of Montague acquired this on a tour through Holland. It’s ruined.”
“Oh dear. It slipped right through my fingers.” Placing a hand on her chest, Molly took a step backwards. The sound of breaking glass sent another echo through the ballroom. Molly lifted up the heel of her
boot, and eyed the crushed crystal prism. “Oh, Mr. Todd, I didn’t see that there. I’ve destroyed another of the duke’s possessions.”
Liz’s brow furrowed. Had Molly emphasized the word “another”? Why was she trying to get in trouble?
“Miss Davies, this is unacceptable.” His jowls quivered. “Unacceptable, do you hear?”
Molly nodded, meekly hung her head, her hands clasped in front of her. Everyone in the room had stopped working. The two maids crouched by the chandelier put down their rags to watch the scene unfold. A footman stood frozen on a chair, the painting he was hanging tilting at a forty-five-degree angle behind him on the wall.
Mr. Todd glared at each of them in turn until their rags were picked back up. Tugging at his waistcoat, he tilted his head so he could look down his nose at Molly. “Such clumsiness cannot go unpunished. Wait for me in my office.”
Molly rushed from the room, winking at Liz as she passed her in the doorway. She almost skipped down the hall.
Liz pressed a hand to her stomach. What sort of punishment awaited her chamber-mate? She shifted on her feet, and glanced back at Mr. Todd.
An angry flush crawled up his neck. “Let this be a lesson for everyone. Clumsiness will not be tolerated. Care must be taken in all your duties.” He circled around the chandelier. “Find a replacement prism, and when you’ve finished cleaning it, ask Mr. Hoffman or Mr. Aubry to rehang the chandelier for you.”
Liz ran for the nearest door and ducked into a sitting room. Mr. Todd passed by, his shoulders rounding softly as he headed for his office.
She tapped her fingers against her thigh. She should return to her duties. With Molly detained, there was even more work on Liz’s plate. But Molly had been so eager as she’d hurried to her punishment. A punishment she herself had orchestrated. Liz wanted to understand why.
And the carpet would cover the floor, in any event. If a speck of dust remained no one would be the wiser.
Racing for the nearest entrance to the hidden servants’ passages, she slipped in, easing the door shut behind her. She shuffled through the dim passageway, fortunate that little streams of light shone from the peepholes and from beneath doors. As her eyesight adjusted to the dim light, she increased her step, and hurried around the corner to the set of peepholes that looked upon the steward’s office.
Molly stood before his desk, eyes lowered and hands clasped behind her back. Mr. Todd paced behind her. He didn’t speak, but sighed loudly, shaking his head. On his third pass, he walked to a cabinet and took a thin cane down from off the back of the door.
He resumed his pacing. At each sharp turn, he would glare at the back of Molly’s head. Tapping the flexible shaft of wood on his palm, he stopped behind her and squared his shoulders, his face hardening.
Liz held her breath and leaned closer, her eyelashes fluttering against the cut stone. This was a duty for Mr. Todd, a chore he didn’t want. How perverse that the disciplinarian was uncomfortable and the disciplinee looking forward to her punishment? That couldn’t be what the steward intended.
He cleared his throat, and the side of Molly’s mouth twitched upward. Mr. Todd gripped the piece of birch until his knuckles turned white. “Gather your skirts, Miss Davies. Drawers only.” Molly lifted the black cotton to her waist, giving the steward a view of her underthings. Liz would have been scandalized in her place, but both Molly and Mr. Todd acted as though this practice were commonplace.
“You may rest against my desk,” he said, and resumed pacing behind her bent form. “Do you know why you are here, Miss Davies?”
“Yes, sir. I was very clumsy.”
“Clumsy at a time when the household is most busy preparing for a visit.” The thin cane swished harmlessly through the air. “Because of your clumsiness, you not only broke one, but two of the duke’s possessions. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Molly’s voice was all meekness, but Liz was no longer fooled.
“That can’t be tolerated in a house such as Hartsworth. There are consequences for your actions.” He stopped at her side. “I don’t relish my task, but it is for your own good. You will become a better maid for it. Thirty strikes. Count them out.”
Without any more time for Liz to prepare, the steward whipped his hand around, the cane whistling through the air. The soft crack, muffled by Molly’s underclothes, made Liz jerk.
“One.” Molly had closed her eyes. Did she regret her rashness? The cane descended again.
A bead of sweat trickled behind the collar of Liz’s gown. Her hands itched to cover her own bottom. It must hurt. Each stroke a streak of fire on Molly’s flesh. Why the deuces had she done it?
The birch whistled through the air. Molly gasped, and Liz covered her own mouth. She could watch no more. She stepped back.
Into a hard wall of muscle.
* * *
Marcus leaned forward, slapping his palms against the stone wall on either side of Miss Smith. Aside from a twitch of her shoulders against his chest, his maid stood frozen, like a doe startled by a hunter.
“Looking at something interesting, Miss Smith?”
“Your Grace. I . . . I . . . Molly.”
Lowering his head, he curled his body around hers to press an eye to one of the spy holes. He inhaled sharply. So this was what his little maid was rushing to see? When he’d seen her push into one of the back passageways, a lovely flush coloring her cheeks, he’d felt it his duty to follow. See if anything was amiss.
He hadn’t expected this. The lovely Miss Smith liked to watch. His cock pulsed, and he dug his fingers into the rough stone. “Hmm. A discipline session.” Drawing his head back, Montague whispered in her ear, “A friend of yours?”
“My chamber-mate.” She was so close. If she turned her face the slightest bit he could lean in, brush his lips against her own. “She broke a figurine. That’s all she did.”
“And you object to her punishment.” She worried her lip between small, even teeth, and Marcus wanted nothing more than to suck that lip into his mouth, lick the sting away. Sodding hell, what was wrong with him? She was his maid. A soft voice whispered in his mind, But would it be so bad, to play, just a little? She’s so ripe for the plucking. So sweet. And curious.
Damn. Why did she have to be curious? He sucked in a deep breath, a mistake that close to her. “Each of our actions has consequences, Miss Smith. What you see here had a cause.” He peered into the office again. In the silence, he heard the chit on his steward’s desk call out the number twelve. Montague edged forward, nudging Miss Smith’s body closer to the peephole with his own. “I believe you should watch.”
A distressed whimper escaped her lips, and he pressed her even closer.
“Shhh.” His breath blew a fine hair across her cheek. “She’s not truly being hurt. Look at her expression.”
She twisted her neck, looking up at him. Her dark eyes glittered in the low light. She licked her lips, that sweet bud of a mouth just inches from his.
“It’s all right, Miss Smith. Just watch.” His voice caught, the back of his throat clogged. If she didn’t turn away right that instant, to hell with the consequences. He was taking her mouth, taking her. Right up against the fucking wall.
She took a deep breath, and turned back to the twin rays of light emanating from the spy holes. She pressed her right eye to the left hole. Montague brushed his cheek against hers as he looked through the other.
The girl, Molly, appeared anything but chastised. The maid’s fair skin was flushed. She grimaced at the next blow, but her eyes crinkled with an impish delight.
The air whistled as the birch bent and snapped across her bottom. “Sixteen!” she yelled.
Miss Smith leaned closer. The sound of her heavy breathing filled the corridor.
“Do you see that?” Marcus asked. “The way your friend clenches her skirts when the cane lands. The arch of her back as she lifts her bottom to the birch. She’s focused, intent on one thing only. The next strike.” Under other circumstances, M
arcus would have relished the sight. Watching a woman enjoying a discipline session could be tantalizing.
He’d rather watch Miss Smith. The smallest reactions, from the flutter of a pulse at her throat to the shifting of her hips, those sent all the blood south. His balls felt heavy. His cock ached. And she was only observing a discipline session. How would he feel if she were the one bent over the desk?
“With each strike, your friend looks more at peace.” He huffed softly. “Which is more than I can say for Mr. Todd. I see that being the disciplinarian is as distasteful to him now as it was when I was a lad.”
She started, her soft cheek brushing against his jaw. “Mr. Todd disciplined you?”
“Me and my brother. On my parents’ orders, of course.” He tilted his head. “Your previous position, you were never . . .”
“No!” She lowered her voice. “No, Your Grace.” Her eye was drawn back to the office.
“What do you like about it?” he asked.
“I . . . I don’t like anything about it.”
He brought his lips to her ear. “I can feel your heart pounding against my chest, like the wings of a little bird trying to escape its cage. Your breath rate has increased. Your temperature has shot up. The body doesn’t lie.”
“You make me nervous, Your Grace. That’s all.” Her eyebrows drew together. “But—”
“Yes, little bird?”
Her lips twisted up at the nickname. “Why does Molly seem to like it?”
He smothered a laugh. Christ, she was precious.
“I fail to see the humor, Your Grace,” she bit out. “You don’t understand. She wanted this. She broke the figurine on purpose. Oh!” She spun within his arms. “I didn’t mean to say that. She won’t get into even more trouble, will she?”
He shook his head. “Not more than she’s already received. Although please tell her not to make a habit out of destroying my property in her attempt to subvert the power structure.”
Her nipples brushed against his chest on her next shaky breath. Marcus ground his jaws together so tightly they ached.