Page 30 of Disciplined by the Duke
“Tell me now and I will listen.” And forget soon thereafter, he was sure. Arabelle Toller was as interesting as a piece of glass, and as transparent. Over the years she had proven herself impulsive, reckless, and self-centered. There was no maliciousness in her, but the people around her were hurt all the same. He’d forgiven her for her part in his brother’s death, but he could never forget the part her wildness took in the tragedy.
He listened with half an ear as she complained about the steed he had given her for their morning rides. Her pale blue eyes had a feral look about them, as though she were feverish. Nothing like the pair of brown eyes he saw when he closed his own, a brown as dark and smooth as his favorite Hessians.
Miss Smith wouldn’t chatter at him, pester him until he hid in his study. There was a stillness about her, a singular focus that intrigued him. Dinner with her would be a quiet affair. Perhaps some discussion on literature, about Parliament. She was one of the most composed women of his acquaintance, and it drew him to her like a honeybee to a flower.
He drummed his fingers on his armrest. If he admired her composure why did he want nothing more than to strip her of her control, set free the raging cauldron of emotions that bubbled beneath the surface? It made no sense.
“Monty!” Arabelle’s voice was an exasperated whine.
“You believe Buttercup does not like you. Yes, I heard.”
“So you will let me ride Darkwing then?”
“What?” He focused fully on her. “No, of course not. It would be too dangerous.” For Darkwing, a horse he was not willing to risk.
“But you said I could have a challenging mount.” She wrapped a coil of hair around her finger and leaned against the table, her pale breasts threatening to break free from the confines of her low neckline.
He forced his eyes to remain on her face. “And as you very nearly fell jumping the fence on Buttercup, I would say she is a challenging-enough horse.” She started to protest again, and he held up a hand. “No,” he said with finality. “Only I ride Darkwing. No one else.” Except for errant maids who needed a ride back home.
It was easy to ignore Arabelle’s sulking with the memory of that ride fresh in his mind. The press of Miss Smith’s warm back against his chest. The rocking motion of her round bottom prodding against his—
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” a quiet voice said, interrupting his thoughts. A footman holding a silver tray stood beside his chair. Marcus plucked the white calling card from the tray and tossed his napkin on the table.
“Please excuse me,” he said, standing. “Enjoy the remainder of your dinner and I will see you all later in the rose salon.” He strode from the room, glad to escape the insipid company.
Rothchild sat in a wingback chair in his study, a cigar in one hand and a brandy snifter in the other.
“Please, make yourself at home.” Marcus threw himself into his desk chair and narrowed his eyes. “Can I get you anything else? A nice foot rub, perhaps?”
Rothchild puffed at the cigar. “No, I wouldn’t inflict these feet right now on anyone. There was a charming-looking maid I saw, however, that if you’re offering—”
“Not on your life,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. He had many maids, and the odds of Julius seeing his Miss Smith were slight, but still. He didn’t want anyone else looking at her in that manner.
Rothchild lowered his snifter. “It was a joke, Marcus. You do remember those, don’t you?”
Montague grunted, and turned his chair sideways to avoid his friend’s curious stare. He lifted his legs and crossed them at the ankles on his desk. “I assume you’re here for a reason. I know how much you dislike spending time at Hartsworth, drinking my expensive brandy and smoking my cigars imported all the way from the Caribbean.”
One side of Rothchild’s mouth crooked up. “Ah, you do have a sense of humor. Or what passes for it in the Upper Ten Thousand.”
Marcus growled, and Rothchild quickly rose to his feet. “Calm down. Of course I have a reason.” He set his glass down on the desk and reached inside his breast pocket. “I ran into your man just come back from Paris at Jackson’s Saloon. He thought he was being followed and didn’t want to risk being seen traveling to Leicestershire.” He flicked his wrist and a white rectangle of paper landed on Marcus’s blotter. A white letter with a royal purple seal. “So, he gave it to me.”
Marcus picked up the missive and stared at it. He could be holding the death sentence to someone he knew, someone he liked. He pinched the top of his nose and blew out a breath. “Will you stay?” he asked, not looking up.
“Stay? Why?”
Marcus slumped back into his chair. “Because I need you to. I have a houseful of guests who need entertaining, and if this letter contains what I think it does I will be busy for the next several days. And . . .”
Rothchild cocked his head to the side. “And?”
“And it would be nice to have a friend here.”
Rothchild rocked back on his heels. “All right. And not just because you sounded bloody pathetic there and I feel sorry for you. But you seem different, and I want to know why.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. Marcus rose to his feet, pocketed the missive. Its contents could wait until he was alone tonight. “It’s always comforting to know one’s friends will lend a hand out of pity and morbid curiosity.”
“More sarcasm? You really are a changing man.” Julius knocked back his brandy and plastered a charming smile on his face. To the rest of society, the Earl of Rothchild was the life of the party. Only his close friends knew it was an act.
“Lead me to my awaiting admirers.”