Page 11 of Disciplined by the Duke
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.
