Page 12 of Disciplined by the Duke
“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.
A hiss of air was her only warning. A lick of heat sliced across her left fist as the leather tongue of his crop rapped her closed hand. It shocked her more than hurt, and in her surprise she relaxed her fists. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at the duke, wide-eyed. “Your Grace!” Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper.
He cleared his throat, resumed flicking his boot. “You will need those hands for your work, I presume. It wouldn’t do for you to damage them.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She pressed her palms to her stomach. An ache gnawed at her, unsettling. “I . . . I need to be going.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Yes. So do I.” Opening the stall gate, he threw a blanket over Darkwing’s back.
Taking that as her dismissal, Liz stumbled backwards, turned for the door.
“Miss Smith.”
She hesitated, but didn’t look back. She didn’t want him to see the swirl of emotion she couldn’t keep from flashing across her face. Confusion the main one. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“On your afternoons when you’re free, you are welcome to ride one of my horses. I will notify the head groom that you have my permission.”
Her head turned so she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at her back, and she felt his gaze like a brand. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She took another step.
“Oh, and Miss Smith. There will be no more self-inflicted damage to your person. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She fled out the door before he could say another word.
* * *
Liz bumped the volume of French poetry with her elbow, and the book nearly toppled to the floor. She caught it with one hand and returned it to the desk. It was her nominal excuse in case anyone found her in the duke’s library. She’d come to return a book.
What she needed to do was return to her room before anyone caught her trying to lever open the one locked drawer in the duke’s desk. Every day that passed that she didn’t find the letter with the purple seal made her more frantic. Her urgency was causing her to be careless. A faint scrape in the wood of the drawer showed in the candlelight, damning her. She would need to make cleaning the library on the morrow her first task, and buff out the evidence of her prying.
The slim blade of the letter opener caught at the latch, and Liz carefully jogged her tool until she heard the soft click of the release. She held her breath as she pulled the drawer out.
Lowering her candle, she bent her head to peer into the depths of the drawer. And hissed out a sigh of disgust.
It didn’t contain one solitary piece of paper.
Tomorrow night she’d have to attack the locked drawers in the desk in the duke’s study, a more dangerous mission as she had no excuse to be there after dark. Perhaps during the day when the duke was out and she could make it look like she was cleaning?
Liz shuffled aside a length of purple silk, and pulled out a small wooden box. She frowned, lifting out a pair of golden loops. Earrings, she supposed, but the size of the clasp seemed too large.