Page 21 of Disciplined by the Duke
“Very well. It’s several miles back to Hartsworth. I’ll give you a ride.” Turning, he began walking her towards his horse.
“That’s not necessary, Your Grace.” She stumbled, and he tightened his grip, keeping her upright. “I enjoy the walk.”
“And now you may enjoy the ride. Besides,” he said, looking up to examine the cooperative skies, “a storm is coming in and we can’t let you get caught in it.”
“Really, Your Grace, a little rain . . .”
Raising an eyebrow, he arrowed the same look at her that he gave to dissidents in Parliament. She pressed her full lips together.
“Did you argue this much with Lord Westmore, Miss Smith? I do think you forget your place.” A stain of pink flushed her cheeks and crept down her neck. He wondered how low her blush went, and his cock stirred behind his trousers.
Instead of thinking on what he shouldn’t, Marcus focused on settling his maid onto Darkwing. Placing his hands under her ribs, he ignored the slight tremor beneath her gown and stays. As quickly as he could, he lifted and placed her at the front of his saddle, one of her legs cocked in front of it, the other hanging down in front of the stirrup. He leaped up behind her.
His saddle was not meant for two. He started Darkwing at a sedate pace, but with each step the horse took, she rocked into him. The air sizzled in the scant inches of space between their bodies. Space he would love nothing more than to cross.
“So.” He cleared his throat. He needed a topic of conversation that would take his mind off the fact that his cock lay an inch from her arse. “How are you faring at Hartsworth? Are your needs being met?”
In her position riding sidesaddle, she could easily turn to look back at him. “My needs? What an odd question.”
Indeed. She was there to serve his needs. But Marcus did feel that keeping his servants content was optimal on all accounts. They worked harder, enjoyed their situation more, and a relationship of mutual respect between the duke and his domestics led to fostered trust. It was shocking how easy it was for him to bribe the domestic help of fellow aristocrats when the servants held no esteem for their master.
He prodded Darkwing’s sides and the stallion quickened his pace. “It’s my duty as the Duke of Montague to ensure the well-being of those under my command. That duty doesn’t only extend to my tenants and the villagers, but to everyone.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” At the faster movement of the horse, she struggled to maintain her seat high on the saddle. Gripping Darkwing’s mane, she hefted herself forward. “My situation is most acceptable.”
He snorted. Acceptable was a two-year-old whiskey on a night when he needed to forget. This woman should have more than merely acceptable. She deserved a fine cognac. It was a pity she’d been born into such a lowly station. With her bearing, education, and appearance, she could rival the wives of any in his class.
“Do let me know if you have any suggestions to improve the situation of you and those around you. I take my duty very seriously.”
Her wide brown eyes filled his vision, and dropped away as quickly. “As do I, Your Grace.” She faced forward. “Duty is very important.”
He wondered what duties a chambermaid could have, besides the domestic ones. Her shoulders drooped as if the weight of the world were hers alone to bear.
Darkwing spotted a hare on the next hill, and Marcus let him have his head. The sudden speed sent Miss Smith sliding down the leather of the saddle and onto his lap.
“I apologize, Your Grace!” Placing one hand on his thigh, she pushed herself up only to bounce back down. “I can’t seem to regain my seat.”
“Please desist,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re only making matters worse.”
“Worse than what?” she asked, and began to tip off the horse.
Grasping the reins in one hand, Marcus circled his other around her waist, securing her to him. Her bottom was now solidly between his thighs and, with every gallop, rubbing against his most sensitive bits. He waited, expecting an exclamation of shock or outrage at what she must feel hardening beneath her seat.
Her expression didn’t change as she awaited a response to her question. An innocent then, unaware of the reaction men had to her presence. Darkwing leaped across a shallow trough, and Marcus pulled her tighter, the side of one soft breast flattened against his chest. Her pupils widened; her bosom heaved. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one responding to their proximity. The idea that she wasn’t immune to him sent a spiral of satisfaction coiling in his gut.
But that was dangerous. His policy of not bedding his help was well formed, but if she was as attracted to him as he was to her it might be difficult to maintain.
She turned forward, giving up on his answer. A lock of dark hair escaped her tight chignon and trailed down her back. His eyes were drawn to the square of exposed skin at her nape. The loose mahogany strand crossed the patch of skin, stark against her fairness. Such a small bit of flesh presented up to him.
He tightened his hand at her waist, digging into her stays. It was either that or give in to the irresponsible urge to press his lips to that teasing bit of skin.
Marcus turned Darkwing towards home. The sooner this woman was off his lap, the better. They galloped over the hillsides, the black stallion eating up the miles. By the time they arrived at the stable, Marcus was so hard he could pound nails with his cock. He handed her down to Mr. Pike and was thankful his greatcoat was long enough to conceal his state when he dismounted.
She played with her hair, tucking loose strands back into their place. “Thank you, Your Grace. I, uh, will return this shortly.” She held up the volume, and he nodded. Taking it as a dismissal, she scurried from the yard, shooting a frown at the groom along the way.
He handed the reins off and directed that Darkwing be given an extra cup of oats. For putting up with his foolishness, the horse deserved it. He strolled back to his study, deep in thought. A maid who read French, didn’t genuflect before him, and appeared to be a complete innocent. All most unusual in the serving class. She was as rare as the floweringCaleana majorin his conservatory.
But those orchises were deadly. Their beauty hid the poison that lay deep within. His London-based man of affairs was knee deep in background checks for this business with Lord Liverpool. No matter, he would add one more to the list. As much as he wanted to believe that Miss Smith was a charming peculiarity of her class, Marcus had learned never to take anyone at face value.
