Page 32 of Disciplined by the Duke
Digging the nail of her middle finger into her palm, she blew out a long stream of air. “While all the gentlemen here look very nice, I believe the style of dress the duke employs suits him well. Some men aren’t meant to follow the latest fashions.”
“Hmph.” Lady Arabelle turned her head between the duke and the earl, lips pursed. “Well, I believe you’re wrong, but perhaps it’s my fault for seeking counsel on fashion from a chambermaid. You may go now.”
Lord Spencer smirked. “That is hardly fair, Belle. You wanted the opinion of a woman and you got it. Just because it wasn’t what you wanted to hear doesn’t mean you can be so dismissive. Sometimes you have to admit you’re wrong.”
Liz backed up a step, unsure if her part in this conversation was over. Montague watched her like a cat does a bird. Eyes unblinking, every muscle in his body coiled for action, ready to spring upon her at the slightest misstep.
Rothchild stepped between them, breaking the invisible current running between the two. “I must agree that different styles suit different men. Just as no other woman would look as lovely in that dress as you, no other man will look as good in pantaloons as I do.” He winked bawdily at Arabelle, who grinned up at him. “Although I must say that anyone who asks a servant whose livelihood depends upon the duke’s good graces to compare him to other men is destined for a biased report.” He clapped a hand on Montague’s shoulder and turned him to face the other guests. Liz was blocked out of the conversation, effectively dismissed.
She dropped a quick curtsy in case anyone watched, and hurried from the room, her heart hammering like an anvil. She fled to the duke’s study, and into the back passages, pulling the door shut tight behind her. Leaning against the stone wall, she inhaled deeply and let the darkness and cool air calm her frazzled nerves.
Nothing was going the way she’d planned. She wasn’t supposed to engage with the guests. Anonymity was an asset that she was squandering. She wasn’t supposed to be wasting time with silly fashion questions. And she definitely was not supposed to feel as delighted as a child with a new toy whenever she encountered the duke. She had one job to do.
Pushing off from the wall, she made her way to the second floor where the duke’s chamber lay.
It was time to get back to work.
* * *
Darkwing’s flanks heaved between his thighs. Marcus was driving his horse too hard, and a rush of guilt twisted his stomach. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his mount to an easy walk, and patted the sweaty neck of the beast he liked better than most people.
“Sorry, boy. We’ll walk from here.” The pointed ears twitched, and Darkwing shook his head up and down. Apparently he was not yet forgiven.
“Dammit, Marcus.” Rothchild pulled his horse to a stop next to him, man and horse both out of breath. “Had I known this was to be a race I would have chosen a faster mount. What has gotten into you?”
“Nothing.” The duke tightened his fist in the reins. “I didn’t ask you to accompany me today. You can always turn back and have tea with the ladies if this is too strenuous for you.”
His friend blew out a frustrated breath and fell into step beside him. “Have I not ridden with the insipid Lady Arabelle and her retinue each morning in your stead? Do not think to send me back into their clutches when I can have an afternoon of freedom in the out-of-doors.” He took a deep breath of fresh air as if to emphasize his point. “Besides, you’re meeting with one of your informants on a matter that you’ve brought me into. It’s now a matter of my concern, as well.”
Marcus inclined his head. His friend was of course welcome to this meeting at the village tavern. Just because he was as restless as a six-year-old at church was no reason to take his frustration out on his friend, or his horse. His mind needed to settle on the matter at hand. The security of England was at stake. He never allowed his personal life to interfere with his duties before, and he would be damned if fantasies of his maid clouded his mind now. No, that little bird was definitely locked out of his musings, for good.
“So, your new maid, have you tupped her yet?”
Marcus swallowed saliva down his air pipe, and started coughing furiously. Rothchild clapped a hand to his back, but the duke shrugged him off. When he could breathe again, he turned in his saddle and glared at his friend. “What the devil kind of question is that? You know I don’t dally with my servants.”
Rothchild raised a black eyebrow. “I know that used to be your policy. But the way you were looking at, Miss Smith, was it? I was sure that had changed.”
“Well, you were wrong.” He gripped the reins, and Darkwing tossed his head. “And what do you mean ‘by the way I was looking at her’? I look at her as I look at any of my maids.”
A full-throated laugh tumbled from his friend’s mouth. He held his side as though it would split.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Are you finished?” His voice could have frozen water.
“Just about.” Rothchild chuckled for a couple more seconds before sighing deeply, a smile curving his lips. “Thank you. I needed that amusement.”
Marcus growled.
The earl merely smiled wider. “Come, come. You do not truly believe that Miss Smith is like any other maid to you. No, don’t try to convince me otherwise. I have never seen you look upon any other servant, or any other woman for that matter, as you did your maid. It was positively indecent.”
Marcus turned his horse from the field they were crossing onto the dirt road that led to the village. He considered his friend’s words. No other woman challenged his self-control the way his little bird did, but that didn’t mean she was incomparable to other women. He’d lusted after plenty. He just found her more intriguing, more sensuous. The fact that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen didn’t mean . . . Damn it!
He goaded Darkwing into a faster walk. For fuck’s sake, he was infatuated with the chit. It was time he admitted it. That didn’t mean he would act on his attraction. He rubbed at his chest absently. Why, of all the women to whom he’d been introduced, did the one who caught his eye have to be a servant? One so far beneath his station as to be virtually impossible to have a relationship with?
Marcus had been raised with the understanding that it was his duty to marry well and breed future heirs for the Montague line. It was a future he had contented himself to. But until he’d met Miss Smith, he hadn’t given much consideration to the woman he would align himself with.
Now he knew what he wanted. A woman with strict self-control on the outside, but with a fire raging within, flames that only he could stoke and satisfy. A woman like Miss Smith. He sighed. There must be someone like her among the ton, he supposed. A woman who could make him forget the dark flashing eyes of his little maid. The thought left him oddly depressed.
Slumping his shoulders, he glanced at his friend. “Was it that obvious to everyone?”
