Page 43 of Disciplined by the Duke
Liz hurried down the steps. “I’ll do it.” Tossing her rag in a bucket, she smoothed her hands down her skirts. She darted a glance at the duke, and her heart skittered in her chest at the thought of getting closer to him. “I’ll go to the stable and ask for it.”
“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, throwing her own rag down. She stretched her arms into the air. “Anything to stop working for a couple of minutes.”
The two wound their way down the curved granite staircase onto the front lawn. The stable loomed in the distance. Montague rode in tight circles beneath the Roman frieze at its entrance.
As they walked closer, the duke raced the mare the length of the stable, spinning the horse on two feet under a large clay urn in a second-story arch at the far end. He goaded the horse to another arch, made another turn. Using the arches as guideposts, Montague ran the horse back and forth between different points, the horse beneath him responding to every command with precision.
Stumbling over a flat rock, Liz tore her gaze away from man and horse. It wouldn’t do to have anyone notice her attention to the duke. But he drew her into his orbit, a pull as strong as that of the Earth over the moon. She blew out a breath. Probably every young maid had such fancies around the duke. There was nothing special to her feelings.
But did the duke touch every maid as he had Liz? If Peggy was correct Montague didn’t. Which made last night unique. Special. Something intimate shared just between her and the duke.
She let Molly stride ahead, watched her slip into the stable as Liz held back, lingering by the outside wall. Leaning her shoulders against the cool stone wall of the building, she watched the training exercises. Montague was so focused on the horse he was teaching, he didn’t notice his maid tracking his every move.
She’d let the man take scandalous liberties of her, and they’d turned her world upside down. To him, it was just another day.
She pressed her palms flat against the smooth stone so she wouldn’t dig her nails into her palms. She should leave, join Molly in the stable. But her legs didn’t want to move. Montague rose into a half crouch, his leg muscles bunching, his back a rigid line. The hair rose on her nape. The collar of her dress, a soft band of cotton around her neck, became constricting.
She was a fool.
She was at Hartsworth for one reason, and one reason only. To save her sister. Developing feelings for anyone, much less a duke, was out of the question. She simply wouldn’t allow it.
Pushing off the wall, she turned her back on Montague. She took a deep breath. Two. Gathering her calm façade about her like a cloak, she prepared herself to face Molly.
A crashing of hooves was her only warning.
A pile of bricks slammed into her back. Arms wrapped around her waist, and Liz was flying, spinning in mid-air before landing on a hard body. They rolled until Liz was facedown in the dirt, Montague covering her body with his own. The scents of bay rum and sweat mixed with crushed grass filled her nose, making her dizzy.
Or perhaps that was the large man on her back, squeezing the air from her lungs.
She opened her mouth, but only a harsh gasping emerged. Immediately, Montague rolled off of her. He ran his hands along her torso, down her limbs, shouting for the stable master all the while.
Liz lay where she landed, stunned, unable to enjoy the feel of the duke’s hands on her body. His touch was impersonal, searching, and when he reached a sore spot on her ribs she whimpered.
He cursed.
Footsteps pounded their way. “Your Grace!” The stable master loosed a phlegmy cough, tried to catch his breath. “Are you all right?”
“Obviously, I am unharmed,” the duke bit out. “It is Miss Smith I am concerned about. Go fetch the doctor, at once.”
The stable master shouted to someone, and Liz saw a child’s feet race into the stable. The sound of a horse galloping away brought her back to her senses. She was lying facedown on the grass, and she wasn’t quite sure why. Placing her hands under her shoulders, she pressed up.
The duke’s broad palm on her back stopped her. “Easy. We’ll go slowly.” With his assistance, she rolled to her side and up to a seated position. Kneeling beside her, Montague tucked her against his chest, supporting her.
“I’m fine.” Liz turned her head from side to side, trying to figure out what had happened. The chestnut-colored mare stood some thirty feet away, eating a hole in the lawn. A crowd of grooms and Molly stood in a semi-circle around her and the duke, all wearing similar expressions of shock. And a massive clay urn lay on the ground not three feet from her, a large crack running from handle to handle.
Tilting her chin up, she found the arch above where she’d stood empty. She sagged back into the duke, her head resting on his chest.
“Of course you are.” His voice was low, angry. “Brooks, find out how this happened. Now.”
The stable master disappeared inside the structure, and Montague turned his focus back on Liz. “Aside from your ribs, where do you hurt?”
She was sore everywhere. A six-foot-something man had flung himself upon her from his horse, and they’d both landed hard on the ground. She frowned. He’d landed harder and fallen from higher. If anyone needed a doctor it was probably Montague.
“I am uninjured.” Placing a hand on his thigh, she pushed off of him until she sat on her own. His muscle flexed beneath her fingers. “But what happened?”
“I saw the urn wobbling above you.” His breath was hot on her cheek. “Thank the gods Daisy is a fast horse.”
So he’d been watching her, too.