Page 50 of Disciplined by the Duke
“No.” He watched her pace back and forth in front of him, his shoulder blades drawing closer together with each of her strides.
“Then might I ask why you have determined to never marry me? As you say, our families are close. Your parents would have approved of the match. We are of a similar station and age.” She stopped in front of him, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Whyever not me?”
Pressure began to build beneath his skull. Being that they were of similar station, he should not have to be so explicit. His subtle warnings to her over the years should have been sufficient to get his point across. “You are not suitable.”
She took a quick step back and raised a hand to her cheek as though he’d slapped her. “I am not suitable to be a duchess?”
“You are not suitable to bemyduchess. Our characters are too different. You are high-spirited and wild. Those are not characteristics I desire in a wife. Other dukes may feel differently.” That was as plain as he could be. He hoped it did not ruin the friendship with her parents.
Her blue eyes glittered dangerously. “This is about James. You continue to blame me for his death.”
“No.” Marcus spoke the truth. He no longer did. “My brother’s death was my fault. I made the decision to let you take the reins. The responsibility was mine.”
Looking away, he squinted into the sun’s rays. She gently squeezed his arm. He glanced down, and the petulance was gone from her face. He saw the girl he and James used to play with.
“Can’t you accept there are accidents in life that happen beyond anyone’s control? Why does someone have to be at fault?” A breeze ruffled the absurd feather sticking up from her bonnet.
“A man must take responsibility for his actions.” Tucking her gloved hand back into the crook of his arm, he headed back the way they came. His shoulders lifted. One task was done. Now he could focus completely on his duty to his country, discovering the spy within their midst.
The image of his maid bent over his desk, skirts raised, invaded his thoughts. Once he removed her from his mind,thenhe would focus completely on his duty. Now, how to rid her from his thoughts?
Arabelle cocked her head, and Marcus jerked his own back to escape the damned feather attacking his nose. “High-spirited? What an absurd thing to say.” Her ice blue eyes glared into his. “Are you looking for a meek little mouse to be your duchess? I must say that would disappoint me.”
“Not a mouse.” Penetrating dark brown eyes and a stubborn chin could hardly be thought of as timid. “A woman can be strong willed and still not feel the need to express every emotion she feels as she feels it. Restraint and discipline in equal measure with passion.”
She sniffed. “Sounds tiresome. Your future duchess, whoever she may be, will not be nearly as amusing as I.”
His lips quirked. That would all depend. If he could find a society woman like Liz he would never tire of peeling away her layers. He glanced down at the bobbing feather. He could never love a woman like Arabelle, but for the first time since his brother’s death her insouciance didn’t irritate him. Perhaps there was hope in finding a proper match with a woman of the ton.
As long as he didn’t cross paths with his curious little bird. One glimpse of her and thoughts of any other woman fled from his mind.
So that settled it. He would avoid his maid, which shouldn’t be difficult. He rarely saw most of his servants. They were so competent at their duties that his estate seemed to be run by unseen fairie folk.
He would overlook her, keep her in the background. Unease coiled in his gut as he and Arabelle approached the stone walls of the east wing, and his steps slowed. Somewhere behind those walls Liz worked. Slept. Smiled.
He was mad if he thought he could ignore her.
* * *
Liz spun around at the sound behind her, but it was only Molly, lugging in a painting that had been reframed to place along the hallway’s wall. Hurrying to help, Liz grabbed one end of the frame, and they positioned the landscape until it hung evenly.
“Cor, what is with you today?” her chamber-mate asked. “You’ve been as nervous as an old maid in a roomful of sailors.”
Liz brushed her rag over the wood frame. “As colorful as that may be, I don’t know what you mean. I am quite content.”
The other maid snorted. “If you say so.” Molly studied her, and Liz squirmed under the scrutiny. “Are you still feeling ill? Are you sure you don’t have a problem?” She made a rounding motion with her hands over her stomach.
“No! I have no problems.” She bustled to a maple console table and began plucking dying buds from the huge bouquet sitting upon it. No problems except a sister in prison, a letter to find, and a duke she couldn’t get out of her thoughts.
She sighed. Yesterday had been incredible. Thrilling. Satisfying. Dangerous.
Stupid.
She had let herself fall under Montague’s spell. She had forgotten her purpose, and that was a problem. She needed to refocus on her mission and find that letter, if it existed. From the tone of Westmore’s last note to her, it sounded as though he was beginning to doubt the letter was in Hartsworth, as well. Liz figured he would give her a week more, maybe two, before calling her back to London. Assigning her a new task that would eat at her conscience. Leaving Amanda in limbo for several more weeks.
Closing her hand around a rosebud, she crushed the soft pink petals. For a couple minutes she had escaped her problems.
But that was yesterday.