Page 9 of Disciplined by the Duke
“I need to concentrate on each dog individually. Keep the other two occupied, if you will.” He strode to the bench and picked up his coat. With a flick of his wrists, he snapped the coat out flat and laid it out full-length on the grass. “For you to sit on with the dogs.”
Liz settled herself cross-legged on the fine wool and plopped the puppies in her lap. “I hesitate to point out that your coat most likely cost ten times as much as this dress.” Running her fingers over the soft superfine, she squinted up at the duke. “While a nice gesture, it was hardly necessary.”
Montague bent to one knee in front of the remaining fawn-colored pup. “Don’t be silly. That coat is at least one hundred times your dress’s worth.” One corner of his lips edged up.
Her hand froze on the thick fabric. Was the duke making a joke?
The rascal who’d made the duke’s boot a chew toy turned his attention to the hem of the coat, the coat that cost a small fortune. She pulled the fabric from between his sharp fangs and rolled him on his back, rubbing his belly.
Montague stood and backed up ten paces, never breaking eye contact with his dog. “Besides, I have a most efficient household. I’m sure a maid will clean it well.”
Liz snapped her back ramrod straight. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She petted her puppies as the duke went over the command with his pup. After only a few minutes, the dog trotted obediently to his master whenever the duke called, “Come!” It didn’t hurt that the man had a pocketful of bits of bacon that he doled out judiciously.
Grabbing his pup by the scruff of his neck, he deposited the dog in her lap and grabbed the chewer.
Training didn’t go as smoothly with that one. The duke stood over the black and brown dog, leveling a stern look at his pupil, to no avail. The dog yipped at Montague and charged him, head down, bouncing off the duke’s boot and rolling to his side.
Kneeling, Montague settled the dog into a seated position and told him to stay.
The dog pounced on a dandelion.
A smile flashed across Liz’s face before she shut it down.
“Does something amuse you, Miss Smith?” he asked, not looking up from the dog.
“No, Your Grace.” A burr in her puppy’s coat garnered her full attention. She eased it out between her fingers.
“No? I could have sworn Reginald did something to make you smile.”
“I’m certain your training techniques are most effective.” She paused, tilting her head. “Reginald?” Liz watched the pup stretch on his stomach, his hind legs splayed out straight behind him in an almost human position. His tongue lolled from the side of his mouth. “What an absurd name for such a dog.”
One golden eyebrow winged up. “Absurd? I named the dogs myself.”
Liz shifted on the coat. “Unfitting, then. I can only assume when you named him he was too young yet to show his personality. That dog is no stuffy Reginald.” The black and brown puppy crawled forward, his legs dragging behind him. “Scamp, perhaps. Or Mischief. But never Reginald.”
The dog quirked his head, popped up onto his feet, and trotted over to her.
“But he responds to his name,” Montague said. “I can’t change it now and confuse the beast. I already have concerns over this one’s ability to follow orders. I fear he will not make it as a hunting dog.”
Liz picked up Reggie—he could never be Reginald—and cradled him close. His moist tongue rasped along her chin. She liked his independence. A lot of will was contained in that small, squirming body. And taking orders was overrated.
Her sister had meekly complied with every order of their father’s, right up until the day she’d plunged a knife into his side. Liz had never understood how despicable some of those orders had been until she’d visited her sister in prison and learned the truth.
“You wish to break his spirit? Bend him to your will?” Blinking, Liz was horrified to feel the burn of tears behind her lids. Clamping her jaw tight, she willed them away.
A pair of black Hessians planted before her at the edge of his coat. The leather was buffed to such a shine, Liz could see a shadow of her reflection on the shafts.
“Look at me.” His voice was quiet. Kind. But no less commanding than when he gave orders to his steward. Or his dogs.
Her gaze rose over hard thighs, the fall of his trousers, the flat expanse of his stomach, and the wider expanse of his chest. She looked up until his eyes captured hers and held on. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes weren’t the gray of unyielding stone anymore, but rather the shifting silvers and subdued greens of an ocean tossing in a storm.
“I don’t make a habit out of breaking anyone’s, anything’s, spirit.” Dropping to a squat, Montague ran his fingers under Reggie’s jaw.
The heat from his body, his sudden nearness, curled around Liz. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. But she was swamped with his scent, and her pulse ratcheted up even higher.
“Sometimes animals need to be molded so they can become their best selves. Guidance, a firm hand, training.” His breath bloomed across her cheek with every word. “My horse, Darkwing, has as much spirit as he did as a foal. I merely redirected it to productive channels. Now, he and I have a partnership. We each trust the other.” His lips quirked. “More so than I do most men.”