Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(9)

“I find I don’t much like the thought of bits,” Lily murmured.

“No?” he asked. “Would you allow horses to run free?”

“People aren’t horses.”

“No, but servants are quite close,” he retorted. “Both servants and horses live to serve their master—or at least they should do. Otherwise they’re quite useless and need to be put down.”

She stared at him, watching for the twinkle of the eye, the twitch of the lip, to indicate he jested.

His countenance was pleasant but grave.

Was he jesting?

He took a sip of tea, watching her. “Don’t you think so, Miss Goodfellow?”

“No, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, “I do not.”

At that his wide lips did break into a smile—beautiful and corrupt. “You speak your mind, ma’am. How refreshing. Tell me, have you a protector?”

Oh, dear God, she’d rather bed a snake. Not to mention the insultingly frank way he’d made his proposition.

She smiled again—though it was becoming harder and harder to keep her expression polite. “Your Grace flatters me with his attention, but I have no wish for a protector.”

“Don’t you?” He let his gaze travel skeptically over the falling-down theater she lived in. “But no doubt you know best your own circumstance.” His voice was politely doubtful. “I have another use for your, er, person that you might find more to your liking: an acquaintance of mine is hosting a house party in a few weeks and is planning to stage an especially written play as part of the festivities. He has engaged a theatrical troupe of players, but the lead actress has unfortunately found herself unable to play.” He made a slight moue. “A delicate indisposition, you understand.”

“I do indeed,” Lily said coolly, feeling pity for the actress who had discovered herself with child and thus out of work. She hoped the poor woman had someone to care for her. Without Maude she wasn’t sure what she would have done when Indio arrived. “But I’m surprised, Your Grace.”

He tilted his head, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Indeed?”

“I would think the arranging of a simple house party play quite beneath your attention.”

“Ah.” He smiled almost to himself. “I find I do like doing the occasional favor. It makes the receiver so much more in my debt.”

Lily swallowed. Would the duke consider her in his debt now? Probably, but it really didn’t matter: she needed the work. Private theatricals were quite popular, but naturally expensive to produce and thus few and far between. She was lucky to have the offer. “I’d be pleased to act in the play.”

“Wonderful,” the duke said. “I’m told that rehearsals won’t begin for another fortnight or so, as the play isn’t finished yet. I’ll contact you at the appropriate time, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

He smiled slowly. “Your talents are very much praised, Miss Goodfellow. I find myself looking forward to the party—and the play—with unforeseen anticipation.”

Lily was still considering the proper reply to such a complicated comment when a muddy whirlwind burst from the blackened trees, followed closely by a tumbling ball of red-and-black mud. “Mama! Mama! You’ll never guess—”

Indio skidded to a stop as he caught sight of their guest, falling abruptly silent.

Sadly, Daffodil had no such impulse. The little greyhound halted by her friend and began yapping shrilly, the force of her barks making her front legs bounce off the ground.

The duke narrowed his eyes very slightly at the dog and Lily suddenly felt an irrational fear for her pet.

Maude came out of the theater and snatched up Daffodil, who decided to turn affectionate, laving the maidservant’s face with her pink tongue.

“Enough of that now,” Maude scolded. “Come here, Indio.”

She held out her hand for the boy and Indio started forward.

“A moment,” Montgomery drawled. He halted the boy with a touch of his hand to Indio’s shoulder. The duke glanced at Lily. “This is your son?”

Lily nodded, her fingers balling into fists in her lap. She didn’t know why the duke should take an interest in Indio, but she didn’t like it. Not at all.

Montgomery placed a long forefinger under Indio’s chin and tilted his face up, staring at his curious eyes for several heartbeats.

“Fascinating,” the duke drawled softly at last, “the dissimilar colors of his eyes. I believe I’ve only seen the like once before.”

And he turned and smiled his beautiful snake smile at Lily.

THE BOY WAS watching him again.

It was late afternoon a day later and the sun was giving up the struggle behind a barrier of gray clouds as Apollo examined the ornamental pond. He and the other gardeners had spent the last three days dredging the stream that fed the pond, clearing it of debris so the pond might once again be filled with freshwater. It had been filthy, muddy work, but the result was already apparent: the water level in the pond was rising. An old stone bridge arched to a little island in the middle and Apollo raised both hands, palms out, fingers together and pointed up, thumbs at right angles, making a frame for the view between.

Nearby the bushes rattled as the boy shifted—and then froze like a hare hiding from a fox.