All About the Duke (The Dukes' Club Book 4) (2 page)

She inched to her right, ready to fall to her hands and knees, in search of some bit or imaginary bob so she might keep her head down.

As she moved, the duke turned slightly.

He spotted her. Hard eyes as black as obsidian caught her in their gaze. “You. Boy.”

Allegra froze, her own gaze trapped by his. After a painful moment, she managed to drop her stare and gave her cap a little pull out of respect “Your Grace?”

“Are your boots fascinating lad?” he demanded, that deep voice of his cracking through the cold morning air.

“No, Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“Then chin up. I’ll have no forelock tuggers here.”

She nodded, barely daring to do as he requested. She was also stunned he respected a mere stable boy so. Slowly, she lifted her gaze up from the thick grass to his boots, then to the tight buff breeches that hugged his thighs. Her pulse sped.

“Come on then, eyes up.”

She cleared her throat and focused on his face.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her. An imperious eyebrow rose. “You’re rather delicate for this work.”

“No,” she protested. She winced, her voice high even to her own ears. She coughed and gave her chest a pound. “No, Your Grace. I am quite capable.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Indeed?”

She squared her shoulders, the bindings about her breasts cutting into her skin. “None better with a horse.”

The Duke of Roth stared. He stared and stared until she felt as if he were looking into the very darkest corners of her soul, probing for secrets. A look of displeasure pressed his lush lips together for a brief moment before he gave her a cold smile.

“If you say so,” he said. “Go fetch Devil.”

Doubtlessly, he thought she’d quake in her boots but it was all she could do to hide a relieved grin. Devil loved her, unlike all the other stable boys. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She turned and forced herself to walk with the swagger that Gregory had drilled into her over hours and hours of practice. It had never occurred to her that pretending to be a boy would be so difficult for a nineteen-year-old lady. She savored the slight bounce in her step as she strode into the stable. The alley between the individual stables was empty save for Dumas, the resident mouser.

His marmalade tail twitched as she neared, hoping for a quick scratch. She shook her head at the cat. “No time, puss. Extra scratches later, I promise.”

The cat let out a meow of protest as she passed him, heading straight for Devil’s stall.

If she could just get through this interview, somehow she’d find a way to avoid the duke. . . Maybe. . . Maybe as much as she hated to admit it, it was already time to move on and start the life she’d been determined to have since her sister’s death. But she did love Rothton’s massive estate, its paddocks, and its incredible stables.

The pound of hooves against wood echoed down the building, matched by the deep blowing of breath. Devil was bored.

She shook her hands, freeing herself of her earlier concerns. Devil would sense any distress and it would only aggravate his already tempestuous nature.

As she stepped before the stable door, Devil let out a sharp whinny then reared on his hind quarters.

“Hello, beautiful boy,” she cooed.

He snorted and plunged his fore hooves to the ground. After a few wickers and head nods, he took a step towards her. Smiling, she held out her hand, something none of the other stable boys dared do. With most, Devil was likely to bite the offered hand, even if it held an apple.

The stallion didn’t like any of the male sex, or so it seemed, save his master.

She wasn’t vain. She doubted it was her superior personality that made her so amenable to the wicked horse. Though she was excellent with horseflesh, it was almost certainly her gender.

Devil took another step forward then shoved his muzzle in her palm, wiggling his lips in contented glee over her skin.

She laughed. “Your presence is requested, my boy.”

Devil whickered again and lifted his head, flaring his nostrils as if to show her how beautiful he could be. “No, it’s not me requesting. It’s His Grace.”

As if the stallion understood the title, he danced about his stable, growing excited. The duke was the only one that could ride Devil and Devil loved to run. The stallion’s sudden anticipation was palpable.

She laughed. This respite, working with the animals she loved so dearly, had been just the thing she needed before she’d throw herself into her next adventure. “Aren’t you the sweetest boy?”

“Sweet hardly seems the appropriate word.”

Allegra bit back a yelp of astonishment. As those words sank in, she closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed the duke hadn’t heard too much and certainly hadn’t heard her own female tones.

Giving a good throat clearing, she turned to face the duke, ready to make light of her comments. Any word she was about to utter, died on her lips.

It wasn’t the horse who was the Devil. It was the duke. And the Devil did not appear amused.

He stood in the shadows, the darkness caressing him like a familiar friend. “Do tell, what is sweet about my stallion. . . Boy.”

N
icholas Edward Andrew Forth, The Duke of Roth, studied the stable boy and felt a wicked twinge. How long should he let the stable hand squirm?

Several moments, at least.

The long silence, punctuated only by Devil’s pawing at the floor, amused him. And there was something else. He felt curiosity. An emotion which had long been absent from his life. The
boy
stood, bluebell eyes wide like a deer caught in the sights of a hunter.

Nicholas had been unsure moments ago about his strange suspicion. But something hadn’t been right about this young servant.

Geoffrey, the head of his stables, had always been a paragon of trustworthiness and so when Nicholas had felt a tug of suspicion when he’d locked eyes on the boy, he’d been tempted to ignore his instincts. But he’d learned long ago to never ignore those pangs. The few times he had had always ended in disasters worthy of surgeons or paying off bailiffs.

But could he be absolutely certain? Even now, many men would have immediately assumed that the desire pumping through their body was an indicator that the stable boy was not what he pretended to be, that he was, in fact, a girl. But Nicholas was no fool. He needed more evidence than desire.

And once he’d looked a little closer at the breeches sporting, loose coat wearing
boy,
he’d been fairly sure. But now, with Devil virtually falling all over himself to rub his head along the servant’s shoulder, Nicholas could hardly deny the signs.

Devil hated other males but had a soft spot for whatever ladies Nicholas had brought around his massive stallion.

The servant was a girl.

No. Not a girl. A young woman.

And what the hell was a young woman doing in his stable, caring for his horses, working for him?

That was a question he would damn well have answered.

First, he had to make
absolutely
certain he was correct. And oh, how entertaining that might prove to be. He smiled slowly. Feeling the first hint of anticipation that he’d felt in quite a while. After all, if she was as he thought, she was that one thing that so few people were. . . A surprise.

“You haven’t answered,” he drawled.

“P-pardon?”

“What is so sweet about Devil?”

She shuffled her feet. “Well. . . you see. . .”

Her voice wavered between a strange, roughened tone and a timbre so rich and sweet he wanted to groan. Clearly, she was unsettled by his attention.

It would have been kind to put the
boy
out of his misery and simply demand to know the truth, but he’d never been inclined to be kind.

Yes?” he barked, deliberately adding an edge to his deep voice. “Speak up.”

To Nicholas’ astonishment, the boy lifted his chin and gave an impudent glare. “My name is
not
boy.”

Nicholas cocked his head and, unable to resist, drawled, “Is it not,
boy
?”

Those bluebell-colored eyes narrowed. Indignation brightened them and stained those pale cheeks red. A huff, worthy of a lofty young lady passed pursed, pink lips. “No, Your Grace, and since you said you wanted no forelock tuggers, it seems most odd that you insist on denigrating me so.”

“
Denigrate
?” Nicholas took a step forward, out of the shadows and into the weak, late February sunlight that spilled in through the high windows. “My, my, what a vocabulary you do possess.”

The
boy
flinched, the blush-touched cheeks deepening to a delicious apple red. That confident air deflated as the young stable hand looked askance, searching for a quick reply. “My-My father was a school master.”

A lie.

“
Well, then,” Nicholas took another step, closing the distance between them, towering over the young thing, glowering because he could. “If I am not to denigrate you, what shall I call you?”

Tilting his head back, the stable boy said, “Alfie.”

Nicholas snorted. “Good God, that’s no name for a man.”

“I’m not a man.”

Nicholas lifted his brows. “Indeed?”

Alfie, shifted on his feet. “I’m a boy.”

“Even so, it’s a damned unfit name. I shall call you Alfred.”

“But Your Grace—“

“Now Alfred, you were going to tell me what’s so sweet about Devil.”

Alfred craned his neck. “Need you stand so close, Your Grace?”

“Do I make you feel uncomfortable?”

Alfred glared. “You’re rather tall.”

Nicholas nodded, growing more pleased with this by the moment. There was no way Alfred was a servant. The arrogance and indignation ruffling
his
feathers was too obvious. What a terrible liar Alfred was.

“Perhaps one day you shall achieve my height,” Nicholas offered.

“Few could achieve such a thing.”

He arched a brow. “Is that a compliment, Alfred?”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose, Your Grace.”

“You’re prevaricating.”

Alfred frowned, giving his face a generally disapproving look. “Do I have leave to step away, Your Grace?”

“As long as you don’t try to run off.”

Alfred drew up, perhaps managing to stand at five feet two and half inches. “Certainly not. I am no coward.”

“Ah. Brave young fellow. Have you slayed any dragons as of late or recused a maiden fair?”

“No. But I seem to have luck getting the best of Devils.”

“Why Alfred, are you making fun?”

Alfred stumbled back, stuttering, “Of course not, Your Grace. I beg your pardon.”

Nicholas had to fight a bemused smile. He hadn’t known such entertainment in ages. And with each word Alfred spoke, he became more and more certain that Alfred was a girl. There was something about her air, the way she carried herself that wasn’t quite masculine. But how the Devil could he be sure, short of groping the stable boy?

Even he was above such things.

Alfred turned to the gated door and unbolted it.

Nicholas was seized with sudden ill ease. Devil could be quite a handful. And whilst the stallion could be managed, if one was out of sorts, the stallion responded in kind.

The last thing he wanted was an inexperienced young woman trampled to death in his stables. “Alfred, wait. I’ll—“

But she’d darted in the stable and was cooing,
cooing
, at the stallion.

And Devil, the traitor, was positively eating it up.

Nicholas gaped at the sight of Alfred’s slight, pale hands stroking Devil’s neck, her fingers weaving into the long, thick mane.

“Aren’t you a beautiful boy?”  Alfred soothed. “What a fine lad you are.”

Nicholas folded his arms over his chest, attempting to hide his shock and dare he say envy?

Devil and he got along splendidly, pounding over the moors, but the stallion had never responded with such unabashed devotion as if he would canter off the nearest cliff if Alfred but asked.

Devil blew out another breath then rubbed his face against the top of Alfred’s head.

Alfred laughed, a delightful, girlish sound. “You see, Your Grace? A sweet boy.”

“Indeed, I do see. But Devil does not usually care for men.”

“I’m not a man. I’m a—“

“
Boy
. So you’ve said. Even so. . .” Nicholas took a step into the stable and suddenly Devil turned towards him, let out a sharp whinny of displeasure, and stepped closer to Alfred.

Nicholas halted.

The damned stallion was possessive of the young woman. It was the only explanation. His bloody horse was in love with the little liar.

The indignity of it was almost too much. Luckily, the novelty of the unfolding events somehow made up for his stallion’s fickleness. And he wanted that novelty to continue. “Alfred, are horses your only talent?”

“Your Grace?”

“Have you any skills besides taking care of horseflesh?”

She stared at Devil. A beautiful smile warmed her face. “I adore horses, Your Grace. They are the only things that make me happy.”

“What? Even above people?”

“There is no
even
about it. Horses are far superior to people.”

“Superior to dukes?” he challenged softly.

“Your Grace, I didn’t mean. . .” Then Alfred hesitated. “I don’t know any dukes well enough to say.”

“Good answer, Alfred.”

“Thank you.”

“How would you like to know one better?”

Alfred’s eyes rounded into two panicked sapphires. “I beg your pardon?”

“I like you Alfred, and I don’t like many people. It occurs to me it might be pleasant to have a manservant—“

“I’m not a man—“

“You grow tiresome in this constant refrain.
Boyservant
then. It might be pleasant to have a boyservant that amuses me and that I like. It would be. . . Unique.”

“Your Grace, I hardly think. . .”

“Who is the master here?” he asked, delighting in the use of an authoritarian tone that wasn’t how he usually spoke to servants at all.

“You.”

“Yes.
Me
.”