Page 17 of Disciplined by the Duke
Silence was where he did his best work.
After a minute, she huffed out a breath. “It’s obvious the lady is unwilling. I believe most people”—she darted a glance his way—“would object to that situation.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Marcus nodded solemnly. Her subtle rebuke had the opposite effect of what she must have intended. Her challenge invigorated him, made him want to spar with her more.
“Perhaps,” he said. Rocking onto his toes, he watched Miss Smith from the corner of his eye. “Or perhaps that is only what Proserpina wants us to think.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
“Proserpina, or Persephone to the Greeks, is being abducted to the underworld by Hades.” Taking her elbow, he drew Miss Smith to one side of the statue. “Do you see how Bernini depicts her flesh? The skin of her thigh yields to Hades’s plundering fingers. The quality of the carving is such that it is always a surprise to me when I touch her leg and feel cool marble instead of heated skin.” He placed his palm above Persephone’s knee. After a moment, Miss Smith reached her hand out, as well.
Their hands rested on the statue, side by side. His large, rough, and tanned. Hers small, the back of her palm almost as pale as the marble, the tips of the fingers rubbed pink from her work.
“The texture of her skin is exquisite.” He pointed up with his free hand, his arm wrapping around her back and shoulder with the motion. “The ropes of her hair flying about her face, beautifully wrought. Bernini made this work sensual. The way Hades clasps Persephone to him, almost romantic.”
She stood inches from him, the heat from her slim body warming his front. If he breathed deeply his chest would rub her back. If he shifted the smallest bit his groin would find its home in the crease of her bottom.
He tightened his fingers on the marble. Lowering his head, he whispered in her ear, “Bernini was a master. If he’d thought the story one of brutality he would have shown that. He wouldn’t have made the statue . . .”
“Seductive,” she said in a breathy voice. Rubbing her thumb over the crease where Hades’s finger dug into Persephone’s thigh, Miss Smith loosed a deep breath. “But Bernini was a man. Don’t men find these things appealing? Even if the woman objects?”
“Not the right man,” he growled. Christ, who had she met in her short life to teach her such a thing? The world could be brutal, especially to an unprotected female, but he didn’t want to think of her as one of its victims.
His breath blew a stray hair across her jaw. “Some people believe that the underworld was representative. An allegory for man’s, and woman’s, darkest desires. Everyone has them. Forbidden thoughts. Impure needs. Fantasies that would shock the senses.”
She swallowed, the slim column of her neck flexing. His position over her shoulder gave him the perfect view of her chest, rising and falling, the pace erratic. Christ, was he flirting with her? One of his maids? What the blazes was the matter with him? He should step back, leave her to her duties.
His nose brushed her hair, and another lock escaped its bindings, drifted over her shoulder to rest on her breast. They were small, pert. A perfect mouthful.
He leaned forward, his body nestling into hers. “The underworld represents the desires that most people fight against. By dragging her down to his world, Hades is forcing the woman he loves to acknowledge that part of herself.”
He trailed his fingers along the smooth thigh of Persephone until his hand reached Miss Smith’s own. He covered it. She smelled of soap and a hint of vinegar, but beneath that was a layer all her own. Something sweet and delicate. He wanted to bury his nose at the pulse point in her throat, and breathe her in until her scent consumed him.
He grazed the tip of his nose along the shell of her ear, so lightly he didn’t know whether she’d feel it.
She shuddered. Tilted her head, exposing a length of creamy neck to him. “But”—she licked her lips—“but she’s crying.” Her voice was soft, but he heard her easily. Marcus had blocked out all other sounds. He and Miss Smith were in a bubble, shielded from the outside world. All he heard were her breaths. Her words.
“Not all tears are bad,” he told her.
So much. There was so much he could show her, this maid who kept her passions banked. Everything about the woman appealed to him. Her mind, her self-possession, her spirit. If she’d been one of Madame Sable’s girls he would have blown through his fortune before getting his fill of her.
Marcus took one last drag of her scent, one more second of her heat cradling him. Then he forced himself to step back.
And the outside world came crashing in. Todd was yelling at a footman down below. Something thunked to the floor amid much cursing, and Marcus guessed a piece of furniture was being moved. No one had seen them up on the balcony.
The consequences of being found pressed against his maid were nonexistent for Marcus. For Miss Smith, they could be devastating. She wouldn’t lose her position, of course, but a lost reputation could be much worse.
He took another step back.
As she turned to face him, a moment of confusion crossed her face before her forehead smoothed into its placid lines. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Your Grace?”
As if she had just informed him of the time. As if moments before she hadn’t been panting for him. Damn, she was good.
He shook his head. “As you can see, I am very fond of this work of art. Thank you for your attention to it.”
She curtsied, slow and deep, not her customary bob. If he didn’t know her better he’d swear she was mocking him.
But he knew. Like him, she needed to reestablish their boundaries. Inclining his head, he spun on his heel and headed for his rooms.
