Page 31 of Disciplined by the Duke
Chapter Ten
A new day found Liz in an old position, on her knees near an open door eavesdropping. Montague and his guests had finished their breakfasts and were in the east parlor, chattering like magpies. She had thought to use this time to search the duke’s rooms. After telling Molly that she would empty all the chamber pots that day in exchange for a thirty-minute break, a task her chamber-mate was more than happy to avoid, Liz had slipped away. Her careful use of the servants’ back passages and stealthy creep down the corridor to his room had been for naught when she’d discovered his room already occupied by three middle-aged women putting it to rights.
With slumped shoulders, she’d attended to her dirty task. Instead of her rejoining Molly in the guests’ rooms, however, her feet had led her to this corridor. Wherehewas.
She rested her forehead against the wall, her stomach churning with a tumult of emotion. She was making a right cake of herself, following the duke around like a puppy. She could forgive the feverish dreams that plagued her sleep each night. The ones that woke her feeling achy and wanting. Those she couldn’t control.
Her actions during the day were another matter, however. Those she had to own. She would learn nothing useful for her mission listening in on his polite intercourse with his guests. It served no purpose for her to stalk his movements, clean whatever room was closest to his presence. But just the sound of his voice soothed her. Its deep timbre stroked across her skin until she wanted nothing more than to curl up on his lap and listen to anything he wanted to say.
She struggled to her feet on aching knees, and blew out a long breath. Being near the duke clouded her mind, made her forget her problems, and that was unacceptable. Her sister deserved better. She tucked her rag into her apron’s waistband and smoothed down her skirts. The maids must have finished with Montague’s rooms by now and that was where she should be. She walked towards the stairway at the end of the hall, crossing in front of the parlor’s open door.
“Stop! You there.” Lady Arabelle’s loud voice made Liz pause. “Yes, you there, maid-girl. Come here.”
Liz peeked into the sunlit room. The beautiful blonde flapped her hand, beckoning her to enter the parlor. She stepped to the doorway, halted. Unsure whether to enter or not, she looked to the duke, but his face remained expressionless.
“Come now, Belle,” her brother protested. “Let the poor girl go back to her duties. You can hardly expect an answer from her.”
Lady Arabelle frowned at her brother from the pale green settee she sat perched upon. She was the focus of a tableau as pretty as any painting, a woman in white the center of attention of five virile males standing beside her, vying for her attention. An older couple sat across the room, quietly involved in their own conversation.
“And I say this question needs a woman’s opinion.” The blonde cocked her head, examined Liz’s shapeless black gown and starched white apron. “She might not be a lady, but maids are still women, as I’m sure you are well aware.” She lifted one brow at her brother, who flushed and shifted on his feet.
“I don’t think it’s right,” he muttered. His friends snickered behind him.
“Well, let me ask who this question most concerns.” She laid one pale hand on the duke’s sleeve. “Monty, is she or is she not a woman? I only want to ask her a question.”
The silence probably only lasted a second. Liz’s skin prickled as she awaited his answer. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath.
“She is a woman.”
The cheerful yellow room faded away as she locked eyes with him. Her breath sounded loud and raspy to her ears. His words were brusque, stated only a simple fact. But the way he said them made something deep inside of her melt. At that moment, he didn’t see her as a maid, his servant, someone of the lower classes that peers liked to pretend didn’t exist. He sawher,a female to his male. An equal partner in their wanting.
“Hallooo.” Lady Arabelle’s voice cut through her reverie, and the rest of the room came back into focus. The blonde’s lips were tightly pinched, making Liz wonder how long she and Montague had been staring at each other. Lord Spencer and his friends were laughing together, not noticing anything amiss, but the man beside the duke, a guest she hadn’t seen before, was looking between her and Montague, a furrow creasing his brow.
Liz walked into the room and dropped a curtsy. “Yes, my lady?”
Lady Arabelle wriggled her round bottom deeper into the settee. “Now that I have your attention, I would like to ask your opinion, as a woman, on a most important matter.”
Liz clasped her hands together in front of her at waist level, pressing her thumbs together tightly. “I don’t know if I’m the right person. Shall I get—”
Arabelle waved her objection away. “You’ll be fine. Now tell me, do you not think it is past time for the duke to give up his breeches and get himself a pair of pantaloons? I swear he is the only member of the peerage who has not remained current with the fashions.”
Liz snapped her jaw shut. “Current men’s fashions are not something I feel competent to comment upon, my lady. Perhaps Mr. Todd would be the right person to ask, or the duke’s valet.”
“No, I want the opinion of a woman on which looks better on a man.” Lady Arabelle frowned. “Take Monty’s friend, here, Lord Rothchild. Are not his legs better displayed to advantage by his pantaloons? The duke’s breeches are quite passé.”
Liz’s eyes roamed unwillingly to the legs of the man who stood next to Montague. The silk pantaloons clung snugly from the man’s ankles up to his waistcoat, leaving nothing to the imagination. Cheeks burning, Liz swallowed. “Um, I don’t, I mean . . .”
“Leave the poor thing alone.” Lord Spencer leaned a hip against the arm of the settee. “Can’t you see you’re embarrassing her?”
His sister flicked her fingers at him in dismissal. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. It is a simple question. Whose legs look better? The duke in his breeches or the earl in pantaloons? Come, come, girl. Don’t be shy.”
“Yes, Miss Smith.” Montague’s eyes glittered darkly. He was taking pleasure at her discomfort. “Whose legs do you prefer?”
Liz didn’t need to look at the duke’s breeches to know how well they showed his form. She had it memorized. Regardless, she took the opportunity to slowly examine him. If he had no qualms over toying with her she would not scruple to maintain proper decorum.
She examined the fall of his breeches for only a moment before dropping her gaze farther down. Cream linen stretched across muscled thighs that flexed as he shifted from one foot to the other. The fabric draped down to his knees and ended at chocolate-colored knee-high boots. Unlike the other men who wore either slip-on shoes or ankle boots, the duke seemed to always wear Hessians.
A shiver raced down her spine when she remembered the creak of the stiff leather of those boots when he walked towards her in the stable. The smack of the riding crop against the shaft. She cleared her throat, raised her head, their eyes tangling. He stopped breathing; so did she.
