Page 64 of Disciplined by the Duke
Liz sucked in a deep breath. “That is not—”
“Shh. I don’t regret my actions.” She coughed again. “When Father made an agreement with the vicar for his son and me to marry, I knew I couldn’t leave you alone with him. And I saw the way he looked at you. His attention had already drifted from me to you. I couldn’t allow him to hurt you, too. Not after . . .”
“After what?” Liz searched her eyes for the answer she didn’t want to hear. Amanda slumped against the wall behind her, mouth flattening. Liz swallowed hard, but her mouth remained dry. “After . . . you made a deal with Father? To spare me?” she whispered.
Her sister fumbled to find Liz’s hand and held it close to her chest. “There was no deal. At least, nothing we actually voiced.” She frowned. “I don’t know how something like that would even go. But . . .”
“But?” Liz girded herself to withstand what was coming.
“But it was understood.” Amanda’s eyes glistened, and she swiped at the corner of her lid. “I always knew that if I didn’t allow Father to touch me he would come for you.” She grabbed Liz with both hands. “I’m your older sister. I did what I had to do to protect you.”
Pain crashed through Liz’s chest, like someone had struck her with a sledgehammer. Rolling from her knees to her bottom, she hunched her back protectively. But she couldn’t protect herself against the knowledge any longer. She was responsible for her sister’s pain. The peace she’d gained under Marcus’s hand last night had been too fleeting.
Her heart squeezed. He’d shown her something wondrous, given her hours free from self-doubt and inner conflict. She ached for his touch, his kindness, his control. It had been easy being with him, letting him take over for a few stolen moments. But she couldn’t escape from her life forever. The filthy floor she and her sister sat on was real. As was the danger and their poverty. There was no sanctuary to be had in a man’s touch. Not even a duke’s.
When she lifted her eyes, her sister’s stricken face stared back at her. Liz straightened her shoulders. Neither the time nor the place for her to wallow. She would save that pain for later, let it consume her when she was alone.
“You protected me to the end. You shouldn’t be punished for saving your sister.” Getting to her knees, she reached for the basket and pulled out another meat pie. Unwrapping it, she said, “You did what you had to do, and now I’ll do what I have to.” She put the pastry to her sister’s lips and smiled. “We’ll protect each other. The Wilcox sisters against the world.”
Amanda’s lips bent and she nibbled at the pie. “I love you, Liz.”
She unloaded the small store of goods for Amanda’s meals for the next couple of days, hoping her sister would eat the food before the rats did. “I love you, too. Will you do something for me?”
“Of course.” The bites she took were so tiny it would take her a week to finish the pie.
“I need you to eat and drink what I brought you. To regain your strength. Can you do that for me?” Liz’s heart began to flutter in her chest at the implications of what she was thinking.
“I’ll try,” Amanda said. “Why?”
Liz gave her sister a grim smile. “Because one way or another, I’m getting you out of here. I need you to be ready for anything.”
Chapter Nineteen
She followed the burly footman from the side door to the Earl of Westmore’s study, her jaw clenched so tightly a headache simmered. Liz had gone to Westmore directly from leaving Newgate, only to be turned away, a message from the earl directing her to return later that night. Or rather, early the next morning. The candlelit hallways were shadowed and gloomy. Every other servant was in bed, and the silent house seemed to be holding its breath.
She stopped behind the footman next to a hall table holding a large cut-glass vase bulging with roses. The overpowering perfume made her nose twitch. The past year she’d thought the earl’s London town house the height of luxury. After living in Hartsworth, she saw that Westmore’s tastes were opulent rather than elegant. His town house was but a distorted reflection of true sophistication. The carpets weren’t as plush, the moldings as thickly carved, or the uniforms on the servants as finely stitched. The objets d’art and collectibles spilling off of every available surface, which once illustrated to Liz the stark disparity between the earl’s wealth and her own family’s, now appeared tawdry.
The footman scratched at the study door. Her thighs brushed together, and she flinched at the soft crinkle of paper. She had strapped the letter to the front of her stocking, pulling the tie extra tight to secure the precious missive, but it had shifted to her inner thigh while she’d moved.
She was still torn as to what she would do with the letter—give it to Westmore or send it back to Marcus. She could only hope the answer would come to her in the next ten minutes.
“Come in.” The voice was low through the door, but recognizable as the earl’s. The man in front of her pushed the door wide and stepped back for her to enter. After she did, he pulled it closed, leaving her alone with the earl.
Leaning back in his chair, Westmore intertwined his fingers over his stomach. “Miss Wilcox. When my butler told me you were here to see me, I didn’t quite believe it. I had assumed anything you had to relay would come to me via Pike. As I’d instructed.”
She ignored his narrowed eyes and paced about the study, stopping before a bookcase holding more curios than books. She poked at a cast-iron dancing horse. “Yes, well, I didn’t think it safe to go through Mr. Pike. I don’t trust the man.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re smarter than I credited. He is a most untrustworthy individual, for sure.”
Her pulse pounded at the base of her throat as she faced him. “Some might even say deadly.” Keeping her eyes on his, she searched for any tell that he’d given the order for her “accident.” She saw nothing. He could have been good at bluffing.
“As you say.” He twirled his thumbs around each other. “I presume you’re here because you have something to deliver. Am I right? Do you have my letter?” His tone was casual, but Liz didn’t miss the tight bunching of his shoulders, the predatory narrowing of his eyes.
She swallowed. “Yes.” No longer pretending to be a maid, Liz had returned to wearing her threadbare gloves. Even though the material was worn, it was enough to keep her nails from drawing blood on her palms.
“Well?” He watched her, his face hardening as each moment passed. “Give it to me.”
This was the moment. She had to make a decision. Her stomach cramped so hard she wanted to cry out in pain. But that reaction she could control. Marcus had given her a glimpse of how to manage sensation, to manipulate the hurt to something tolerable. And with Marcus, to something pleasurable. She could control her responses.