Page 13 of Disciplined by the Duke
Replacing the box, her fingers brushed against leather. She hadn’t noticed the book at first glance, its black cover melting into the lining of the drawer. Setting the box on the floor, she pulled out the book and placed it on the desk to flip through it. A letter could easily be hidden within.
All thoughts of the letter disappeared from her mind after the candlelight illuminated the first page. It was a picture book, but not one for children. The artwork was Oriental in design, the woman depicted all raven black hair and creamy white skin. Except for the space between her thighs. That was painted as pink as a budding rose.
Liz bounced her foot up and down and glanced at the door. Still shut. She turned the page.
The woman was joined by a man. Their lips were fused together and her hand was wrapped around—
Oh my.
She flipped over another page.
The intimacies between the couple grew. Liz tugged at the bodice of her gown, pulling the cotton away from her damp skin. Did the duke sit in this very chair and finger his way through the book? Did he enjoy looking at such pictures?
Tilting the book up, Liz twisted her head until her ear met her shoulder. Was that position even possible? And that stick thing the man used on the woman. Was that an object of the artist’s imagination, or did such a tool actually exist?
Restless, she pressed her thighs together, a small relief to the ache that grew there. She reached the end of the book. The last picture was of the woman smiling up at her lover, a satisfied glow on her face.
Why would the duke have this? It merely left Liz feeling unsatisfied. Yearning. What pleasure could he derive from it? Unless he turned the pages with a woman by his side. Tried some of the acts painted within. As handsome as Montague was, he most likely never wanted for female companionship.
His money wouldn’t hurt, either.
She ran the silk material through her fingers, over the back of her palm. The spot where the duke had struck her with his crop tingled. Her hand trembled as she rubbed her thumb over the skin.
The mark had faded before she’d even reached Hartsworth House. The strike had caused only shock, no pain. There was no reason why her mind should turn to that moment in the stable over and over.
Yet it did.
Why had the duke done it? Surely other maids had scraped hands. And why had it made her feel so odd? Liz had taken her slipper and rapped the back of her palm, trying to replicate the sensation until Molly had returned to their room. Her efforts hadn’t been fruitful. The taps hadn’t made her belly quiver. Hadn’t made her blood pound.
It was the surprise of the duke’s action, of course. Her self-inflicted blows couldn’t replicate that.
Carefully closing the book, she put everything back in the drawer as she’d found it. The silk length disappeared into it last, the fabric sliding through her hands like water.
A faint shout drew her attention. Pressing the drawer closed, she made sure the lock was engaged before blowing out her candle. After a couple of seconds, her eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming in through the windows.
She crept to the casement behind the desk, pressed her face close to the pane, her breath fogging the glass. She saw no movement. But the shout had definitely come from outside.
Two shadows separated from the wall of the stable, almost out of her line of sight. They were the size of men, but she couldn’t be certain. She was about to turn away when a scuffle broke out between the shadows.
It ended as quickly as it had begun. One man fell to the ground, rose up, and shuffled away. The other disappeared into the stable. Resting her hand on the window, she tapped her fingers against the cold glass. When all remained silent, she pushed away. Whatever intrigues were taking place on the duke’s estate, it wasn’t her concern.
And now she could add washing that window to tomorrow’s duties.
Finger marks on a window at Hartsworth just wouldn’t do.
Chapter Five
Montague crossed one long leg over the other and flicked at a piece of lint on his trousers. The barmaid placed two mugs of ale in front of him and Julius Blackwell, the Earl of Rothchild, and exited the private room at the back of the tavern, closing the door behind her.
Marcus drank deeply, his throat dry after the afternoon ride. He glanced over at his friend. “You look like hell. What have you been doing with yourself lately?”
Rothchild snorted and rubbed at the foam on his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s no wonder Prinny can’t stand your company. Didn’t your upbringing teach you not to insult people who have traveled two hundred miles at your request?”
“Not when those people are my friends.” He examined the lines around the man’s eyes and the slump to his shoulders. “And your appearance has little to do with your travels. Have you been ill of late?”
“I’m fine. London has become . . . tiring. Your missive couldn’t have come at a better time.” He drained his glass. “The fresh air of Leicestershire sounds invigorating for once.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on his knee. “You’re an earl, Julius, with a lovely country estate of your own. You can get out of London any time you like.”
