Page 27 of Disciplined by the Duke
Her nipples brushed against his chest on her next shaky breath. Marcus ground his jaws together so tightly they ached.
“Subvert the power structure?”
Marcus nodded. “Mr. Todd is in a position of dominance over your friend. The threat of discipline hangs over her head, the threat intending to guide her actions. By choosing the discipline, by enjoying it, she takes that power away from her superiors.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing her ear. “She also may be one of the lovely creatures who enjoy the pain, desire the release.”
Her breath blew hot against his throat. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Not yet. But you will.”
He stumbled back. Fuck. Why had he said that? He was pushing all sorts of boundaries. Boundaries he’d set up for good reason. He took another step back, sense returning as the distance between them grew. He should leave his little peeping maid to her show. If she was so curious she could break her own figurine and let Mr. Todd explain discipline to her.
A knot formed in his gut at the thought. Bent over in front of his steward? Lifting her—He ground his teeth. No, she wouldn’t be hiking her skirt up in front of Todd anytime soon, not if he had any say over it.
And he did. He was the damned Duke of Montague.
The faint light streaming in from the spy holes backlit her head like a halo. A few loose tendrils of hair escaped her tight chignon, and his fingers itched to sweep them back behind her ear. To feel the dark silk, dig his fingers deep into her hair, tug her head back and—
A soft moan and a breathless “thirty” interrupted his reverie. With a muttered curse, he grabbed Miss Smith’s hand and strode down the corridor, dragging his maid behind him. He needed to get out of the secluded hallway. The dark and privacy, not to mention the floor show in front of them, were too tempting. His blood pulsed through his veins with each step, a pounding that had his body aching to push his maid to the cold floor, lift her skirts, and pound away in rhythm.
What was it about this woman? He was on the razor’s edge of control around her, a control that he prided himself on. That defined him. Yet the thought of losing himself in her was dangerously thrilling.
He found the hidden door that led to his study and pushed his way in. The bright afternoon light cleared the last of the muddle in his head.
His control was necessary. Not only was it expected of a duke, but also past experience had taught him it was vital. He’d relinquished control before, and it had cost his younger brother his life.
A soft tug on his hand brought him up short. He turned to his maid.
Her soft brown eyes darted from his face to every corner of the room; her white teeth chewed on her lush bottom lip. She tried again to extricate her hand and, with regret, he let her go.
“You should return to your duties.” His voice sounded harsher than he’d intended, and she took a step back.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat, lifted her chin. Damn, she could gather her composure fast. Faster than he. Even when caught in a compromising position, the woman had a spine of steel. “This won’t happen again.” With a curt nod, she spun on her heel and left the room, her skirts swishing behind her.
Marcus sank into his wingback chair. God save him from distracting women. His head dropped to the seat back and he stared at the ceiling. This wouldn’t do. He had life-and-death business to attend to, and here he was mooning over a chit like a lackwit. Fantasizing of sliding into her heat.
He pounded his fist against his thigh. No more. Time to focus on his duties. The Crown and his estate. Thinking of his estate, he groaned. Miss Smith wasn’t the only female vexing him. He glanced at his desk where Lady Arabelle Toller’s letter lay. He avoided her company whenever possible. When he was in London during the Season, he made sure not to be present at balls and soirees she would attend. But, rude as her announcement had been that she and her party would appear at Hartsworth in two days’ time, it was one he couldn’t ignore. She would be in his home for several weeks.
He gritted his teeth. Arabelle and her family still hoped that she and the duke would form a marital alliance. He had been as clear as he could to her father, the Earl of Brunswick, that a marriage between the families would never happen. Short of insulting the girl, he didn’t know what he had to say to get his point across.
Memories swamped him. A wild feminine laugh. His brother’s scream. The awful silence after everything stopped moving.
Even if he’d been attracted to Lady Arabelle he could never marry her. Every time he looked at her, he saw his brother’s bloody face. Pain arced through his chest. If only—
No. There would be no more if-onlys. He’d let his brother down, and he’d learned his lesson. No woman would make him loosen his grip on his control.
No matter how much she might make his blood pound.
Chapter Nine
The gold morning parlor in the east wing was alive with chatter. Liz was in the adjoining sitting room, dustrag in hand, trying her best to make the pianoforte gleam. She didn’t much care about the instrument, she’d never liked playing it herself, but its position near the cracked open door between the two rooms allowed her to overhear snippets of conversations.
What she’d heard so far she didn’t like.
The duke’s guest, Lady Arabelle, had clearly set her cap at him. Her soft coos and inquiries over Montague’s health attested to that. Her squealed “Monty” when she fake-chastised him. Her high-pitched giggles whenever he spoke. All tactics Liz had witnessed in her two seasons on the marriage mart. Techniques she’d never perfected. Techniques that tended to work on society men.
She snapped her rag in frustration and the tail end struck a key. A faint high C reverberated. Molly raised her head from the Aubusson carpet she knelt upon, and Liz shrugged. She focused on running her cloth along each taut string of the instrument, not wanting to meet the other woman’s eyes.
For the past two days, she had rarely been able to look Molly straight on. Her cheeks would heat when she remembered Molly over Mr. Todd’s desk. Her chamber-mate, however, had been almost giddy since the encounter, the corner of one lip permanently upturned.