Page 37 of Disciplined by the Duke
But not this time. A duke was afforded eccentricities, improprieties, and it was time he enjoyed that benefit.
She slipped into the room and curtsied, her dark hair slipping free from a hastily assembled chignon. Her shoulders drooped with exhaustion, but the eyes that met his were clear and strong. “You wished to see me, Your Grace?”
“Indeed.” He circled her, noticing the looseness of her uniform, the press of her shoulder blades against the starched black cotton. Those shoulder blades drew together as he paused behind her. His hand hovered inches from the nape of her neck, itching to finger the silky strands of ebony that escaped from her updo.
He crossed his arms over his chest, and stepped in front of her. “I hear you’ve been ill.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m feeling better now.”
If this was her feeling better, he hated to think what she looked like feeling worse. “I understand arrangements may have to be made for you in the future,” he said. She cocked her head. “In a couple months’ time.” She drew her brows together as her only response. “For your confinement.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Not you, too! I mean, that is, arrangements will not be necessary, Your Grace. I’m not . . . you know.” This last came out as an embarrassed whisper. She lowered her head, and clasped her hands together in front of her flat stomach.
Marcus reached for the back of the seat nearest him, his muscles suddenly gone weak. He hadn’t realized how important her answer had been. He cleared his throat. “Then why haven’t you been eating?”
“I have.”
He stared at her as he did when one of his captains missed a deadline with a poor excuse. She managed to meet his eyes longer than most of his men before looking down somewhere around his chest.
“That is, I haven’t had much of an appetite of late. It is nothing to concern yourself over.”
“Everything in this estate is my concern.” He walked over to the servants’ pull and yanked the silk rope. Not waiting for one of his men to come to him, Marcus walked to the doorway and called to the servant bustling down the hallway, “Please bring us some dinner!”
The man bowed, hurried away. Marcus stalked back into the room, not taking his eyes off of his maid. She was breathing heavily, and flexing her hands as though she wanted to clench them but stopped herself.
He settled himself on an upholstered love seat in the corner of the room. “Take a seat.” She moved to a chair across from him. “Not there.” He patted the space next to him. “Here.”
She eyed him warily as she circled the low coffee table. “Your Grace, I think that—”
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
He bit back a smile as she narrowed her eyes and dropped onto the love seat as far away from him as possible. She hid such spirit, revealing her personality in such small doses. He would normally give his servants their autonomy when it came to their personal lives, but when her actions endangered her health he needed to step in.
Two servants hustled in, a rolling serving cart between them. At his nod, they unloaded the tray, placing plates of delicacies on the low table before them. Marcus picked up a decanter of red wine and poured two glasses. “Close the door behind you,” he told them as they left, ignoring Miss Smith’s sharp inhale. Pressing the glass into her hand, he began filling a plate with bits of beef and lamb. He buttered a hot roll and set the plate on her lap. “Eat.”
She picked up a fork with a deep sigh and brought a bit of beef to her mouth. Staring straight ahead, she took a small bite, swallowed as if she were eating sawdust.
“Is it not to your liking?” he asked.
“It’s fine.” She took another tiny bite. At this rate, she wouldn’t finish her plate of food until Michaelmas.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I . . .” She put the fork on the plate. “Honestly? It is . . . difficult for me to eat such rich foods when my sister cannot. She is, uh, ill and it doesn’t seem right that I can enjoy such delicacies when she’s unable.”
The hand holding his wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry about your sister.” She’d mentioned a sister before, one who spoke French better than his Miss Smith, if he remembered correctly. But a sister wasn’t mentioned in the background check he’d ordered. His man was falling down on the job. He’d have to order him to be more thorough. “That must be difficult. Are you two close?”
“Yes. She has done so much for me, given up so much. Now it’s my turn to take care of her, and I fear I am failing miserably.” She clutched the wineglass and threw back a large swallow.
Mouth dry, Marcus took his own long sip of wine. “I know what it is to fail a sibling.”
She blinked, the corners of her eyes damp. Lifting his hand to her smooth cheek, he rubbed his thumb over the wetness. She turned her face into his hand, and his heart pounded faster.
“But that’s no excuse to make yourself ill. What good are you to your sister if you’re sick in bed? Now eat.”
With great reluctance, he pulled his hand from her soft skin, rubbed it against his trouser leg. He could still feel her. When she hesitated, he nudged her plate.
Staring at the far wall, she dug her teeth into her plump bottom lip. His eyes avidly followed the movement, noting how the pink of her lips deepened with the abuse. She finally nodded and picked up the fork.
