Page 53 of Disciplined by the Duke
But she must have uttered them for the duke to hear. Because he did the unforgiveable. He stopped. Pulled away. The only contact remaining was his hands on her hips; then those, too, slowly, slipped away.
She locked her knees to remain upright. “What . . . ?” She examined him, trying to find a clue as to why he’d stopped. Aside from a decided tousle to his hair and a slight heave to his chest, he appeared unmoved. If a corner of white paper didn’t peek out from behind his lapel she would have believed the interlude to be a fantasy, a figment of her imagination.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“Nothing.” His voice sounded as impersonal as if he had directed her to clean the floors. “I need to return to my work. Your concerns over my tenants will be duly noted.” Turning, he strode back to his desk. Liz glimpsed the brief outline of the bulge behind his trousers that had brought her mounting pleasure. Her cheeks heated. From embarrassment, anger, and unsatisfied desire.
Anger won out.
“Do that, Your Grace,” she spat out. “If you have any further questions about your previous charity direct them to Mrs. Johnson. I will no longer be available to meet any of your needs.” She swung open the door and hurried out. Her hands longed to slam it shut, but her job was already in a tenuous position. She settled for closing it firmly and smacking her palm against the wall when she saw no one was around.
She stalked down the corridor, her body thrumming with tension. Brushing tears from her cheek, she hurried to her room. She could handle this no more. No more anticipating glimpses of Montague. No more tiptoeing through her searches. No more being close to something she could never have. No more.
She would tear the estate apart if that’s what it took to retrieve that letter. Then she would be done, gone from here. Gone from this constant longing that permeated her body at his presence.
The servants’ quarters were empty at this time of day, and Liz was grateful no one was around to see her unravel. She closed herself in her room, threw herself on the narrow bed. She clutched the coverlet and tried to even out her breathing, stop her tears.
She didn’t know what was more frustrating: the state that Montague had left her in or the fact that he was more immune to her seductions than she was to his. That he had the will to halt intimacies when she would have walked over broken glass to continue.
She sniffed. Perhaps it wasn’t a hardship for him to stop. Perhaps the wanting was all on her side. She rolled onto her back. It was no use whining about it. She rubbed her stomach in soothing circles. She knew where the letter was now and tonight she would complete her task.
In the meantime, she wouldn’t let the duke’s lessons go to waste. Her hand moved lower. He had taught her something incredible about her body, and if that and the letter were all she took away from him this expedition would have been well worth it.
Her body lit up under the exploration of her fingers. She ignored the hollowness of her heart and focused on the pleasure she could create within her own body. It would have to be enough.
Chapter Sixteen
Sheets rustled. Silk whispered against silk, and Liz froze like a fox cornered by hounds. Montague’s breathing evened out in the pattern of slumber, and her shoulders relaxed. His chambers were crowded with shadows, barely lit by the candle in her hand and the dawn breaking through the window.
She had searched his dressing room for the coat he’d worn yesterday before venturing into his sleeping chamber. She peered at the huge bed that dominated the room. A brawny four-poster canopied in thick burgundy damask. The curtains enclosing all sides blocked any view of the duke.
A pair of boots in front of a wing chair snagged her attention and she crept over, her toes sinking into the thick pile carpet. A pair of trousers were folded neatly on the seat. And tossed over the back of the chair was a coat. She brought the candle flame closer. A dark blue coat.
Her heart pounded. She prayed the letter was still in its pocket. Darting a glance back at the bed, she took a deep breath. A soft snore soothed her ears. Slithering her hand down between the chair and the inside of the coat, she felt for the inside pocket. Fingers brushing against paper, she smiled . . . until the coat slid off the chair and landed in a heap on the floor.
Her breath was trapped in her lungs, but the steady breathing behind the curtains didn’t waver. She tiptoed around the chair and drew back the left side of the coat, holding the lapel between two fingers. A square of paper edged above the pocket, appearing a faint bluish in the dim light against the darker silk. A sliver of a dark seal met her eyes, but she was unable to make out its color. It was darker than the usual red.
Easing the letter out, she replaced it with a small bundle of papers she had folded up to mimic a letter. If he pulled the papers out of the pocket he would know instantly they weren’t his letter, but it might buy her a smidgen of time. In the spy game, she worked for every advantage she could get. With one last glance over her shoulder, she arranged the coat over the chair back and crept into the antechamber.
Holding the candle high, she turned the letter in her hand to examine the seal, chest clenched tight in anticipation. A bird of prey held a hare in a sea of purple. Her head falling back on her shoulders, relief coursed through her body. Her sister was saved.
And Montague was betrayed. She bit her lip and pushed the thought from her mind. She couldn’t afford sentimentality.
She rushed across the room, eager now to leave the entire episode behind her. The sooner gone, the sooner she would forget the duke. At the hidden door behind a full-length painting of the first Duke of Montague, Liz shoved the missive down her bodice. Stepping into the yawning entry, she pulled the door shut behind her. She hurried down the corridor, wondering where she could go to be unseen. She was supposed to deliver the letter to Mr. Pike. And she would. After she read it.
Her room was out of the question. Molly was inquisitive and this letter was distinctive. She could go to one of the many unused rooms of Hartsworth House, but the servants would be beginning their day soon. Explaining herself in a hallway she shouldn’t be in would only complicate matters.
She tripped down multiple staircases, her feet seeming to know which direction to take even without her mind directing them. Right now she needed out of Hartsworth, away from prying eyes. Her chest squeezed tight, her lungs desperately trying to suck in air. The estate closed in on her like a prison, the weight of her duty dragging at her like chains.
She pushed out into the stone hall of the lower floor and made for the door in the storeroom. Freedom was only steps away.
“Morning, dearie!” a cheerful voice called out. “Aren’t you up early?”
Liz snapped her head to the left. Peggy stood in the connecting kitchen, making quick work slicing up a rasher of bacon, her hands covered in a sheen of grease.
“Uh, good morning, Peggy.” She cast her eyes to the open door. The rectangle of gray sky and green lawn beckoned. “You’re an early riser, too.”
Peggy picked up another cut of meat. “I’m the cook. We’re the first to start working.”