Page 57 of Disciplined by the Duke
A loud rent snapped her eyes open, and Marcus ripped her shift and petticoats down her legs. She was bare except for her drawers, socks, and boots, her skin waxy and ashen.
He knelt and yanked off one boot and sock. “Can’t do what? Disrobe you?” He removed her other boot. “Apparently I can.” Her damp drawers fought his efforts to pull them down over her hips, but soon joined their brethren on the ground.
Standing, he kicked the linens away and reached for her hands. “Into the tub with you,” he said, pulling her upright. Her knees sagged and she collapsed against his chest. Placing his arm behind her knees, he lifted her, turning for the steaming water.
She pushed at his shoulder. “I am perfectly cap-p-p-able of b-b-bathing myself.”
He ground his teeth. “We are going to have a conversation about what you think you are capable of, and soon.” Lowering her into the hot water, he ignored her whimper and mad scramble to climb out of the tub. “After you thaw.” He held her down until she settled into the heat. Once her body relaxed he released her, drawing his arms back slowly to make sure she didn’t sink under the water.
She glared at him, but didn’t move from her position clinging to the side of the tub.
Marcus took a deep breath. Then another. His lungs expanded fully for the first time since he set out after his wayward maid. She was safe. In his room. In his care. He watched, arms crossed over his chest, as her shivers began to subside and the skin that he could see started to pinken. She would be all right. This time.
He frowned.
Liz was sensible. Even tempered. But she had a curious streak, hidden passions, which must have overridden her common sense and led her out walking in inclement weather. She had a foolish or reckless side that could obviously harm her. And that was something, Marcus was beginning to realize, he would not permit.
He rocked onto the balls of his feet, feeling centered. Ever since James’s death, he took his duty to those around him as seriously as a case of smallpox. He was the eighth Duke of Montague, and he was responsible for the health and welfare of all those around him. Yes, he took his duty seriously, but until now he took no joy in it. No pride.
As he looked at the raven-haired beauty in front of him, who even now was running her fingers through her wet locks trying to restore some semblance of order, chin lifted, all the while eyeing him as if he had decided to run naked through Prinny’s annual ball, something inside him shifted.
She was his to take care of, his to protect. And he looked forward to every minute.
Her fingers paused at a tangle in her hair. “What are you doing?”
Marcus tossed his coat next to the wet spot on the settee her body had left, began to unknot his cravat. “Taking off my wet clothes. I don’t relish catching a chill, either.”
Her fingers curled around the rim of the tub. “Uh, if you’ll hand me a bath sheet I’ll leave you to it.”
“You’ll stay where you are until you are fully warmed.” He dragged his damp shirt over his head and sat on a chair to work off his boots.
“I have fully warmed.” Her gaze fixed on his hands as he tugged the leather Hessians from his feet. “I feel quite warm now.”
Marcus sank back in the chair, enjoying the feeling of the flames from the nearby fire on his bare chest and cold feet. “Let me rephrase. You will stay where you are until I deem you warm enough to get out.”
The sparks from her eyes warmed him more than the fire. Anger meant she couldn’t be feeling too ill.
Marcus let his muscles release their tension. “And I’ll sit here and enjoy the view.”
Chapter Seventeen
Liz was steaming, and it wasn’t from the bath. How dare he? Even if he was a duke and her employer he shouldn’t . . .
Her shoulders sagged beneath the water’s surface. Lord, she was tired. Her five-minute walk had extended to five minutes more, and five minutes more, the answer to her problems never arriving. When she’d stumbled and fallen, it had almost been a relief. Why bother getting up? She didn’t know where to go. As the rain pounded down upon her, she willed the softening earth to sink down beneath her body, swallow her up. Where she didn’t have to make life-and-death decisions. Where she could rest.
So why was she fighting Montague? She peeked over at him, her eyes tracing the bulges and valleys of his chest. A soft matting of golden hair across the hard muscle looked soft to the touch. It arrowed down his abdomen into a thin line that delved beneath his trousers. She snapped her eyes up from his crotch, ashamed of where her thoughts had wandered. The outrageousness of the situation struck her anew. She was naked in the bedroom of a duke while he lounged topless in a chair five feet from her, chin lazily propped on his fist. When had her life become so peculiar?
She wanted to sink deeper into the bath, let her head rest back against the rim, and forget she’d ever seen the letter. Her heart tripped in her chest. Had he discovered the swap she’d made? Was that why he went after her?
He continued to stare at her, unmoving. She remained facing forward, denying the urge to glance back and forth between Montague and his coat, wanting to throw herself at his feet and ask for mercy, for help. Her fist coiled tighter and tighter. She was in over her head, but she had to forge on. Didn’t she? Her sister was depending upon her. She was going to betray her country, betray the man in front of her.
Her palm burned from the half-moons her nails dug. Her throat closed until she grew light-headed. Right or wrong, she had to make a decision, and she couldn’t do so under the penetrating glare of the duke. She had to get away from Montague before she broke.
Bringing her knees to her chest, she pushed up off the sides of the tub. Water sloshed around her calves as she stood. In another life, her nakedness in front of a man would have shamed her. It no longer mattered. He had already seen her, had probably seen hundreds of women’s naked bodies. Her body might be revealed, but at least her intentions remained hidden.
She hoped.
“I’m leaving.” She carefully stepped over the side, not letting herself cower back into the tub when Montague rose and crowded her.