Page 7 of Disciplined by the Duke
Her breathing was loud, ragged in the silence. She pressed her face into her knees, hoping her skirts would muffle the sound. And waited.
The dim glow from a candle traced a pattern on the carpet next to her. Dizziness crept over her as she waited for discovery. Her mission would end before it had even begun. A minute passed. Two. Blood thundered in her ears. Whoever was at the door must have heard her thundering heartbeat.
If she weren’t frozen to the spot Liz would have kicked herself. This excursion had been reckless. She could no longer engage in such whims.
Her ennui just might have resigned her sister to the hangman’s noose.
Chapter Three
Heart in her throat, Liz awaited the inevitable. Hiding in the dark, what excuse could she give for her actions? If she hadn’t panicked she would have met her fellow nighttime traveler with chin raised, books in hand. A little light reading before bed. If it were Mr. Todd he might chastise her for taking the duke’s books. Worst-case scenario, she might have been released from service.
Now if she was caught it looked like more than a maid merely seeking a diversion. It looked like she was spying. Her chest burned. Damn it, and this was the one time she wasn’t spying.
The dim light from the candle flickered closer, skirted around the hem of her gown. Liz held her breath. The light held, shifted, before fading back, and she slowly released a hiss of air.
The library door snicked shut. She was alone in the room.
She waited five minutes, unmoving. The house remained silent, and her muscles began to unclench. Standing, she gathered the books to her chest, and crept to the door. She pulled it open just wide enough for her body to slip past. Moonlight streamed through the large window at the end of the hall, enough to convince her not to relight her candle. But learning from her past panic, she forced herself to stroll down the hall, not sprint for safety as she wished.
No illicit activity to see here.
All was quiet on the way to her chamber. A shiver rolled through her body as the cold from the stone stairs seeped through the thin soles of her slippers. Reaching the servants’ quarters, she picked up speed, eager to end this night. She threw herself into her bare room, leaned against the door, trying to muffle her heaving breaths so as not to wake Molly.
The books were as heavy as stones in her arms. Lifting the edge of her mattress, she hid her cache within.
Without bothering to change into her night rail, she flopped onto the bed. She no longer felt like reading.
* * *
Marcus loitered on the balcony overlooking Hartsworth’s entrance hall. Mr. Todd and their newest hire conversed down below on the main floor. Their voices were too soft for him to overhear, but nothing prevented Marcus from watching. He stood, unnoticed, in the shadow of the large marble statueThe Rape of Proserpina.The stone Hades ignored the duke’s spying, far too interested in abducting his future bride.
The ten-foot-high double doors of the main entrance were flung open, and a gentle breeze drifted through the entry, billowing the skirt of his maid’s black gown out about her ankles. From the pompous puff to his steward’s chest, it appeared the man was dressing her down. But then, Todd always appeared pompous. It was a necessary trait for the steward of a duke.
Marcus had correspondence to answer, a broken pump to repair, but his feet remained planted. Something about his new maid seemed . . . off. She exuded calm and obedience, her face averted the proper amount from her superior’s gaze, her nods quick to follow Mr. Todd’s directives. To the untrained eye she was completely unassuming.
Resting his palm on the cool marble of Persephone’s thigh, Marcus leaned forward. There it was again.
Todd’s last remark must have been particularly irritating to his new maid. Her chin tipped up and the delicate skin around her eyes tensed. In a flash, it was gone, her face as serene as ever. He had to admire her acting. Most men would only see a subservient woman with a sweet smile.
But that outward tranquility only told half the story.
He’d been watching her since he’d discovered her in his library. She’d amused him, the little maid who’d felt the need to hide her reading habit. And he was a man rarely amused. He’d watched how she interacted with his other servants, seen her bite her tongue when lectured to by his steward. Just the slightest clenching of her jaw. Nothing overtly noticeable.
Strong willed yet restrained.
The marble warmed beneath his hand. Marcus slid his palm down the stone thigh.
Her ironclad control drew him. It was a quality that soothed his own raging emotions, but was in such short supply in his life. From the simpering chatterboxes scheming mamas threw in front of him to the posturing, blustering buffoons in the House of Lords, Marcus was surrounded by overly emotional half-wits.
Miss Smith dropped a brief curtsy. Bending over, she picked up a bucket full of dirty water and turned to leave. Todd stopped her with more blather. Even though the bucket must have strained the muscles in her arms and back, she waited patiently for the steward to finish his lecture.
Yes, most men would only see the passive woman she wanted them to see.
Marcus wasn’t most men.
He’d trained himself to notice what other people didn’t. First, when he’d gone into espionage. Then, as he’d discovered his sexual tastes ran to the darker side, he’d honed his skills of observation further. Whether playing with a doxy at Madame Sable’s, or dominating one of the willing widows of his acquaintance, he needed to gauge her breathing patterns, the tightening of her muscles, the dilation of her eyes.
Miss Smith was harder to read. The only clues she dropped were a slight heave to her breasts, and the knuckles on her hands whitening as she dug her fingernails into her palms to express her displeasure.