Page 70 of Disciplined by the Duke
His hand was warm around hers, and she gave it a squeeze, delighting in the quirk it brought to his lips. He was a good man. Once he met her sister, saw Amanda in those squalid conditions, he would agree to her rescue plan. She yawned widely. By tonight, Mandy would be free.
She didn’t put up a word of protest when he undressed her, playfully slapping her hands aside when she tried to help. He dropped a soft linen shirt over her head, one of his, the scent of bay rum enveloping her. She inhaled deeply, loving his smell, but wanting to get it at the source. Wrapping her arms around him, she rose up on her toes, buried her nose at his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, emotion clogging her throat.
They stood that way until she began to fall asleep on her feet. Marcus scooped her up and tucked her in, the silk of the sheets cool against her bare legs. She reached for him. “Join me? You need a couple hours’ sleep, too.”
“Later.” He smiled wickedly at her. “That I can promise.”
Liz wanted to argue, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She closed her eyes only to blink awake as harsh sunlight streamed into the room. She pushed herself to a sitting position and her head swam, fuzzy from not enough sleep. Pushing the covers aside, she swung her legs off the bed and saw a small clock on the fireplace mantel. Not quite noon yet. It promised to be a long day and it was time to get it started.
She searched for the dress she’d worn the day before, wondered where her bundle of clothing had ended up. Neither was in the duke’s bedroom. But a burgundy silk gown with a white lace fichu lay draped over the settee, a pair of matching slippers nestled at the base. “Huh.” With no other option, she dressed in the gown, knowing it was the finest garment to ever grace her body. But highly impractical for a prison break.
She hurried down the stairs. Reaching the first floor, she poked her head in several rooms before finding Marcus behind a desk in his study. She paused at the door. The room was different, less grand than his study at Hartsworth, but the image of her duke behind his desk was all too familiar.
The oak writing table was only about half as large as the one in Hartsworth’s study, but it was sturdy enough. If she leaned over it lengthwise her hands should be able to reach the outer edge. Her bottom tingled at the thought of what Marcus could do to her on that desk.
“What are you smiling at?” His amused voice cut into her reverie.
Her cheeks heated. “Nothing,” she said. She stood before his desk. “Have you learned anything through your contacts this morning?”
He sighed. “Nothing yet. But I haven’t yet given up hope on resolving this through political channels.”
“But you will still come with me to Newgate today? That hasn’t changed?”
His brow drew down for a moment. “No, nothing has changed.” Standing, Marcus slid his arms into a navy coat, buttoned it up. “Come. We will take our luncheon on our way to the prison. There is a little coffeehouse that serves the best pastries along the way.”
He smoothed the ends of his cravat under his collar, reminding Liz of her own attire. “Marcus, about this dress, I couldn’t find any of my own clothes to wear.”
“Of course you couldn’t. I had them burned.” He plucked a walking stick out from a brass canister by the door, tapping the silver lion’s head firmly against one palm. “They were threadbare, hardly more than rags.”
Her jaw dropped open. “But—”
“I will, of course, replace them.” He nodded at the gown she wore. “My servants found that in one of the attics. My mother’s, I believe. I will have a modiste come by to supply you with a more suitable wardrobe.”
“More suitable for what, exactly?” Her previous dresses, while not as finely made as the duke’s chambermaid uniform, were in keeping with her new, diminished station in life. A duke’s mistress would be dressed much better. Her stomach flipped. She could enjoy being his mistress for a while. Having her physical needs met, in Marcus’s bed, over his knee . . .
Yes, it could be very pleasant.
Then why did the thought hollow her out inside? Could she stand by as Marcus eventually wed, had a family, and suffer the ignominy in silence?
She took a deep breath. She didn’t know, but right now it didn’t matter. Those questions would keep for another day. Her sister’s release wouldn’t. She smiled up at him. “No matter. Shall we go?”
They took his landau, the elegant conveyance pulled by two matching bays. When they stopped in front of a small shop, Liz was surprised to see a line of expensive carriages in front of the unassuming coffeehouse. Obviously this was the place to see and be seen for the Beau Monde.
Marcus ushered her inside the bustling eatery, his hand warm on her elbow. “Ah, good. I was hoping they’d be here.”
Liz looked in the direction he pointed. Four men sat around a rectangular wood table in the corner. Two of the men had their backs to the wall, the others sitting at forty-five-degree angles from their friends so no one had his back to the door. A huge man at the table said something, and they all laughed, giving the appearance of friends without any cares in the world. But to a man their eyes were wary, observing the crowd with a sharp focus. More than one eyebrow quirked up when the group caught sight of Marcus and herself heading their way.
“Gentlemen.” Marcus grabbed two nearby chairs and placed them on the open side of their table, holding her chair out for her as she sat. “Everyone. This is Miss Sm—Wilcox.” His lips twisted. “Miss Wilcox, these louts are Julius Blackwell, the Earl of Rothchild. You may remember him from the great trouser/pantaloon debate. . . .”
He pointed to a striking black-haired man with a bushy beard. “Maximillian Atwood, Baron of Sutton . . .” The huge man with a swarthy complexion nodded.
“John Chaucer, the Earl of Summerset.” A beautiful man dressed in purple silk pantaloons raised a glass.
“And Sinclair Archer, the Marquess of Dunkeld.” A burly man nodded imperceptibly at her, his reddish-brown hair unfashionably long and tied back with a black ribbon at his neck.
Marcus crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back in the chair with a creak. “Summerset, I didn’t expect to see you here. When did you get back from the Continent?”
The man plucked at his shirt cuff beneath his lime green coat. “Last night. It was a hurried journey across the Channel.”