Love Match by Maggie MacKeever Read Free Book Online Page A

once, just because the duke said she should not. The warmth of his hand burned through her nightdress. Her flimsy, sodden nightdress. Was his lust being excited? Was hers? Did females even experience lust?
    Elizabeth was experiencing something. She felt goose bumps all the way down to her toes. If only the dratted man would let go of her so that she could think. “As you like, Your Grace.”
    As he liked, was it? Nothing had been as Justin liked for several days. Definitely he had not liked to pass the night in his own bedchamber, there to toss and turn and dream at last of his wife’s shapely ankles, not to mention other things.
    He had been too long without a woman. Elizabeth was not the type of female who ordinarily inspired him with such fancies. Perhaps this particular fancy had something to do with the fact that she was his wife. Who stood stiff as a statue beneath his hands. Stiff, and at the same time soft and warm. His fingers tightened. Her cheeks turned pink.
    He raised his hand from her shoulder to lightly stroke his knuckles along her jaw. She gasped and flinched away. Justin remembered Magda’s hint that his courtship had been perfunctory. “Do you ride, my dear?”
    What had riding to do with his hands upon her body? Elizabeth was afraid she knew. “Horses are so large, Your Grace. Maman was afraid I would fall off.”
    Maman was probably afraid she would take to her heels,thought Justin; and no blame to the child if she had . “Since we are up so early, due to that accursed bird, we might as well take advantage of the morning. Get dressed and I will have the phaeton brought round.”
    He released her at last and walked toward his dressing room. The door closed behind him. Elizabeth let out a great pent-up breath, and sank down in a chair.
     

Chapter 6
     
    “Let your countenance be pleasant but in serious matters somewhat grave.” —Lady Ratchett
     
    Daphne threw up her hands at sight of the water and feathers and biscuit crumbs strewn about the bedchamber, and rang for a bevy of housemaids to clean up the mess. Birdie’s cage was borne off to the kitchen, where the parrot might enjoy the sunlight and discover new people to terrorize. Her mistress, she tucked into a figured muslin gown, cherry spencer, boots of embroidered silver cloth; drew her golden behind her head and fastened it securely with pins. Yorkshire tan gloves for her hands, a cloth of cherry-striped pink around her neck, a chip hat ornamented with flowers tied under her chin— “There!” said Daphne with satisfaction. “You’ll do, my lady, indeed you will.”
    Do for what? Elizabeth gazed into the mirror. All her finery aside, she remained a mere dab of a girl. Or if not a dab because she was so tall, but still not qualified to compete with a woman of the world. She didn’t wish to compete with Magda, of course, or anyone else. But when had her opinion ever mattered? She screwed up her courage, lifted her hand, and knocked at the dressing room door. There came no answer. She grasped the knob.
    The chamber was empty. Thornaby had outdistanced Daphne in the race to see whether the master or mistress would be most quickly turned out. Odds belowstairs had been even. Whereas the duchess’s long hair had to be dressed, the duke had to be shaved.
    Slowly, Elizabeth descended the winding stair. She had never been taken up in a phaeton before. Already she felt queasy. Probably the duke’s phaeton would ride miles above the ground.
    St. Clair was waiting in the hallway. He was dressed for the occasion in doeskin breeches, striped waistcoat, and claret-colored coat. In one hand he held his leather gloves and a tall-crowned hat.
    The duke had not yet glimpsed her. Elizabeth paused to study him. His nose was less swollen today, if considerably more bruised. She hadn’t noticed his nose earlier. She’d been too distracted by the glimpse of his bare chest.
    He didn’t look like a gentleman with a love of dissipation. Not that Elizabeth